Dominance Issues [NC-17] Soulless!Sam/Dean 1/2
Title: Dominance Issues
Pairing: Soulless!Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Length: 13,330 words
Spoilers: Season 6
Author's Notes: Written for the slaveexchange challenge. Thanks to my beta, randomstasis, and my fabulous artist, phantisma. PDF and other downloads are available on the AO3.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW.
Warnings: *takes a deep breath* This is BDSM porn with splashes of plot and angst. It features a variety of kinks and edge play, including pain play, power dynamics, orgasm denial, cbt, breath play, wax play, knife play, blood play, bare-backing, come play, marking, and branding. There are events that may be triggers for rape and domestic violence. I could write a loving, happy story with this set of warnings, but this particular fic is about some very fucked-up boys.
Summary: A Sam without a soul is convinced he should be in charge. Dean's prepared to do whatever it takes to prove otherwise.
Part I | Part II
Dean dragged himself out of the driver’s seat. Every square inch of his back lit up with Technicolor aches as he grabbed his duffel out of the back seat and shuffled to the motel room door. He unlocked it, left arm clenched against his side. He might have torn some of the ligaments, catching himself when the poltergeist tried to throw him down the stairs. Sam had calmly finished the banishing ritual upstairs while the poltergeist kicked the crap out of Dean downstairs.
Two years ago Dean would have been impressed with Sam’s professionalism. Now it was just another sign that this thing that was all Dean had left of his brother didn’t give a shit if he lived or died. Dean got the door open and fumbled the key back into his pocket. Sam hip-checked him out of the way and tossed his duffel onto the far bed.
“I call first shower,” Sam said, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Seriously?” slipped out of Dean’s mouth. He was bruised and beat-up, covered in plaster and itchy pink insulation from the wall the poltergeist had tossed him through. Sam didn’t have a hair out of place, and he was calling dibs? “No way - first shower’s mine.”
Sam kept stripping down. “Why do you get to decide who gets the first shower?” he asked, words half-muffled in his t-shirt as he pulled it over his head.
“Because I’m older,” Dean answered automatically, wincing as he crouched down to salt the door.
Sam sat on his bed and untied his boots. He pulled them off, wrinkled his nose at the smell, and then set them at the foot of the bed with the military precision Dad had drilled into them both. He rolled his socks down his ankles and then tossed them into a pile with his dirty shirts. Sam stood up to unbutton his jeans; paused, eyes assessing Dean as he limped across the room to pack the salt away in the duffel.
“You know, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m bigger than you. I’m stronger than you. And I’m a better hunter. I think …” he tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think I’m done letting you boss me around.”
Dean straightened up. This wasn’t Sammy at four years old insisting he could tie his own shoes. It wasn’t Sam at sixteen, all sullen silences and frustrated rage, accusing Dean of taking Dad’s side in everything.
This was a Sam-shaped thing with his brother’s face and all of his training, but none of his heart. This Sam would’ve pulled the trigger on Samuel without a second thought. He’d fed his own brother to a vamp to get to their alpha. Sam was a hunter, sure. He killed things, but he didn’t give a damn about saving people. Dean didn’t know if Sam was hunting out of force of habit, thrill-seeking, or pure blood-lust.
Sam was riding the adrenaline edge, taking stupid risks like the werewolf he’d taken down hand-to-hand with a silver knife, when Dean was a hundred yards out with a rifle and silver ammo, unable to get a clean shot because Sam was too busy playing Rambo. Dean watched through the scope as Sam stood up after cutting the thing’s throat, covered in its blood and grinning. He’d wondered if maybe he should take the shot anyway.
Dean had tried to find the differences between this Sam, the one missing a soul, and the things they hunted. The only one he’d come up with was that Dean was holding this particular monster on a very tight leash. And if that leash happened to snap …
Sam sauntered closer, wearing nothing but jeans and a smile. Dean took a sharp breath, combat-readiness shoving his aches and pains into the background. Whatever happened next, they weren’t settling this with words. When Sam kicked out to try and sweep Dean’s legs, he wasn’t even surprised.
Dean ducked inside the zone where Sam’s crazy-long arms could reach but his own couldn’t, and it was on. Fists and elbows, strikes and blocks, like a thousand sparring sessions over the years in fields and backyards, in tiny apartments and seedy motel rooms with the furniture pushed back against the walls.
Sam caught Dean’s bad arm, leveraged it up and out against the joint. Dean’s torn ligaments screamed; he let out a grunt of pain. Sam smirked. Dean gouged at his eye, and reclaimed his arm when Sam jerked his head back.
The two of them circled each other, Sam smug and feral, Dean stiff with rage. They weren’t sparring anymore. Dean tackled Sam into the TV. It fell over with a smash and they rolled across the floor, no finesse, bodies pressing for advantage, elbows and nails and teeth searching out weak points. Sam was stronger than the last time they’d taken a fight to the ground, a wall of solid muscle, and Dean could already feel his own muscles starting to shake with exhaustion. Dean was on top, but Sam’s hands were around his throat, choking him out. Dean hardened his fingers and dug into the radial nerve bundle below Sam’s elbow. Sam gasped at the pain as his hand spasmed and went dead. Dean grinned when Sam went limp beneath him. Sure, Dad taught them both everything he knew. But Dean learned that one from Alastair.
“Hurts,” Sam said huskily. Somehow, it didn’t sound like a complaint. Dean tightened his hold, expecting a trick. Sam moaned, his eyes gone wide and dark. Dean dropped the hold like it burned, using just his weight to pin Sam down. When he sat back, he felt Sam’s dick press up against his ass, hard as a rock.
“What. The. Fuck?” Dean demanded.
“Looks like your little brother and I do have a few things in common,” Sam said breathily.
“Sam wasn’t like that,” Dean denied.
Sam chuckled. “You can’t really believe that. Sam wanted this so bad he could hardly breathe. You seriously never wondered why, every time you stitched him up, he’d run straight to the bathroom afterwards to rub one out?”
“Adrenaline …” Dean said uneasily.
“Bull-shit. Sammy-boy had a thing for pain. And so do I.”
“There are people you can, uh, pay to help you out with that,” Dean offered. “Professionals.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, licking his lips. “I tried that a few months ago. She cuffed me to her bed and hurt her hand trying to spank my ass. When I laughed at her, the cunt got pissed off, pulled out this electric chain, and started hitting me with it. I didn’t like that,” Sam said with a long, sensual shrug of his body under Dean, “So I broke the cuffs and hit her back.”
Dean swallowed. He’d never even heard Sam use the c-word before. He could picture it. Could see Sam towering over the woman, the broken cuffs hanging from his wrists, as she cowered away from him. “Did you hurt her?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “Not too bad,” he said cheerfully.
Dean knew Sam well enough to know he was lying, but this wasn’t his Sam, and so he wasn’t sure how much of it was a lie. Maybe Sam was just low-balling it a little, and he’d hit the woman once and left her bleeding and crying on the floor. Maybe he’d put her in the hospital. Or it could be that hooker was lying in a shallow grave somewhere because Sam had an itch she couldn’t scratch.
“But you,” Sam continued. “You could hurt me real good, couldn’t you, big brother,” he purred.
Dean could. He really could. He’d been Alastair’s most gifted student. Even with the limitations of being above ground. Just using the tools he had in the room right now, a few items from his duffel and the first aid kit, maybe the broken bits of glass from the TV; he could give Sam all the pain he could take, and more. If that’s what it took, to keep Sam under control, he could do it.
“I could hurt you,” Dean agreed evenly. “You gonna make it worth my while?”
“Yeah,” Sam breathed out. “Anything you want, Dean, I swear.”
