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Title: Fucked [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "053-Indifferent" for [livejournal.com profile] 100moods, challenge table here. "009-Ice" for [livejournal.com profile] 50kinkyways, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~8,500 words.
Rating: NC-17 for violence, sexuality, and language.
Warnings/Spoilers: Self-injury! Angst! Hurt/comfort (seriously!). Dark. Apocalypse. Dubious-con. Kink/BDSM. M/s. Humiliation. Manipulation. Raunch (dirty). Body part kink (hands). Blood. Gore (brief). Orgasm control/denial. Masturbation. Established relationship. Graphic m/m sex. Violence. Character study. Future. Plot. Wincest. Slash. Smut. AU after "Simon Said". Potential spoilers through "Simon Said".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Final Step of the Initial Breaking Phase: Ensure that he's thoroughly broken, then put him back together in the way most pleasing to you.
Beta: Big hearts for L, as usual.
Soundtrack: "Disconnected" by Trapt (lyrics).
Author's Notes:The initial breaking phase began with the innocently-titled-but-emotionally-harsh "Walking" and it ends with what I might call the harshly-titled-but-almost-hopeful "Fucked". // For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.

Against the cool of the window, Dean's head throbbed its way toward numb, his eyes taking in the burnt orange of dusk as it fell, bright but darkening by the moment. Over time the ruins were slowly being re-inhabited, grappling for some semblance of civilization, but he wasn't studying that and a part of him found it wretchedly difficult to care. Whatever hell lay outside the inn's doors was both few and infinite steps away from the hell of the empty room that was spread out around him. It didn't matter if his personal devil had drifted away, the setting sun said that he would be back soon, for a meal, maybe for sleep, and always, always, to use his whore.

He tried not to let his breath stutter as he thought about his brother's sure fingers wrapping at his naked hips, pulling him close enough to feel his arousal, kicking his legs apart. He tried hard to focus on the slow slip of the clouds from light grey to muddy purple. What he felt was a hand gripping his hair, though, turning him around and shoving him down, a cock thrust into his mouth like the most sordid hello. He wanted to watch the sunset instead of flashes of needles and floggers and clamps, his body bitten and lanced and bruised. His lips formed a tight line, though, as the night approached before his eyes and he waited. Good boy? Lazy whore? It only mattered in the ways that Sam made it matter. Even not on punishment, this life was constantly aching with experience and discipline, whether or not he deserved it.

Deserved it.

Did he ever really believe that he deserved to be hurt for disobeying Sam's orders? A part of him had learned to say 'yes', learned to accept, but- … No, he didn't deserve any of this. The words and the framing of this world were sliding in through every orifice and every bit of broken skin, polluting and transmuting him into something he'd never been before, something that answered to 'boy' and 'slave' and 'whore'. The last half of the sun's rays bathed him in light, but the unseen darkness was drowning him, coaxing him to tear off pieces of who he used to be as he fought to find air. It was hard not to fear that whenever he finally broke the surface he'd realize that he'd become a creature unfit for the land.

Property. Whore.

Words-made-snares wound themselves around his legs, holding him captive, pulling him deeper, and he floundered, immersed in a world he couldn't breathe in, let alone understand. His survival was a matter of hard lessons and sharp feedback, like the last of his air being punched out of his lungs. The slave contract on the wall was a map that he could barely read, its litany drawing him in daily because it was where the words of his life came from, whether on Sam's lips or mirrored on his own.

I'm your property. I'm your whore. Always and everywhere.

His whole cursed vocabulary had been modified, expanded, and reduced to align with his owner's wishes, his own voice parroting like some perverted and deferential animatronic doll: property, whore, always, everywhere, yes sir, no sir, please sir, may I, can I, let me, oh god, god yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. He closed his eyes against the lingering sunlight, working not to grit his teeth to breaking. It was what he was good for, though, right? What he was living for, right? Fucking? Right?!

His entire life was about fucking now.

He was always getting fucked or preparing to be fucked or begging to be fucked or coming down after he'd been fucked or resting up to get fucked again or hurting, inside and out, because he wasn't always the perfectly passive little fucktoy that Sam wanted him to be. It seemed almost bizarre that he used to really like sex. Sure, he still came whenever Sam let him, whenever Sam wanted him to, but this was- … it was insane. Sex had become the sole focus of his life, every minute of every day, and coping mechanisms or no, it was slowly driving him into exhaustion, mentally just as much as physically.

Would he even make it to the fight with enough sense and self to open the right door? To run through? To survive on the other side?

Surrender wasn't optional anymore and he swore it was destroying him a little more every day. Even when he scrubbed his skin red and raw under the spray of the shower, all he could smell on his body was Sam and sweat and sex. Even when he brushed and gargled, rinsed and repeated, until his gums bled, all he could taste in his mouth was cock and come and filth. When he looked in the mirror, there was something in his eyes that he didn't recognize, something he had this nagging urge to scratch out of there, so he wouldn't have to see that ugly darkness and despair. So he wouldn't have to see anything at all.

But Sam- … Sam would just punish him brutally for damaging his property, for abusing and misusing it without his permission. Sam would still fuck him, still make him beg to be fucked, still fuck his mouth until he could hardly swallow, still fuck him. Because that was what he was for now. Fucking. Because he was- …

Fucking property. Thump. His fist hit the glass of the window. No pain. Not enough.

Fucking whore. Thump. His other fist hit the glass. Pain, no cuts. Not enough.

Fucking always and fucking everywhere. Thump. Thump. One fist hit the glass, then another. Pain, skin split, no blood. Not enough.

Fucking. Fucked. Thump-crack. Thump-crack. One fist hit the glass, then another. Pain, skin split, blood shed. Not. Enough.

