Fanfic - SPN: Just For You (Sam/Dean)
Title: Just For You [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "030-Drained" for 100moods, challenge table here. "13-Blood Play" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here. "010-Inebriated" for sam_slut_a_thon, challenge table here. "Cuts like a knife" from Feb. 25, 2007, at 365wprompts.
Word Count: ~2800 words.
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence, sexuality, and language.
Warnings/Spoilers: TORTURE! DARK! VIOLENCE! Angst. Future. Apocalypse. Manipulation. Dubious-con. Blood. Gore. Weapons!kink (knives). Bondage. Kink/BDSM. M/s. Graphic m/m sex. Smut. Plot. Wincest. Slash. AU after "Simon Said." Potential vague spoilers for Season 1 and "In My Time of Dying."
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam has worked too hard and drunk too much and Dean pays for it … in blood and screams.
Beta: missyjack gets mad props for poking this fic. All current errors and oddities are my own.
Soundtrack: "Darkness" by Disturbed (lyrics)
Author's Notes: This is the gruesome incident that led to I Dream of Death (R, Slash: Sam/Dean). It isn't sexy, because it's not meant to be, but I wouldn't have written it if I didn't think it added something important to the story. // For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.
Cable Internet Access
Sam mumble-whispered words into Dean's ear, breathy, all half-repeated and slurred together from some heavy mystical drink. He'd had a long week, hard week, and needed to do violence, needed to let go of his grip on the dark and let loose, needed to be just as vicious at home as he'd only let himself be in his dreams and out doing battle on the charred fields of a burning world.
"Gotta play hard tonight, okay? Gotta paint you red tonight, okay? Gotta make you scream for me, okay? I just need this, Dean, okay? I know you've been a good boy, I know that, I know, okay? Anything I break, I'm gonna mend, okay? Got healers on the way, okay? Gonna fix you up real good, real good, okay? But I gotta do this, Dean. I gotta do this."
Sam made it sound like the prettiest, naughtiest game that they could ever play together. His voice spilled warmth over Dean's shoulder and down the skin of his back. Sam made it sound like Dean should come in the pants he wasn't wearing just from listening to him talk about it, talk about using him hard, about bleeding him, about making him beg for the quiet of death. Sam was drunk and stressed, yet still somehow dangerously seductive in that sick and twisted way that only the most ruthless and charming of villains ever could be. And the brush of Sam's hands and the heat of Sam's body were what Dean had been trained to respond to, to need, to want, to rise for, to come for, even knowing there would be pain. Sam had made him learn to find pleasure in this thing between them, even as it was now, and Sam had made him follow the path of that pleasure, whether the pain was peaking or if it was done.
So, Dean knew it didn't matter if he agreed to this or not. It would never matter here. But still, he said it anyway, because it was expected of him, that he give in, that he be a good boy. And there wasn't any need to make this about punishment, if all Sam needed was release.
"Yes, sir."
It wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. He'd learned to take a lot, handle pain on top of pain, and still be a good boy. Maybe more needles tonight. Maybe more hot wax hissing over his skin. Maybe he'd sleep bound tonight. Maybe he'd be whipped bloody and keening. He'd learned what pain was here. And he'd learned how to survive it, how to be good.
"Such a good boy, Dean. Such a good whore. Love to use you. Love to hurt you. My good little whore. My good boy." Sam was petting him, hand smoothing through his hair and down his back. "So hot for you. Gonna use you good tonight. Gonna please me so good, I know you will. Go lay on the bed for me, okay? On your back, okay? And I'll pick out something for us to play with, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
Dean went to the bed and laid down, docile. He knew that whatever came next would be hard, but it would only be worse if he fought. Moments later, Sam was standing by the edge of the bed, stripping down to nothing. He set out a clear box beside Dean on the sheets, one that Dean had never seen before. It had the shine of metal inside and Sam peered down at it, smiling, and he murmured as he'd been doing just before now, but it was softer, like he was cooing to a baby, and Dean couldn't quite make it out. Sam walked around the bed, sliding Dean's ankle and wrist cuffs into place, and began to hum something familiar, mumbling about calming Dean. Then the chains were locked into place and Sam pulled them tight until Dean's body was stretched, unforgiving, to the four corners of the bed, spread wide like some warped star.