Dean stood up and didn’t let a hint of what he was feeling show on his face or body. “I’m taking a shower. When I get out, I expect to see you naked and on your knees for me.”
Sam nodded. He looked eager, but there was a glint of calculation in his eyes that made Dean wonder if he was being played.
Dean closed the bathroom door behind him, took off his clothes, and turned the shower as hot as he could stand it. His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. He really needed to ice it, but Dean couldn’t afford to show any weakness to Sam right now.
The hot water pounded down across his sore muscles. Dean stared down at his dick, half-mast from wanting … from wanting that. Dean’s gut lurched. He bent over and spat bile. Spat again; not quite puking, but close. He’d wondered sometimes, over the past few years, if when he finally kicked it he’d end up back in Hell. No need to wonder anymore. He was buying a first-class ticket straight down.
When Dean got out of the shower he grabbed a thread-bare motel towel, ran it over his hair, and dried himself off quickly. He started to wrap the towel around his waist, but hung it up on the bar instead. No point in pretending this wasn’t going where it was going.
He stepped out into the cool air of the room and found Sam kneeling naked on the carpet, as instructed. The glass from the TV had been cleaned up, and the duffels were off the beds, piled in the corner by the door.
Dean walked around Sam, inspecting him. Sam was built, miles of warm golden skin over solid muscle marred by a few scratches and red marks from their fight, his dick lying thick and limp on his thigh.
“If we do this, you’re mine,” Dean told him. “No other guys, no women, no freaking hookers.” No one else in the monster’s den.
“If we do it,” Sam agreed, but his voice was cool, and Dean recognized a challenge when he heard one. He had to prove he was man enough to get the job done.
“What do you want out of this?” Dean asked.
Sam smirked and tilted his head. “I don’t know. What’ve you got?”
Dean stepped close, grabbed Sam’s hair, and jerked his head up, throat curved back and exposed. Sam’s nostrils pulsed, but he stayed on his knees. “That’s not how this works. I’m gathering intel here. So you’re gonna tell me what you want, and then I’ll decide what you get.”
He dropped Sam’s head and took half a step back. “Electricity. You said the chick used an electric chain on you. You didn’t like it?”
“No,” Sam said cautiously, looking up at him. “It hurt, but not the right way. And I got Tasered a year ago. It didn’t put me down. Just made me mad.”
Dean nodded, mentally crossing the Taser in the trunk off the list of possibilities if Sam went rogue. “And when she spanked you, that didn’t work for you.”
Sam shrugged. “I barely felt it.”
Dean reached out a hand under Sam’s jaw and gently tipped his head to the side. There was a red mark there, where he’d caught Sam with a solid elbow strike. Dean rubbed his thumb over the mark. Sam’s breath caught. He pushed into Dean’s hand, pressing Dean’s thumb harder into what would be one hell of a bruise by morning.
“You liked it when I hit you, though,” Dean said. “You like the bruises, being marked up. You want them under your clothes, or where everyone can see them?”
Sam flushed. “Where people can see them,” he said softly.
Dean barked a laugh. “Poor little Sammy. Left a trail of hickies on every girl you touched in high school. I thought you were a possessive little bitch, and all along you were just begging for someone to come along and mark you up, show everyone who you belonged to.”
There was a spark of anger in Sam’s eyes. “Do I get a safe word?”
Dean reminded himself that this wasn’t Sam. It was a monster that looked like him. “Why, you gonna pussy out on me?”
Sam glared up at him.
“No, you don’t get a safe word. You can tell me no; scream for me to stop, if you want.” Dean bent over to whisper into Sam’s ear. “That was my favorite part, in Hell,” he confided, and felt Sam shudder. Dean stood back up. He checked out Sam’s dick, hard and ready for action, and smiled. “I might stop, if you beg me. Might keep going. Depends on my mood.”
Dean reached for Sam’s face again and thumbed the red scratch under Sam’s eye from the eye-gouge Sam had barely dodged. Sam closed his eyes. Dean ran his thumb over the vulnerable eyelid, applying just a little pressure, watching the pulse leap in Sam’s throat. “I won’t permanently damage you,” he said conversationally. “Won’t do anything that would put you out of commission for more than a day or two. You’re useful, as a hunter, and I’m gonna keep on using you for that.”
Dean suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe with Sam so close and defenseless under his hands. He stepped back a little further. Sam’s eyes opened gradually, pupils huge and dark.
“You like to bleed?” Dean asked him eagerly. “Want me to cut you?”
Sam blinked. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yes, please.”
Dean flashed on his Bowie knife, the balance so much like his favorite blade back in the Pit, and he shivered. They were playing with fire here. “Fire?” he asked.
Sam looked confused.
“Do you like playing with heat and cold?” Dean said.
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Probably?”
“Bondage,” Dean said, impatient to get to the main event. “Being held down, ropes, cuffs. You like that?”
Sam hesitated. Dean eyed him, still kneeling exactly the way he had been when Dean came out of the bathroom. “No,” he concluded. “You like having to control yourself. You want me to put you in a position and make you hold it, no matter what I do to you.”
Sam nodded, eyes on the carpet, a red flush staining his face all the way down his chest.
“You’re going to do whatever I say,” Dean told him, because that was the whole point of this thing, wasn’t it? Making sure Sam didn’t slip his leash.
“I’m not into, uh, humiliation,” Sam said.
Dean stepped behind him, placed a hand between Sam’s shoulder blades and shoved hard, slamming him face down into the carpet. Sam turned his head to take the impact on his temple rather than his nose, but didn’t fight back.
Dean gripped the back of Sam’s neck, hard enough he knew it would leave a mark. “No, see, this part isn’t about you. I happen to like being in charge. So your only job, from now on, is to do exactly what I tell you. And as long as you do that, I will make every one of your twisted little dreams come true. Understood?”
Sam nodded, face still mashed into the dirty motel carpet. Dean hummed approvingly and ran his hand along the sweaty slope of Sam’s back to his ass, pushed up into the air by this position. He was massive. All hard muscle, with not an ounce of fat. Spanking was out, definitely. You could break a two-by-four over Sam’s ass and he wouldn’t feel it. Too bad - watching Sam squirm around in the passenger seat the next day would’ve been fun. Dean would just need to get a little creative.
Dean traced over Sam’s crack and down to his balls, hanging heavy and full between his thighs. He tested the weight of Sam’s balls in his hand. Rolled them around between his fingers, making note of Sam’s quiet moan. “You like that?” he asked.
“Um,” Sam said.
Dean squeezed them. Sam yelped and started to pull away. It must have hurt real bad when he tried to pull his balls out of Dean’s grip, because he immediately moved back with a whimper. Dean gradually released the pressure. “Did you like that?” he repeated.
“No,” Sam said instantly. “No, I didn’t.”
Dean chuckled. “Now, here’s the problem. You say you didn’t like it, but your dick is sitting up and begging for more.” It was rock-hard and curving up towards Sam’s stomach. “So which should I believe? Your lying mouth or your slutty dick?”
Dean started squeezing again, rhythmic little touches with barely any pressure at all.
“I, uh …” Sam’s voice trailed off in a groan and his legs spread a little more to allow Dean better access.
“I think that settles it,” Dean said, amused. “So let’s find a better use for that mouth. Up on your knees,” he ordered.
Sam scrambled to obey. When Dean pointed his dick, full and leaking, at Sam’s mouth, Sam leaned forward enthusiastically to lick it like a popsicle.
“Yeah,” Dean moaned. “Yeah, that’s -” Sam took Dean’s dick in his mouth. “Watch the teeth!” Dean hissed. Sam tried to deep-throat him and gagged hard, tearing up. It was the first time Dean had seen tears in his brother’s eyes since he threw himself into the Cage. Dean realized, with a guilty lurch of his stomach, that Sam had no clue how to give head to a guy.
