Fanfic - SPN: Going Down - Ch. 1: See
Title: Going Down [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER ONE - SEE
Looking in the full-length mirror, Dean had the strangest sense that he was looking at someone else's body, that maybe he was looking at someone else entirely. He didn't frown at the reflection, but he studied it, unsure. All the proper features were there and if he'd been at all confused, all he had to do was catch sight of his brother's expression, standing just behind him, to know that the person in the mirror was desired. Owned. He suppressed a shiver.
"What do you think?" Sam asked with a sly smile, his breath shocking the back of Dean's neck with warmth.
"I, uh--" His answer stumbled, but not because Sam had slipped a hand onto his waist, the knuckles of the other sliding up his bare back. Sam liked to touch him. It was-- It was fine, made things... easier, it seemed. For Sam anyway. "Umm." He couldn't tamp down the shiver anymore, feeling it thrum through him as he tried to think straight.
The night before had been bad, not his worst, not by far, but still... he should've had day-old bruises, should've ached just breathing and had real trouble standing, but he'd felt fine enough all day and now he could see why. He looked... pristine, perfect, like a statue, and that worried him. Was he losing time because Sam needed to use him harder than he could even bear to remember? Was Sam... fixing him somehow so that he could do worse? None of the ideas in his head lent themselves to answering questions about wardrobe, which was what Sam was asking him about.
"Can't I just wear my shorts?" He kept his voice even, not a plea or a growl, just a question. Two new situations were converging on him at once and he wasn't entirely sure what to do about either of them. Sam had put clothes on him - or some approximation thereof - for some reason other than exercise, and Sam was... about to take him downstairs. If this was some kind of test, he was wary enough to try to read the instructions before throwing in educated guesses.
"No." Sam's smile widened enough to show teeth over Dean's shoulder, the white of his shirt standing out against his still-tan-in-winter skin, bright like a laundry detergent commercial. It was a perfect match for the thin white cloth that barely hid Dean's groin from view, soft around his hips but alarmingly short and... open underneath. Like a skirt.
Dean tried to think, tried to phrase things in a way that put Sam's needs first, but he felt unanchored and out of his depth. "You don't... want me to be more formal?" Pants. When was the last time he'd worn pants? He wasn't sure. Just thinking the question felt like skimming his fingers across the surface of a bubble that would inevitably pop.
Sam shook his head, a smirk tilting his lips. "Nah. You're decent enough." Sam pressed his hips against Dean's from behind, dark gray dress pants smooth next to Dean's skin as his hand snuck over Dean's arm and down Dean's abdomen, fingertips circling Dean's navel. He let his hand flatten and slide from skin down over cloth, pressing hard enough to mark out the shape of Dean's soft cock, his sac heavy behind it.
The space between what naturally hung between Dean's legs and the bottom edge of the cottony fabric was... two, three inches, at most, ending well above Dean's knees and Dean consciously slowed and steadied his exhale. 'Skirt' seemed too generous a term. Loincloth? Fuckrag? Excuse to watch Dean embarrass himself?
Sam began to rub up and down over the protrusion he'd made of Dean's flesh beneath the cloth. "See? Nothing showing without reason."
Even with his even breathing, Dean couldn't fully stop his body from reacting. The slow tightening of his muscles told him what was coming, the weight of Sam's hand, warm and sure, even through two layers of material. Silently, he bit down on his teeth, trying to keep himself relaxed. Sam... needed certain things and Dean... was supposed to offer them without hesitation. Whores were available for use. Good whores wanted to be used, begged to be used, thanked their owners for use, for anything they could get.
"You don't like it?" The fabric, fitted but not tightly wrapped, began to strain and lift as Dean's cock began to harden, his gaze drifting, watching Sam's arm move over his stomach without looking further down or up into the reflection of Sam's eyes.
"Not--" Dean's words caught as Sam began to work his cock in earnest, stroking him through the layered white with a mix of slide and friction that left Dean's mouth parted even as he resisted other noises, other words. "Not really a skirt kind of guy." Not really a whore kind of, bend over and beg for it, guy either, though, right? Not really a fuck me wide open and break me kind of guy, right? Not really like whatever the fuck Sam wanted, but I try, right? He wanted to be angry, but he just felt... dull, flattened to the point where his nerves didn't understand they were connected to his mind anymore, just jumbled sensations flowing from Sam's hand to his body, heat sparking under his skin.
"It's a wrap." Sam let his fingers slip under the flap of fabric just off-center on the front of the garment, hand sliding underneath it all, knuckles grazing over Dean's cock before palm and fingers wrapped around it, dragging up and down its length. "Like a towel after the shower."
Dean tried to keep his hips from moving, from reacting, but the pull wasn't quite enough and he found himself slowly rocking into Sam's hand. Whore.
"You don't want to wear it?" It wasn't an innocuous question, a tingle gliding up Dean's arms and spreading down his chest in a fairy dusting of warning.
"I want to wear it." As opposed to nothing. Probably. "I just--" Then he was gasping, tipping his head back onto Sam's shoulder, as Sam squeezed his cock and began to jerk it faster, his grip tight and hot and rough. A sound came out of Dean's mouth he would've preferred to swallow, but Sam liked it, his hum of approval pressed right into the line of tendon behind Dean's ear, his tongue striping Dean's neck until Dean shuddered.