Dean fought to keep his breathing even, but failed, his breath heaving in and out of him as Sam withdrew two frightening and beautiful crescent-shaped knives from the box on the bed. Sam slid his fingers over the grips of each one and knocked the box down to the floor before studying them and the way they cut through the air when he moved. He looked at them with such awe and raw emotion that for a minute Dean wondered if he might actually cry over them. He didn't, though, he just held them up to show Dean, delicately, as if they were the most precious of porcelain plates.
"They're flaaaaaying knives, Dean." Sam pulled out the "ay" of flay so long that it took Dean a moment to interpret the meaning, but he shuddered when he did.
They were for skinning, for stripping the meat from the bone, for all the art that military knives just weren't made for. These weren't for gutting quick and draining blood. These were for slow rituals between hunter and prey. And most times, the prey was already dead.
A chill slammed notch by notch down his spine and Sam nodded when he saw that Dean finally understood.
"Yeah. Yeah. They're even one of a kind, Dean. One of a kind. Well … two of a kind, but only because we've got the pair, okay? There's nothing else like 'em in the world, Dean, and I can see it all from here. I can see it all from here. And they're just for you, okay? Just for you tonight, Dean. Just for you, 'cause I love to hurt you so much, 'cause you're my good boy, my good little whore. 'Cause you give me what I need and I need this, okay? So good. Okay, Dean? Gonna be sooooo good."
The tones of Sam's voice swung into each other, connecting like a twisted song without a melody, making Dean quake with apprehension. They had never gone this far. He had never taken on this much. And Sam had never been like this.
There was a soft rap at the door and Sam angled a little, looking away as the door creaked open. He smiled.
"Join the party, okay? Join the party. Take care of my boy, though, okay? No dying, no blackouts, and don't let him get sick, okay? Anything else is on my call, okay?" Sam's smile went double-wide. "Gonna be so fun. I promise, okay? Sooooo … fuuuuun."
When Sam turned back to Dean there was a spark of something in his eyes, something dark and knowing and wholly devoid of mercy or love. Sam was drunk and his mouth was out of control, but he wasn't that far gone and he wasn't pretending to be. He could have stopped himself if he wanted to. He just didn't really want to. And he wanted Dean to know that.
"It's okay to beg for me to stop, okay? Just tonight, though, okay? 'Cause I know it's gonna hurt real bad, okay? I know that, Dean, I know, I do. So I won't get mad, I promise, okay? Beg if you want, Dean. It's okay. I know you're still my good boy, okay? I know you still wanna give me everything, everything I need."
Dean nodded and he tried to swallow down his pleas, but as Sam rounded the bed and climbed up between his legs, one knife curved around each of his hands, the words caught in Dean's throat until he thought he'd throw up. So he tried, tried to make this stop before it began.
"Sam, please don't do this. … Oh god, please don't do this."
But Sam just grinned, a little lopsided and so fucking Sam. Then he sliced hard into Dean's left side like the muscles were just layers of mud hiding all the shiny pearl of rib bones. Dean yelled, then, his eyes squeezing shut and only blinking open for that brief moment between the lulling of pain on his left and the beginning of pain on his right as the opposite blade sunk in deep, sliding through blood and flesh from his pecs to the bend of his hip.
He could feel the sick wet pop and stretch of muscles tearing themselves wide, splitting under the knives, his blood hot on his skin as Sam carved long deep lines down his abdomen, neck to groin. The metal was cold enough to burn when it went in, spots in his vision appearing as he shouted without words. His body tried to understand how it came to be in a shredder, sliced up, with chunks threatening to slide away in the mess of red as the smell of torn raw meat made him heave like his stomach was poisoned but empty.