“Hey, stop,” Dean said as he pulled his dick out of Sam’s mouth. Sam rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the carpet, tense and embarrassed. There was nothing Sammy hated more than failing at something.
“Hands behind your back,” Dean said.
Sam sullenly locked the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist at the small of his back and took a breath to speak.
“No talking,” Dean interrupted him. “Close your eyes.”
Sam did. Dean pushed the damp bangs away from Sam’s forehead and reached down to massage the tight muscles at the hinge of his jaw. “Open your mouth and relax your jaw,” he said quietly. “Use your lips to cover your teeth.”
Dean cupped Sam’s face in his hands and slipped his dick back into Sam’s warm, wet mouth. “That’s it,” he said as he started thrusting shallowly. “I’ll show you how. Teach you all the tricks. Train that gag reflex right out of you. Get you sucking cock like a pro. But this - fuck, this is good, just like this, you letting me fuck your mouth. Lift up your tongue a little, so I can - yeah,” Dean gasped, rubbing his dick against Sam’s tongue. Sam moaned, and Dean could feel it, all around him, Christ.
Dean pulled out of Sam’s mouth and jerked himself a few times before his orgasm hit hard, come shooting out of his dick to splatter over Sam’s face. Dean dropped to his knees, feeling the impact echo through his bad shoulder even through the endorphins.
“You did good, Sam. So good for me,” he murmured, brushing his hand over Sam’s face, wiping away the white drops that clung to his eye lashes. He pressed the palm of his hand to Sam’s lips. “Here, lick it clean. Get it wet,” he said.
Sam’s lips and tongue drifted over his palm and Dean’s dick twitched. Fuck.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” Dean said, wrapping his wet hand around the head of Sam’s dick as his other hand cradled Sam’s balls. “But you’ve got to be honest with me. Tell me - how much of a pain slut are you, Sam?” He tightened both of his grips a little, heard Sam gasp, and started pumping Sam’s dick.
“’Cause a normal guy, he’d be nervous about me handling the family jewels this way.” Dean lifted Sam’s balls and pushed them up high against the base of Sam’s dick, trapping them there. His other hand, the one working Sam’s dick, started moving faster. Hard over the head of Sam’s dick on the up-stroke, it slammed into his balls on the down-stroke.
Sam made a sound, a stifled groan, and swayed.
“A normal guy, I don’t think he could come like this. He’d be hurting too much. But you?”
Sam’s eyes were still closed, hands clasped behind his back. He panted, open-mouthed, as Dean jerked him, every stroke punishing his balls.
“I think you’re going to come because of the pain, aren’t you? You gonna come for me, Sam? Gonna cream yourself because you finally got your big brother to hurt you like you always wanted?” Dean made a fist, crushing Sam’s balls. With a hitching sob, Sam came, his dick spurting in Dean’s hand, the come arcing up to spatter over his belly and chest.
Sam crumpled forwards. Dean caught him and eased him down to the ground. He pulled a pillow off the bed and tucked it under Sam’s head, then went to the bathroom to fetch a warm washcloth. He gently wiped his come off of Sam’s face, and then wiped Sam’s off both their bodies. He tossed the washcloth towards the bathroom.
Sam looked completely blissed-out. The kid always did zone after a jerk-off session. It was the closest he’d ever seen this version of Sam get to actually sleeping. Sam still had his hands locked together behind his back. “C’mon, let go,” Dean said, pulling them apart and into a more natural position. Dean covered Sam up with a blanket and stood up.
Fuck, his shoulder was killing him. Dean threw on some jeans and shoes, not wanting to deal with putting a shirt on. He grabbed some ice from the ice machine. When he got back to the room, Sam was still curled up on the floor. Dean packed ice into a towel for his shoulder, turned the TV on, and watched an episode of ‘The Deadliest Catch’ with the sound muted. When the show ended he dumped the wet towel in the sink, dried himself off, and brushed his teeth.
Dean checked that his knife was in its usual spot under the pillow when he settled into bed. He considered keeping his .45 under there too, just in case Sam was pissed when he came out of the afterglow.
Screw it. He was beat. Best case scenario, his pet monster was happy performing for treats. Worst case, he’d never hear Sam come for him in the night. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it.
Dean saw a gleam under Sam’s eyelashes as he drifted off to sleep. That night, Dean dreamed of Sam, naked and lounging at his feet like a cat, bound with a single length of black iron chain.
Dean woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee. He blurrily checked the floor. The blanket and pillow were back on the other bed.
Sam was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. The mark on his jaw had turned into a deep purple-blue bruise overnight. There were two cups of coffee sitting on the table.
“One of those for me?” Dean asked hopefully.
Sam closed the laptop, turned towards Dean and leaned forward in his chair with a little smile. “Yes. And I got some more ice for your shoulder.” His smile crumpled at the edges as a worry line creased his forehead. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Dean pulled the sheet up a bit higher.
“I mean,” Sam said hurriedly, “I’m not sorry about most of it, last night was amazing. But I’m sorry I hurt you.”
For a second, just a second, Dean believed he had his brother back. He took a sharp breath, and felt his heart grow inside his chest, like the Grinch, three sizes too big.
He stood up, but Sam was just sitting there with a funny little smile on his face, and that’s when the stupidity of it hit him. What, he thought he’d pulled Sam’s soul out of the Cage with the power of his dick? Yeah, right.
“Don’t pretend to be him,” Dean said coldly.
Sam sat back in his chair and his face smoothed out to neutral. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I meant it though.”
Dean snorted. “You’re not sorry.”
“No,” Sam agreed. “But last night was amazing. The ice bucket’s over by the TV.”
Well, Dean decided, at least now he knew the monster was willing to jump through hoops for his treat.
Sam had always been a picky eater. The soulless version was just as particular about his food, and felt no need to be polite about it.
Dean listened to him order, all ‘egg-white omelet,’ ‘red peppers, not green,’ ‘dressing on the side,’ ‘Was that pie baked this morning?’ and ‘You better write this down. If you screw up my order, you’re not getting a penny of a tip.’
He meant it, too. The real Sam always left a tip, no matter how crappy the food or service was, and always in cash, in case the owner was the kind of douchebag who took a percentage off the top. When Dean complained, Sam would give him an earful about how tips were a part of a living wage for people in the service industry.
"You might get better service if you’re nicer to the waitress,” Dean said as the girl scurried off, looking ready to burst into tears.
“No, I tried that,” Sam said. “I get better service when they’re scared of me. Or when they want to fuck me,” he said with a little leer that looked completely wrong on Sam’s face.
“Not anymore,” Dean said sternly.
Sammy used to hate that voice. This version seemed to like it, because the leer turned into a full on ‘fuck-me’ grin. “Oh, they can want me,” Sam said. “They can look all they want. They just can’t touch.” He rubbed the bruise Dean had left on his jaw and stretched his arms up, then out, and left them hanging over the back of the diner booth, completely filling the space, huge and somehow obscene. “I’m all yours,” he purred, looking Dean right in the eye.
Dean shifted in his seat, his dick sitting up and taking notice. His knee knocked into Sam’s leg, inter-twined with his under the table. “Keep it in your pants, man,” he muttered, looking around to see if anyone was watching. “This is Ohio, not San Francisco.”
Sam smirked.
Jesus. How the Hell was Dean going to make this work? He had no clue how to even …
Eight months ago, Lisa had stood up from cleaning the oven after he’d accidentally set it on fire, and had declared that the romance was dead. She’d been kind of joking, but mostly not.
