Fanfic - SPN: Going Down - Ch. 2: Speak
Title: Going Down [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER TWO - SPEAK
Striding into the dining room, Sam's hand in his, Dean's every step was surreal, new
possibilities blooming in his chest. But when a dozen pairs of eyes turned their way, it felt like twelve baseballs slamming into him at pro speeds. He remembered his place, what he was wearing, and what it all meant. Sam squeezed his hand, strangely thoughtful, however, and Dean tried, for the second time that night, not to let his hope run too far ahead of his sense.
"I'll introduce you around."
The marine gave them his attention as they approached, but did little more than nod his head in Sam's direction. "Commander Winchester, sir."
"Robbie." It had the tone of a gentle ribbing. "We're off the clock tonight. You can relax."
"Yes, sir." He smirked and took a moment to unbutton his collar. "Better?"
"Much." Sam's nod came with his gruff-but-having-fun voice, his own smirk tilting his mouth, and Dean could almost imagine him leaning against a bar in some shithole town, about to knock back his beer. Sam seemed almost... too like his brother tonight and Dean still couldn't get his footing with that. Something was happening and he increasingly wondered if he'd be the only person there who'd even know it was happening.
"Thank you for the invitation, by the way. I hadn't thought to have the pleasure without pressing business on the table. And since our quadrant sweeps have been--"
Sam grunted, disapproval clear, and Robbie stopped. "We're not talking shop tonight, Robbie. Not a word."
Robbie stumbled over breaths that he'd meant to be words, but then offered a small reserved smile. "Of course, sir."
"Have you met my slave, Dean?" The phrasing was common, formal, but Sam asked it knowing there could be no other answer.
"No, sir. I don't believe I've had the honor." Robbie's eyes finally connected with Dean's and didn't wander, his expression neutral.
"Well, Robbie, this is Dean. Dean, this is Officer Robert Lordes. You may address him as 'sir' or 'Officer Lordes'."
Watching the man across the feet that separated them, Dean felt his stomach flip, his mind making the man into a mirror. They were about the same age and while the officer was leaner, Dean could tell there was combat skill coiled in every slim muscle. If Dad had never gone hunting, maybe Sam would've gone to college and Dean would've joined the Marine Corps, made Dad proud. Except ... not exactly like this.
There was something ... off about this man. And if Dean's not-wholly-buried hunter's instincts were still functioning? There was something not-quite-right about everyone in this room. With this one, he realized, it was the eyes. The Marine's eyes were... not light blue or even grey. They were, if possible, colorless, white with a slink of shading around the edges of the iris just enough to distinguish it from the cornea. It meant that Dean's own expression shifted from concentration to contempt before he could think to mask it. Whatever this 'Robbie' was, it wasn't fully human.
"Not good enough for you, Slave Dean?" The man didn't sound offended, just curious.
What Dean felt went beyond a simple desire not to dirty himself by shaking a hand that hadn't even been offered. There was a growl in his chest he wasn't letting out because these masquerading monsters were supposed to be Sam's team, he got that now. But Sam deserved better.
Robbie actually smiled at him then, pleased on a level Dean didn't think anything in this moment deserved. "No. You're protecting him. That's good. That's excellent."
Sam's hand left his and slid around his back, the warmth of Sam's arm not threatening but stabilizing. Which Dean needed to meet the sudden swirl of confusion in his stomach. "Robbie is one of my best field officers. He and Arianna, who is ..." Sam glanced around, but Dean could feel Sam's existing tension against his side. Then Sam's mouth bowed like a rounded knife edge. "Not here."
The corner of Robbie's eye twitched at that, but he showed no other signs of fear. "She'll be here shortly. I just thought you'd want us to finish--"
"Not. Tonight." Not finishing whatever it was and not talking about it either. The way Sam bit out the words oozed a chill down Dean's back and shoved its wobbly mess into his stomach. Why did this dinner matter so much?
Robbie pressed his lips together for a moment, but then nodded. "I'll make arrangements." Then he stepped passed them, yanking his phone from its holster.
The rest of the introductions were far less memorable, except in the way that Dean read every person as some bump-in-the-night puzzle he needed to piece together. One with oddly elongated ears, one with subtly pointed teeth, one with a subtle glow, one with a disproportionately large upper half, and so on. Sam would've been the ideal decoder ring, even if he hadn't already known each of these people, but... no. Dean had to do this on his own. Somehow, though, most people ignored or were neutrally civil to him, as if neither his history as a hunter nor his present status as a whore were particularly relevant. Only one person's attention managed to compound his existing discomfort to a level Dean hadn't quite expected.
"Pretty." The word was purring and slick in a way that tensed muscles all the way up Dean's back, like clammy unknown hands on his skin. Sam's thumb at his side rubbed him through the spike of disgust mixed with anger and shame, but Dean wasn't stupid. One word was hardly enough to make him strike out, no matter how caged-with-the-enemy he felt right then. The short man who stepped up to them, though, both was and wasn't a fitting model for that used salesman style voice. His age was hidden under a trimmed reddish-gold beard and his face seemed weathered toward brown despite the tailored suit he was wearing in a color so deep it was almost black. "If you like that kind of rugged model look."
