Fanfic - SPN: Going Down - Ch. 4: Slice
Title: Going Down [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER FOUR - SLICE
Over time shoes shifted and chairs emptied, until it seemed that no one remained at the table but Sam. Then Dean heard the table being cleared and the near silence that followed for a long while after that. Eventually, Sam shifted too, setting his feet back on the ground, and it hurt to move but Dean did it anyway, stretching as much as he could without touching Sam or making too much noise.
"You can come out now. They're gone." Sam didn't sound menacing anymore, just matter-of-fact with a hint of tired frustration.
Dean turned around and crawled past Sam's legs, emerging from the table's shadow, but not yet getting up or even looking up, his thoughts still churning and dark.
"If you want to be a whore again, then get up and bend over the table. I'll help you remember your place."
Dean made no move to get up, his jaw locked. Whatever Sam was thinking, Dean definitely wasn't on board. He needed to... breathe for a minute, collect his thoughts, try to start over with getting through to Sam - without yelling, maybe, but without the kind of use Sam wanted to drown him in either.
Sam exhaled in a way that might have been a sigh with someone else. "Or you can keep being a footstool until we get back to the room. You'll crawl beside me from here, down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the room. Then we'll figure out where to go from there."
Maybe Sam didn't seem angry exactly, but Dean wasn't sure he was buying that. He needed to keep working on this problem, this puzzle, for as long as he could. With Sam's hands on him, Sam's cock in him, and Sam's demands for a constant litany of filthy fucked-up words, begging, pleas, Dean couldn't think and stay sane at the same time.
"Whore?" Sam nudged his leg with the tip of his boot and Dean nodded. "Is that a vote for more time spent naked... on the floor... on your knees... with a gag in your mouth?"
Dean blinked out at the half of the room he could see, plus the doorway/entryway and hallway beyond, trying to keep his breathing even and not think about all the people who might see him like this as they went back to the room. He didn't want to. He wanted to snatch the loincloth or skirt or whatever it was and try stalking his way out of the goddamn front door and away from this place. The scrape of the crop's edge up the back of his thigh and then up over one side of his ass reminded him where he was, though, and how far he wouldn't get. He knew he should get up, should bend over and spread his legs and just close his eyes and deal. But he just... couldn't.
The crop struck hard, a tough square of leather leaving a sting under skin it had already sensitized with its edge. Dean grunted, knowing he had to move, but still stuck where he was. When the crop came down again, though, all but lighting a fire across his ass with not just the head, but also the hard/leather-wrapped wire stem of the crop, Sam didn't stop with just one strike.
Dean found himself moving forward without even thinking about it, his shouts muffled behind the gag. He felt like an animal, driven from one pen to another, but knew he had to push himself to move faster. Even him crawling faster didn't seem to matter all that much to Sam's swinging arm, sharp lines of pain carving into muscles of Dean's ass and thighs with the same precision as a knife, and by the time they'd reached the bottom of the stairs, Dean ached from knees to spine, hot bruises already throbbing under his skin in ways he knew Sam would coo over when they rose to the surface. No one had seen him, though. That was something, right?
He panted through the pain as he began to climb the stairs, one hand and leg at a time. Then there was a rapid sweep of air between his legs and a crack as the crop's head connected with his sac, the sting bursting out from there like a shrapnel bomb. Even the gag couldn't fully muffle his scream as he crumpled in on himself on top of the first step, eyes slammed shut and involuntarily wet.
As Sam leaned in close, Dean couldn't help the way he curled into himself tighter, as if he might be able to shrink and sink into the floor. "Is there a problem?"
Dean shook his head, because the only valid answer to that question was always 'no, sir'.
"Then keep going."
The light brush of the crop's leather down Dean's back wasn't innocent or coincidental, Dean knew. He had to get up. He had to keep going. He grit his teeth through the layers of pain that were settling into his muscles like molten lead, making him slow, but as he climbed the first flight of stairs, the crop didn't fall again.
When they passed people on the second floor, he heard their comments, their snickers. He just ignored them, kept his eyes on the floor ahead of him, and pretended they didn't exist. They were nothing anyway. Creatures, traitors. They didn't matter. Feeling the way Sam used the crop to caress Dean's ass as he began to climb the second flight of stairs, though, the leather sliding along his skin, slipping down along his crack, made Dean's breath stutter, his concentration skipping beats.
Who would see that? The way he shuddered? The way it was so fucking obvious that Sam could mount him on the stairs like a dog and he would moan? Whore. Did you think you could really get away from this? It's what you were made for. No, he just-- Sam needed him to be this for some reason that wasn't about how he was made or for what. Sam needed him to... atone for fucking up, for failing him, and... maybe to make this place more bearable for Sam himself. But Sam didn't listen, didn't want to hear that there might be some other way for him to get both of those things. Continuing, largely unmolested, from the top of the stairs to their third floor bedroom door, Dean decided that he'd just have to show him.
The sequence of moments, from Sam opening their door, to Dean crawling in and Sam following him, then shutting the door behind them, all took place in what felt like normal time. But Dean felt like everything was faded out at the edges. Having made his decision, he knew there would be consequences, likely painful, but he would deal with them as they came. His focus narrowed to his breath so much that when he realized Sam was speaking, it took effort to snap the words free of the cushioning fog he'd anchored around his thoughts.
"So you didn't get fucked in public. Good for you." Sam's voice was rough, irritated, but there was no accompanying heat in the room from it. That was good. "That doesn't mean you don't clearly need a good fucking. So go." He pushed Dean's rear end with the textured sole of his boot. "On the bed, all fours, legs spread. I'll even take off the gag so you can apologize properly and repeatedly while I fuck you." Sam could always say things like that as if they were obvious, inevitable, and right. But they weren't.
Dean's breath began to run ahead of him, but he worked to slow it down again. Was he really going to do this? Risk this? Did he have any other real, bearable choice? No. When Sam prodded him again, this time with more force, Dean moved, but not to stand, not to walk over to the bed and climb up or spread his legs and get fucked while Sam tortured apologies out of him that Dean knew his mouth wasn't going to wrap around willingly. Instead, he crawled past the bed and ended up on all fours in front of the couch instead.
Something in him shook as he went down like Sam had told him to do earlier, but Dean did it anyway. Closing his eyes, his back awaited the weight of Sam's boots in a final act of defiance and a final bid for some semblance of rest. No, it wasn't even close to ideal, but doing something this different was likely as close as he'd ever get to a vacation in this place.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Dean heard nothing but his own breathing, felt nothing but his cramped legs attempting to readjust and his heartbeat struggling to settle. Then there was a light thud on the carpeted floor, one step, and the sole of Sam's boot was slamming into his back, nearly cracking him in half.
The sharp pain spun his thoughts out like a tangled fishing line, his whole being bound up in dizzying ripples of hurt and a shout that even the gag couldn't contain. Sam didn't move, but he didn't slam his foot down again either. And when he spoke, it seemed soft and faraway, laced with something Dean couldn't identify but somehow planted guilt in him regardless.
