Fic: Hail to the Chief (Supernatural)
Title: Hail to the Chief
Author: Epeeblade
Wordcount: 1,600
Rating: R for images of violence
Genre: BDSM, although this is technically gen
Characters: Dean, Chief
Spoilers: Follows immediately after episode 4.12
Notes: Thanks to lapillus for looking over this for me:) Fic was partially inspired by my TMJ flare. Ouch.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. It's all done for fun, folks.
Summary: This time, Dean takes the offer.
Hail to the Chief
by Epeeblade
Sam needed to take a fucking walk. Well that was just fine with Dean, he'd sit right here and have a beer all by himself. And if he felt like company, well that chick behind the bar looked a little bit lonely, she probably wouldn't mind if Dean slid over and found out what she was doing later.
And then he'd go back to the motel and wait, alone, pretending to sleep until Sam walked in just before dawn. Maybe if he were really lucky he'd actually be able to get a few hours of shuteye, without the red blood of Hell seeping under his eyelids, the nightmares more real than the world he could touch. Sometimes when he'd get up to splash water on his face, afterwards, the shadows would flicker in the corner of his eye and Dean would whirl around, reaching for his gun only to find nothing but dirty linoleum.
Yeah, that's just what he needed tonight, after this fucked up job where he and Sam got fucking lucky, flashes of Hell while he waited, alone. Just like Jay had ended up after watching his brother die. He'd been taunted with that image more than enough times, while he was on the rack, Alistair whispering in his ear. Dean found himself rubbing his throat, feeling for the slight abrasion the noose had caused. If he pressed on it just right the pain bloomed, shutting out any of his fucked up thoughts.
Maybe Sammy had the right idea, walking sounded really good right about now. Dean left enough bills to cover the beer and left the bottle behind. It wasn't like the beer kept the images of Hell out. Sometimes if he didn't drink enough, it made the flashbacks worse. He'd be buzzed and feeling good and then Dean would remember how it felt to carve his initials across Bela's chest, how he smiled watching the blood run between her breasts, and how she tried to scream. Dean had made sure she couldn't taunt him with that smart mouth.
No, he though, wasn't going to think about that. Dean shook his head, his raw neck rubbing against the collar of his jacket. He winced, but seized on that, taking the pain instead of the images warring for dominance in his brain. One hand reached in his jacket to grab the flask before Dean realized where his walking had taken him.
The door to 426 Bleeker street taunted him. How the hell had he ended up back here? Dean pulled on his collar, thinking about how the pain made everything go away, how the only thing he could focus on in that moment was how much it fucking hurt. Dean swallowed and then stalked over to pound on the door.
"You again?" the guy sneered.
"Just let me see Chief," Dean snapped.
"Your dime," he said, leading Dean back down into the creepy ass dungeon. "Don't touch anything."
Dean didn't answer, just waited till messenger boy left and Chief made his appearance. He didn't have to wait long, the elevator opened, revealing Chief in all his leather glory. "Hey man," Chief said, a pleased note in his voice. "Changed your mind?"
Now that he was here, Dean didn't know what the hell he was doing. The first time he had desperately back-pedaled, stuttering out something about a misunderstanding. Chief had been disappointed, but not angry, and with a wink told Dean he could come back any time. Dean didn't expect he'd actually take him up on it, but here he was.
"Uh yeah, maybe," he hedged. "I just need…" Dean stopped, not sure what he wanted to say. What could he say? Beat me so I can't think about hell? "I don't want sex," he blurted.
Chief just raised an eyebrow at him. "You wouldn't be the first." He tucked the whip thing under one arm and stalked across the room, his voice going lower as he spoke. "Let me guess. You just want to make it all go away for a while. Let someone else worry about the world."
"Christo," Dean blurted, sure that Chief had to be demonic to have gotten all of that.
"That your safe word?" the other man asked, not flinching at all.
Dean shook his head, lips pursed to answer. "No. What does that even mean? How do we do this?"
"You call your safe word if it gets to be too much for you. But if you tell me your limits now, I'll stay away from them," Chief promised.