"Good boy." That close to Dean's ear Sam's voice was like black coffee with sugar, hot and rich, harsh and seductive at the same time. "Such a good little whore for me."
Dean tried to tuck away the moan, to keep his hips from thrusting up into Sam's hand, but he could only cut into each impulse midway through, his breath stuttering and his body jerking. They hadn't fucked since that morning, but Sam had rarely stopped touching him, reducing him to a tactile object, petted and stroked almost constantly. And he'd been expecting this sort of more for hours.
"You know you want it, huh? Can't help it?" Sam's grip tightened, his faster movements feeding the heat and friction, his voice stoking other sorts of fires. "You just get so confused when you're not in use. Isn't that right, whore? Start to think this isn't exactly what you want, what you beg me for, what you dream about."
"No--" But Sam's attention was too much, Dean's breath coming too hard and too quick, the spring of his muscles winding and winding, tight enough to make his back ache as much as his cock, throbbing and abraded in Sam's fist.
"Do anything I want you to, huh?"
Dean shook his head, but it was a figure eight more than a side-to-side and his every inhale was a gasp as he fucked Sam's hand. He caught sight of himself in the mirror from under heavy eyelids and the combination of his panting mouth, flushed skin, and canting hips made him groan, arousal twisting with shame as he dropped his head back again. Fucking whore. Look at you. You're nothing. You're a whore in a skirt and if he wants to, he'll put you on the floor and use you and there ain't shit you can do about that. Even the rebuttal in his head felt as silenced and silencing as any 'no' he'd ever tried to say out loud to Sam.
"You see how you are, how much you want this, how much better things are when you give me what I want. Are you thinking about me bending you over and taking you again, fucking that dirty little hole of yours?" Sam caught Dean's earlobe with his teeth and traced the bottom with his tongue before letting it go as a whimper caught in Dean's throat. "We'll do that after dinner. Give you something to look forward to."
"Please ..." The word fell out of Dean's lips before he could find its source, but it seemed to have shaken its way up through the muscles below his chest that were so tense they were trembling. If he came without Sam's permission, he would be enduring the far worse pain of punishment in minutes, but if he didn't come soon, he was going to cramp all his muscles into impossible knots.
"You don't want to go down there covered in come, do you whore?"
The question didn't even make sense to Dean, his murmured answer at once obvious and irrelevant to him. "No? No, sir." There was probably something more he should say, but it felt like his mind had become just as locked in place as his overtaxed body.
Sam's voice was right in his ear then, lips hot on his shuddering skin. "Then lift up your skirt, whore, and beg me for your first course."
The words, both commanding and cutting, sliced into Dean's arousal and confusion like a stove-heated knife, leaving him feverish, the mix of self-disgust he felt not wholly blotting out the lingering want, which just made it all worse. He wanted to stop and shut his eyes against everything for a while, but he knew this wouldn't be over until he let it be.
Fingers heavy and dragging, he pulled the white cloth up flush against his stomach, ignoring the way he fucked up into Sam's hand with every breath.
"We can do this at the dinner table, if you'd prefer." Sam made it a simple promise, not yet carrying the menace of a threat, but Dean knew what escalation meant here and how much worse it tended to get.
He forced his mouth open, words stuttering as he caught glimpses of himself he'd rather not have seen. This was his life now, though, his role. This was how he survived. "May I-- May I please eat my come for you, sir?" The word 'yes' made the rest of it easy, Dean's body giving up the fight with the tension, letting it roll out from his core to the tip of his cock as Sam stroked him harder and faster, pulling his trigger with the clenching of pleasure interlocked with pain until release hit him like a train.
Sam's hand captured the bulk of his spunk as Dean moaned, raising it to Dean's waiting mouth and feeding it to him with the skill and patience of someone who did it often and enjoyed it every time. "Good boy."
Dean licked his own salt-slick come from Sam's fingers and palm, Sam's voice, close in his ear, threading every aftershock in his body with enough humiliation and anxiety to re-knot half the muscles he'd just tried to relax. That didn't change what he had to say when he was done, though. "Thank you, sir."
For a long moment, Sam let the words linger in the air with the scent of sweat and sex, tracing Dean's lips with his fingertips. Dean could feel, from the press of Sam behind him, that his brother was interested, was maybe even debating whether he really wanted to wait to use him, but when he looked up into the mirror again Sam's eyes were on his face even more than his body, something both possessive and... fond, almost, in the look. When he caught Dean looking at him, though, he smirked and whatever tenderness Dean thought he'd seen vanished like a dream.
"Looks like we're ready to go now." Sam wiped his hand on the side of Dean's wrap, marring the perfect white with wet streaks, and took a step toward the door, angling back enough to put out a hand, requesting Dean's.
Dean didn't try to resist. He'd stalled as long as he could already. But, still, his stomach shivered as he put his hand in Sam's and let himself be pulled out the door. Sam was taking him to a dinner party. Sam was taking him out of their room. Sam was setting aside half of the rules Dean knew to play by and adding new ones in their stead. It felt less like emerging into a space full of new air and more like submerging into a tank full of water.
A still-trained, still-hunter part of Dean tried to catalogue the hallway as they walked toward the stairs, to tuck away where the largest and heaviest doors were, as if he'd ever get a chance to see if there was an armory or treasure room or just a shelter of some kind where he could hole up and make plans mid-getaway. Most of him was still dazed, though, still wading through the step-up on his everyday degradation. He didn't even realize Sam was talking until he was stumbling down the main stairwell that he remembered climbing to get to their room months ago.