Dean’d had plenty of sex in his life. Lots of sex. Sex on tap whenever he wanted it, because the U.S. of A. was full of bars with women who wanted to spend the night with a good-looking bad boy. If he was in a city, there were the other kind of bars, too, and men were even easier.
He knew how to seduce someone. How to talk them into a quickie in the bathroom, a hummer in the back seat, a hook-up at their place. And he could deliver, too. Dean could make a guy shoot his load in three minutes flat. Could make a woman come a dozen times in a night. But he was never sure what to do when they called the next day, looking for a repeat performance. New positions, get a little kinky, suggest a threesome?
He had a pretty good bag of tricks, when it came to sex, but when the shiny newness wore off, and you’d tried everything once, what the Hell did you do after that?
Lisa’d had all these expectations. Dean tried to do his share of the chores, and play catch with Ben, and work a 9 to 5, and cook dinner when she was teaching an evening yoga class. But his lasagna caught on fire, his boss wanted a social security number, Dean kept leaving the toilet-seat up, and he got falling-down drunk on Ben’s birthday, but it was only twelve days after Sam’s, and how the Hell was he supposed to deal with that sober?
He’d been a crappy boyfriend, so what had made Dean think he could possibly pull off being Sam’s … what? His Master? It was the stupidest fucking idea. Sam would get bored within a week, kick Dean’s ass, and go on some American Psycho rampage.
The waitress, Cindy, delivered their meal. Dean’s fries were soggy, but Sam’s meal looked perfect. When Sam nodded approvingly, she gave a little half-curtsy before scampering off.
Dean was no good at this stuff. Relationships. Only thing he’d ever been any good at was hunting. Well, that, and Hell. He’d been good at his job in Hell. Could torture those souls better than demons with a millennia’s practice. ‘A natural’, Alastair had called him. If he had Sam on his rack, fuck, he could make him beg for it. He was an artist with a blade, a brand …
Dean’s eyes focused slowly on the silverware. There was a soup spoon sitting on the table, metal with a black ceramic handle. That would make a decent insulator. Hmm. Dean picked up the spoon. He looked at Sam until he looked back, and then glanced at the spoon.
Sam tilted his head and narrowed his eyes questioningly. He checked out the spoon, and then shrugged at Dean.
Dean let a slow, wicked smile spread over his face. He winked, and tucked the spoon up his sleeve. Sam looked intrigued.
Dean smothered the laugh building in his chest with a sip of coffee. This Sam wouldn’t recognize romance if it bit him on the ass. He just wanted lots of pain and plenty of orgasms. Dean could keep him on the hook the rest of their natural lives.
As they left the diner, Dean noticed that Sam’s gait was a little off. He grinned. Time to make sure that leash was nice and tight. He followed Sam around to the passenger side of the Impala, got behind him, and leaned in, his hips trapping Sam up against her. He grabbed Sam’s hair and pulled his head back, just a little. Sam tensed, then relaxed back against him.
“That a gun in your front pocket, Sam, or you just happy to see me? ‘Cause that better not be for that waitress groupie of yours back in the diner.”
“No,” Sam said, sounding out of breath. “I was thinking about last night, and … Dean,” he demanded. “What are you going to do with that spoon?”
Dean chuckled. “You’ll like it. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I’ll have fun. Get in the car.”
Once they were both sitting inside, Dean said, “Now take your dick out.”
Sam turned to look at him for a moment. Then he unzipped, reached in, and pulled his dick out through the slit in his boxers. It was already chubbed up, and got thicker as Dean watched. He wondered how much of that was from Sam getting off on being ordered to expose himself in a diner parking lot in broad daylight, and how much was just being looked at.
“No bad,” Dean approved. “Your nuts still sore from last night?”
Sam swallowed. “Yeah. They’re aching.”
“Good. I want them real full by tonight.” Dean started they engine, checked over his shoulder, and reversed out of the parking space. “We’ve got a long drive today. Whenever I look your way, I want to see your dick nice and hard. If you can keep it up with just that big brain of yours, awesome. If not, you can give yourself a hand. But you’re not coming until tonight. Understood?”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. His dick was even harder now. “I understand.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll ask, every now and then, what you’re thinking about. It better be about me, and I’ll want details. I said I’d make all your dreams come true, so I need to know every filthy fantasy you ever jacked off to about me. Every way you ever wished I would hurt you.”
Sam spread his legs, breath ragged.
Dean maneuvered out of the parking lot and onto the highway. The traffic was pretty light, so he eased into the slipstream of an eighteen-wheeler.
Sam was slouched down in his seat, lip between his teeth, staring into space while his dick stood up, curving towards his stomach.
“What you thinking about?” Dean asked. Whatever it was, it must be good.
“You. You fucking me,” Sam said quietly. “And you’re choking me; won’t let me breathe until you’re done.”
Dean’s dick twitched. Christ. Well, that answered the question of whether Sam was willing to bottom. “You ever done that before?” Dean asked, his voice slipping deeper.
Sam shook his head.
“The choking part, or getting fucked?” Dean asked, just to be sure.
“Jess and I tried a little breath play, but she always stopped too soon.” He cleared his throat. “Never been fucked.”
“But you want to?” Dean asked. When Sam nodded, he let himself imagine it, pictured his dick sliding into Sam’s tight, strong, gorgeous ass. And - shit.
“Condoms,” Dean realized. “We didn’t use condoms last night.”
Sam shrugged. “Do we need to? It’s not like we don’t get covered in each other’s blood on a regular basis. You have any reason to think you’re not clean?”
“No,” Dean answered, feeling kind of offended. “I always had a ‘no glove, no love’ policy, and Lisa and I both got tested before bare-backing it. But I have no freaking clue where that’s been,” Dean said, nodding at Sam’s dick, which had wilted some since Dean got side-tracked.
Sam huffed. “Please. Like I’d let any of them near my naked dick. I’m clean.”
“Good,” Dean told him. “’Cause I owe you a lesson in cock-sucking, and I hate the taste of latex.” He licked his lips, slowly. “You ever jerk off to the thought of me sucking your dick, Sam?”
Sam was staring at Dean’s mouth.
“Well?” Dean asked.
“Uh, yeah. Kind of a lot,” Sam said, and his dick was saluting the flag again.
Dean winked. “Keep thinking, Butch. That’s what you’re good at.” Then he put his attention back on the road, pulled out into traffic, and put his foot down. They had 600 miles to go, and Dean wanted to stop early tonight.
As they drove, Dean shuffled through his spank bank of kinky porn and his memories of Hell, looking for things Sam might want to try. He remembered this one particular soul. He’d sliced her skin away, one even, bloody strip at a time, and the sounds she’d made …
A horn blared, and Dean realized that A) he was drifting out of his lane, and B) he was getting a stiffie over memories of flaying someone alive. Jesus Fucking Christ. What the Hell was wrong with him?
Yeah, the question kind of answered itself.
Dean twisted away from Sam in his seat. He took one sweaty palm off the wheel and wiped it dry on his jeans, shame twisting with the heat in his belly. It wasn’t like he wanted to do those things to people. Or, even if he did want to, he wouldn’t. Not unless they wanted it too, like Sam did. And most of it, not even then. It was just … he’d liked it. He’d really, really fucking liked it.
Dean sorted the memories of the things he’d done down there into three boxes, based on how much Sam would enjoy them and how much damage they’d inflict: ‘Try with Sam’, ‘Possible’, and ‘Don’t even think about it, you sick fuck.’
To be on the safe side, he’d avoid blades. For now, anyway.
So maybe there were two monsters in the car. And if that was true, this little arrangement between them was a public service. They wouldn’t even need to hunt. Keeping the rest of the world safe from the Monsters Winchester could be a full-time gig. Dean’s magnum fucking opus.