"Did you expect anything less?" Sam's smirk sat deep enough in his mouth to lay on a little Kansas drawl.
"For your slave? Of course not." He did tip his head to study Dean's body, however, a review that curdled what little was still in Dean's stomach from lunch. It wasn't purely sexual, but more like ... the way a man would look at a car he was thinking to buy for a friend. Design mattered, of course, but so did function. Did it work? Was it too new to be classic? Used a little too hard? Would it last past mile 100k? Should he leave it to rust on the lot?
"I haven't even introduced you yet and you already have something to say." Sam hadn't really tensed, but there was a kind of vibration in him that Dean could feel against his side and around the band of Sam's arm at his waist.
The man's smile as he looked up at Sam was a broad salesman's version of 'pleasant', a con with a trap hidden somewhere underneath. "I was just doing a preliminary valuation. In case you decided to lease or sell him." It was said with such casualness that Dean wondered if he was inventing the menace underneath, if it was what his ears heard in order to explain the way his stomach muscles seized up and wouldn't let go, echoing tension down his legs until it hurt to stand so still, as still as Sam was right then. But then Sam was laughing, a mocking collection of sounds Dean hadn't heard often, but had no desire to learn well.
"Even you couldn't afford him." Sam nudged Dean with their pressed together hips and turned his head enough to wag an eyebrow at him. "Eddie is my ... financial advisor." He smirked, like that alone could include Dean in whatever mishmash of jokes were being shared, but Dean couldn't put thoughts and words together fast enough. "He's trying to figure out if I'm done with you and ready to put you on the market. Do you think I'm done with you?"
Dean shuddered, but it wasn't in any large part about sales or markets or even being leased out. He was looking at Sam's eyes and feeling the press of Sam's power heating his skin until he flushed from his calves to his ears, trying not to pant. "No, sir." When Sam turned back to Eddie and cooled some, Dean wondered if 'public displays of ownership' would be the norm out here, in the world beyond their bedroom.
"Out of the mouths of slaves." Sam's mouth had a quirk that matched the confidence of his rolled back shoulders. "But you can give me an insurance figure later, if you just want to write some numbers down."
"I'll do that." Eddie bent his head in an adequate note of respect before stepping away, but Dean couldn't shake the sense that the conversation wasn't really over, just postponed.
The lines of muscle across Dean's shoulders stiffened like hide laid out to dry and he tried - but failed - not to imagine the coming dinner as a series of overlapping verbal cockfights. Sam's hands, however, which shouldn't have helped at all, as he turned Dean to face him, smoothed out some of his tension.
"He's harmless." Sam's mouth hardly moved at all, the words so soft as to be barely audible even to Dean who was breathing his air. "Just relax and enjoy the night, alright?"
"How?" Dean didn't speak any louder, despite the thread of anger that had slipped into his voice. "You won't even tell me what this is about."
"Trust me." Sam said it like it was simple, easy, but they both knew it wasn't.
Dean thought in a mix of 'I don't want to' and 'I don't think I can'. But then Sam was kissing him, Sam's arm around his waist like a hot towel rod bent into a curve and Sam's hand on his ass, pressing him close, felt almost large enough to sit on. Then Sam's fingers began to knead into his muscles, leading his breath in a stuttering dance and Dean remembered how little he was wearing, how easily Sam could just slip that hand under the back of his wrap and force him open.
His mouth tasted of both fear and arousal, everything in him tuning anxiously to Sam, adjusting to whatever he wanted or preparing him to hush up and take it until he had to say 'thank you' for it. Dean tried but couldn't stop the way his breath hitched and his cock began to swell even as his muscles pulled taut from shoulders to knees. Sam's hand slid lower, gripping harder, the thin material bending into the crease of Dean's ass with the press of one of Sam's fingers, his focus tangible.
"Maybe ..." Sam mouthed against Dean's lips, breath heavy and hot as both their tongues licked opposite lips. "Maybe there's time for a little ... entertainment. What do you think, slave?"
Dean's autopilot paused and he started to shake his head, but stopped, holding his tongue against his closed lips for a moment. "You said- ..." But looking at Sam's eyes, he couldn't finish the line, knew it didn't matter what Sam had said earlier that day. Sam could change his mind, could ... use him wherever he wanted ... and Dean wanted not to be ready for that, but it felt like every cell in him was strained, like this had always been inevitable. Why had he thought otherwise? A few moments of kindness, a few glimpses of someone he once knew? It didn't matter. It never did.