"--dinner. Just remember not to speak out of turn or touch anyone without permission. Punishment will be public and creative tonight, if needed. And I don't think either of those is your favorite."
Dean's jaw clenched, fingers tightening involuntarily in Sam's hand, as he shoved one creative memory after another out of his mind with force enough to bring an ache to the backs of his eyes. "No, sir."
"Then you should keep that in mind when you're outside the room in the future." Sam didn't look at him as they reached the second floor, but the meaning snuck into Dean's system like a drug in his drink and he tripped off the last two steps.
Caught in Sam's arms, Dean worked to untangle his legs and refocus. "Sorry." He didn't push away because Sam would let him go when he wanted to, not before. But when Sam smiled, his eyes alight with laughter that wasn't cruel and even hinted at genuine concern, all Dean could see was Sammy. He needed Sam to hold him up then.
"It's okay." Sam set him upright and Dean went where he was put and no further. He didn't want to break the spell.
He knew he was staring, but he couldn't look away, couldn't think. The questions sitting on his tongue were too blunt for this fragile a moment. He wasn't a coward, but he couldn't make himself risk this either.
Expression soft and ... affectionate, Sam slid his fingers through Dean's hair, which was just starting to be long enough to curl around his fingers more than once. "You don't have to be nervous. I mean, I like you nervous. I like you scared and shivery, but ..." This Sam smirked like his brother smirked, his emotions all over his face, nevermind his sleeve, and Dean couldn't piece the two together properly. "I, uh ..."
Dean watched Sam's focus shift from his eyes to his mouth and the subtle flash of teeth that might as well have been sharp told Dean exactly which Sam would finish the sentence even before his brother's eyes lifted again. He didn't gasp at Sam's flash-tight grip in his hair because of shock, just pain.
"It's my place, right? So if I want to fuck my well-trained little whore on every floor and in every room, I should do what I want, shouldn't I?"
Dean earned a jarring head shake for not answering fast enough and he forced his stuck throat open. "Yes, sir."
Sam's gentle smile was back, even though his grip hadn't changed, and the static charge that bolted up Dean's back came with the knowledge that he didn't really know. Which was the mask? Which was the man?
Dean's voice shook with his breath. "What kind of party is this?"
"You'll see in a few minutes. I just want to show you around." Sam's eyes watched his for a long moment before he let go and Dean wasn't stupid. Even if Sam was really in there, which he might not be at all, he wasn't in control.
Dean stilled his tongue and went where Sam led him.
*******
The second floor was less of a blur than the third, but no more interesting, though the rooms seemed to be larger, more communal and multipurpose, and Dean tried to calculate just how many people could be in this building on a regular day. He wasn't just some lone slave trapped in a tower with some bodyguards. This was a base of operations where enough 'people' (if they could be called that) would have powers he couldn't even predict. That... swirled stones in his stomach, as if they were his dreams of escape slowly being eaten by acid.
"You're not thinking things you shouldn't, are you, Dean?" Sam's smile was confident and relaxed, amused but not mocking, as they started down the stairs again. It made Dean wonder if his shifting understanding of the full situation here was part of the point of this party.
Dean's eyebrows rose some, but he shook his head. Contemplating how impossible escape seemed wasn't quite the same as mapping his exit route. But... "All these people work for you?"
"Yeah. In one way or another." Sam's eyes sparked with something Dean couldn't quite name when they caught each other's gaze again, but it thrilled him in a way he wasn't expecting. It was like a secret was being shared, like their low voices were passing clues through the air in code.
What are you telling me, Sam? What is this about? "Are you like... the overall leader?" The thought made something clench in Dean's chest, but he had to know.
Stepping onto the polished wood of the first floor's main hallway, Sam turned glinting eyes and a genuine grin on his brother. "No."
There was more to it, Dean knew it, but what? The 'High Council' came to mind, but he had only heard that likely-forbidden bit of information from a guard who seemed decent enough not to deserve Sam's wrath for something so small. Even so, Dean opened his mouth to say ... something, he wasn't sure what yet. Then movement down the hall caught both their eyes.
A straight-backed blond soldier in perfectly pressed Marine dress blues with a white cap under his arm started to approach them. He immediately halted, however, when Sam shook his head, a single subtle sweep that Dean only caught because his body had gone into high-alert mode. Instead, the soldier snapped his heels, seemed to only narrowly refrain from a salute, and turned to walk in the other direction, exiting into the nearest room.
"What was that about?" Dean quirked his eyebrow after the man disappeared. He was still trying to determine what clue he was missing about tonight and Sam's behavior, but he'd take any honest answer he could get. Right then, it seemed like anything could be another puzzle piece.
Sam tugged his hand, though, and headed down the hall, passing the space the soldier had vacated. "I want you to see the rest of the house." A statement that seemed to be an answer to Dean's question, even if it didn't reveal everything.
"Why?" Dean kept up with Sam's floor-eating strides but still felt like a beloved teddy bear being dragged to an array of Christmas presents by some kid on TV.