"I thought we were through with this, Dean." Not slave. Not whore. Dean. "Be very sure you want to do this when all I've asked for is an apology and actions that show you understand." He removed his boot.
Though Dean could have straightened up, if unsteadily, body jerking with pain, he didn't. Maybe he'd regret it, but right then he was sure. Sam wasn't getting an apology from him and he wasn't going to play the whore to make it up to Sam either. He needed this, regardless of whatever rough transition Sam required of him.
The sudden heat in the room, like a window had opened between them and the crater of a live volcano, scorched Dean's throat as he breathed. "Stay." Sam's voice had morphed into something so deep and tight with anger that Dean had to work to slow each inhale and each exhale, even while he sweated through the heat.
When the couch slammed onto its back beside him, though, his body tried to snap itself away, but couldn't move, Sam's power like a lead blanket with corners bolted to the floor. The whiz of items flying through the air was worse, though, Dean's eyes staunchly closed but every image behind his eyelids running films of tornadoes trapped indoors. The chains were the loudest, the closest, and there were so many- ... god it sounded like all the chains in the closet were ... something. Sam was using the base of the couch to do something with all the chain(s) they owned.
Dean's shoulders couldn't hold his shiver and it spilled down his arms and down his aching back. Was Sam going to chain him under the couch? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something grabbed for Dean's hand and he tried to jerk it away, but that flesh furnace was Sam and Sam would do what he liked. Dean's fingers were crammed into some kind of leather prison, a shapeless mitt that locked around his wrist in a size far too small to let his fingers fully extend. By the time Sam locked the second mitt, Dean was panting around the gag and looking down at the first mitt, pressed into the carpet under his head. He had no idea what was going on. He'd thought- ... But then Sam's hand was on the back of his head, pushing him into floor and a slick toy was dragging down his ass.
The tip was nothing more than he'd taken before, but it grew as Sam pressed it in, his body yielding at first and then gently resisting and then outright rebelling. Sam pushed it in until Dean was mewling, his middle and lower half swimming with pain, but Dean's body finally accepted the dip at the base of what must have been a plug and Sam pulled both of his hands away. Groaning, dizzy, and throbbing with a gut-deep ache, Dean couldn't have straightened up even if he wanted to. He just blinked, slowly righting his mind, at the mix of metal and wood covering the underside of the couch.
There were chains wrapped around the main support beams. And Sam was attaching two metal shackles each to lines of chain that hung from the tipped up front of the couch.
A part of him that didn't sound like him at all so much as Sam, his tired little brother Sammy, chided as if just inside his ear. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' How hard is that to do, Dean? Is it worth all this? Is it? And wasn't he nice today? Didn't he take you out? Can't you just give in one more time? You'd been doing so well.
Dean closed his eyes. I should. I should. I know. But the idea of Sam's hands bruising his hips, fucking him deep, making him say please and thank you, pretending to want it, to like it? What had been grease and butter and yum would come back up stinking and blended with bile. He couldn't think when he was "in use" like that. He couldn't do anything but lead his mind in the kind of numbing circles that let him endure it all. Pain, though? Ha. The thought of Sam's no longer secret catchphrase, Pain Brings Clarity, struck him with irony enough to make his lips stretch thin around the gag, remembering bitter smiles. If he didn't have to play along, just deal with whatever brand of punishment Sam brought his way, then ... maybe he could think his way out of this, or at least, deeper into his brother's head. This wasn't just about pride or insults to Dad, this was strategy. A shitty strategy, maybe, but he didn't really have other options he could actually handle right then.
Sam caught his eye and tilted his head, like some android assassin evaluating its next kill. "But before we get too far ..." As if they'd been mid-stream in some conversation, though Dean remembered none. "Let's test your resolve. I would hate to go through all this trouble for a whore's bluff."
Sam smirked. And the bathroom door slammed shut. Then all the lights flickered and a wall worth of glass shattered like it had been hit by a car. The mirror, Dean guessed, and maybe all the bathroom lights. When the door swung open again, Dean could hear the way it caught and scraped over the shards that littered the floor.
The shine in Sam's eyes was no emotion so much as the bright gleam of someone whose madness fed on violence, on screaming and blood. His mouth couldn't even maintain the smirk fully, its peak twitching, rising and falling with a barely held back eagerness that left him breathing hard and looking hungry. Dean still didn't know how horrifying his world could be until Sam spoke.
"I don't need a footstool right now, but I seem to have an opening for a good thick rug." Sam gestured toward the bathroom, every inch of him issuing the challenge.
Breath coming in quiet uneven shudders Dean watched his brother, studying him for long moments that only seemed to unhinge Sam further, his eyes increasingly wild. Somehow, Dean knew, with a rapid swallow, that he had done this to his brother. And not in the past indirect sense. Today. He had done this today ... as if being so nice, so restrained, had been a challenge, and now? Now, Sam had no chance to gradually reacquire his armor, his guns, Dean's rebellion had thrown him into a vat of kevlar, slid a hot loaded glock into Sam's fist, put his finger on the trigger, and whispered, wanton, in his brothers ear: "... Shoot me." Whatever Dean did now, he knew his life and Sam's grip on reality were on the line. Did this kind of bomb diffuse or just blow-up faster with any attempted manipulation?
He crawled to the bathroom door.
A hand towel slid off the counter and floated out into his lap as Dean heard Sam's words slip through some expression he was glad he couldn't see. "For your face. I know you're one of those reversible kind of rugs, but I think the walk will be smoother if I put you on your front." Sam's fingers combing over Dean's scalp a moment later started a shiver that would not stop. "You have ten seconds to position yourself in front of the counter or I will throw you there myself."
Dean just shook, breathing hard through 10 and 9, but when 8 hit he was already moving forward, towel between his teeth because his hands were practically useless but needed. At 7 his knees and calves and feet were sliced and shard-stuck and smearing hot red on the white tile and by 6 he'd crawled the rest of the way past the doorjamb, tears at the corner of his eyes. For 5 and 4, he fumbled repeatedly trying to place the towel, his breaths speeding and growing shallower before the number 3 made his head spin. But he put himself down at 2, shouting into the gag, shouting because he couldn't just lay gently as if balancing on eggshells, the glass sunk into him like claws. He didn't hear the number 1. Or, if he did, Sam's first steps across him wiped it out, a grenade of red pain exploding up his body into his brain, and Dean heard his brother roar as Sam stomped over him from thighs to shoulder blades and back again. "WHY DO I EVEN TRY WITH YOU?"
But then he and Sam and everything else was gone, pounded into shrapnel-studded screaming bits that had maybe once been him, and Dean threw himself into the black gravity of unconsciousness.
*****
Dean woke to hot breath beside his ear and he worked to orient himself without opening his eyes or altering his breathing from the steady slow of sleep. He was on his knees. His enemy was in front of him off to his right, near enough to touch. And for some reason, he expected words to come, but they didn't. Just warm breath on the side of his face, a bit of his neck.
