Blood Brothers
By Mickey M
© March 2006

In the movies, blood is always bright red, garish against pale skin. Sam's seen enough of it up close -- too much of it, too close -- to know it isn't really that red, but darker, like liquid bruises.

In the movies, the good guy always wins, even if he gets his ass kicked beforehand. There's no second-guessing, no heart-stopping moment wondering if the scream resounding in the dark is the creature dying, or someone else. Someone like the good guy. Someone like his brother.

The wind shrieks in his ears, playing a soundtrack of pain, of death, and Sam's heartbeat stutters and skips when he sees Dean on the ground, dark spreading around him, a liquid bruise pooling out with each beat of his heart.

"'S not mine," and the wind almost sounds like Dean, now, rough and gravelly.

Sam drops to his knees and reaches out, pulls Dean into his arms. Holds him close, too close but not close enough. He wishes for light, but he dropped his flashlight back in a copse of trees and the moon is playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds. No light, so he feels his way, touching Dean's arms, chest, fingers stroking up his throat, then across Dean's lips, thumb catching on a cut there.

Dean kisses his thumb, rubs into it, almost caressing. "Sam--Sammy. I'm okay--it's not mine."

Some of it is, because the moon pops out and Sam can see the dark shadows criss-crossing Dean's face--claw marks and scrapes where he wrestled with creature before the kill. Sam leans in and kisses the first cut, tastes his brother's blood and the salt from sweat and maybe tears.

"Don't ever fucking do that again," he mutters, shuddering when Dean's arms close around him. His heartbeat sounds loud in his ears, too loud to hear what Dean says in reply, but the words don't matter anyway. He -- they -- still have what's important: each other.