Sam didn't say, just pointed out each open room, slapping quick labels on them. The dining room, where the soldier had gone, mixing with the rest of the milling, chatting bodies. The library, which might well have been the rescue station for the Library of Congress from all the stacked books haphazardly filling every empty space. And the lounge, which was where Dean remembered sitting to talk with the proprietor - who wasn't actually the proprietor - of the inn, to research the haunting they were supposed to handle. Maybe Dean would just call it the Big Fat Lie room.
"Sometimes I have meetings in here, so you'd mostly just keep me company between appointments, making sure that I'm taken care of in the way you've been trained." Sam spoke like they'd been having a conversation about this all along, as if the idea of Dean sitting in on meetings on the first floor wasn't a shocking announcement.
So Dean pretended it wasn't.
"You wouldn't have to worry about serving anything, food or drinks or anything like that. We obviously have servants for that."
Obviously. Except... the "we" part hadn't really been that obvious at all. It implied a kind of joint household ownership and joint employment of servants, as if he was a spouse more than a slave. What did that really mean, though? Sam believed that Dean wanted this life, wanted to belong to him and be used by him, so why not the rest of it too? Why not believe that Dean would one day run this house with him, willingly, even eagerly, being used in every room and then having the servants bring them a towel and a sandwich just the way Sam liked it? It was no more insane than the goal of Dean excitedly begging to be fucked bloody or beaten to screaming, so ... why not?
The next room swam in his vision for more than one reason as Sam swung them into it. "And this is the great room. Do you remember coming through here?" Sam's smile fell into a crease-edged frown as he caught Dean's arms with both hands. "You okay?"
"Yeah." His stomach continued doing gymnastics and yoga poses for a moment, but the arm Sam slid around his waist actually helped. Whatever Sam might be mentally, physically he was ... solid ... and there. "It's a lot to take in, that's all." And maybe he was hungry. Lunch was always the hardest meal for him to force and keep down.
Sam nodded, but didn't say anything, just kept watching him and holding him steady.
Dean had to look away from those eyes and ignore the fingers that were starting to rub circles into his side. He didn't need to be soothed he just ... needed to get away. He forced his eyes to keep moving past the heavy-looking stained glass door on the far side of the room, taking in the art on the nearest wall instead. It was new, glossy with bold blacks and mixed up colors, like something from an expensive magazine. "Yours?"
Sam shifted to look at the wall over his shoulder, giving Dean more space. "Yeah. Still deciding what looks best where, but ... yeah." His eyebrows were bent in with confusion as he turned back to look at Dean. "You like it?"
Dean shrugged, carefully stepping out of the embrace to go look at it and the others. "Don't know what it's of, but ... sure." Art was art as far as he was concerned, unless there were cars or naked women involved, in which case it could be broken down into the porn categories of good, bad, and serviceable.
He walked the room, taking in the black baby grand piano, a shiny array of creamy leather chairs, and various small tables, tastefully arranged with the occasional knickknack. Sam - or someone in his so-called 'crew' - had redecorated, updated the place from its significantly more traditional, woodsy feel. He couldn't say it was exactly his style, but as he looked back at the way Sam was tracking him, focusing on every line of his face and body like he was a walking mood ring, he figured it was probably a bit more Sam's style, the dream of a Sam who wanted to be a lawyer and marry a girl he could take to corporate Christmas parties.
"It's nice. Really nice." At the sight of Sam's small smile and smoothed out shoulders, Dean found himself speaking unfiltered before he'd had time to analyze his thoughts. "And ... if you want them to do our room this way, you should just do it. I don't mind." The pressure to look back at the door felt like a knee leaning on the base of his spine, but he didn't buckle.
"I hadn't thought about it, really." Sam blinked at him, visibly and pleasantly surprised in a way Dean didn't think he'd seen in a long time. "I mean, remodeling takes time and with you in there, it- …" He tilted his head again, looking Dean over as if he'd just donned a freshly pressed new suit. "I'll think about it."
"Okay." Dean gave an utterly casual and disarming shrug, cultivating a bashful smile from his 'charming' handbook. The 'our' had been intentional. This was a place they shared, right? He was a good boy and he wanted to learn how to be better. He wanted Sam to be happy. And the door was what? Fifteen feet away? Twenty? How many feet would he get before Sam took him down? Two? Four? Was it key-locked on the inside or could he just flip the bolt by hand? "Good." He wanted to toss in some line about how he wouldn't mind getting out of the workers' way while they redid things, how he and Sam could maybe come down here and just hangout, read, talk, cuddle, whatever, anything, everything, but … the spastic anxiousness that was quickly flooding his mind with ideas would spill too many words over his lips and Sam would know what he'd been thinking. He would know and Dean would hurt for days.
As it was, though, Sam was so distracted by Dean's suggestion that Dean's speeding heartbeat didn't seem to catch his attention. He just reached for Dean's hand again with a smirk and turned back toward the hallway. "Hungry?"
"Starving." In the seconds Dean had of lapsed supervision, the urge to go back toward the door pressed into him even harder, like the whole of its wood and thick glass was tied to his back. He just continued forward obediently, though, trying to breathe through the feel of it as they rounded the corner. Maybe, if he did it all right, the light in his brother's eyes today meant that when he ran, Sam would come with him. He laughed under his breath, his brother smiling over at him as if they were both thinking the same thing, even though Dean knew they couldn't be. Still, Sam was smiling and whatever Dean wanted to think about their past, their present, or their future, it was a look he would've liked to see more often in quiet easy moments like this.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER ONE - SEE
Looking in the full-length mirror, Dean had the strangest sense that he was looking at someone else's body, that maybe he was looking at someone else entirely. He didn't frown at the reflection, but he studied it, unsure. All the proper features were there and if he'd been at all confused, all he had to do was catch sight of his brother's expression, standing just behind him, to know that the person in the mirror was desired. Owned. He suppressed a shiver.