His eyes lowered, tracing the lines of Sam's mouth as he tried not to shake apart at the idea of being put on his hands and knees here like the dining room floor was their bed. Sam stole his shudder with a kiss, forcing Dean's hips into a hard grind that made him groan into his brother's mouth. He was a tense but yielding body, because he couldn't make himself be otherwise, his mouth overtaken by a tongue that moved in purposeful strides, subduing even his breath, making it Sam's, and his cock stimulated roughly like the cloth draped over it was a rag meant to polish Sam's pants. The only strength keeping him up was the same that held him in range to be conquered and claimed.
There were words in the back of Dean's throat, shivering up from his abused cock, from the hole that Sam's knuckle was rocking against, but he couldn't say them, tasted his own bile at the thought of them. If they'd been upstairs, he would've- ... would've given Sam what he wanted, but he couldn't do that here. He wouldn't. When the hand at his back shot up to grip his hair like it was trying to escape, though, Dean knew, with watering eyes, that he was going to be on his knees in a minute either way.
"Now this is what I call a welcome." It was a woman's voice, rich like gravel wrapped in silk with a smile Dean could hear, neither mocking nor uncomfortably familiar, just ... pleasantly surprised.
Dean's head ached enough to know turning was an impossibility while Sam still held on. Sam reemerged from their embrace, though, loosening his hold and Dean blinked away the blur and tried to breathe away the pink that had seemed to spread everywhere across his skin. Even turning when Sam did, back to face the door, he didn't see more than four pairs of shoes for a moment as he tried to get his mind in the right state again. His cock was still hard, lifting the wrap an inch at least, but thinking about how obvious it was, how fucked up and humiliating, didn't really seem to coax it down. He just tried to ignore it, resolutely looking up.
"That wasn't for you." Sam smirked to match the one on the woman in front, her long wavy brown hair only half a shade darker than the copper-toned face it framed, and while the hair was reminiscent of Cassie, the rest of her ... maybe Dean couldn't place her, but he swore that he should be able to.
"No?" The woman craned this way and that to see around them before blinking not-at-all-innocently. "A boys-only showing then? I could have brought toys if I had known it was that kind of party."
Sam just shook his head, his smile tight at the corners, even as his exhale almost sounded like a laugh. "Funny."
She did laugh, though, and Dean felt the back of his neck spark just a little, not from Sam so much as ... something else. He studied the woman's face, dragging its image through his memory banks. Had she been a witness on a case? A bartender somewhere? A hunter? Had he slept with her?
"Djinn." The word slipped softly over his lips like it didn't want to wake anyone, but he could immediately see and feel the way all three women, Robbie behind them, and Sam beside him went quiet with surprise. Or, rather, everyone but the main woman herself. It took a moment for Dean's mind to catch up with his instincts and his mouth, though.
There'd been a diner. He and Sam had been ... struggling since he'd come back. There were bruises on his wrist.
::: 'I slipped in the shower.' ::: 'I'm sure that's what happened.' :::
She'd given him her card. Her eyes had turned water-bottle blue, his world spinning when he touched her. Then she'd been out the door. His thumbs wearing down the off-white edges around 'M. Wilkins' more times than he'd ever admit, as if he'd ever call anyone, even when it got even worse than he'd ever imagined.
"Dean?"
Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him, but his own were fixed on the woman's face, a model expression of calm with a hint of upward turning at the corners of her mouth. If Dean hadn't been sure Sam would hear it, he would've thought she said 'good job' in rich, encouraging tones that would pool like warm bathwater at the base of his back.
::: 'Who- ... What are you?' ::: 'The friend.' :::
"... We've met. Months ago, was it?" He deserved a fucking medal for how even his words were, how civil. She'd been there, right there, before it all happened, before the world fell down, before Sam revealed himself to be what they'd made him. "Gave me her number and everything."
"Is that right?" Dean had heard that satin-on-steel version of his brother's voice before, but for once, he wasn't worried about it at all.
She shrugged, wholly unfazed and unintimidated. "I gave him my card."
"And when was that?" Sam's thumb rubbed hot little circles into Dean's spine, making his presence even more persistently visceral than it had been before.
"I don't remember exactly, but there was ... some problem with a nun?" She said the last bit softer, like she wasn't sure Sam would want her to elaborate.
They hadn't dealt with many cases involving nuns, so Dean knew which one she meant, and Sam's nod suggested a memory of the same. "Yeah. Okay. We should talk."
"Should we have the slaves coordinate?"
"Jodi will make arrangements for me."
"Sure." The word became long in her mouth and Dean wondered if what Sam was suggesting was unorthodox or a request for a strange indulgence. Her mouth kept moving, though, marking the line between answer and commentary with a quick inhale. "I had hoped this would be a bit more of a celebratory dinner - and it is, I'm sure - but ... is he really still in training?"
It was like an open-palmed smack to his face, with a sting and a sound that carried, even with her volume set at five-and-a-half. Dean ... hadn't really ever thought about being on a schedule, about needing to complete training, because it didn't matter how much he learned or how hard he worked at doing it 'right', there were always things he couldn't or wouldn't do, well or at all, without a lot of ... encouragement by way of Sam's hands and his power, his tools and his restraints. He'd just thought that Sam's idea about 'one day' and him being the perfect nympho slaveboy were fantasies, not ... goals that anyone could ever think were actually achievable.