The proper response to the grin he saw upon opening his eyes was fear. But the last edge of sleep and the easy malice in Sam's look triggered instincts that were far older than Sam's training and Dean's fist was in the air before he even knew what he was doing.
It didn't connect. The punch didn't connect, but the knifing pain behind his eyes, like his brain was initiating its own lobotomy, left him groaning anyway, and loudly. The new gag in his mouth didn't muffle anything. It was just a metal ring set behind his teeth, forcing his mouth open just as achingly wide as the cock shaped-gag before it. He couldn't even touch the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Sam had made his mouth into little more than a hole with mediocre volume control.
"Finished?"
Even before he'd officially replied with a glare, the adrenaline was seeping out of him, leaving him alone with every slice of pain his body had held on layaway for him. Looking down at himself, he would have gritted his teeth, but he fisted his hands in their useless mitts instead. The cuts were half-healed over, few still leaking, and though he couldn't smell much blood in the air, the feel of jagged glass opening his skin and sliding in wasn't a sensation that would fade anytime soon.
"I'll admit. I'm impressed." Sam's eyes practically twinkled, even as his grin relaxed into a cold neutrality that Dean could at least recognize. Sam was thinking, probably about how best to use him. "You're really committed to this furniture idea." He said it like it was quaint and strange, as if Dean had gotten into scrapbooking. But there was steel just waiting under Sam's tongue, and he revealed it in quick organ-piercing stabs. "That's good. We'll strip you down to basics. Make you useful. Make you forget everything that's irrelevant to being property - comfort, speech, autonomy, walking upright like a human being. I understand now just how confused you are." Sam's smirk was brief but confident. "We're going to fix that."
Dean considered fighting Sam on it, but the idea of provoking his full fury again so soon seemed the opposite of both strategy and sanity.
**********
The first step in their new routine seemed to involve ... sculpture ... Dean's thighs strapped onto a spreader bar that widened as Sam cranked a small handle in the middle, forcing Dean's kneeling legs to spread until they were shaking, and Dean's arms positioned just so, palms up and elbows down just below shoulder height. Sculpture and decoration. Initially, just Sam's boots, each leaning on either side of his groin where his thighs nestled against his pelvic bone. But as Sam removed every other article of clothing, it ended up on Dean. Socks as weights stuffed into boots. Jeans and shirts folded and draped over Dean's arms. And Sam's belt? He wound it around Dean's neck, pulled the end through the buckle and slowly tightened it until Dean was swallowing just give himself a little room, but that only made Sam pull it tighter and Dean stopped being stupid.
"Just a little reminder." Sam curled the long tail of the belt on top of the clothes Dean was holding up. Then he traced Dean's chapped lips with two fingertips, fresh words spilling out absent-mindedly, as if the internal/external monologue wall had broken down. "I could have you muted, you know. There are lots of ... 'modifications' these days for property in need of more than just training. Repair shops. Enhancement specialists. So much. You should be grateful, but ... You. Aren't."
Dean shuddered even as Sam pulled away, watching him fall into the chair a few feet in front of him, fingers already skimming below the waistband of his briefs. There was a sick twist in Dean's stomach right then, but he didn't know why. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sam jack off in a way that wasn't leading to a hard fuck or a burst of come on his face after he gave Sam a blowjob. Dean had wanted to get away from that, to clear his head, but all he could think about right then was the way Sam's hand moved in his briefs, the way his tongue licked the corners of his mouth, the way both their breaths were speeding up, the way that in a minute Sam was going to come and Dean could already taste it on his tongue, already feel Sam's grip in his hair, making him be good. Little come-hoover whore. Such a pretty mouth.
But that wasn't what happened. Sam came in a gush that darkened the cotton of his briefs, wetness spreading as his body quaked, mouth open and eyes shut. Groaning, he stroked the last of the come from his cock and Dean thought, cautiously, that maybe that would be it.
Still breathing unevenly, Sam opened his eyes and stood on legs he seemed hesitant to use. But then he stripped out of the briefs, stepped forward, bending to shove the worst of the come-smeared cloth into Dean's gagged-open mouth. Not everything fit, of course. The rest jutted obscenely from Dean's mouth, like a fake flower made from used white elastic and rags. And when Sam tracked fingers over Dean's face this time, mapping and cataloguing him, Dean tried to hold his brother's eyes, but his own kept sliding away. He tried to force the wad of cloth out with his tongue, but Sam felt the muscles working and placed those same two fingertips lightly just below Dean's left eye. Dean shut both eyes, sighed beneath his dual gag, and stopped trying to dislodge the damn thing.
"That's good." Not good boy, just good. And that was all Sam said. ... For at least an hour.
Sam went to his desk and worked, righted the couch and lounged, and while Dean heard the occasional rustle of pages and pens scratching ink onto paper, he otherwise wouldn't have even known Sam was in the room. At first, Dean kept waiting for some touch, some word, something that flung him back into the dynamic they'd had only just that morning. But nothing happened. And had it really only been that morning? The way Sam had moved him from the bathroom and cleaned him up while he was unconscious was disorienting. Time slipped by strangely here until he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
By the time Sam walked past him to the door to discuss something with the guards, Dean's breath was even, his heartbeat steady, and while he wasn't happy or comfortable, his head was practically clear. He began to run back over the day, analyzing every shift in his brother, every word he could remember, every facial expression, every press of heat. Sam's mind was a lockbox, but there had to be a combination, he just had to shut up and listen to the tumblers roll.
The door clicked open and Dean watched one of the twin male maids step in quietly, his next step arrested as his eyes caught on Dean. Confusion tipped his eyebrows for a moment, but then he was nudged forward, blinking as he stepped aside to let his brother through. Who also looked Dean over, though with more curiosity than confusion, his head tipping. Dean could imagine what they were seeing - boots practically sitting on top of his cock, his arms made into shelves, his mouth like someone's pranked exhaust pipe - but he couldn't look away from them.
"Commander?" While one brother glanced Sam's way, letting his curiosity guide him, the other kept his head down and started the work of cleaning the room.
"Yes?" Sam wasn't short with him, but seemed intent on getting to the point fairly quickly.
The boy hesitated for a moment and then closed his mouth before opening it to ask a question that Dean was fairly certain wasn't the one he'd originally been considering. "How would you like us to... deal with your laundry?" He gestured toward Dean with a sweep and Dean found his stomach curling in on itself.
"Same as always. I'm just trying out some new furniture. Everything's there, just make sure you get my socks out of my boots." Dean didn't have to turn his head to see Sam's expression to know there wasn't much of one, his tone was the sort that went with a shrug. The question might not have been stupid, but the answer seemed obvious to him: ignore what's holding up the laundry, it's irrelevant, just don't forget my socks.
"Yes, sir." The maid eyed Dean, but went to the bathroom instead, the swing of that door making Dean's breath rush even though he didn't hear glass scraping across the floor. "Do you want this washed down again?"
"Yes, Kevin." A new sliver of irritation brought tension to Sam's voice. "Everything just like always."