"What do you think?" Sam asked with a sly smile, his breath shocking the back of Dean's neck with warmth.
"I, uh--" His answer stumbled, but not because Sam had slipped a hand onto his waist, the knuckles of the other sliding up his bare back. Sam liked to touch him. It was-- It was fine, made things... easier, it seemed. For Sam anyway. "Umm." He couldn't tamp down the shiver anymore, feeling it thrum through him as he tried to think straight.
The night before had been bad, not his worst, not by far, but still... he should've had day-old bruises, should've ached just breathing and had real trouble standing, but he'd felt fine enough all day and now he could see why. He looked... pristine, perfect, like a statue, and that worried him. Was he losing time because Sam needed to use him harder than he could even bear to remember? Was Sam... fixing him somehow so that he could do worse? None of the ideas in his head lent themselves to answering questions about wardrobe, which was what Sam was asking him about.
"Can't I just wear my shorts?" He kept his voice even, not a plea or a growl, just a question. Two new situations were converging on him at once and he wasn't entirely sure what to do about either of them. Sam had put clothes on him - or some approximation thereof - for some reason other than exercise, and Sam was... about to take him downstairs. If this was some kind of test, he was wary enough to try to read the instructions before throwing in educated guesses.
"No." Sam's smile widened enough to show teeth over Dean's shoulder, the white of his shirt standing out against his still-tan-in-winter skin, bright like a laundry detergent commercial. It was a perfect match for the thin white cloth that barely hid Dean's groin from view, soft around his hips but alarmingly short and... open underneath. Like a skirt.
Dean tried to think, tried to phrase things in a way that put Sam's needs first, but he felt unanchored and out of his depth. "You don't... want me to be more formal?" Pants. When was the last time he'd worn pants? He wasn't sure. Just thinking the question felt like skimming his fingers across the surface of a bubble that would inevitably pop.
Sam shook his head, a smirk tilting his lips. "Nah. You're decent enough." Sam pressed his hips against Dean's from behind, dark gray dress pants smooth next to Dean's skin as his hand snuck over Dean's arm and down Dean's abdomen, fingertips circling Dean's navel. He let his hand flatten and slide from skin down over cloth, pressing hard enough to mark out the shape of Dean's soft cock, his sac heavy behind it.
The space between what naturally hung between Dean's legs and the bottom edge of the cottony fabric was... two, three inches, at most, ending well above Dean's knees and Dean consciously slowed and steadied his exhale. 'Skirt' seemed too generous a term. Loincloth? Fuckrag? Excuse to watch Dean embarrass himself?
Sam began to rub up and down over the protrusion he'd made of Dean's flesh beneath the cloth. "See? Nothing showing without reason."
Even with his even breathing, Dean couldn't fully stop his body from reacting. The slow tightening of his muscles told him what was coming, the weight of Sam's hand, warm and sure, even through two layers of material. Silently, he bit down on his teeth, trying to keep himself relaxed. Sam... needed certain things and Dean... was supposed to offer them without hesitation. Whores were available for use. Good whores wanted to be used, begged to be used, thanked their owners for use, for anything they could get.
"You don't like it?" The fabric, fitted but not tightly wrapped, began to strain and lift as Dean's cock began to harden, his gaze drifting, watching Sam's arm move over his stomach without looking further down or up into the reflection of Sam's eyes.
"Not--" Dean's words caught as Sam began to work his cock in earnest, stroking him through the layered white with a mix of slide and friction that left Dean's mouth parted even as he resisted other noises, other words. "Not really a skirt kind of guy." Not really a whore kind of, bend over and beg for it, guy either, though, right? Not really a fuck me wide open and break me kind of guy, right? Not really like whatever the fuck Sam wanted, but I try, right? He wanted to be angry, but he just felt... dull, flattened to the point where his nerves didn't understand they were connected to his mind anymore, just jumbled sensations flowing from Sam's hand to his body, heat sparking under his skin.
"It's a wrap." Sam let his fingers slip under the flap of fabric just off-center on the front of the garment, hand sliding underneath it all, knuckles grazing over Dean's cock before palm and fingers wrapped around it, dragging up and down its length. "Like a towel after the shower."
Dean tried to keep his hips from moving, from reacting, but the pull wasn't quite enough and he found himself slowly rocking into Sam's hand. Whore.
"You don't want to wear it?" It wasn't an innocuous question, a tingle gliding up Dean's arms and spreading down his chest in a fairy dusting of warning.
"I want to wear it." As opposed to nothing. Probably. "I just--" Then he was gasping, tipping his head back onto Sam's shoulder, as Sam squeezed his cock and began to jerk it faster, his grip tight and hot and rough. A sound came out of Dean's mouth he would've preferred to swallow, but Sam liked it, his hum of approval pressed right into the line of tendon behind Dean's ear, his tongue striping Dean's neck until Dean shuddered.