"He's specializing. I don't care if he can juggle my calendar. He's becoming very good at his job." The two ranking people in the room watched each other for a long moment and the heat from Sam's hand at his back made it difficult for Dean to concentrate, but the shiver down his spine told him nothing at all about what to think of any of those statements.
'Specializing' and 'very good at his job' meant spreading his legs and opening his mouth every time he got half a cue, taking the whip and the needles, the too-large toys and the degrading words, and never saying 'no'. That was his accomplishment? Begging to be used like a warm rag doll (whore edition) and then thanking Sam for the gift of even his cruelest attention? If he'd had his way, he would've walked out of the room and back upstairs, but if he'd really had his way, he would've walked out of the house and not come back. Except... goddamn if the thought of doing that without Sam, of maybe never seeing Sam again, just still didn't work in his brain.
Finally the woman nodded her head slightly. "Is this his first time with introductions?" She smiled but it skewed, one corner of her mouth tipped up into a sharp point.
Sam's thumb became a button, pressing into the meat beside Dean's spine. "Mel, meet my slave, Dean. Dean, this is Commander Melanie Wilkins. You may address her as ma'am or Commander."
Dean, of course, addressed her as neither, even as it began to seem possible that Sam's thumb might press all the way through his body and come out the front like a bullet.
Mel just laughed, light and free, everything about her loose and comfortable, like they weren't on the threshold of a dinner party and about to have some live violence. "My apologies." Dean couldn't tell if she was apologizing to Sam for something she had or hadn't done or if she was sorry that Sam had to deal with him, but he didn't think the ambiguity was anything less than intentional. "Danny, present yourself properly to the commander and his slave." She tugged on the slim loop of black leather in her hand and it was only then that Dean saw that it wound around her side and up to a slender choker - collar - at the throat of the fair woman with hair in every red-orange shade of a sunset.
The woman's iridescent white dress flowed around her gracefully as she immediately stepped out of the group and curtsied deeply as if the ultimate goal was to kneel though she didn't quite sink to the floor. "Commander Winchester, sir, I am honored." Then she stayed there, head bowed, both legs bent in what couldn't possibly be a comfortable position, elegant though it may have looked, and her mistress made no move to call her up again.
Dean wouldn't have been surprised to look down and find a silent drill boring a hole in his chest. He wanted to reach over and lift the slave's chin with the side of his fingers, wanted to see what her eyes looked like when she smiled. He wanted to ask her if she'd go somewhere and get a beer with him, if she liked ketchup with her fries or just salt. He didn't want her in any skirt-chasing way. He just didn't want her to have to be there. On a leash.
After a long moment, Sam just huffed in exasperation and shook his head, allowing himself the beginnings of a laugh. "Come on, Danny. I'm not worth all that."
Mel shrugged one shoulder, keeping a loosened hold on Danny's leash. "Technically, a slave may hold a presentation position for as long as she or he feels compelled, based on the respect that they or their master hold for the object of that presentation." Her tone was smooth and factual and Dean wondered if either he or Sam - most likely not Sam - were being given an etiquette lesson.
Sam shifted, seemingly strengthening his stance, but if Dean had any read left on his brother he'd say he was also shifting out of discomfort. "Mel, seriously. Tell the girl to get up. I've been shown due deference."
She tipped her head, her eyes holding a kind of challenge Dean didn't know how to unravel. "Have I?"
The hum of conversation that had ebbed and flowed behind them seemed to stutter, but continued even as Dean arrived at the conclusion that now absolutely everyone was looking at him and Sam.
He felt Sam draw in a deep breath beside him, but before his brother could say anything, could try to make unacceptable excuses for him, and before either of them could overanalyze anything, Dean bent his head, an inch more than a nod with no shift at his waist. "Commander Wilkins, I'm- ..." Not honored. He would've felt more honored if he could put a bloody silver fist into her djinn face. The heat that snaked its way into and then around and around his body, however, made verbal Anaconda wrestling seem like a much better idea. "Glad to finally know who you are." The smirk tugging at his lips didn't stick, but he knew that it coated his voice. He'd probably pay for it later, but it was worth the price, even if he wasn't suicidal enough to say 'what' instead of 'who'. As he raised his head back up, though, the twinkle in the woman's eyes meant the rest was out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. "I'm honored to meet your slave, though. Danny, right?" His glare shifted to a glance of sympathy.
Mel only tugged gently, but then Danny was up and flashing a knowing smile his way, her lips a color that might be natural, but if so they were entirely too perfect for her safety. "Danny, this is Slave Dean. One of these days, maybe Sam will stop being a selfish prick and you two can actually be friends." She held her hand up in a stop/truce motion before Sam even said a word. "A joke. Really. Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I know Danny's hungry."
"By all means." Sam said it smoothly, like there was no reason at all to consider choking anyone right then. "The southwest corner of the table is all yours."