"Yes, Commander." If there was fear there, Dean couldn't see it in the young man's face and his voice had just enough breath along its edge to sound like awe more than anything else. Dean wasn't sure he could wrap his mind around that, even knowing what he thought he did about the twins' history and Sam's.
Regardless, Kevin and his brother cleaned the room without questions after that, their usual routine making them almost ghost-like in the way they moved from place to place, making as little sound as possible. Dean had blocked them out enough times before to make ignoring them seem like the easy part. Except... he couldn't drag his mind back on point for longer than a few seconds at a time.
He'd knelt naked with them in the room before, by his brother and alone, but he'd seen the way they looked at him this time and the feel of it crept along his skin now, even when they were no longer looking. Sam had made him into something alien, a cartoon mockup of a human being. No. His thoughts halted as his stomach tightened and rolled. Not human, a thing, a piece of furniture. Both an "it" and an "irrelevant" one.
That was supposed to be okay, a rest, but ... when Kyle was standing in front of him and reaching down to collect Sam's pants and shirts, Dean could see every flicker of half-masked emotion on his face and in the thump of blood that fluttered at his neck.
It didn't matter that this was the closest Dean had been to one of them for more than a few seconds. It didn't matter that when the boy's fingers fastened on some spit-damp portion of Sam's briefs to pull them from his mouth, the boy's own mouth tipped down on one side, nose crinkling with disgust. It didn't matter that when he reached down into one boot and then the other, fishing for Sam's socks, Dean felt the pressure of that hand through the boot like the boy was actually touching him, knuckles strange and heavy against the side of his cock. It didn't matter that the length of Sam's belt fell like a long leather weight between his legs when there was nothing left to hold it up, its strike on his cock too loud but not loud enough to drown out Dean's grunt or to hide the way he panted for a moment after that, body primed for the roughness of Sam's use. And it didn't matter that Dean couldn't lift his eyes above knee-level anymore.
He kept his arms up, like Sam had told him, even empty. And as they left, Dean told himself: It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Sam worked until cramps began to spark up the insides of Dean's thighs, forcing his eyes shut against the pain. And Sam worked until tremors shook Dean's arms and his shoulders burned. Sam worked until Dean stopped trying, letting his arms fall down and trying to work mitt-buffered fingers into the muscles of his legs before anything tore permanently. Then Sam left his desk, strode over, and sat on the floor in front of him.
For what felt like too long, Sam just watched and Dean tried not to let fear shake him as he knelt under the blaze of Sam's blank-faced observation. He kept kneading his thighs, trying not to shift his hips because the plug ached enough already. His eyes drifted eventually, though, and his chin fell, something embarrassingly dumb feeling about having his mouth remain wide open when there was nothing in it and no reason for the opening. It served as a reminder that any minute, any second, Sam could slip something into it, anything he wanted, it didn't matter what it might be or where it might have come from.
Maybe Dean had felt like just a collection of holes before, but he couldn't get away from that knowledge now, couldn't set it aside even for a moment. His every breath through the forced-open cavern of his mouth echoed words in his head. Hole. Thing. It. Furniture. And, god, why did Sam keep staring?
"You didn't keep your arms up. I explained this earlier." Sam said it matter-of-factly, as if Dean had somehow misunderstood the instructions. He was fiddling with something in his hand, dark or black and somewhat flat, but Dean couldn't tell what it was.
A pocket knife? It was the first thing Dean thought of and then he couldn't think of anything else. His eyes flashed from Sam's hand to Sam's eyes and then back again, trying not to think about the sharp pain of metal like glass, parting his skin like a science experiment. It couldn't be "see the inner workings of your furniture" day, though, right? Sam hated getting blood on the carpet.
When Sam flicked his wrist, pressing a button with a soft click, it wasn't a blade that emerged so much as a whirring sound. And sudden vibrations in Dean's core that made him wrap arms around his middle, his hips already moving even though the sensation was too much. He groaned, eyelids drooping as he fucked his cock uselessly between Sam's boots. They weren't heavy enough to provide the kind of friction his body wanted even as his ass and stomach ached from the force of the shuddering plug.
Looking up at Sam helped nothing. It just seemed to spur Sam on, a second button pressed to ratchet up the speed until Dean bent over his arms as much as the placement of the boots allowed and rocked, moaning, miserable and wanton at once. "For the record," Sam said, "I happen to think whores function better when they have regular orgasms. But furniture? I don't know. I like the aesthetics going on right now and since you weren't functioning very well anyway right then, function's obviously not an issue. So, I think I'm going to leave you like this for a little while and then decide what, if anything, I want to do with you."
I can't. It's too much. Dean's stomach had already been on the verge of rebelling and the ache just below his tailbone carried, his whole spine swimming with sparks. And around his core? The vibrations were like a lead belt attached to the motor of someone's Harley. He couldn't say that, though. He couldn't say anything. But when Sam got up and turned to walk away, Dean grunted, pleading with his eyes, not too ashamed to try being "sorry" and "good," even if only for moving arms that he couldn't hold up anymore, no matter how much will he applied. Sam glanced back, but simply said "no" and went into the bathroom anyway. And as Dean groaned and rocked and ached and grew increasingly nauseous, dizzy, needy, and hot on his shaking pressed-apart knees, Sam took a long hot shower.
Dean felt tight everywhere, stretched and shuddering, churning the pain into something he could manage, making it like Sam had taught him, making him want it, his mind fogged over except in the spin of want, can't, please. He didn't even hear Sam's approach, too far from the total sense of his body beyond the ache and need to react when Sam's fingers slid into his hair and unbuckled the gag. He still grunted when it came out, though, his jaw just another ache and his mouth dry as he closed it, swallowing properly for the first time in far too many hours.
"Thank you, sir." He said it even before Sam's hands went to his legs, removing the boots and then unlocking the cuffs on his thighs, then the mitts on the his hands. And when Sam clicked off the plug and dislodged the spreader bar to a sound nearing a hitched sob, Dean had to guess it came from his own mouth. He fisted his hands at his sides to refrain from covering himself as he closed the gap between his knees and then tipped down to sit gingerly on his right hip. Dean couldn't help saying it again then, his eyes oriented downward and left, toward the carpet next to Sam. "Thank you, sir." It didn't feel like enough, but fuck if it wasn't more than he'd had an hour before.
Sam's voice, absent for so many long minutes seemed oddly strained, the patter of the words cautious and deliberately chosen. "Strange that you can only be polite when I've hurt you, fucked you, or humiliated you."
Dean's eyes snapped up to his brother's, heart slamming once, hard, in his chest. "That's not- ..."
"Shhh." Sam's power shut Dean's mouth for him, but Sam's eyes were just as odd-looking as his voice, distant somehow, apart. Neither cold neutrality nor wild menacing depths. There was just ... a wall there. "Go take the plug out and get cleaned up. We're done here."