"Good boy." That close to Dean's ear Sam's voice was like black coffee with sugar, hot and rich, harsh and seductive at the same time. "Such a good little whore for me."
Dean tried to tuck away the moan, to keep his hips from thrusting up into Sam's hand, but he could only cut into each impulse midway through, his breath stuttering and his body jerking. They hadn't fucked since that morning, but Sam had rarely stopped touching him, reducing him to a tactile object, petted and stroked almost constantly. And he'd been expecting this sort of more for hours.
"You know you want it, huh? Can't help it?" Sam's grip tightened, his faster movements feeding the heat and friction, his voice stoking other sorts of fires. "You just get so confused when you're not in use. Isn't that right, whore? Start to think this isn't exactly what you want, what you beg me for, what you dream about."
"No--" But Sam's attention was too much, Dean's breath coming too hard and too quick, the spring of his muscles winding and winding, tight enough to make his back ache as much as his cock, throbbing and abraded in Sam's fist.
"Do anything I want you to, huh?"
Dean shook his head, but it was a figure eight more than a side-to-side and his every inhale was a gasp as he fucked Sam's hand. He caught sight of himself in the mirror from under heavy eyelids and the combination of his panting mouth, flushed skin, and canting hips made him groan, arousal twisting with shame as he dropped his head back again. Fucking whore. Look at you. You're nothing. You're a whore in a skirt and if he wants to, he'll put you on the floor and use you and there ain't shit you can do about that. Even the rebuttal in his head felt as silenced and silencing as any 'no' he'd ever tried to say out loud to Sam.
"You see how you are, how much you want this, how much better things are when you give me what I want. Are you thinking about me bending you over and taking you again, fucking that dirty little hole of yours?" Sam caught Dean's earlobe with his teeth and traced the bottom with his tongue before letting it go as a whimper caught in Dean's throat. "We'll do that after dinner. Give you something to look forward to."
"Please ..." The word fell out of Dean's lips before he could find its source, but it seemed to have shaken its way up through the muscles below his chest that were so tense they were trembling. If he came without Sam's permission, he would be enduring the far worse pain of punishment in minutes, but if he didn't come soon, he was going to cramp all his muscles into impossible knots.
"You don't want to go down there covered in come, do you whore?"
The question didn't even make sense to Dean, his murmured answer at once obvious and irrelevant to him. "No? No, sir." There was probably something more he should say, but it felt like his mind had become just as locked in place as his overtaxed body.
Sam's voice was right in his ear then, lips hot on his shuddering skin. "Then lift up your skirt, whore, and beg me for your first course."
The words, both commanding and cutting, sliced into Dean's arousal and confusion like a stove-heated knife, leaving him feverish, the mix of self-disgust he felt not wholly blotting out the lingering want, which just made it all worse. He wanted to stop and shut his eyes against everything for a while, but he knew this wouldn't be over until he let it be.
Fingers heavy and dragging, he pulled the white cloth up flush against his stomach, ignoring the way he fucked up into Sam's hand with every breath.
"We can do this at the dinner table, if you'd prefer." Sam made it a simple promise, not yet carrying the menace of a threat, but Dean knew what escalation meant here and how much worse it tended to get.
He forced his mouth open, words stuttering as he caught glimpses of himself he'd rather not have seen. This was his life now, though, his role. This was how he survived. "May I-- May I please eat my come for you, sir?" The word 'yes' made the rest of it easy, Dean's body giving up the fight with the tension, letting it roll out from his core to the tip of his cock as Sam stroked him harder and faster, pulling his trigger with the clenching of pleasure interlocked with pain until release hit him like a train.
Sam's hand captured the bulk of his spunk as Dean moaned, raising it to Dean's waiting mouth and feeding it to him with the skill and patience of someone who did it often and enjoyed it every time. "Good boy."
Dean licked his own salt-slick come from Sam's fingers and palm, Sam's voice, close in his ear, threading every aftershock in his body with enough humiliation and anxiety to re-knot half the muscles he'd just tried to relax. That didn't change what he had to say when he was done, though. "Thank you, sir."
For a long moment, Sam let the words linger in the air with the scent of sweat and sex, tracing Dean's lips with his fingertips. Dean could feel, from the press of Sam behind him, that his brother was interested, was maybe even debating whether he really wanted to wait to use him, but when he looked up into the mirror again Sam's eyes were on his face even more than his body, something both possessive and... fond, almost, in the look. When he caught Dean looking at him, though, he smirked and whatever tenderness Dean thought he'd seen vanished like a dream.
"Looks like we're ready to go now." Sam wiped his hand on the side of Dean's wrap, marring the perfect white with wet streaks, and took a step toward the door, angling back enough to put out a hand, requesting Dean's.
Dean didn't try to resist. He'd stalled as long as he could already. But, still, his stomach shivered as he put his hand in Sam's and let himself be pulled out the door. Sam was taking him to a dinner party. Sam was taking him out of their room. Sam was setting aside half of the rules Dean knew to play by and adding new ones in their stead. It felt less like emerging into a space full of new air and more like submerging into a tank full of water.
A still-trained, still-hunter part of Dean tried to catalogue the hallway as they walked toward the stairs, to tuck away where the largest and heaviest doors were, as if he'd ever get a chance to see if there was an armory or treasure room or just a shelter of some kind where he could hole up and make plans mid-getaway. Most of him was still dazed, though, still wading through the step-up on his everyday degradation. He didn't even realize Sam was talking until he was stumbling down the main stairwell that he remembered climbing to get to their room months ago.