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER TWO - SPEAK
Striding into the dining room, Sam's hand in his, Dean's every step was surreal, new
possibilities blooming in his chest. But when a dozen pairs of eyes turned their way, it felt like twelve baseballs slamming into him at pro speeds. He remembered his place, what he was wearing, and what it all meant. Sam squeezed his hand, strangely thoughtful, however, and Dean tried, for the second time that night, not to let his hope run too far ahead of his sense.
"I'll introduce you around."
The marine gave them his attention as they approached, but did little more than nod his head in Sam's direction. "Commander Winchester, sir."
"Robbie." It had the tone of a gentle ribbing. "We're off the clock tonight. You can relax."
"Yes, sir." He smirked and took a moment to unbutton his collar. "Better?"
"Much." Sam's nod came with his gruff-but-having-fun voice, his own smirk tilting his mouth, and Dean could almost imagine him leaning against a bar in some shithole town, about to knock back his beer. Sam seemed almost... too like his brother tonight and Dean still couldn't get his footing with that. Something was happening and he increasingly wondered if he'd be the only person there who'd even know it was happening.
"Thank you for the invitation, by the way. I hadn't thought to have the pleasure without pressing business on the table. And since our quadrant sweeps have been--"
Sam grunted, disapproval clear, and Robbie stopped. "We're not talking shop tonight, Robbie. Not a word."
Robbie stumbled over breaths that he'd meant to be words, but then offered a small reserved smile. "Of course, sir."
"Have you met my slave, Dean?" The phrasing was common, formal, but Sam asked it knowing there could be no other answer.
"No, sir. I don't believe I've had the honor." Robbie's eyes finally connected with Dean's and didn't wander, his expression neutral.
"Well, Robbie, this is Dean. Dean, this is Officer Robert Lordes. You may address him as 'sir' or 'Officer Lordes'."
Watching the man across the feet that separated them, Dean felt his stomach flip, his mind making the man into a mirror. They were about the same age and while the officer was leaner, Dean could tell there was combat skill coiled in every slim muscle. If Dad had never gone hunting, maybe Sam would've gone to college and Dean would've joined the Marine Corps, made Dad proud. Except ... not exactly like this.
There was something ... off about this man. And if Dean's not-wholly-buried hunter's instincts were still functioning? There was something not-quite-right about everyone in this room. With this one, he realized, it was the eyes. The Marine's eyes were... not light blue or even grey. They were, if possible, colorless, white with a slink of shading around the edges of the iris just enough to distinguish it from the cornea. It meant that Dean's own expression shifted from concentration to contempt before he could think to mask it. Whatever this 'Robbie' was, it wasn't fully human.
"Not good enough for you, Slave Dean?" The man didn't sound offended, just curious.
What Dean felt went beyond a simple desire not to dirty himself by shaking a hand that hadn't even been offered. There was a growl in his chest he wasn't letting out because these masquerading monsters were supposed to be Sam's team, he got that now. But Sam deserved better.
Robbie actually smiled at him then, pleased on a level Dean didn't think anything in this moment deserved. "No. You're protecting him. That's good. That's excellent."
Sam's hand left his and slid around his back, the warmth of Sam's arm not threatening but stabilizing. Which Dean needed to meet the sudden swirl of confusion in his stomach. "Robbie is one of my best field officers. He and Arianna, who is ..." Sam glanced around, but Dean could feel Sam's existing tension against his side. Then Sam's mouth bowed like a rounded knife edge. "Not here."
The corner of Robbie's eye twitched at that, but he showed no other signs of fear. "She'll be here shortly. I just thought you'd want us to finish--"
"Not. Tonight." Not finishing whatever it was and not talking about it either. The way Sam bit out the words oozed a chill down Dean's back and shoved its wobbly mess into his stomach. Why did this dinner matter so much?
Robbie pressed his lips together for a moment, but then nodded. "I'll make arrangements." Then he stepped passed them, yanking his phone from its holster.
The rest of the introductions were far less memorable, except in the way that Dean read every person as some bump-in-the-night puzzle he needed to piece together. One with oddly elongated ears, one with subtly pointed teeth, one with a subtle glow, one with a disproportionately large upper half, and so on. Sam would've been the ideal decoder ring, even if he hadn't already known each of these people, but... no. Dean had to do this on his own. Somehow, though, most people ignored or were neutrally civil to him, as if neither his history as a hunter nor his present status as a whore were particularly relevant. Only one person's attention managed to compound his existing discomfort to a level Dean hadn't quite expected.
"Pretty." The word was purring and slick in a way that tensed muscles all the way up Dean's back, like clammy unknown hands on his skin. Sam's thumb at his side rubbed him through the spike of disgust mixed with anger and shame, but Dean wasn't stupid. One word was hardly enough to make him strike out, no matter how caged-with-the-enemy he felt right then. The short man who stepped up to them, though, both was and wasn't a fitting model for that used salesman style voice. His age was hidden under a trimmed reddish-gold beard and his face seemed weathered toward brown despite the tailored suit he was wearing in a color so deep it was almost black. "If you like that kind of rugged model look."