"No tying me up," Dean said. No, that would be too much like being on the rack. This he chose. "No sex, and uh, no marking where anyone could see."
Chief nodded. "In return, you obey me till I call the scene, ok? And what IS your safe word?"
"Sammy," Dean blurted, "That's my safe word."
He didn't think he'd need to use it. No matter how Chief swung that scrap of a whip, he couldn't hold a candle to the pain Dean had endured in Hell.
***
Dean had thought he knew everything there was to know about pain. There was the kind that hurt so bad you could barely feel it, body shut down and was only a few black spots away from passing out. And there was the kind that made you feel alive, muscles aching after a long run or a good hunt, a deep thrum that went down to your bones. Sometimes there was the pain he needed to feel again, that healing bruise you needed to push on, or that sour tooth you couldn't leave alone.
Pain in Hell had been nothing like that, sharper and deeper, and Dean knew it was the kind you couldn't feel with a physical body. They had carved up and made ribbons of his soul. Castiel may have brought him out and shoved the ripped remains back into his body, but Dean still felt shattered, a jigsaw puzzle with its pieces cut so it could never be put together again.
And then Chief cracked the flogger against his bare skin.
He'd had Dean kiss it, lips stiff against the strips of calfskin leather, before trailing it all along Dean's naked body. At first Dean wanted to complain, mouth off. He'd come here to get hurt after all, not have some guy get off on stroking him with leather. But each pass only sensitized his skin, raising goose bumps and tiny hairs as Dean trembled with anticipation.
The first stroke against his ass had him starting in surprise. It hadn't hurt, Chief was only testing his measure, but Dean hadn't expected it. He'd forgotten how sometimes the wait made the blow all the more powerful.
Even so he'd wiggled his ass, tossed his head over his shoulder and said, "that all you got?"
"Your ass is overdue for a beating, boy," Chief said, snapping his next pass.
Dean shivered at those words, that deep voice sinking inside him. Somehow those words soothed instead of threatened. Of course Chief was nothing like Alistair, nothing like that sly son of a bitch and his triggering taunts. Before his thoughts could further spiral into Hell, Chief brought him back with another crack of the flogger.
Dean let it happen, leaned into the beating. It didn't feel like pain should feel. It took him away from the dark places, left a gentle thrum all over his skin, like rain pattering on a tin roof.
He didn't see the dungeon anymore, couldn't quite feel the metal of the pole under his fingers, where he'd braced himself before Chief had begun. Dean floated as sensation washed over him, warm to the bottom of his toes.
So he wasn't sure how long it had been before the crack of the flogger stopped and a hand stroke along his cheek.
"Come on, easy now, come on back," Chief's words were the stupid shit you'd say to a dog or a baby.
Dean blinked up at him, wondering where the hell the time had gone. "That's it?" he blurted.
Chief gave him a wide smile. "Been wailing on you for an hour. You sure this is your first time?" He had a towel in his hands and Dean took it, wiping the sweat from his face.
Now that he'd woken from whatever the hell trance he'd fallen into, Dean could feel the bruises down his back and legs, still warm, but now they ached as he moved to get back into his clothes.
"Hey, man, there's a shower upstairs. You want a cup of coffee or something?"
Dean shook his head. He still didn't feel quite present, Chief's words barely penetrating his mental haze. "I should go."
"Look, here's my card." Chief handed him an ordinary looking business card, hell it wouldn't look out of place among Dean's collection.
Dean snorted, what had he expected? Little handcuffs in glittery silver ink? "I'm leaving town, man." He took the card anyway.
"Just keep it." Chief looked down, as if embarrassed. "Don't be afraid to call."
Yeah, like that was going to happen. "Sure," he said.
"Before you leave make sure Joey gives you the pamphlet on aftercare."
Dean laughed. "You run a tight ship, Chief."
"Oh, you have no idea."
His body ached for the climb up the stairs, and he ached for the walk back to the Impala. When Dean leaned his body against her leather seats, pain radiated to the tips of his fingers. And not once did he think about Hell.