"--dinner. Just remember not to speak out of turn or touch anyone without permission. Punishment will be public and creative tonight, if needed. And I don't think either of those is your favorite."
Dean's jaw clenched, fingers tightening involuntarily in Sam's hand, as he shoved one creative memory after another out of his mind with force enough to bring an ache to the backs of his eyes. "No, sir."
"Then you should keep that in mind when you're outside the room in the future." Sam didn't look at him as they reached the second floor, but the meaning snuck into Dean's system like a drug in his drink and he tripped off the last two steps.
Caught in Sam's arms, Dean worked to untangle his legs and refocus. "Sorry." He didn't push away because Sam would let him go when he wanted to, not before. But when Sam smiled, his eyes alight with laughter that wasn't cruel and even hinted at genuine concern, all Dean could see was Sammy. He needed Sam to hold him up then.
"It's okay." Sam set him upright and Dean went where he was put and no further. He didn't want to break the spell.
He knew he was staring, but he couldn't look away, couldn't think. The questions sitting on his tongue were too blunt for this fragile a moment. He wasn't a coward, but he couldn't make himself risk this either.
Expression soft and ... affectionate, Sam slid his fingers through Dean's hair, which was just starting to be long enough to curl around his fingers more than once. "You don't have to be nervous. I mean, I like you nervous. I like you scared and shivery, but ..." This Sam smirked like his brother smirked, his emotions all over his face, nevermind his sleeve, and Dean couldn't piece the two together properly. "I, uh ..."
Dean watched Sam's focus shift from his eyes to his mouth and the subtle flash of teeth that might as well have been sharp told Dean exactly which Sam would finish the sentence even before his brother's eyes lifted again. He didn't gasp at Sam's flash-tight grip in his hair because of shock, just pain.
"It's my place, right? So if I want to fuck my well-trained little whore on every floor and in every room, I should do what I want, shouldn't I?"
Dean earned a jarring head shake for not answering fast enough and he forced his stuck throat open. "Yes, sir."
Sam's gentle smile was back, even though his grip hadn't changed, and the static charge that bolted up Dean's back came with the knowledge that he didn't really know. Which was the mask? Which was the man?
Dean's voice shook with his breath. "What kind of party is this?"
"You'll see in a few minutes. I just want to show you around." Sam's eyes watched his for a long moment before he let go and Dean wasn't stupid. Even if Sam was really in there, which he might not be at all, he wasn't in control.
Dean stilled his tongue and went where Sam led him.
*******
The second floor was less of a blur than the third, but no more interesting, though the rooms seemed to be larger, more communal and multipurpose, and Dean tried to calculate just how many people could be in this building on a regular day. He wasn't just some lone slave trapped in a tower with some bodyguards. This was a base of operations where enough 'people' (if they could be called that) would have powers he couldn't even predict. That... swirled stones in his stomach, as if they were his dreams of escape slowly being eaten by acid.
"You're not thinking things you shouldn't, are you, Dean?" Sam's smile was confident and relaxed, amused but not mocking, as they started down the stairs again. It made Dean wonder if his shifting understanding of the full situation here was part of the point of this party.
Dean's eyebrows rose some, but he shook his head. Contemplating how impossible escape seemed wasn't quite the same as mapping his exit route. But... "All these people work for you?"
"Yeah. In one way or another." Sam's eyes sparked with something Dean couldn't quite name when they caught each other's gaze again, but it thrilled him in a way he wasn't expecting. It was like a secret was being shared, like their low voices were passing clues through the air in code.
What are you telling me, Sam? What is this about? "Are you like... the overall leader?" The thought made something clench in Dean's chest, but he had to know.
Stepping onto the polished wood of the first floor's main hallway, Sam turned glinting eyes and a genuine grin on his brother. "No."
There was more to it, Dean knew it, but what? The 'High Council' came to mind, but he had only heard that likely-forbidden bit of information from a guard who seemed decent enough not to deserve Sam's wrath for something so small. Even so, Dean opened his mouth to say ... something, he wasn't sure what yet. Then movement down the hall caught both their eyes.
A straight-backed blond soldier in perfectly pressed Marine dress blues with a white cap under his arm started to approach them. He immediately halted, however, when Sam shook his head, a single subtle sweep that Dean only caught because his body had gone into high-alert mode. Instead, the soldier snapped his heels, seemed to only narrowly refrain from a salute, and turned to walk in the other direction, exiting into the nearest room.
"What was that about?" Dean quirked his eyebrow after the man disappeared. He was still trying to determine what clue he was missing about tonight and Sam's behavior, but he'd take any honest answer he could get. Right then, it seemed like anything could be another puzzle piece.
Sam tugged his hand, though, and headed down the hall, passing the space the soldier had vacated. "I want you to see the rest of the house." A statement that seemed to be an answer to Dean's question, even if it didn't reveal everything.
"Why?" Dean kept up with Sam's floor-eating strides but still felt like a beloved teddy bear being dragged to an array of Christmas presents by some kid on TV.