Read Part II.
Pairing: Soulless!Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Length: 13,330 words
Spoilers: Season 6
Author's Notes: Written for the slaveexchange challenge. Thanks to my beta, randomstasis, and my fabulous artist, phantisma. PDF and other downloads are available on the AO3.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW.
Warnings: *takes a deep breath* This is BDSM porn with splashes of plot and angst. It features a variety of kinks and edge play, including pain play, power dynamics, orgasm denial, cbt, breath play, wax play, knife play, blood play, bare-backing, come play, marking, and branding. There are events that may be triggers for rape and domestic violence. I could write a loving, happy story with this set of warnings, but this particular fic is about some very fucked-up boys.
Summary: A Sam without a soul is convinced he should be in charge. Dean's prepared to do whatever it takes to prove otherwise.
Part I | Part II
Dean dragged himself out of the driver’s seat. Every square inch of his back lit up with Technicolor aches as he grabbed his duffel out of the back seat and shuffled to the motel room door. He unlocked it, left arm clenched against his side. He might have torn some of the ligaments, catching himself when the poltergeist tried to throw him down the stairs. Sam had calmly finished the banishing ritual upstairs while the poltergeist kicked the crap out of Dean downstairs.
Two years ago Dean would have been impressed with Sam’s professionalism. Now it was just another sign that this thing that was all Dean had left of his brother didn’t give a shit if he lived or died. Dean got the door open and fumbled the key back into his pocket. Sam hip-checked him out of the way and tossed his duffel onto the far bed.
“I call first shower,” Sam said, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Seriously?” slipped out of Dean’s mouth. He was bruised and beat-up, covered in plaster and itchy pink insulation from the wall the poltergeist had tossed him through. Sam didn’t have a hair out of place, and he was calling dibs? “No way - first shower’s mine.”
Sam kept stripping down. “Why do you get to decide who gets the first shower?” he asked, words half-muffled in his t-shirt as he pulled it over his head.
“Because I’m older,” Dean answered automatically, wincing as he crouched down to salt the door.
Sam sat on his bed and untied his boots. He pulled them off, wrinkled his nose at the smell, and then set them at the foot of the bed with the military precision Dad had drilled into them both. He rolled his socks down his ankles and then tossed them into a pile with his dirty shirts. Sam stood up to unbutton his jeans; paused, eyes assessing Dean as he limped across the room to pack the salt away in the duffel.
“You know, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m bigger than you. I’m stronger than you. And I’m a better hunter. I think …” he tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think I’m done letting you boss me around.”
Dean straightened up. This wasn’t Sammy at four years old insisting he could tie his own shoes. It wasn’t Sam at sixteen, all sullen silences and frustrated rage, accusing Dean of taking Dad’s side in everything.
This was a Sam-shaped thing with his brother’s face and all of his training, but none of his heart. This Sam would’ve pulled the trigger on Samuel without a second thought. He’d fed his own brother to a vamp to get to their alpha. Sam was a hunter, sure. He killed things, but he didn’t give a damn about saving people. Dean didn’t know if Sam was hunting out of force of habit, thrill-seeking, or pure blood-lust.
Sam was riding the adrenaline edge, taking stupid risks like the werewolf he’d taken down hand-to-hand with a silver knife, when Dean was a hundred yards out with a rifle and silver ammo, unable to get a clean shot because Sam was too busy playing Rambo. Dean watched through the scope as Sam stood up after cutting the thing’s throat, covered in its blood and grinning. He’d wondered if maybe he should take the shot anyway.
Dean had tried to find the differences between this Sam, the one missing a soul, and the things they hunted. The only one he’d come up with was that Dean was holding this particular monster on a very tight leash. And if that leash happened to snap …
Sam sauntered closer, wearing nothing but jeans and a smile. Dean took a sharp breath, combat-readiness shoving his aches and pains into the background. Whatever happened next, they weren’t settling this with words. When Sam kicked out to try and sweep Dean’s legs, he wasn’t even surprised.
Dean ducked inside the zone where Sam’s crazy-long arms could reach but his own couldn’t, and it was on. Fists and elbows, strikes and blocks, like a thousand sparring sessions over the years in fields and backyards, in tiny apartments and seedy motel rooms with the furniture pushed back against the walls.
Sam caught Dean’s bad arm, leveraged it up and out against the joint. Dean’s torn ligaments screamed; he let out a grunt of pain. Sam smirked. Dean gouged at his eye, and reclaimed his arm when Sam jerked his head back.
The two of them circled each other, Sam smug and feral, Dean stiff with rage. They weren’t sparring anymore. Dean tackled Sam into the TV. It fell over with a smash and they rolled across the floor, no finesse, bodies pressing for advantage, elbows and nails and teeth searching out weak points. Sam was stronger than the last time they’d taken a fight to the ground, a wall of solid muscle, and Dean could already feel his own muscles starting to shake with exhaustion. Dean was on top, but Sam’s hands were around his throat, choking him out. Dean hardened his fingers and dug into the radial nerve bundle below Sam’s elbow. Sam gasped at the pain as his hand spasmed and went dead. Dean grinned when Sam went limp beneath him. Sure, Dad taught them both everything he knew. But Dean learned that one from Alastair.
“Hurts,” Sam said huskily. Somehow, it didn’t sound like a complaint. Dean tightened his hold, expecting a trick. Sam moaned, his eyes gone wide and dark. Dean dropped the hold like it burned, using just his weight to pin Sam down. When he sat back, he felt Sam’s dick press up against his ass, hard as a rock.
“What. The. Fuck?” Dean demanded.
“Looks like your little brother and I do have a few things in common,” Sam said breathily.
“Sam wasn’t like that,” Dean denied.
Sam chuckled. “You can’t really believe that. Sam wanted this so bad he could hardly breathe. You seriously never wondered why, every time you stitched him up, he’d run straight to the bathroom afterwards to rub one out?”
“Adrenaline …” Dean said uneasily.
“Bull-shit. Sammy-boy had a thing for pain. And so do I.”
“There are people you can, uh, pay to help you out with that,” Dean offered. “Professionals.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, licking his lips. “I tried that a few months ago. She cuffed me to her bed and hurt her hand trying to spank my ass. When I laughed at her, the cunt got pissed off, pulled out this electric chain, and started hitting me with it. I didn’t like that,” Sam said with a long, sensual shrug of his body under Dean, “So I broke the cuffs and hit her back.”
Dean swallowed. He’d never even heard Sam use the c-word before. He could picture it. Could see Sam towering over the woman, the broken cuffs hanging from his wrists, as she cowered away from him. “Did you hurt her?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “Not too bad,” he said cheerfully.
Dean knew Sam well enough to know he was lying, but this wasn’t his Sam, and so he wasn’t sure how much of it was a lie. Maybe Sam was just low-balling it a little, and he’d hit the woman once and left her bleeding and crying on the floor. Maybe he’d put her in the hospital. Or it could be that hooker was lying in a shallow grave somewhere because Sam had an itch she couldn’t scratch.
“But you,” Sam continued. “You could hurt me real good, couldn’t you, big brother,” he purred.
Dean could. He really could. He’d been Alastair’s most gifted student. Even with the limitations of being above ground. Just using the tools he had in the room right now, a few items from his duffel and the first aid kit, maybe the broken bits of glass from the TV; he could give Sam all the pain he could take, and more. If that’s what it took, to keep Sam under control, he could do it.
“I could hurt you,” Dean agreed evenly. “You gonna make it worth my while?”
“Yeah,” Sam breathed out. “Anything you want, Dean, I swear.”
Dean stood up and didn’t let a hint of what he was feeling show on his face or body. “I’m taking a shower. When I get out, I expect to see you naked and on your knees for me.”