Author: Epeeblade
Wordcount: 1,600
Rating: R for images of violence
Genre: BDSM, although this is technically gen
Characters: Dean, Chief
Spoilers: Follows immediately after episode 4.12
Notes: Thanks to lapillus for looking over this for me:) Fic was partially inspired by my TMJ flare. Ouch.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. It's all done for fun, folks.
Summary: This time, Dean takes the offer.
Hail to the Chief
by Epeeblade
Sam needed to take a fucking walk. Well that was just fine with Dean, he'd sit right here and have a beer all by himself. And if he felt like company, well that chick behind the bar looked a little bit lonely, she probably wouldn't mind if Dean slid over and found out what she was doing later.
And then he'd go back to the motel and wait, alone, pretending to sleep until Sam walked in just before dawn. Maybe if he were really lucky he'd actually be able to get a few hours of shuteye, without the red blood of Hell seeping under his eyelids, the nightmares more real than the world he could touch. Sometimes when he'd get up to splash water on his face, afterwards, the shadows would flicker in the corner of his eye and Dean would whirl around, reaching for his gun only to find nothing but dirty linoleum.
Yeah, that's just what he needed tonight, after this fucked up job where he and Sam got fucking lucky, flashes of Hell while he waited, alone. Just like Jay had ended up after watching his brother die. He'd been taunted with that image more than enough times, while he was on the rack, Alistair whispering in his ear. Dean found himself rubbing his throat, feeling for the slight abrasion the noose had caused. If he pressed on it just right the pain bloomed, shutting out any of his fucked up thoughts.
Maybe Sammy had the right idea, walking sounded really good right about now. Dean left enough bills to cover the beer and left the bottle behind. It wasn't like the beer kept the images of Hell out. Sometimes if he didn't drink enough, it made the flashbacks worse. He'd be buzzed and feeling good and then Dean would remember how it felt to carve his initials across Bela's chest, how he smiled watching the blood run between her breasts, and how she tried to scream. Dean had made sure she couldn't taunt him with that smart mouth.
No, he though, wasn't going to think about that. Dean shook his head, his raw neck rubbing against the collar of his jacket. He winced, but seized on that, taking the pain instead of the images warring for dominance in his brain. One hand reached in his jacket to grab the flask before Dean realized where his walking had taken him.
The door to 426 Bleeker street taunted him. How the hell had he ended up back here? Dean pulled on his collar, thinking about how the pain made everything go away, how the only thing he could focus on in that moment was how much it fucking hurt. Dean swallowed and then stalked over to pound on the door.
"You again?" the guy sneered.
"Just let me see Chief," Dean snapped.
"Your dime," he said, leading Dean back down into the creepy ass dungeon. "Don't touch anything."
Dean didn't answer, just waited till messenger boy left and Chief made his appearance. He didn't have to wait long, the elevator opened, revealing Chief in all his leather glory. "Hey man," Chief said, a pleased note in his voice. "Changed your mind?"
Now that he was here, Dean didn't know what the hell he was doing. The first time he had desperately back-pedaled, stuttering out something about a misunderstanding. Chief had been disappointed, but not angry, and with a wink told Dean he could come back any time. Dean didn't expect he'd actually take him up on it, but here he was.
"Uh yeah, maybe," he hedged. "I just need…" Dean stopped, not sure what he wanted to say. What could he say? Beat me so I can't think about hell? "I don't want sex," he blurted.
Chief just raised an eyebrow at him. "You wouldn't be the first." He tucked the whip thing under one arm and stalked across the room, his voice going lower as he spoke. "Let me guess. You just want to make it all go away for a while. Let someone else worry about the world."
"Christo," Dean blurted, sure that Chief had to be demonic to have gotten all of that.
"That your safe word?" the other man asked, not flinching at all.
Dean shook his head, lips pursed to answer. "No. What does that even mean? How do we do this?"
"You call your safe word if it gets to be too much for you. But if you tell me your limits now, I'll stay away from them," Chief promised.