Sam didn't say, just pointed out each open room, slapping quick labels on them. The dining room, where the soldier had gone, mixing with the rest of the milling, chatting bodies. The library, which might well have been the rescue station for the Library of Congress from all the stacked books haphazardly filling every empty space. And the lounge, which was where Dean remembered sitting to talk with the proprietor - who wasn't actually the proprietor - of the inn, to research the haunting they were supposed to handle. Maybe Dean would just call it the Big Fat Lie room.
"Sometimes I have meetings in here, so you'd mostly just keep me company between appointments, making sure that I'm taken care of in the way you've been trained." Sam spoke like they'd been having a conversation about this all along, as if the idea of Dean sitting in on meetings on the first floor wasn't a shocking announcement.
So Dean pretended it wasn't.
"You wouldn't have to worry about serving anything, food or drinks or anything like that. We obviously have servants for that."
Obviously. Except... the "we" part hadn't really been that obvious at all. It implied a kind of joint household ownership and joint employment of servants, as if he was a spouse more than a slave. What did that really mean, though? Sam believed that Dean wanted this life, wanted to belong to him and be used by him, so why not the rest of it too? Why not believe that Dean would one day run this house with him, willingly, even eagerly, being used in every room and then having the servants bring them a towel and a sandwich just the way Sam liked it? It was no more insane than the goal of Dean excitedly begging to be fucked bloody or beaten to screaming, so ... why not?
The next room swam in his vision for more than one reason as Sam swung them into it. "And this is the great room. Do you remember coming through here?" Sam's smile fell into a crease-edged frown as he caught Dean's arms with both hands. "You okay?"
"Yeah." His stomach continued doing gymnastics and yoga poses for a moment, but the arm Sam slid around his waist actually helped. Whatever Sam might be mentally, physically he was ... solid ... and there. "It's a lot to take in, that's all." And maybe he was hungry. Lunch was always the hardest meal for him to force and keep down.
Sam nodded, but didn't say anything, just kept watching him and holding him steady.
Dean had to look away from those eyes and ignore the fingers that were starting to rub circles into his side. He didn't need to be soothed he just ... needed to get away. He forced his eyes to keep moving past the heavy-looking stained glass door on the far side of the room, taking in the art on the nearest wall instead. It was new, glossy with bold blacks and mixed up colors, like something from an expensive magazine. "Yours?"
Sam shifted to look at the wall over his shoulder, giving Dean more space. "Yeah. Still deciding what looks best where, but ... yeah." His eyebrows were bent in with confusion as he turned back to look at Dean. "You like it?"
Dean shrugged, carefully stepping out of the embrace to go look at it and the others. "Don't know what it's of, but ... sure." Art was art as far as he was concerned, unless there were cars or naked women involved, in which case it could be broken down into the porn categories of good, bad, and serviceable.
He walked the room, taking in the black baby grand piano, a shiny array of creamy leather chairs, and various small tables, tastefully arranged with the occasional knickknack. Sam - or someone in his so-called 'crew' - had redecorated, updated the place from its significantly more traditional, woodsy feel. He couldn't say it was exactly his style, but as he looked back at the way Sam was tracking him, focusing on every line of his face and body like he was a walking mood ring, he figured it was probably a bit more Sam's style, the dream of a Sam who wanted to be a lawyer and marry a girl he could take to corporate Christmas parties.
"It's nice. Really nice." At the sight of Sam's small smile and smoothed out shoulders, Dean found himself speaking unfiltered before he'd had time to analyze his thoughts. "And ... if you want them to do our room this way, you should just do it. I don't mind." The pressure to look back at the door felt like a knee leaning on the base of his spine, but he didn't buckle.
"I hadn't thought about it, really." Sam blinked at him, visibly and pleasantly surprised in a way Dean didn't think he'd seen in a long time. "I mean, remodeling takes time and with you in there, it- …" He tilted his head again, looking Dean over as if he'd just donned a freshly pressed new suit. "I'll think about it."
"Okay." Dean gave an utterly casual and disarming shrug, cultivating a bashful smile from his 'charming' handbook. The 'our' had been intentional. This was a place they shared, right? He was a good boy and he wanted to learn how to be better. He wanted Sam to be happy. And the door was what? Fifteen feet away? Twenty? How many feet would he get before Sam took him down? Two? Four? Was it key-locked on the inside or could he just flip the bolt by hand? "Good." He wanted to toss in some line about how he wouldn't mind getting out of the workers' way while they redid things, how he and Sam could maybe come down here and just hangout, read, talk, cuddle, whatever, anything, everything, but … the spastic anxiousness that was quickly flooding his mind with ideas would spill too many words over his lips and Sam would know what he'd been thinking. He would know and Dean would hurt for days.
As it was, though, Sam was so distracted by Dean's suggestion that Dean's speeding heartbeat didn't seem to catch his attention. He just reached for Dean's hand again with a smirk and turned back toward the hallway. "Hungry?"
"Starving." In the seconds Dean had of lapsed supervision, the urge to go back toward the door pressed into him even harder, like the whole of its wood and thick glass was tied to his back. He just continued forward obediently, though, trying to breathe through the feel of it as they rounded the corner. Maybe, if he did it all right, the light in his brother's eyes today meant that when he ran, Sam would come with him. He laughed under his breath, his brother smiling over at him as if they were both thinking the same thing, even though Dean knew they couldn't be. Still, Sam was smiling and whatever Dean wanted to think about their past, their present, or their future, it was a look he would've liked to see more often in quiet easy moments like this.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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