Sam nodded. He looked eager, but there was a glint of calculation in his eyes that made Dean wonder if he was being played.
Dean closed the bathroom door behind him, took off his clothes, and turned the shower as hot as he could stand it. His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. He really needed to ice it, but Dean couldn’t afford to show any weakness to Sam right now.
The hot water pounded down across his sore muscles. Dean stared down at his dick, half-mast from wanting … from wanting that. Dean’s gut lurched. He bent over and spat bile. Spat again; not quite puking, but close. He’d wondered sometimes, over the past few years, if when he finally kicked it he’d end up back in Hell. No need to wonder anymore. He was buying a first-class ticket straight down.
When Dean got out of the shower he grabbed a thread-bare motel towel, ran it over his hair, and dried himself off quickly. He started to wrap the towel around his waist, but hung it up on the bar instead. No point in pretending this wasn’t going where it was going.
He stepped out into the cool air of the room and found Sam kneeling naked on the carpet, as instructed. The glass from the TV had been cleaned up, and the duffels were off the beds, piled in the corner by the door.
Dean walked around Sam, inspecting him. Sam was built, miles of warm golden skin over solid muscle marred by a few scratches and red marks from their fight, his dick lying thick and limp on his thigh.
“If we do this, you’re mine,” Dean told him. “No other guys, no women, no freaking hookers.” No one else in the monster’s den.
“If we do it,” Sam agreed, but his voice was cool, and Dean recognized a challenge when he heard one. He had to prove he was man enough to get the job done.
“What do you want out of this?” Dean asked.
Sam smirked and tilted his head. “I don’t know. What’ve you got?”
Dean stepped close, grabbed Sam’s hair, and jerked his head up, throat curved back and exposed. Sam’s nostrils pulsed, but he stayed on his knees. “That’s not how this works. I’m gathering intel here. So you’re gonna tell me what you want, and then I’ll decide what you get.”
He dropped Sam’s head and took half a step back. “Electricity. You said the chick used an electric chain on you. You didn’t like it?”
“No,” Sam said cautiously, looking up at him. “It hurt, but not the right way. And I got Tasered a year ago. It didn’t put me down. Just made me mad.”
Dean nodded, mentally crossing the Taser in the trunk off the list of possibilities if Sam went rogue. “And when she spanked you, that didn’t work for you.”
Sam shrugged. “I barely felt it.”
Dean reached out a hand under Sam’s jaw and gently tipped his head to the side. There was a red mark there, where he’d caught Sam with a solid elbow strike. Dean rubbed his thumb over the mark. Sam’s breath caught. He pushed into Dean’s hand, pressing Dean’s thumb harder into what would be one hell of a bruise by morning.
“You liked it when I hit you, though,” Dean said. “You like the bruises, being marked up. You want them under your clothes, or where everyone can see them?”
Sam flushed. “Where people can see them,” he said softly.
Dean barked a laugh. “Poor little Sammy. Left a trail of hickies on every girl you touched in high school. I thought you were a possessive little bitch, and all along you were just begging for someone to come along and mark you up, show everyone who you belonged to.”
There was a spark of anger in Sam’s eyes. “Do I get a safe word?”
Dean reminded himself that this wasn’t Sam. It was a monster that looked like him. “Why, you gonna pussy out on me?”
Sam glared up at him.
“No, you don’t get a safe word. You can tell me no; scream for me to stop, if you want.” Dean bent over to whisper into Sam’s ear. “That was my favorite part, in Hell,” he confided, and felt Sam shudder. Dean stood back up. He checked out Sam’s dick, hard and ready for action, and smiled. “I might stop, if you beg me. Might keep going. Depends on my mood.”
Dean reached for Sam’s face again and thumbed the red scratch under Sam’s eye from the eye-gouge Sam had barely dodged. Sam closed his eyes. Dean ran his thumb over the vulnerable eyelid, applying just a little pressure, watching the pulse leap in Sam’s throat. “I won’t permanently damage you,” he said conversationally. “Won’t do anything that would put you out of commission for more than a day or two. You’re useful, as a hunter, and I’m gonna keep on using you for that.”
Dean suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe with Sam so close and defenseless under his hands. He stepped back a little further. Sam’s eyes opened gradually, pupils huge and dark.
“You like to bleed?” Dean asked him eagerly. “Want me to cut you?”
Sam blinked. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yes, please.”
Dean flashed on his Bowie knife, the balance so much like his favorite blade back in the Pit, and he shivered. They were playing with fire here. “Fire?” he asked.
Sam looked confused.
“Do you like playing with heat and cold?” Dean said.
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Probably?”
“Bondage,” Dean said, impatient to get to the main event. “Being held down, ropes, cuffs. You like that?”
Sam hesitated. Dean eyed him, still kneeling exactly the way he had been when Dean came out of the bathroom. “No,” he concluded. “You like having to control yourself. You want me to put you in a position and make you hold it, no matter what I do to you.”
Sam nodded, eyes on the carpet, a red flush staining his face all the way down his chest.
“You’re going to do whatever I say,” Dean told him, because that was the whole point of this thing, wasn’t it? Making sure Sam didn’t slip his leash.
“I’m not into, uh, humiliation,” Sam said.
Dean stepped behind him, placed a hand between Sam’s shoulder blades and shoved hard, slamming him face down into the carpet. Sam turned his head to take the impact on his temple rather than his nose, but didn’t fight back.
Dean gripped the back of Sam’s neck, hard enough he knew it would leave a mark. “No, see, this part isn’t about you. I happen to like being in charge. So your only job, from now on, is to do exactly what I tell you. And as long as you do that, I will make every one of your twisted little dreams come true. Understood?”
Sam nodded, face still mashed into the dirty motel carpet. Dean hummed approvingly and ran his hand along the sweaty slope of Sam’s back to his ass, pushed up into the air by this position. He was massive. All hard muscle, with not an ounce of fat. Spanking was out, definitely. You could break a two-by-four over Sam’s ass and he wouldn’t feel it. Too bad - watching Sam squirm around in the passenger seat the next day would’ve been fun. Dean would just need to get a little creative.
Dean traced over Sam’s crack and down to his balls, hanging heavy and full between his thighs. He tested the weight of Sam’s balls in his hand. Rolled them around between his fingers, making note of Sam’s quiet moan. “You like that?” he asked.
“Um,” Sam said.
Dean squeezed them. Sam yelped and started to pull away. It must have hurt real bad when he tried to pull his balls out of Dean’s grip, because he immediately moved back with a whimper. Dean gradually released the pressure. “Did you like that?” he repeated.
“No,” Sam said instantly. “No, I didn’t.”
Dean chuckled. “Now, here’s the problem. You say you didn’t like it, but your dick is sitting up and begging for more.” It was rock-hard and curving up towards Sam’s stomach. “So which should I believe? Your lying mouth or your slutty dick?”
Dean started squeezing again, rhythmic little touches with barely any pressure at all.
“I, uh …” Sam’s voice trailed off in a groan and his legs spread a little more to allow Dean better access.
“I think that settles it,” Dean said, amused. “So let’s find a better use for that mouth. Up on your knees,” he ordered.
Sam scrambled to obey. When Dean pointed his dick, full and leaking, at Sam’s mouth, Sam leaned forward enthusiastically to lick it like a popsicle.
“Yeah,” Dean moaned. “Yeah, that’s -” Sam took Dean’s dick in his mouth. “Watch the teeth!” Dean hissed. Sam tried to deep-throat him and gagged hard, tearing up. It was the first time Dean had seen tears in his brother’s eyes since he threw himself into the Cage. Dean realized, with a guilty lurch of his stomach, that Sam had no clue how to give head to a guy.
