Title: Scar Pattern
By: veradeath
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not in any way own these characters.
Summary: "It works its way up from his heels to his scalp, buzzing and ricocheting, playing havoc with his nerve endings. He sits bolt upright, from a relatively peaceful slumber. Sam thanks his lucky stars that his dorm mate is out for the evening. He has no idea what is going on, until he looks down at his left thigh. His very tan and very unblemished thigh."

***

It starts with a tingling sensation.

It works its way up from his heels to his scalp, buzzing and ricocheting, playing havoc with his nerve endings. He sits bolt upright, from a relatively peaceful slumber. Sam thanks his lucky stars that his dorm mate is out for the evening. He has no idea what is going on, until he looks down at his left thigh. His very tan and very unblemished thigh.

He had a jagged scar there when he went to bed, not 4 hours ago.

Sam quickly shuffles out of his clothes, stands in front of the somewhat cracked floor length mirror and gasps.

He’s completely scar free.

Countless thoughts run through his mind in that moment, that he has to call Dad, Dean, someone, that he can pass all the more easily as normal, that he can be free.

He remembers just how he received each and every one of his scars, all of them involving blood and bone and skin both his and not, human and not. All of them abnormal. He remembers how Dean would trace his scars, spidery pale webs of mending tissue crisscrossing his skin like a map of their crusade for all to read. How soft and soothing, feathery his brother’s caresses were. How Dean would touch more than his scars and vice versa. Its then that he feels a sense of violation, of anger.

Those scars were a part of him, were his.

He has no recourse, because John Winchester had never hunted anything like this, never about scars of any kind, never missing scars.

Sam puts his clothes back on, and tries to go back to sleep. He dreams, unsurprisingly, of Dean.

If, in the morning, instead of going to classes, he had felt slightly more inquisitive, he would have wanted to test whether he could still form scars at all. He would have found the mean looking knife that Dean had slipped surreptitiously into his duffle bag. He would have sliced a little line into his thumb, only to watch it knit itself back together.

Several years later, he will find, amidst searching, scrabbling fingers and hot searing kisses, shirts bunched up and greedy eyes, that Dean is as scar-less as he is.

He will stop his ministrations, old horror washing over him, as Dean just sits there on the ratty motel comforter, smirking like Lucifer at him.

Dean will slide, slip, silence him with calculated attention, making him forget, if only for a short while, that something terrifying has taken place.

Their scars are their history, and now Sam wants them back.

***