Local Smut Peddler

Which is the only reason Dean is allowing this, and he will stick to that story in court. 

He doesn’t even remember the rationale Sam gave to convince him to take off his shirt, but he did, and while it wasn't necessarily warm in the room, Sam’s perceptive, albeit a little glassy eyes raking all over his body while he casually sips his beer, is certainly making Dean sweat. 

“You have more scars than you used to.” 

No shit. Dean thinks bitterly. 

“Almost all monsters have claws of some kind,” Dean evades. Selectively leaving out the fact that only one of the last eight was from an actual monster. Was that the reason why he took his shirt off? Was Sam checking for bleeding wounds? 

“I have a few new ones too,” Sam offers.  

“I saw,” Dean nods. Because yeah, when Sam was naked and on him, he made sure to get a good look. 

Sammy smirks before pulling his own shirt off.  

“I got this one falling off a beer pong table,” he says, pointing to a quarter-sized, irregularly shaped scar on his shoulder. “These, uh,” Sam chuckles, pointing to three circular scars on his chest, “hot wax play gone wrong, turns out the type of wax you use does matter.” 

“Really,” Dean swallows tightly, imagining it and regretting it because without his shirt it's going to be difficult to hide his hard on. 

“Yeah,” Sam smirks, before pointing to another, curved one lower on his forearm. “This one was dumb. Forgot I left a burner on and branded myself.” 

“And you still got into Stanford?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sam laughs. 

Dean laughs too, relaxing easily onto his mattress. He assumes that’s the end of their little show and tell. But when he looks back at Sammy, he’s still looking at his torso, almost expectantly.

“Sam…”

“I showed you mine!”

“I didn't ask you to!”

Sam looks crestfallen. And fuck, cut out his heart with a spoon, why don’t ya? Sam’s big, brown, sad eyes have always been and always will be his downfall.  

“You used to tell me everything De…”

Dean swallows the painful lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. He wants to tell him everything. It’s not about trust, fear, or even about Sam. He just, doesn't want to relive them. Not even for a moment. 

Plus, he’s drunk. It's going to be a lot harder to coordinate which monster could realistically make each mark, and for Sam to believe it. Because Sam’s not stupid. He's easily twice, if not three times, smarter than Dean. He’s going to have to play this carefully. 

He closes his eyes.

“Okay Sam.”

When he opens them, Sam is practically in his lap. “Whoa.” He’s so close Dean can feel his breath on his bare skin.  

“What’s this one from?” Sam whispers, running his pointer finger over the long, pencil-thick scar that dissects his pec. 

Dean’s jaw clenches. His brain inadvertently flashes back to that night. Two days after his Nineteenth birthday. A few weeks after John tracked them down at Bobby’s and dragged them back practically by their throats. 

John was in even shitter state than he was two years ago. Manic. Angry. Broke. The kind that makes a man lose track of his soul. Dean knows in an instant what the next chapter of his life is going to look like. 

At least John didn't hurt Sammy. It wasn’t his fault after all; it was Dean’s. Dean’s the one who took him to Bobby’s. Dean’s the one who disobeyed John’s direct order. Dean’s the one who should bear the consequences. And John made sure to find a creative way to get the punishment to stick. On one of the coldest nights of the fucking year, he kicked Dean out of their motel room. Took the Impala's keys and left him with the option to fend for himself if he was so ‘goddamn grown up.’ 

Dean did. With the first trucker who picked him up.

In both of his lines of work, he’s come across only a few true psychopaths. Most of the men who bought his services were just lonely, overworked, closested dicks ready to forget the whole thing by the time they finished. Efficient and quick. Dean preferred those types of customers actually. But every so often, Dean crosses paths with a real sicko. He’d take every single one of those Lovecraft-like monsters in John’s journal at once over 5 minutes with a real predator. 

“...De?”

“Uh,” Dean shakes off the memory before it can get its hooks in any deeper. “Wraith. Caught me, tried for my heart. Missed.”

Sam hums not commitally but seems convinced enough despite Dean’s momentary dissociation. He’s still staring at the mark, rubbing his thumb over it. 

Dean’s heart is pounding. He’s sure Sam can feel it. His hand is right there. In fact Sam still hasn't taken his eyes off it, and Dean is starting to worry he’s not buying it. 

Before his eyes can process what’s happening, Sam is leaning down, pressing a searing kiss to the raised scar tissue.  

Dean’s breath comes out in a rushed gasp. He feels like someone just kicked him in his chest. “Sammy…” 

“Does it hurt?”

Dean shakes his head.  

“N-No.”