“Hey, stop,” Dean said as he pulled his dick out of Sam’s mouth. Sam rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the carpet, tense and embarrassed. There was nothing Sammy hated more than failing at something.
“Hands behind your back,” Dean said.
Sam sullenly locked the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist at the small of his back and took a breath to speak.
“No talking,” Dean interrupted him. “Close your eyes.”
Sam did. Dean pushed the damp bangs away from Sam’s forehead and reached down to massage the tight muscles at the hinge of his jaw. “Open your mouth and relax your jaw,” he said quietly. “Use your lips to cover your teeth.”
Dean cupped Sam’s face in his hands and slipped his dick back into Sam’s warm, wet mouth. “That’s it,” he said as he started thrusting shallowly. “I’ll show you how. Teach you all the tricks. Train that gag reflex right out of you. Get you sucking cock like a pro. But this - fuck, this is good, just like this, you letting me fuck your mouth. Lift up your tongue a little, so I can - yeah,” Dean gasped, rubbing his dick against Sam’s tongue. Sam moaned, and Dean could feel it, all around him, Christ.
Dean pulled out of Sam’s mouth and jerked himself a few times before his orgasm hit hard, come shooting out of his dick to splatter over Sam’s face. Dean dropped to his knees, feeling the impact echo through his bad shoulder even through the endorphins.
“You did good, Sam. So good for me,” he murmured, brushing his hand over Sam’s face, wiping away the white drops that clung to his eye lashes. He pressed the palm of his hand to Sam’s lips. “Here, lick it clean. Get it wet,” he said.
Sam’s lips and tongue drifted over his palm and Dean’s dick twitched. Fuck.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” Dean said, wrapping his wet hand around the head of Sam’s dick as his other hand cradled Sam’s balls. “But you’ve got to be honest with me. Tell me - how much of a pain slut are you, Sam?” He tightened both of his grips a little, heard Sam gasp, and started pumping Sam’s dick.
“’Cause a normal guy, he’d be nervous about me handling the family jewels this way.” Dean lifted Sam’s balls and pushed them up high against the base of Sam’s dick, trapping them there. His other hand, the one working Sam’s dick, started moving faster. Hard over the head of Sam’s dick on the up-stroke, it slammed into his balls on the down-stroke.
Sam made a sound, a stifled groan, and swayed.
“A normal guy, I don’t think he could come like this. He’d be hurting too much. But you?”
Sam’s eyes were still closed, hands clasped behind his back. He panted, open-mouthed, as Dean jerked him, every stroke punishing his balls.
“I think you’re going to come because of the pain, aren’t you? You gonna come for me, Sam? Gonna cream yourself because you finally got your big brother to hurt you like you always wanted?” Dean made a fist, crushing Sam’s balls. With a hitching sob, Sam came, his dick spurting in Dean’s hand, the come arcing up to spatter over his belly and chest.
Sam crumpled forwards. Dean caught him and eased him down to the ground. He pulled a pillow off the bed and tucked it under Sam’s head, then went to the bathroom to fetch a warm washcloth. He gently wiped his come off of Sam’s face, and then wiped Sam’s off both their bodies. He tossed the washcloth towards the bathroom.
Sam looked completely blissed-out. The kid always did zone after a jerk-off session. It was the closest he’d ever seen this version of Sam get to actually sleeping. Sam still had his hands locked together behind his back. “C’mon, let go,” Dean said, pulling them apart and into a more natural position. Dean covered Sam up with a blanket and stood up.
Fuck, his shoulder was killing him. Dean threw on some jeans and shoes, not wanting to deal with putting a shirt on. He grabbed some ice from the ice machine. When he got back to the room, Sam was still curled up on the floor. Dean packed ice into a towel for his shoulder, turned the TV on, and watched an episode of ‘The Deadliest Catch’ with the sound muted. When the show ended he dumped the wet towel in the sink, dried himself off, and brushed his teeth.
Dean checked that his knife was in its usual spot under the pillow when he settled into bed. He considered keeping his .45 under there too, just in case Sam was pissed when he came out of the afterglow.
Screw it. He was beat. Best case scenario, his pet monster was happy performing for treats. Worst case, he’d never hear Sam come for him in the night. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it.
Dean saw a gleam under Sam’s eyelashes as he drifted off to sleep. That night, Dean dreamed of Sam, naked and lounging at his feet like a cat, bound with a single length of black iron chain.
Dean woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee. He blurrily checked the floor. The blanket and pillow were back on the other bed.
Sam was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. The mark on his jaw had turned into a deep purple-blue bruise overnight. There were two cups of coffee sitting on the table.
“One of those for me?” Dean asked hopefully.
Sam closed the laptop, turned towards Dean and leaned forward in his chair with a little smile. “Yes. And I got some more ice for your shoulder.” His smile crumpled at the edges as a worry line creased his forehead. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Dean pulled the sheet up a bit higher.
“I mean,” Sam said hurriedly, “I’m not sorry about most of it, last night was amazing. But I’m sorry I hurt you.”
For a second, just a second, Dean believed he had his brother back. He took a sharp breath, and felt his heart grow inside his chest, like the Grinch, three sizes too big.
He stood up, but Sam was just sitting there with a funny little smile on his face, and that’s when the stupidity of it hit him. What, he thought he’d pulled Sam’s soul out of the Cage with the power of his dick? Yeah, right.
“Don’t pretend to be him,” Dean said coldly.
Sam sat back in his chair and his face smoothed out to neutral. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I meant it though.”
Dean snorted. “You’re not sorry.”
“No,” Sam agreed. “But last night was amazing. The ice bucket’s over by the TV.”
Well, Dean decided, at least now he knew the monster was willing to jump through hoops for his treat.
Sam had always been a picky eater. The soulless version was just as particular about his food, and felt no need to be polite about it.
Dean listened to him order, all ‘egg-white omelet,’ ‘red peppers, not green,’ ‘dressing on the side,’ ‘Was that pie baked this morning?’ and ‘You better write this down. If you screw up my order, you’re not getting a penny of a tip.’
He meant it, too. The real Sam always left a tip, no matter how crappy the food or service was, and always in cash, in case the owner was the kind of douchebag who took a percentage off the top. When Dean complained, Sam would give him an earful about how tips were a part of a living wage for people in the service industry.
"You might get better service if you’re nicer to the waitress,” Dean said as the girl scurried off, looking ready to burst into tears.
“No, I tried that,” Sam said. “I get better service when they’re scared of me. Or when they want to fuck me,” he said with a little leer that looked completely wrong on Sam’s face.
“Not anymore,” Dean said sternly.
Sammy used to hate that voice. This version seemed to like it, because the leer turned into a full on ‘fuck-me’ grin. “Oh, they can want me,” Sam said. “They can look all they want. They just can’t touch.” He rubbed the bruise Dean had left on his jaw and stretched his arms up, then out, and left them hanging over the back of the diner booth, completely filling the space, huge and somehow obscene. “I’m all yours,” he purred, looking Dean right in the eye.
Dean shifted in his seat, his dick sitting up and taking notice. His knee knocked into Sam’s leg, inter-twined with his under the table. “Keep it in your pants, man,” he muttered, looking around to see if anyone was watching. “This is Ohio, not San Francisco.”
Sam smirked.
Jesus. How the Hell was Dean going to make this work? He had no clue how to even …
Eight months ago, Lisa had stood up from cleaning the oven after he’d accidentally set it on fire, and had declared that the romance was dead. She’d been kind of joking, but mostly not.