There was fire under his skin and every bit of him was tugging to run its way out, yanking itself from wherever it fit, wanting to chase after the blood as it flowed out of him and into the bed. His whole body was screaming throbbing pain, like the aftermath of an acid attack. His skin was peeling away on its own, like it just didn't want to be his cover anymore, and everything inside was shrieking just like he was.
He felt Sam skim the blades up through the pool of blood below his chest, then smear that heat up his arms before cutting them up too. Dean was screaming, barely conscious, as the knives bit into the sensitive skin on the underside of his arms, but it wasn't deep this time, not that this was better. The shallow slices of him slipped off like the shell of a hard-boiled egg after it had been cracked in too many places. His arms quivered, their calls for help, vibrating down through his still-connected tendons, went just as unheard, just as ignored, as the babbled begging he unknowingly mixed in with his screams.
When Sam tired of torturing his top half, Dean was already losing himself in the pain, drifting away in it. The new territory of his inner thighs, his calves, just drove him deeper into the mountain of pain until the colors in the room began to dull, the lights seeming so much darker, now. He thought maybe he'd sleep now, that Sam would slick himself on blood and fuck him, then they'd be done and he'd get to sleep. But nothing ever came easy like that here.
"Heal … now."
The sing-songed words didn't make any sense, didn't fit in his brain, and he couldn't work out their meanings until he felt the wounds knitting back together, the sloughed-off skin rebuilding. Then the sting of the knives was brand new again … and again … and again. Sam slashed him open on an angle this time, horizontal this time, see what's on the inside this time, ritual symbols this time, designs Sam thought were pretty this time, for the right kind of pleas this time, for the right pitch of screams this time, just because it was fun this time … just because it was fun.
Dean saw Sam grin so often and so freely by the end, and watching all those different curious, joyous, intimate little smiles tore at his mind and his heart like the knives that were ripping his body apart. It made him grateful for the haze building up on top of the pain as he started to lose his ability to focus on much outside of himself.
Sam was happy. Sam was amused and aroused. Sam was exploring and experimenting.
Sam … was having a good time.
He was like a hyper child who'd just found a way to paint on an all-white canvas, then make it blank again so he could try something new. Over … and over … and over again.
But a canvas doesn't beg to die. A canvas doesn't scream.
Dean had nothing left in him at all when Sam finally set aside the knives and fucked him. Pain had emptied him out until it was all he could see in the world. He hardly registered the cock shoving its way into him. It was just- … there was already too much. He couldn't spare the space in his brain to process the fuck, but he noticed the way Sam's finger sunk into the gouges on the lines of his hips, noticed the way Sam leveraged his grip right on the raw muscle to make him move, to make him fit right over his cock, just like he liked. Fingers were different in him, somehow, different than knives. They were living and warm and attached to someone who was supposed to be living and warm. His mind shifted further and further outside the pain of his body and he wondered what it was like to reach in and feel the gory insides of someone while you fucked them.
He felt drugged as he hauled up his heavy head, tilting it to look at Sam's face to see if it was different, if it had changed. It was the same, though, intense as he concentrated on his task, then strained but euphoric as he clenched his teeth and made that little whine-groan just before he came, just like always. He was just like he'd always been. But he was like nothing Dean had ever seen before. So when Sam slid out and moved away, Dean's mind snapped back into the pain, rolling around in it, like gasoline in a forest fire, until he could forget it all and scream again.
He didn't endure anything anymore. He was just there, coated in pain with a crimson backdrop and decorations of gore. So if there was come in his ass, Dean just didn't really know. The slick of red, and all the gaping strips of skin from which it pumped, were all the warm and wet that he could really understand right then. And for a while it was just the two of them, him and the pain Sam had given him, a gift he'd never wanted. Just for you.
Then the pain began to fade … and it kept fading, not replaced by something new. It was over.