It would have felt better if Sam had punched him in the chest. But he didn't. Sam just let him shower. Then chained him, stretched out on the floor in front of the couch. And then Sam went to bed, giving Dean his back without another word.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER FOUR - SLICE
Over time shoes shifted and chairs emptied, until it seemed that no one remained at the table but Sam. Then Dean heard the table being cleared and the near silence that followed for a long while after that. Eventually, Sam shifted too, setting his feet back on the ground, and it hurt to move but Dean did it anyway, stretching as much as he could without touching Sam or making too much noise.
"You can come out now. They're gone." Sam didn't sound menacing anymore, just matter-of-fact with a hint of tired frustration.
Dean turned around and crawled past Sam's legs, emerging from the table's shadow, but not yet getting up or even looking up, his thoughts still churning and dark.
"If you want to be a whore again, then get up and bend over the table. I'll help you remember your place."
Dean made no move to get up, his jaw locked. Whatever Sam was thinking, Dean definitely wasn't on board. He needed to... breathe for a minute, collect his thoughts, try to start over with getting through to Sam - without yelling, maybe, but without the kind of use Sam wanted to drown him in either.
Sam exhaled in a way that might have been a sigh with someone else. "Or you can keep being a footstool until we get back to the room. You'll crawl beside me from here, down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the room. Then we'll figure out where to go from there."
Maybe Sam didn't seem angry exactly, but Dean wasn't sure he was buying that. He needed to keep working on this problem, this puzzle, for as long as he could. With Sam's hands on him, Sam's cock in him, and Sam's demands for a constant litany of filthy fucked-up words, begging, pleas, Dean couldn't think and stay sane at the same time.
"Whore?" Sam nudged his leg with the tip of his boot and Dean nodded. "Is that a vote for more time spent naked... on the floor... on your knees... with a gag in your mouth?"
Dean blinked out at the half of the room he could see, plus the doorway/entryway and hallway beyond, trying to keep his breathing even and not think about all the people who might see him like this as they went back to the room. He didn't want to. He wanted to snatch the loincloth or skirt or whatever it was and try stalking his way out of the goddamn front door and away from this place. The scrape of the crop's edge up the back of his thigh and then up over one side of his ass reminded him where he was, though, and how far he wouldn't get. He knew he should get up, should bend over and spread his legs and just close his eyes and deal. But he just... couldn't.
The crop struck hard, a tough square of leather leaving a sting under skin it had already sensitized with its edge. Dean grunted, knowing he had to move, but still stuck where he was. When the crop came down again, though, all but lighting a fire across his ass with not just the head, but also the hard/leather-wrapped wire stem of the crop, Sam didn't stop with just one strike.
Dean found himself moving forward without even thinking about it, his shouts muffled behind the gag. He felt like an animal, driven from one pen to another, but knew he had to push himself to move faster. Even him crawling faster didn't seem to matter all that much to Sam's swinging arm, sharp lines of pain carving into muscles of Dean's ass and thighs with the same precision as a knife, and by the time they'd reached the bottom of the stairs, Dean ached from knees to spine, hot bruises already throbbing under his skin in ways he knew Sam would coo over when they rose to the surface. No one had seen him, though. That was something, right?
He panted through the pain as he began to climb the stairs, one hand and leg at a time. Then there was a rapid sweep of air between his legs and a crack as the crop's head connected with his sac, the sting bursting out from there like a shrapnel bomb. Even the gag couldn't fully muffle his scream as he crumpled in on himself on top of the first step, eyes slammed shut and involuntarily wet.
As Sam leaned in close, Dean couldn't help the way he curled into himself tighter, as if he might be able to shrink and sink into the floor. "Is there a problem?"
Dean shook his head, because the only valid answer to that question was always 'no, sir'.
"Then keep going."
The light brush of the crop's leather down Dean's back wasn't innocent or coincidental, Dean knew. He had to get up. He had to keep going. He grit his teeth through the layers of pain that were settling into his muscles like molten lead, making him slow, but as he climbed the first flight of stairs, the crop didn't fall again.
When they passed people on the second floor, he heard their comments, their snickers. He just ignored them, kept his eyes on the floor ahead of him, and pretended they didn't exist. They were nothing anyway. Creatures, traitors. They didn't matter. Feeling the way Sam used the crop to caress Dean's ass as he began to climb the second flight of stairs, though, the leather sliding along his skin, slipping down along his crack, made Dean's breath stutter, his concentration skipping beats.
Who would see that? The way he shuddered? The way it was so fucking obvious that Sam could mount him on the stairs like a dog and he would moan? Whore. Did you think you could really get away from this? It's what you were made for. No, he just-- Sam needed him to be this for some reason that wasn't about how he was made or for what. Sam needed him to... atone for fucking up, for failing him, and... maybe to make this place more bearable for Sam himself. But Sam didn't listen, didn't want to hear that there might be some other way for him to get both of those things. Continuing, largely unmolested, from the top of the stairs to their third floor bedroom door, Dean decided that he'd just have to show him.
The sequence of moments, from Sam opening their door, to Dean crawling in and Sam following him, then shutting the door behind them, all took place in what felt like normal time. But Dean felt like everything was faded out at the edges. Having made his decision, he knew there would be consequences, likely painful, but he would deal with them as they came. His focus narrowed to his breath so much that when he realized Sam was speaking, it took effort to snap the words free of the cushioning fog he'd anchored around his thoughts.
"So you didn't get fucked in public. Good for you." Sam's voice was rough, irritated, but there was no accompanying heat in the room from it. That was good. "That doesn't mean you don't clearly need a good fucking. So go." He pushed Dean's rear end with the textured sole of his boot. "On the bed, all fours, legs spread. I'll even take off the gag so you can apologize properly and repeatedly while I fuck you." Sam could always say things like that as if they were obvious, inevitable, and right. But they weren't.
Dean's breath began to run ahead of him, but he worked to slow it down again. Was he really going to do this? Risk this? Did he have any other real, bearable choice? No. When Sam prodded him again, this time with more force, Dean moved, but not to stand, not to walk over to the bed and climb up or spread his legs and get fucked while Sam tortured apologies out of him that Dean knew his mouth wasn't going to wrap around willingly. Instead, he crawled past the bed and ended up on all fours in front of the couch instead.
Something in him shook as he went down like Sam had told him to do earlier, but Dean did it anyway. Closing his eyes, his back awaited the weight of Sam's boots in a final act of defiance and a final bid for some semblance of rest. No, it wasn't even close to ideal, but doing something this different was likely as close as he'd ever get to a vacation in this place.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Dean heard nothing but his own breathing, felt nothing but his cramped legs attempting to readjust and his heartbeat struggling to settle. Then there was a light thud on the carpeted floor, one step, and the sole of Sam's boot was slamming into his back, nearly cracking him in half.
The sharp pain spun his thoughts out like a tangled fishing line, his whole being bound up in dizzying ripples of hurt and a shout that even the gag couldn't contain. Sam didn't move, but he didn't slam his foot down again either. And when he spoke, it seemed soft and faraway, laced with something Dean couldn't identify but somehow planted guilt in him regardless.