Dean’d had plenty of sex in his life. Lots of sex. Sex on tap whenever he wanted it, because the U.S. of A. was full of bars with women who wanted to spend the night with a good-looking bad boy. If he was in a city, there were the other kind of bars, too, and men were even easier.
He knew how to seduce someone. How to talk them into a quickie in the bathroom, a hummer in the back seat, a hook-up at their place. And he could deliver, too. Dean could make a guy shoot his load in three minutes flat. Could make a woman come a dozen times in a night. But he was never sure what to do when they called the next day, looking for a repeat performance. New positions, get a little kinky, suggest a threesome?
He had a pretty good bag of tricks, when it came to sex, but when the shiny newness wore off, and you’d tried everything once, what the Hell did you do after that?
Lisa’d had all these expectations. Dean tried to do his share of the chores, and play catch with Ben, and work a 9 to 5, and cook dinner when she was teaching an evening yoga class. But his lasagna caught on fire, his boss wanted a social security number, Dean kept leaving the toilet-seat up, and he got falling-down drunk on Ben’s birthday, but it was only twelve days after Sam’s, and how the Hell was he supposed to deal with that sober?
He’d been a crappy boyfriend, so what had made Dean think he could possibly pull off being Sam’s … what? His Master? It was the stupidest fucking idea. Sam would get bored within a week, kick Dean’s ass, and go on some American Psycho rampage.
The waitress, Cindy, delivered their meal. Dean’s fries were soggy, but Sam’s meal looked perfect. When Sam nodded approvingly, she gave a little half-curtsy before scampering off.
Dean was no good at this stuff. Relationships. Only thing he’d ever been any good at was hunting. Well, that, and Hell. He’d been good at his job in Hell. Could torture those souls better than demons with a millennia’s practice. ‘A natural’, Alastair had called him. If he had Sam on his rack, fuck, he could make him beg for it. He was an artist with a blade, a brand …
Dean’s eyes focused slowly on the silverware. There was a soup spoon sitting on the table, metal with a black ceramic handle. That would make a decent insulator. Hmm. Dean picked up the spoon. He looked at Sam until he looked back, and then glanced at the spoon.
Sam tilted his head and narrowed his eyes questioningly. He checked out the spoon, and then shrugged at Dean.
Dean let a slow, wicked smile spread over his face. He winked, and tucked the spoon up his sleeve. Sam looked intrigued.
Dean smothered the laugh building in his chest with a sip of coffee. This Sam wouldn’t recognize romance if it bit him on the ass. He just wanted lots of pain and plenty of orgasms. Dean could keep him on the hook the rest of their natural lives.
As they left the diner, Dean noticed that Sam’s gait was a little off. He grinned. Time to make sure that leash was nice and tight. He followed Sam around to the passenger side of the Impala, got behind him, and leaned in, his hips trapping Sam up against her. He grabbed Sam’s hair and pulled his head back, just a little. Sam tensed, then relaxed back against him.
“That a gun in your front pocket, Sam, or you just happy to see me? ‘Cause that better not be for that waitress groupie of yours back in the diner.”
“No,” Sam said, sounding out of breath. “I was thinking about last night, and … Dean,” he demanded. “What are you going to do with that spoon?”
Dean chuckled. “You’ll like it. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I’ll have fun. Get in the car.”
Once they were both sitting inside, Dean said, “Now take your dick out.”
Sam turned to look at him for a moment. Then he unzipped, reached in, and pulled his dick out through the slit in his boxers. It was already chubbed up, and got thicker as Dean watched. He wondered how much of that was from Sam getting off on being ordered to expose himself in a diner parking lot in broad daylight, and how much was just being looked at.
“No bad,” Dean approved. “Your nuts still sore from last night?”
Sam swallowed. “Yeah. They’re aching.”
“Good. I want them real full by tonight.” Dean started they engine, checked over his shoulder, and reversed out of the parking space. “We’ve got a long drive today. Whenever I look your way, I want to see your dick nice and hard. If you can keep it up with just that big brain of yours, awesome. If not, you can give yourself a hand. But you’re not coming until tonight. Understood?”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. His dick was even harder now. “I understand.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll ask, every now and then, what you’re thinking about. It better be about me, and I’ll want details. I said I’d make all your dreams come true, so I need to know every filthy fantasy you ever jacked off to about me. Every way you ever wished I would hurt you.”
Sam spread his legs, breath ragged.
Dean maneuvered out of the parking lot and onto the highway. The traffic was pretty light, so he eased into the slipstream of an eighteen-wheeler.
Sam was slouched down in his seat, lip between his teeth, staring into space while his dick stood up, curving towards his stomach.
“What you thinking about?” Dean asked. Whatever it was, it must be good.
“You. You fucking me,” Sam said quietly. “And you’re choking me; won’t let me breathe until you’re done.”
Dean’s dick twitched. Christ. Well, that answered the question of whether Sam was willing to bottom. “You ever done that before?” Dean asked, his voice slipping deeper.
Sam shook his head.
“The choking part, or getting fucked?” Dean asked, just to be sure.
“Jess and I tried a little breath play, but she always stopped too soon.” He cleared his throat. “Never been fucked.”
“But you want to?” Dean asked. When Sam nodded, he let himself imagine it, pictured his dick sliding into Sam’s tight, strong, gorgeous ass. And - shit.
“Condoms,” Dean realized. “We didn’t use condoms last night.”
Sam shrugged. “Do we need to? It’s not like we don’t get covered in each other’s blood on a regular basis. You have any reason to think you’re not clean?”
“No,” Dean answered, feeling kind of offended. “I always had a ‘no glove, no love’ policy, and Lisa and I both got tested before bare-backing it. But I have no freaking clue where that’s been,” Dean said, nodding at Sam’s dick, which had wilted some since Dean got side-tracked.
Sam huffed. “Please. Like I’d let any of them near my naked dick. I’m clean.”
“Good,” Dean told him. “’Cause I owe you a lesson in cock-sucking, and I hate the taste of latex.” He licked his lips, slowly. “You ever jerk off to the thought of me sucking your dick, Sam?”
Sam was staring at Dean’s mouth.
“Well?” Dean asked.
“Uh, yeah. Kind of a lot,” Sam said, and his dick was saluting the flag again.
Dean winked. “Keep thinking, Butch. That’s what you’re good at.” Then he put his attention back on the road, pulled out into traffic, and put his foot down. They had 600 miles to go, and Dean wanted to stop early tonight.
As they drove, Dean shuffled through his spank bank of kinky porn and his memories of Hell, looking for things Sam might want to try. He remembered this one particular soul. He’d sliced her skin away, one even, bloody strip at a time, and the sounds she’d made …
A horn blared, and Dean realized that A) he was drifting out of his lane, and B) he was getting a stiffie over memories of flaying someone alive. Jesus Fucking Christ. What the Hell was wrong with him?
Yeah, the question kind of answered itself.
Dean twisted away from Sam in his seat. He took one sweaty palm off the wheel and wiped it dry on his jeans, shame twisting with the heat in his belly. It wasn’t like he wanted to do those things to people. Or, even if he did want to, he wouldn’t. Not unless they wanted it too, like Sam did. And most of it, not even then. It was just … he’d liked it. He’d really, really fucking liked it.
Dean sorted the memories of the things he’d done down there into three boxes, based on how much Sam would enjoy them and how much damage they’d inflict: ‘Try with Sam’, ‘Possible’, and ‘Don’t even think about it, you sick fuck.’
To be on the safe side, he’d avoid blades. For now, anyway.
So maybe there were two monsters in the car. And if that was true, this little arrangement between them was a public service. They wouldn’t even need to hunt. Keeping the rest of the world safe from the Monsters Winchester could be a full-time gig. Dean’s magnum fucking opus.
Read Part II.