Sam was done, wanting to see sleep more than blood now, and Dean felt the final cuts close up, his skin smoothing out like fresh clay under the invisible hands of healers who were only a blur in his mind. He heard Sam call for new linens, a new mattress even, and someone said they would handle it right away. He felt lightheaded, confused, but not achy anymore, not hurting, at least, not physically.
In his mind, though, he was screaming at the top of his lungs and beating down the door to his sweet baby brother's imaginary room until his hands were broken and bloodied.
Where are you? Why aren't you here? Where have you gone? Will you ever come back? Are you leaving me here? Is this the end? Should I grieve? Should I leave? Are you already dead? Is this it? Are we done? Can I stop trying to win now? Is there anything left yet to run for? Is the seat by the finish line empty? Will you not be there when I get there?
Will I never see you again?
He couldn't halt the tears. They just kept falling.
He hardly noticed the clink of the chains falling away, the arms around him lifting him up from the bed, the sound of blood-sticky sheets peeling away from pillow-topped springs, the tenderness of someone wiping the cake of blood from his skin, the gentle way he was set into new blankets, or the soft warmth of his brother's body curling around him.
"See, Dean? You're okay, right? Told you, told you, didn't I? Fixed you up real good, didn't I? All better now, aren't you? But I'll go easy a few days, okay? I'll go easy."
The words puffed out without thought, quiet, routine, and hollow. "Yes, sir."
Only Dean didn't feel fixed up. He didn't feel all better. His mind remembered all the pain, all the screaming agony, and even if there were no marks, no breaks, no bruises, no cuts, no welts, no blood … his body remembered it too. And it remembered who … who had done this. He remembered who.
"Talk more in the morning, okay? Just sleep for now, Dean. Sleep. Go to sleep."
And he nodded, almost instantly asleep, and almost just as instantly drowning in shivering, screaming nightmares of brothers and lovers desperate for each other, desperate for endings, desperate to lay their bodies down together and rest … rest eternal.
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "030-Drained" for 100moods, challenge table here. "13-Blood Play" for 50kinkyways, challenge table here. "010-Inebriated" for sam_slut_a_thon, challenge table here. "Cuts like a knife" from Feb. 25, 2007, at 365wprompts.
Word Count: ~2800 words.
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence, sexuality, and language.
Warnings/Spoilers: TORTURE! DARK! VIOLENCE! Angst. Future. Apocalypse. Manipulation. Dubious-con. Blood. Gore. Weapons!kink (knives). Bondage. Kink/BDSM. M/s. Graphic m/m sex. Smut. Plot. Wincest. Slash. AU after "Simon Said." Potential vague spoilers for Season 1 and "In My Time of Dying."
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Sam has worked too hard and drunk too much and Dean pays for it … in blood and screams.
Beta: missyjack gets mad props for poking this fic. All current errors and oddities are my own.
Soundtrack: "Darkness" by Disturbed (lyrics)
Author's Notes: This is the gruesome incident that led to I Dream of Death (R, Slash: Sam/Dean). It isn't sexy, because it's not meant to be, but I wouldn't have written it if I didn't think it added something important to the story. // For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.
Cable Internet Access
Sam mumble-whispered words into Dean's ear, breathy, all half-repeated and slurred together from some heavy mystical drink. He'd had a long week, hard week, and needed to do violence, needed to let go of his grip on the dark and let loose, needed to be just as vicious at home as he'd only let himself be in his dreams and out doing battle on the charred fields of a burning world.
"Gotta play hard tonight, okay? Gotta paint you red tonight, okay? Gotta make you scream for me, okay? I just need this, Dean, okay? I know you've been a good boy, I know that, I know, okay? Anything I break, I'm gonna mend, okay? Got healers on the way, okay? Gonna fix you up real good, real good, okay? But I gotta do this, Dean. I gotta do this."