"I thought we were through with this, Dean." Not slave. Not whore. Dean. "Be very sure you want to do this when all I've asked for is an apology and actions that show you understand." He removed his boot.
Though Dean could have straightened up, if unsteadily, body jerking with pain, he didn't. Maybe he'd regret it, but right then he was sure. Sam wasn't getting an apology from him and he wasn't going to play the whore to make it up to Sam either. He needed this, regardless of whatever rough transition Sam required of him.
The sudden heat in the room, like a window had opened between them and the crater of a live volcano, scorched Dean's throat as he breathed. "Stay." Sam's voice had morphed into something so deep and tight with anger that Dean had to work to slow each inhale and each exhale, even while he sweated through the heat.
When the couch slammed onto its back beside him, though, his body tried to snap itself away, but couldn't move, Sam's power like a lead blanket with corners bolted to the floor. The whiz of items flying through the air was worse, though, Dean's eyes staunchly closed but every image behind his eyelids running films of tornadoes trapped indoors. The chains were the loudest, the closest, and there were so many- ... god it sounded like all the chains in the closet were ... something. Sam was using the base of the couch to do something with all the chain(s) they owned.
Dean's shoulders couldn't hold his shiver and it spilled down his arms and down his aching back. Was Sam going to chain him under the couch? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something grabbed for Dean's hand and he tried to jerk it away, but that flesh furnace was Sam and Sam would do what he liked. Dean's fingers were crammed into some kind of leather prison, a shapeless mitt that locked around his wrist in a size far too small to let his fingers fully extend. By the time Sam locked the second mitt, Dean was panting around the gag and looking down at the first mitt, pressed into the carpet under his head. He had no idea what was going on. He'd thought- ... But then Sam's hand was on the back of his head, pushing him into floor and a slick toy was dragging down his ass.
The tip was nothing more than he'd taken before, but it grew as Sam pressed it in, his body yielding at first and then gently resisting and then outright rebelling. Sam pushed it in until Dean was mewling, his middle and lower half swimming with pain, but Dean's body finally accepted the dip at the base of what must have been a plug and Sam pulled both of his hands away. Groaning, dizzy, and throbbing with a gut-deep ache, Dean couldn't have straightened up even if he wanted to. He just blinked, slowly righting his mind, at the mix of metal and wood covering the underside of the couch.
There were chains wrapped around the main support beams. And Sam was attaching two metal shackles each to lines of chain that hung from the tipped up front of the couch.
A part of him that didn't sound like him at all so much as Sam, his tired little brother Sammy, chided as if just inside his ear. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' How hard is that to do, Dean? Is it worth all this? Is it? And wasn't he nice today? Didn't he take you out? Can't you just give in one more time? You'd been doing so well.
Dean closed his eyes. I should. I should. I know. But the idea of Sam's hands bruising his hips, fucking him deep, making him say please and thank you, pretending to want it, to like it? What had been grease and butter and yum would come back up stinking and blended with bile. He couldn't think when he was "in use" like that. He couldn't do anything but lead his mind in the kind of numbing circles that let him endure it all. Pain, though? Ha. The thought of Sam's no longer secret catchphrase, Pain Brings Clarity, struck him with irony enough to make his lips stretch thin around the gag, remembering bitter smiles. If he didn't have to play along, just deal with whatever brand of punishment Sam brought his way, then ... maybe he could think his way out of this, or at least, deeper into his brother's head. This wasn't just about pride or insults to Dad, this was strategy. A shitty strategy, maybe, but he didn't really have other options he could actually handle right then.
Sam caught his eye and tilted his head, like some android assassin evaluating its next kill. "But before we get too far ..." As if they'd been mid-stream in some conversation, though Dean remembered none. "Let's test your resolve. I would hate to go through all this trouble for a whore's bluff."
Sam smirked. And the bathroom door slammed shut. Then all the lights flickered and a wall worth of glass shattered like it had been hit by a car. The mirror, Dean guessed, and maybe all the bathroom lights. When the door swung open again, Dean could hear the way it caught and scraped over the shards that littered the floor.
The shine in Sam's eyes was no emotion so much as the bright gleam of someone whose madness fed on violence, on screaming and blood. His mouth couldn't even maintain the smirk fully, its peak twitching, rising and falling with a barely held back eagerness that left him breathing hard and looking hungry. Dean still didn't know how horrifying his world could be until Sam spoke.
"I don't need a footstool right now, but I seem to have an opening for a good thick rug." Sam gestured toward the bathroom, every inch of him issuing the challenge.
Breath coming in quiet uneven shudders Dean watched his brother, studying him for long moments that only seemed to unhinge Sam further, his eyes increasingly wild. Somehow, Dean knew, with a rapid swallow, that he had done this to his brother. And not in the past indirect sense. Today. He had done this today ... as if being so nice, so restrained, had been a challenge, and now? Now, Sam had no chance to gradually reacquire his armor, his guns, Dean's rebellion had thrown him into a vat of kevlar, slid a hot loaded glock into Sam's fist, put his finger on the trigger, and whispered, wanton, in his brothers ear: "... Shoot me." Whatever Dean did now, he knew his life and Sam's grip on reality were on the line. Did this kind of bomb diffuse or just blow-up faster with any attempted manipulation?
He crawled to the bathroom door.
A hand towel slid off the counter and floated out into his lap as Dean heard Sam's words slip through some expression he was glad he couldn't see. "For your face. I know you're one of those reversible kind of rugs, but I think the walk will be smoother if I put you on your front." Sam's fingers combing over Dean's scalp a moment later started a shiver that would not stop. "You have ten seconds to position yourself in front of the counter or I will throw you there myself."
Dean just shook, breathing hard through 10 and 9, but when 8 hit he was already moving forward, towel between his teeth because his hands were practically useless but needed. At 7 his knees and calves and feet were sliced and shard-stuck and smearing hot red on the white tile and by 6 he'd crawled the rest of the way past the doorjamb, tears at the corner of his eyes. For 5 and 4, he fumbled repeatedly trying to place the towel, his breaths speeding and growing shallower before the number 3 made his head spin. But he put himself down at 2, shouting into the gag, shouting because he couldn't just lay gently as if balancing on eggshells, the glass sunk into him like claws. He didn't hear the number 1. Or, if he did, Sam's first steps across him wiped it out, a grenade of red pain exploding up his body into his brain, and Dean heard his brother roar as Sam stomped over him from thighs to shoulder blades and back again. "WHY DO I EVEN TRY WITH YOU?"
But then he and Sam and everything else was gone, pounded into shrapnel-studded screaming bits that had maybe once been him, and Dean threw himself into the black gravity of unconsciousness.
*****
Dean woke to hot breath beside his ear and he worked to orient himself without opening his eyes or altering his breathing from the steady slow of sleep. He was on his knees. His enemy was in front of him off to his right, near enough to touch. And for some reason, he expected words to come, but they didn't. Just warm breath on the side of his face, a bit of his neck.