"No tying me up," Dean said. No, that would be too much like being on the rack. This he chose. "No sex, and uh, no marking where anyone could see."
Chief nodded. "In return, you obey me till I call the scene, ok? And what IS your safe word?"
"Sammy," Dean blurted, "That's my safe word."
He didn't think he'd need to use it. No matter how Chief swung that scrap of a whip, he couldn't hold a candle to the pain Dean had endured in Hell.
***
Dean had thought he knew everything there was to know about pain. There was the kind that hurt so bad you could barely feel it, body shut down and was only a few black spots away from passing out. And there was the kind that made you feel alive, muscles aching after a long run or a good hunt, a deep thrum that went down to your bones. Sometimes there was the pain he needed to feel again, that healing bruise you needed to push on, or that sour tooth you couldn't leave alone.
Pain in Hell had been nothing like that, sharper and deeper, and Dean knew it was the kind you couldn't feel with a physical body. They had carved up and made ribbons of his soul. Castiel may have brought him out and shoved the ripped remains back into his body, but Dean still felt shattered, a jigsaw puzzle with its pieces cut so it could never be put together again.
And then Chief cracked the flogger against his bare skin.
He'd had Dean kiss it, lips stiff against the strips of calfskin leather, before trailing it all along Dean's naked body. At first Dean wanted to complain, mouth off. He'd come here to get hurt after all, not have some guy get off on stroking him with leather. But each pass only sensitized his skin, raising goose bumps and tiny hairs as Dean trembled with anticipation.
The first stroke against his ass had him starting in surprise. It hadn't hurt, Chief was only testing his measure, but Dean hadn't expected it. He'd forgotten how sometimes the wait made the blow all the more powerful.
Even so he'd wiggled his ass, tossed his head over his shoulder and said, "that all you got?"
"Your ass is overdue for a beating, boy," Chief said, snapping his next pass.
Dean shivered at those words, that deep voice sinking inside him. Somehow those words soothed instead of threatened. Of course Chief was nothing like Alistair, nothing like that sly son of a bitch and his triggering taunts. Before his thoughts could further spiral into Hell, Chief brought him back with another crack of the flogger.
Dean let it happen, leaned into the beating. It didn't feel like pain should feel. It took him away from the dark places, left a gentle thrum all over his skin, like rain pattering on a tin roof.
He didn't see the dungeon anymore, couldn't quite feel the metal of the pole under his fingers, where he'd braced himself before Chief had begun. Dean floated as sensation washed over him, warm to the bottom of his toes.
So he wasn't sure how long it had been before the crack of the flogger stopped and a hand stroke along his cheek.
"Come on, easy now, come on back," Chief's words were the stupid shit you'd say to a dog or a baby.
Dean blinked up at him, wondering where the hell the time had gone. "That's it?" he blurted.
Chief gave him a wide smile. "Been wailing on you for an hour. You sure this is your first time?" He had a towel in his hands and Dean took it, wiping the sweat from his face.
Now that he'd woken from whatever the hell trance he'd fallen into, Dean could feel the bruises down his back and legs, still warm, but now they ached as he moved to get back into his clothes.
"Hey, man, there's a shower upstairs. You want a cup of coffee or something?"
Dean shook his head. He still didn't feel quite present, Chief's words barely penetrating his mental haze. "I should go."
"Look, here's my card." Chief handed him an ordinary looking business card, hell it wouldn't look out of place among Dean's collection.
Dean snorted, what had he expected? Little handcuffs in glittery silver ink? "I'm leaving town, man." He took the card anyway.
"Just keep it." Chief looked down, as if embarrassed. "Don't be afraid to call."
Yeah, like that was going to happen. "Sure," he said.
"Before you leave make sure Joey gives you the pamphlet on aftercare."
Dean laughed. "You run a tight ship, Chief."
"Oh, you have no idea."
His body ached for the climb up the stairs, and he ached for the walk back to the Impala. When Dean leaned his body against her leather seats, pain radiated to the tips of his fingers. And not once did he think about Hell.