Sam made it sound like the prettiest, naughtiest game that they could ever play together. His voice spilled warmth over Dean's shoulder and down the skin of his back. Sam made it sound like Dean should come in the pants he wasn't wearing just from listening to him talk about it, talk about using him hard, about bleeding him, about making him beg for the quiet of death. Sam was drunk and stressed, yet still somehow dangerously seductive in that sick and twisted way that only the most ruthless and charming of villains ever could be. And the brush of Sam's hands and the heat of Sam's body were what Dean had been trained to respond to, to need, to want, to rise for, to come for, even knowing there would be pain. Sam had made him learn to find pleasure in this thing between them, even as it was now, and Sam had made him follow the path of that pleasure, whether the pain was peaking or if it was done.
So, Dean knew it didn't matter if he agreed to this or not. It would never matter here. But still, he said it anyway, because it was expected of him, that he give in, that he be a good boy. And there wasn't any need to make this about punishment, if all Sam needed was release.
"Yes, sir."
It wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. He'd learned to take a lot, handle pain on top of pain, and still be a good boy. Maybe more needles tonight. Maybe more hot wax hissing over his skin. Maybe he'd sleep bound tonight. Maybe he'd be whipped bloody and keening. He'd learned what pain was here. And he'd learned how to survive it, how to be good.
"Such a good boy, Dean. Such a good whore. Love to use you. Love to hurt you. My good little whore. My good boy." Sam was petting him, hand smoothing through his hair and down his back. "So hot for you. Gonna use you good tonight. Gonna please me so good, I know you will. Go lay on the bed for me, okay? On your back, okay? And I'll pick out something for us to play with, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
Dean went to the bed and laid down, docile. He knew that whatever came next would be hard, but it would only be worse if he fought. Moments later, Sam was standing by the edge of the bed, stripping down to nothing. He set out a clear box beside Dean on the sheets, one that Dean had never seen before. It had the shine of metal inside and Sam peered down at it, smiling, and he murmured as he'd been doing just before now, but it was softer, like he was cooing to a baby, and Dean couldn't quite make it out. Sam walked around the bed, sliding Dean's ankle and wrist cuffs into place, and began to hum something familiar, mumbling about calming Dean. Then the chains were locked into place and Sam pulled them tight until Dean's body was stretched, unforgiving, to the four corners of the bed, spread wide like some warped star.
Dean fought to keep his breathing even, but failed, his breath heaving in and out of him as Sam withdrew two frightening and beautiful crescent-shaped knives from the box on the bed. Sam slid his fingers over the grips of each one and knocked the box down to the floor before studying them and the way they cut through the air when he moved. He looked at them with such awe and raw emotion that for a minute Dean wondered if he might actually cry over them. He didn't, though, he just held them up to show Dean, delicately, as if they were the most precious of porcelain plates.
"They're flaaaaaying knives, Dean." Sam pulled out the "ay" of flay so long that it took Dean a moment to interpret the meaning, but he shuddered when he did.
They were for skinning, for stripping the meat from the bone, for all the art that military knives just weren't made for. These weren't for gutting quick and draining blood. These were for slow rituals between hunter and prey. And most times, the prey was already dead.
A chill slammed notch by notch down his spine and Sam nodded when he saw that Dean finally understood.
"Yeah. Yeah. They're even one of a kind, Dean. One of a kind. Well … two of a kind, but only because we've got the pair, okay? There's nothing else like 'em in the world, Dean, and I can see it all from here. I can see it all from here. And they're just for you, okay? Just for you tonight, Dean. Just for you, 'cause I love to hurt you so much, 'cause you're my good boy, my good little whore. 'Cause you give me what I need and I need this, okay? So good. Okay, Dean? Gonna be sooooo good."
The tones of Sam's voice swung into each other, connecting like a twisted song without a melody, making Dean quake with apprehension. They had never gone this far. He had never taken on this much. And Sam had never been like this.
There was a soft rap at the door and Sam angled a little, looking away as the door creaked open. He smiled.