"Did you expect anything less?" Sam's smirk sat deep enough in his mouth to lay on a little Kansas drawl.
"For your slave? Of course not." He did tip his head to study Dean's body, however, a review that curdled what little was still in Dean's stomach from lunch. It wasn't purely sexual, but more like ... the way a man would look at a car he was thinking to buy for a friend. Design mattered, of course, but so did function. Did it work? Was it too new to be classic? Used a little too hard? Would it last past mile 100k? Should he leave it to rust on the lot?
"I haven't even introduced you yet and you already have something to say." Sam hadn't really tensed, but there was a kind of vibration in him that Dean could feel against his side and around the band of Sam's arm at his waist.
The man's smile as he looked up at Sam was a broad salesman's version of 'pleasant', a con with a trap hidden somewhere underneath. "I was just doing a preliminary valuation. In case you decided to lease or sell him." It was said with such casualness that Dean wondered if he was inventing the menace underneath, if it was what his ears heard in order to explain the way his stomach muscles seized up and wouldn't let go, echoing tension down his legs until it hurt to stand so still, as still as Sam was right then. But then Sam was laughing, a mocking collection of sounds Dean hadn't heard often, but had no desire to learn well.
"Even you couldn't afford him." Sam nudged Dean with their pressed together hips and turned his head enough to wag an eyebrow at him. "Eddie is my ... financial advisor." He smirked, like that alone could include Dean in whatever mishmash of jokes were being shared, but Dean couldn't put thoughts and words together fast enough. "He's trying to figure out if I'm done with you and ready to put you on the market. Do you think I'm done with you?"
Dean shuddered, but it wasn't in any large part about sales or markets or even being leased out. He was looking at Sam's eyes and feeling the press of Sam's power heating his skin until he flushed from his calves to his ears, trying not to pant. "No, sir." When Sam turned back to Eddie and cooled some, Dean wondered if 'public displays of ownership' would be the norm out here, in the world beyond their bedroom.
"Out of the mouths of slaves." Sam's mouth had a quirk that matched the confidence of his rolled back shoulders. "But you can give me an insurance figure later, if you just want to write some numbers down."
"I'll do that." Eddie bent his head in an adequate note of respect before stepping away, but Dean couldn't shake the sense that the conversation wasn't really over, just postponed.
The lines of muscle across Dean's shoulders stiffened like hide laid out to dry and he tried - but failed - not to imagine the coming dinner as a series of overlapping verbal cockfights. Sam's hands, however, which shouldn't have helped at all, as he turned Dean to face him, smoothed out some of his tension.
"He's harmless." Sam's mouth hardly moved at all, the words so soft as to be barely audible even to Dean who was breathing his air. "Just relax and enjoy the night, alright?"
"How?" Dean didn't speak any louder, despite the thread of anger that had slipped into his voice. "You won't even tell me what this is about."
"Trust me." Sam said it like it was simple, easy, but they both knew it wasn't.
Dean thought in a mix of 'I don't want to' and 'I don't think I can'. But then Sam was kissing him, Sam's arm around his waist like a hot towel rod bent into a curve and Sam's hand on his ass, pressing him close, felt almost large enough to sit on. Then Sam's fingers began to knead into his muscles, leading his breath in a stuttering dance and Dean remembered how little he was wearing, how easily Sam could just slip that hand under the back of his wrap and force him open.
His mouth tasted of both fear and arousal, everything in him tuning anxiously to Sam, adjusting to whatever he wanted or preparing him to hush up and take it until he had to say 'thank you' for it. Dean tried but couldn't stop the way his breath hitched and his cock began to swell even as his muscles pulled taut from shoulders to knees. Sam's hand slid lower, gripping harder, the thin material bending into the crease of Dean's ass with the press of one of Sam's fingers, his focus tangible.
"Maybe ..." Sam mouthed against Dean's lips, breath heavy and hot as both their tongues licked opposite lips. "Maybe there's time for a little ... entertainment. What do you think, slave?"
Dean's autopilot paused and he started to shake his head, but stopped, holding his tongue against his closed lips for a moment. "You said- ..." But looking at Sam's eyes, he couldn't finish the line, knew it didn't matter what Sam had said earlier that day. Sam could change his mind, could ... use him wherever he wanted ... and Dean wanted not to be ready for that, but it felt like every cell in him was strained, like this had always been inevitable. Why had he thought otherwise? A few moments of kindness, a few glimpses of someone he once knew? It didn't matter. It never did.
His eyes lowered, tracing the lines of Sam's mouth as he tried not to shake apart at the idea of being put on his hands and knees here like the dining room floor was their bed. Sam stole his shudder with a kiss, forcing Dean's hips into a hard grind that made him groan into his brother's mouth. He was a tense but yielding body, because he couldn't make himself be otherwise, his mouth overtaken by a tongue that moved in purposeful strides, subduing even his breath, making it Sam's, and his cock stimulated roughly like the cloth draped over it was a rag meant to polish Sam's pants. The only strength keeping him up was the same that held him in range to be conquered and claimed.