The proper response to the grin he saw upon opening his eyes was fear. But the last edge of sleep and the easy malice in Sam's look triggered instincts that were far older than Sam's training and Dean's fist was in the air before he even knew what he was doing.
It didn't connect. The punch didn't connect, but the knifing pain behind his eyes, like his brain was initiating its own lobotomy, left him groaning anyway, and loudly. The new gag in his mouth didn't muffle anything. It was just a metal ring set behind his teeth, forcing his mouth open just as achingly wide as the cock shaped-gag before it. He couldn't even touch the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Sam had made his mouth into little more than a hole with mediocre volume control.
"Finished?"
Even before he'd officially replied with a glare, the adrenaline was seeping out of him, leaving him alone with every slice of pain his body had held on layaway for him. Looking down at himself, he would have gritted his teeth, but he fisted his hands in their useless mitts instead. The cuts were half-healed over, few still leaking, and though he couldn't smell much blood in the air, the feel of jagged glass opening his skin and sliding in wasn't a sensation that would fade anytime soon.
"I'll admit. I'm impressed." Sam's eyes practically twinkled, even as his grin relaxed into a cold neutrality that Dean could at least recognize. Sam was thinking, probably about how best to use him. "You're really committed to this furniture idea." He said it like it was quaint and strange, as if Dean had gotten into scrapbooking. But there was steel just waiting under Sam's tongue, and he revealed it in quick organ-piercing stabs. "That's good. We'll strip you down to basics. Make you useful. Make you forget everything that's irrelevant to being property - comfort, speech, autonomy, walking upright like a human being. I understand now just how confused you are." Sam's smirk was brief but confident. "We're going to fix that."
Dean considered fighting Sam on it, but the idea of provoking his full fury again so soon seemed the opposite of both strategy and sanity.
**********
The first step in their new routine seemed to involve ... sculpture ... Dean's thighs strapped onto a spreader bar that widened as Sam cranked a small handle in the middle, forcing Dean's kneeling legs to spread until they were shaking, and Dean's arms positioned just so, palms up and elbows down just below shoulder height. Sculpture and decoration. Initially, just Sam's boots, each leaning on either side of his groin where his thighs nestled against his pelvic bone. But as Sam removed every other article of clothing, it ended up on Dean. Socks as weights stuffed into boots. Jeans and shirts folded and draped over Dean's arms. And Sam's belt? He wound it around Dean's neck, pulled the end through the buckle and slowly tightened it until Dean was swallowing just give himself a little room, but that only made Sam pull it tighter and Dean stopped being stupid.
"Just a little reminder." Sam curled the long tail of the belt on top of the clothes Dean was holding up. Then he traced Dean's chapped lips with two fingertips, fresh words spilling out absent-mindedly, as if the internal/external monologue wall had broken down. "I could have you muted, you know. There are lots of ... 'modifications' these days for property in need of more than just training. Repair shops. Enhancement specialists. So much. You should be grateful, but ... You. Aren't."
Dean shuddered even as Sam pulled away, watching him fall into the chair a few feet in front of him, fingers already skimming below the waistband of his briefs. There was a sick twist in Dean's stomach right then, but he didn't know why. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sam jack off in a way that wasn't leading to a hard fuck or a burst of come on his face after he gave Sam a blowjob. Dean had wanted to get away from that, to clear his head, but all he could think about right then was the way Sam's hand moved in his briefs, the way his tongue licked the corners of his mouth, the way both their breaths were speeding up, the way that in a minute Sam was going to come and Dean could already taste it on his tongue, already feel Sam's grip in his hair, making him be good. Little come-hoover whore. Such a pretty mouth.
But that wasn't what happened. Sam came in a gush that darkened the cotton of his briefs, wetness spreading as his body quaked, mouth open and eyes shut. Groaning, he stroked the last of the come from his cock and Dean thought, cautiously, that maybe that would be it.
Still breathing unevenly, Sam opened his eyes and stood on legs he seemed hesitant to use. But then he stripped out of the briefs, stepped forward, bending to shove the worst of the come-smeared cloth into Dean's gagged-open mouth. Not everything fit, of course. The rest jutted obscenely from Dean's mouth, like a fake flower made from used white elastic and rags. And when Sam tracked fingers over Dean's face this time, mapping and cataloguing him, Dean tried to hold his brother's eyes, but his own kept sliding away. He tried to force the wad of cloth out with his tongue, but Sam felt the muscles working and placed those same two fingertips lightly just below Dean's left eye. Dean shut both eyes, sighed beneath his dual gag, and stopped trying to dislodge the damn thing.
"That's good." Not good boy, just good. And that was all Sam said. ... For at least an hour.
Sam went to his desk and worked, righted the couch and lounged, and while Dean heard the occasional rustle of pages and pens scratching ink onto paper, he otherwise wouldn't have even known Sam was in the room. At first, Dean kept waiting for some touch, some word, something that flung him back into the dynamic they'd had only just that morning. But nothing happened. And had it really only been that morning? The way Sam had moved him from the bathroom and cleaned him up while he was unconscious was disorienting. Time slipped by strangely here until he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
By the time Sam walked past him to the door to discuss something with the guards, Dean's breath was even, his heartbeat steady, and while he wasn't happy or comfortable, his head was practically clear. He began to run back over the day, analyzing every shift in his brother, every word he could remember, every facial expression, every press of heat. Sam's mind was a lockbox, but there had to be a combination, he just had to shut up and listen to the tumblers roll.
The door clicked open and Dean watched one of the twin male maids step in quietly, his next step arrested as his eyes caught on Dean. Confusion tipped his eyebrows for a moment, but then he was nudged forward, blinking as he stepped aside to let his brother through. Who also looked Dean over, though with more curiosity than confusion, his head tipping. Dean could imagine what they were seeing - boots practically sitting on top of his cock, his arms made into shelves, his mouth like someone's pranked exhaust pipe - but he couldn't look away from them.
"Commander?" While one brother glanced Sam's way, letting his curiosity guide him, the other kept his head down and started the work of cleaning the room.
"Yes?" Sam wasn't short with him, but seemed intent on getting to the point fairly quickly.
The boy hesitated for a moment and then closed his mouth before opening it to ask a question that Dean was fairly certain wasn't the one he'd originally been considering. "How would you like us to... deal with your laundry?" He gestured toward Dean with a sweep and Dean found his stomach curling in on itself.
"Same as always. I'm just trying out some new furniture. Everything's there, just make sure you get my socks out of my boots." Dean didn't have to turn his head to see Sam's expression to know there wasn't much of one, his tone was the sort that went with a shrug. The question might not have been stupid, but the answer seemed obvious to him: ignore what's holding up the laundry, it's irrelevant, just don't forget my socks.
"Yes, sir." The maid eyed Dean, but went to the bathroom instead, the swing of that door making Dean's breath rush even though he didn't hear glass scraping across the floor. "Do you want this washed down again?"
"Yes, Kevin." A new sliver of irritation brought tension to Sam's voice. "Everything just like always."