"Join the party, okay? Join the party. Take care of my boy, though, okay? No dying, no blackouts, and don't let him get sick, okay? Anything else is on my call, okay?" Sam's smile went double-wide. "Gonna be so fun. I promise, okay? Sooooo … fuuuuun."
When Sam turned back to Dean there was a spark of something in his eyes, something dark and knowing and wholly devoid of mercy or love. Sam was drunk and his mouth was out of control, but he wasn't that far gone and he wasn't pretending to be. He could have stopped himself if he wanted to. He just didn't really want to. And he wanted Dean to know that.
"It's okay to beg for me to stop, okay? Just tonight, though, okay? 'Cause I know it's gonna hurt real bad, okay? I know that, Dean, I know, I do. So I won't get mad, I promise, okay? Beg if you want, Dean. It's okay. I know you're still my good boy, okay? I know you still wanna give me everything, everything I need."
Dean nodded and he tried to swallow down his pleas, but as Sam rounded the bed and climbed up between his legs, one knife curved around each of his hands, the words caught in Dean's throat until he thought he'd throw up. So he tried, tried to make this stop before it began.
"Sam, please don't do this. … Oh god, please don't do this."
But Sam just grinned, a little lopsided and so fucking Sam. Then he sliced hard into Dean's left side like the muscles were just layers of mud hiding all the shiny pearl of rib bones. Dean yelled, then, his eyes squeezing shut and only blinking open for that brief moment between the lulling of pain on his left and the beginning of pain on his right as the opposite blade sunk in deep, sliding through blood and flesh from his pecs to the bend of his hip.
He could feel the sick wet pop and stretch of muscles tearing themselves wide, splitting under the knives, his blood hot on his skin as Sam carved long deep lines down his abdomen, neck to groin. The metal was cold enough to burn when it went in, spots in his vision appearing as he shouted without words. His body tried to understand how it came to be in a shredder, sliced up, with chunks threatening to slide away in the mess of red as the smell of torn raw meat made him heave like his stomach was poisoned but empty.
There was fire under his skin and every bit of him was tugging to run its way out, yanking itself from wherever it fit, wanting to chase after the blood as it flowed out of him and into the bed. His whole body was screaming throbbing pain, like the aftermath of an acid attack. His skin was peeling away on its own, like it just didn't want to be his cover anymore, and everything inside was shrieking just like he was.
He felt Sam skim the blades up through the pool of blood below his chest, then smear that heat up his arms before cutting them up too. Dean was screaming, barely conscious, as the knives bit into the sensitive skin on the underside of his arms, but it wasn't deep this time, not that this was better. The shallow slices of him slipped off like the shell of a hard-boiled egg after it had been cracked in too many places. His arms quivered, their calls for help, vibrating down through his still-connected tendons, went just as unheard, just as ignored, as the babbled begging he unknowingly mixed in with his screams.
When Sam tired of torturing his top half, Dean was already losing himself in the pain, drifting away in it. The new territory of his inner thighs, his calves, just drove him deeper into the mountain of pain until the colors in the room began to dull, the lights seeming so much darker, now. He thought maybe he'd sleep now, that Sam would slick himself on blood and fuck him, then they'd be done and he'd get to sleep. But nothing ever came easy like that here.
"Heal … now."
The sing-songed words didn't make any sense, didn't fit in his brain, and he couldn't work out their meanings until he felt the wounds knitting back together, the sloughed-off skin rebuilding. Then the sting of the knives was brand new again … and again … and again. Sam slashed him open on an angle this time, horizontal this time, see what's on the inside this time, ritual symbols this time, designs Sam thought were pretty this time, for the right kind of pleas this time, for the right pitch of screams this time, just because it was fun this time … just because it was fun.
Dean saw Sam grin so often and so freely by the end, and watching all those different curious, joyous, intimate little smiles tore at his mind and his heart like the knives that were ripping his body apart. It made him grateful for the haze building up on top of the pain as he started to lose his ability to focus on much outside of himself.