There were words in the back of Dean's throat, shivering up from his abused cock, from the hole that Sam's knuckle was rocking against, but he couldn't say them, tasted his own bile at the thought of them. If they'd been upstairs, he would've- ... would've given Sam what he wanted, but he couldn't do that here. He wouldn't. When the hand at his back shot up to grip his hair like it was trying to escape, though, Dean knew, with watering eyes, that he was going to be on his knees in a minute either way.
"Now this is what I call a welcome." It was a woman's voice, rich like gravel wrapped in silk with a smile Dean could hear, neither mocking nor uncomfortably familiar, just ... pleasantly surprised.
Dean's head ached enough to know turning was an impossibility while Sam still held on. Sam reemerged from their embrace, though, loosening his hold and Dean blinked away the blur and tried to breathe away the pink that had seemed to spread everywhere across his skin. Even turning when Sam did, back to face the door, he didn't see more than four pairs of shoes for a moment as he tried to get his mind in the right state again. His cock was still hard, lifting the wrap an inch at least, but thinking about how obvious it was, how fucked up and humiliating, didn't really seem to coax it down. He just tried to ignore it, resolutely looking up.
"That wasn't for you." Sam smirked to match the one on the woman in front, her long wavy brown hair only half a shade darker than the copper-toned face it framed, and while the hair was reminiscent of Cassie, the rest of her ... maybe Dean couldn't place her, but he swore that he should be able to.
"No?" The woman craned this way and that to see around them before blinking not-at-all-innocently. "A boys-only showing then? I could have brought toys if I had known it was that kind of party."
Sam just shook his head, his smile tight at the corners, even as his exhale almost sounded like a laugh. "Funny."
She did laugh, though, and Dean felt the back of his neck spark just a little, not from Sam so much as ... something else. He studied the woman's face, dragging its image through his memory banks. Had she been a witness on a case? A bartender somewhere? A hunter? Had he slept with her?
"Djinn." The word slipped softly over his lips like it didn't want to wake anyone, but he could immediately see and feel the way all three women, Robbie behind them, and Sam beside him went quiet with surprise. Or, rather, everyone but the main woman herself. It took a moment for Dean's mind to catch up with his instincts and his mouth, though.
There'd been a diner. He and Sam had been ... struggling since he'd come back. There were bruises on his wrist.
::: 'I slipped in the shower.' ::: 'I'm sure that's what happened.' :::
She'd given him her card. Her eyes had turned water-bottle blue, his world spinning when he touched her. Then she'd been out the door. His thumbs wearing down the off-white edges around 'M. Wilkins' more times than he'd ever admit, as if he'd ever call anyone, even when it got even worse than he'd ever imagined.
"Dean?"
Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him, but his own were fixed on the woman's face, a model expression of calm with a hint of upward turning at the corners of her mouth. If Dean hadn't been sure Sam would hear it, he would've thought she said 'good job' in rich, encouraging tones that would pool like warm bathwater at the base of his back.
::: 'Who- ... What are you?' ::: 'The friend.' :::
"... We've met. Months ago, was it?" He deserved a fucking medal for how even his words were, how civil. She'd been there, right there, before it all happened, before the world fell down, before Sam revealed himself to be what they'd made him. "Gave me her number and everything."
"Is that right?" Dean had heard that satin-on-steel version of his brother's voice before, but for once, he wasn't worried about it at all.
She shrugged, wholly unfazed and unintimidated. "I gave him my card."
"And when was that?" Sam's thumb rubbed hot little circles into Dean's spine, making his presence even more persistently visceral than it had been before.
"I don't remember exactly, but there was ... some problem with a nun?" She said the last bit softer, like she wasn't sure Sam would want her to elaborate.
They hadn't dealt with many cases involving nuns, so Dean knew which one she meant, and Sam's nod suggested a memory of the same. "Yeah. Okay. We should talk."
"Should we have the slaves coordinate?"
"Jodi will make arrangements for me."
"Sure." The word became long in her mouth and Dean wondered if what Sam was suggesting was unorthodox or a request for a strange indulgence. Her mouth kept moving, though, marking the line between answer and commentary with a quick inhale. "I had hoped this would be a bit more of a celebratory dinner - and it is, I'm sure - but ... is he really still in training?"
It was like an open-palmed smack to his face, with a sting and a sound that carried, even with her volume set at five-and-a-half. Dean ... hadn't really ever thought about being on a schedule, about needing to complete training, because it didn't matter how much he learned or how hard he worked at doing it 'right', there were always things he couldn't or wouldn't do, well or at all, without a lot of ... encouragement by way of Sam's hands and his power, his tools and his restraints. He'd just thought that Sam's idea about 'one day' and him being the perfect nympho slaveboy were fantasies, not ... goals that anyone could ever think were actually achievable.