"Yes, Commander." If there was fear there, Dean couldn't see it in the young man's face and his voice had just enough breath along its edge to sound like awe more than anything else. Dean wasn't sure he could wrap his mind around that, even knowing what he thought he did about the twins' history and Sam's.
Regardless, Kevin and his brother cleaned the room without questions after that, their usual routine making them almost ghost-like in the way they moved from place to place, making as little sound as possible. Dean had blocked them out enough times before to make ignoring them seem like the easy part. Except... he couldn't drag his mind back on point for longer than a few seconds at a time.
He'd knelt naked with them in the room before, by his brother and alone, but he'd seen the way they looked at him this time and the feel of it crept along his skin now, even when they were no longer looking. Sam had made him into something alien, a cartoon mockup of a human being. No. His thoughts halted as his stomach tightened and rolled. Not human, a thing, a piece of furniture. Both an "it" and an "irrelevant" one.
That was supposed to be okay, a rest, but ... when Kyle was standing in front of him and reaching down to collect Sam's pants and shirts, Dean could see every flicker of half-masked emotion on his face and in the thump of blood that fluttered at his neck.
It didn't matter that this was the closest Dean had been to one of them for more than a few seconds. It didn't matter that when the boy's fingers fastened on some spit-damp portion of Sam's briefs to pull them from his mouth, the boy's own mouth tipped down on one side, nose crinkling with disgust. It didn't matter that when he reached down into one boot and then the other, fishing for Sam's socks, Dean felt the pressure of that hand through the boot like the boy was actually touching him, knuckles strange and heavy against the side of his cock. It didn't matter that the length of Sam's belt fell like a long leather weight between his legs when there was nothing left to hold it up, its strike on his cock too loud but not loud enough to drown out Dean's grunt or to hide the way he panted for a moment after that, body primed for the roughness of Sam's use. And it didn't matter that Dean couldn't lift his eyes above knee-level anymore.
He kept his arms up, like Sam had told him, even empty. And as they left, Dean told himself: It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Sam worked until cramps began to spark up the insides of Dean's thighs, forcing his eyes shut against the pain. And Sam worked until tremors shook Dean's arms and his shoulders burned. Sam worked until Dean stopped trying, letting his arms fall down and trying to work mitt-buffered fingers into the muscles of his legs before anything tore permanently. Then Sam left his desk, strode over, and sat on the floor in front of him.
For what felt like too long, Sam just watched and Dean tried not to let fear shake him as he knelt under the blaze of Sam's blank-faced observation. He kept kneading his thighs, trying not to shift his hips because the plug ached enough already. His eyes drifted eventually, though, and his chin fell, something embarrassingly dumb feeling about having his mouth remain wide open when there was nothing in it and no reason for the opening. It served as a reminder that any minute, any second, Sam could slip something into it, anything he wanted, it didn't matter what it might be or where it might have come from.
Maybe Dean had felt like just a collection of holes before, but he couldn't get away from that knowledge now, couldn't set it aside even for a moment. His every breath through the forced-open cavern of his mouth echoed words in his head. Hole. Thing. It. Furniture. And, god, why did Sam keep staring?
"You didn't keep your arms up. I explained this earlier." Sam said it matter-of-factly, as if Dean had somehow misunderstood the instructions. He was fiddling with something in his hand, dark or black and somewhat flat, but Dean couldn't tell what it was.
A pocket knife? It was the first thing Dean thought of and then he couldn't think of anything else. His eyes flashed from Sam's hand to Sam's eyes and then back again, trying not to think about the sharp pain of metal like glass, parting his skin like a science experiment. It couldn't be "see the inner workings of your furniture" day, though, right? Sam hated getting blood on the carpet.
When Sam flicked his wrist, pressing a button with a soft click, it wasn't a blade that emerged so much as a whirring sound. And sudden vibrations in Dean's core that made him wrap arms around his middle, his hips already moving even though the sensation was too much. He groaned, eyelids drooping as he fucked his cock uselessly between Sam's boots. They weren't heavy enough to provide the kind of friction his body wanted even as his ass and stomach ached from the force of the shuddering plug.
Looking up at Sam helped nothing. It just seemed to spur Sam on, a second button pressed to ratchet up the speed until Dean bent over his arms as much as the placement of the boots allowed and rocked, moaning, miserable and wanton at once. "For the record," Sam said, "I happen to think whores function better when they have regular orgasms. But furniture? I don't know. I like the aesthetics going on right now and since you weren't functioning very well anyway right then, function's obviously not an issue. So, I think I'm going to leave you like this for a little while and then decide what, if anything, I want to do with you."
I can't. It's too much. Dean's stomach had already been on the verge of rebelling and the ache just below his tailbone carried, his whole spine swimming with sparks. And around his core? The vibrations were like a lead belt attached to the motor of someone's Harley. He couldn't say that, though. He couldn't say anything. But when Sam got up and turned to walk away, Dean grunted, pleading with his eyes, not too ashamed to try being "sorry" and "good," even if only for moving arms that he couldn't hold up anymore, no matter how much will he applied. Sam glanced back, but simply said "no" and went into the bathroom anyway. And as Dean groaned and rocked and ached and grew increasingly nauseous, dizzy, needy, and hot on his shaking pressed-apart knees, Sam took a long hot shower.
Dean felt tight everywhere, stretched and shuddering, churning the pain into something he could manage, making it like Sam had taught him, making him want it, his mind fogged over except in the spin of want, can't, please. He didn't even hear Sam's approach, too far from the total sense of his body beyond the ache and need to react when Sam's fingers slid into his hair and unbuckled the gag. He still grunted when it came out, though, his jaw just another ache and his mouth dry as he closed it, swallowing properly for the first time in far too many hours.
"Thank you, sir." He said it even before Sam's hands went to his legs, removing the boots and then unlocking the cuffs on his thighs, then the mitts on the his hands. And when Sam clicked off the plug and dislodged the spreader bar to a sound nearing a hitched sob, Dean had to guess it came from his own mouth. He fisted his hands at his sides to refrain from covering himself as he closed the gap between his knees and then tipped down to sit gingerly on his right hip. Dean couldn't help saying it again then, his eyes oriented downward and left, toward the carpet next to Sam. "Thank you, sir." It didn't feel like enough, but fuck if it wasn't more than he'd had an hour before.
Sam's voice, absent for so many long minutes seemed oddly strained, the patter of the words cautious and deliberately chosen. "Strange that you can only be polite when I've hurt you, fucked you, or humiliated you."
Dean's eyes snapped up to his brother's, heart slamming once, hard, in his chest. "That's not- ..."
"Shhh." Sam's power shut Dean's mouth for him, but Sam's eyes were just as odd-looking as his voice, distant somehow, apart. Neither cold neutrality nor wild menacing depths. There was just ... a wall there. "Go take the plug out and get cleaned up. We're done here."
It would have felt better if Sam had punched him in the chest. But he didn't. Sam just let him shower. Then chained him, stretched out on the floor in front of the couch. And then Sam went to bed, giving Dean his back without another word.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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