Sam was happy. Sam was amused and aroused. Sam was exploring and experimenting.
Sam … was having a good time.
He was like a hyper child who'd just found a way to paint on an all-white canvas, then make it blank again so he could try something new. Over … and over … and over again.
But a canvas doesn't beg to die. A canvas doesn't scream.
Dean had nothing left in him at all when Sam finally set aside the knives and fucked him. Pain had emptied him out until it was all he could see in the world. He hardly registered the cock shoving its way into him. It was just- … there was already too much. He couldn't spare the space in his brain to process the fuck, but he noticed the way Sam's finger sunk into the gouges on the lines of his hips, noticed the way Sam leveraged his grip right on the raw muscle to make him move, to make him fit right over his cock, just like he liked. Fingers were different in him, somehow, different than knives. They were living and warm and attached to someone who was supposed to be living and warm. His mind shifted further and further outside the pain of his body and he wondered what it was like to reach in and feel the gory insides of someone while you fucked them.
He felt drugged as he hauled up his heavy head, tilting it to look at Sam's face to see if it was different, if it had changed. It was the same, though, intense as he concentrated on his task, then strained but euphoric as he clenched his teeth and made that little whine-groan just before he came, just like always. He was just like he'd always been. But he was like nothing Dean had ever seen before. So when Sam slid out and moved away, Dean's mind snapped back into the pain, rolling around in it, like gasoline in a forest fire, until he could forget it all and scream again.
He didn't endure anything anymore. He was just there, coated in pain with a crimson backdrop and decorations of gore. So if there was come in his ass, Dean just didn't really know. The slick of red, and all the gaping strips of skin from which it pumped, were all the warm and wet that he could really understand right then. And for a while it was just the two of them, him and the pain Sam had given him, a gift he'd never wanted. Just for you.
Then the pain began to fade … and it kept fading, not replaced by something new. It was over.
Sam was done, wanting to see sleep more than blood now, and Dean felt the final cuts close up, his skin smoothing out like fresh clay under the invisible hands of healers who were only a blur in his mind. He heard Sam call for new linens, a new mattress even, and someone said they would handle it right away. He felt lightheaded, confused, but not achy anymore, not hurting, at least, not physically.
In his mind, though, he was screaming at the top of his lungs and beating down the door to his sweet baby brother's imaginary room until his hands were broken and bloodied.
Where are you? Why aren't you here? Where have you gone? Will you ever come back? Are you leaving me here? Is this the end? Should I grieve? Should I leave? Are you already dead? Is this it? Are we done? Can I stop trying to win now? Is there anything left yet to run for? Is the seat by the finish line empty? Will you not be there when I get there?
Will I never see you again?
He couldn't halt the tears. They just kept falling.
He hardly noticed the clink of the chains falling away, the arms around him lifting him up from the bed, the sound of blood-sticky sheets peeling away from pillow-topped springs, the tenderness of someone wiping the cake of blood from his skin, the gentle way he was set into new blankets, or the soft warmth of his brother's body curling around him.
"See, Dean? You're okay, right? Told you, told you, didn't I? Fixed you up real good, didn't I? All better now, aren't you? But I'll go easy a few days, okay? I'll go easy."
The words puffed out without thought, quiet, routine, and hollow. "Yes, sir."
Only Dean didn't feel fixed up. He didn't feel all better. His mind remembered all the pain, all the screaming agony, and even if there were no marks, no breaks, no bruises, no cuts, no welts, no blood … his body remembered it too. And it remembered who … who had done this. He remembered who.
"Talk more in the morning, okay? Just sleep for now, Dean. Sleep. Go to sleep."
And he nodded, almost instantly asleep, and almost just as instantly drowning in shivering, screaming nightmares of brothers and lovers desperate for each other, desperate for endings, desperate to lay their bodies down together and rest … rest eternal.