"He's specializing. I don't care if he can juggle my calendar. He's becoming very good at his job." The two ranking people in the room watched each other for a long moment and the heat from Sam's hand at his back made it difficult for Dean to concentrate, but the shiver down his spine told him nothing at all about what to think of any of those statements.
'Specializing' and 'very good at his job' meant spreading his legs and opening his mouth every time he got half a cue, taking the whip and the needles, the too-large toys and the degrading words, and never saying 'no'. That was his accomplishment? Begging to be used like a warm rag doll (whore edition) and then thanking Sam for the gift of even his cruelest attention? If he'd had his way, he would've walked out of the room and back upstairs, but if he'd really had his way, he would've walked out of the house and not come back. Except... goddamn if the thought of doing that without Sam, of maybe never seeing Sam again, just still didn't work in his brain.
Finally the woman nodded her head slightly. "Is this his first time with introductions?" She smiled but it skewed, one corner of her mouth tipped up into a sharp point.
Sam's thumb became a button, pressing into the meat beside Dean's spine. "Mel, meet my slave, Dean. Dean, this is Commander Melanie Wilkins. You may address her as ma'am or Commander."
Dean, of course, addressed her as neither, even as it began to seem possible that Sam's thumb might press all the way through his body and come out the front like a bullet.
Mel just laughed, light and free, everything about her loose and comfortable, like they weren't on the threshold of a dinner party and about to have some live violence. "My apologies." Dean couldn't tell if she was apologizing to Sam for something she had or hadn't done or if she was sorry that Sam had to deal with him, but he didn't think the ambiguity was anything less than intentional. "Danny, present yourself properly to the commander and his slave." She tugged on the slim loop of black leather in her hand and it was only then that Dean saw that it wound around her side and up to a slender choker - collar - at the throat of the fair woman with hair in every red-orange shade of a sunset.
The woman's iridescent white dress flowed around her gracefully as she immediately stepped out of the group and curtsied deeply as if the ultimate goal was to kneel though she didn't quite sink to the floor. "Commander Winchester, sir, I am honored." Then she stayed there, head bowed, both legs bent in what couldn't possibly be a comfortable position, elegant though it may have looked, and her mistress made no move to call her up again.
Dean wouldn't have been surprised to look down and find a silent drill boring a hole in his chest. He wanted to reach over and lift the slave's chin with the side of his fingers, wanted to see what her eyes looked like when she smiled. He wanted to ask her if she'd go somewhere and get a beer with him, if she liked ketchup with her fries or just salt. He didn't want her in any skirt-chasing way. He just didn't want her to have to be there. On a leash.
After a long moment, Sam just huffed in exasperation and shook his head, allowing himself the beginnings of a laugh. "Come on, Danny. I'm not worth all that."
Mel shrugged one shoulder, keeping a loosened hold on Danny's leash. "Technically, a slave may hold a presentation position for as long as she or he feels compelled, based on the respect that they or their master hold for the object of that presentation." Her tone was smooth and factual and Dean wondered if either he or Sam - most likely not Sam - were being given an etiquette lesson.
Sam shifted, seemingly strengthening his stance, but if Dean had any read left on his brother he'd say he was also shifting out of discomfort. "Mel, seriously. Tell the girl to get up. I've been shown due deference."
She tipped her head, her eyes holding a kind of challenge Dean didn't know how to unravel. "Have I?"
The hum of conversation that had ebbed and flowed behind them seemed to stutter, but continued even as Dean arrived at the conclusion that now absolutely everyone was looking at him and Sam.
He felt Sam draw in a deep breath beside him, but before his brother could say anything, could try to make unacceptable excuses for him, and before either of them could overanalyze anything, Dean bent his head, an inch more than a nod with no shift at his waist. "Commander Wilkins, I'm- ..." Not honored. He would've felt more honored if he could put a bloody silver fist into her djinn face. The heat that snaked its way into and then around and around his body, however, made verbal Anaconda wrestling seem like a much better idea. "Glad to finally know who you are." The smirk tugging at his lips didn't stick, but he knew that it coated his voice. He'd probably pay for it later, but it was worth the price, even if he wasn't suicidal enough to say 'what' instead of 'who'. As he raised his head back up, though, the twinkle in the woman's eyes meant the rest was out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. "I'm honored to meet your slave, though. Danny, right?" His glare shifted to a glance of sympathy.
Mel only tugged gently, but then Danny was up and flashing a knowing smile his way, her lips a color that might be natural, but if so they were entirely too perfect for her safety. "Danny, this is Slave Dean. One of these days, maybe Sam will stop being a selfish prick and you two can actually be friends." She held her hand up in a stop/truce motion before Sam even said a word. "A joke. Really. Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I know Danny's hungry."
"By all means." Sam said it smoothly, like there was no reason at all to consider choking anyone right then. "The southwest corner of the table is all yours."
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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