Property. Whore. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Always. Everywhere. Thump-crack. Thump-crack. Thump-crack. Thump-crack.


Fucked. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump.


Fucked. Thumpcrackthumpcrackthumpcrackthumpcrack.


Fucked. Thumpcrackthumpcrackthumpcrackthumpcrack.

Pain stabbed into the back of his head like a sudden knife wound and his vision blinked black and bright, black and bright, as he fell, hips and knees and spine giving out as he crumpled to the floor. His last sight was a mass of bloody smears set against a brilliantly colored evening sky as his pain skipped and shuttered into nothingness. He wished to God and all his angels that he still had hope enough to find this beautiful, but wishes weren't for granting anymore.

* * *

Dean's vision blurred and refocused as he slowly opened his eyes, feeling the bed underneath him and pillows propped up behind him as the dark of unconsciousness rolled away. He could tell that Sam was sitting on the bed next to him, facing him, but Dean didn't look up, his gaze taking in the thick bandages that were wrapped around each of his hands as they sat on the bed beside him, blanketed with ice packs.

"Dean, talk to me." Whore.


"Do I ... need to … hurt you?" Whore. Sam was speaking very slowly, his words uncertain, but that didn't change Dean's toneless, almost lifeless answer.

"Hurt me." It's what you do, isn't it? What I'm for? "Make it good." Owner-master-sir. Man-who-used-to-be-my-brother. "Make me bleed."

"Do you- ... do you want me to … kill you?" Whore.

He wanted to say 'yes', to not care, but Sam's hand was too gentle where it settled on his knee and his voice was too quiet, tinged with something almost like genuine hurt, and Dean only had one truth. "No."

"Then what is this about?" Whore.


"Talk to me." Whore.

"Nothing to say … sir."

"That's bullshit." Whore. Gone was the careful gentleness, replaced by the orders of an owner who had little to fear from a whore. "Talk. Now!"

Dean wanted to laugh like Sam's threats didn't matter, like added pain wouldn't matter, but they did and it would and he hated it, hated himself for being susceptible to it, for being so fucking weak. "It's- …" He shook his head slowly, brain swimming because he didn't know where to start, how to have this conversation here when it would probably mean vulnerability and pain. "All this- ..." His voice weaved between shaky breaths. "It's too much. I- ..." Sam's hand travelled up his leg to mid-thigh and the weight of it held his thoughts captive, the itch to have it away from him stealing his ability to think straight. It was a sign of ownership and sexual interest as much as comfort and, right then, he was consumed by the need to have space from it, an ever-unlikely dream. He could never ask for that, though, so he just stared at it, words mumbled and stumbling. "I'm- …I'm going crazy like this- … I can't- … I just- …"

"Need a break?"

"Please?!" Dean's voice was suddenly shredded, desperate, and he couldn't keep up a front anymore, eyes snapping up to plead with his brother. "Please, Sam? Please. Just … a couple of days- … a day- … just- …"

"I'm not going to cut back on my use of you, Dean." His eyes weren't mocking, but they were sincere and firm. "I can't and I won't. You're my whore and I'll use you accordingly."

Dean nodded once as he let his eyes slide down, defeated in ways that made every muscle ache, lips pressed tight to keep from quivering, his weaker inner pieces breaking. Fucked.

"But maybe something more would help, something to occupy your mind sometimes?"

"And what would that be?" Pain? Drugs? Chains? He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't fix it, couldn't play nice or eager right then.

Sam gave his thigh a squeeze, like that might be more encouraging than distracting. "I saw you started reading a book a while ago. Why'd you stop?"

Dean shrugged, unwilling to follow reasoning that promised no exit. "I was confused. I didn't understand what you wanted me for." Whore.

"And what do I want you for?"

"Fucking." Whore.

Sam's whole body seemed to pause with his inhale and his exhale was a sort of half-frustrated, half-amused sigh. "Ah, miscommunication. Yes, you're a slave owned for the purposes of providing pleasure, 'my whore'." Always and everywhere. "But you don't always have to take the task of pleasing me so … well, in such a narrow way."

Dean's brow furrowed, gradually looking up. "I don't understand." Sam frowned and Dean corrected himself, his mind returning somewhat from its numb fog. "... Sir."

"Do you think the only thing I like is fucking?"

Dean felt his brow crease even further as he shrugged, gaze dropping to contain a tremor of something that ran through him. "I, umm- … Sex and … pain … sir?"

"Okay, yeah, but- …" Sam shook his head, re-routing from a potentially frustrating discussion. "What do you think I used to like?"

"Before?" Dean tried to think, glancing up in time to see Sam's jaw shift, not exactly happy, and he backpedaled. "Sorry. I didn't mean- …"

"No, it's fine. Before I brought you here, let's say."

Nodding slowly, Dean's eyes wandered down and away as he allowed himself to go back for a moment, to explore memories that made him ache, that made him fight harder – Sam's smile, his laugh, that weird face he made whenever Dean did something supposedly uncouth. He snorted a little, but his almost-smile fell when he remembered that he couldn't look up and see that guy anymore. "You uhh … used to read a lot … listen to that emo alt-rock crap … watch bad movies with no nudity and no explosions." He laughed for real, but it was strained. "You were curious about everything, had to know everything - history, mythology, religion, geography, psychology - hell, you could probably talk to a gardener all day about roses, man. I- …" I miss you. His throat closed up and he sniffed, shaking his head. Missing didn't fix anything.

"I don't know about roses, but … you didn't think any of those other things would still be pleasing to me?"

"I dunno. I hadn't really … thought about it." Hadn't really thought that you were him.

"I put all the books in here for a reason, Dean. If you noticed, I took everything else - TV, radio, telephone - out of the room."

Dean resisted a snort, like Sam's choices weren't immensely strategic, but still ... his eyes squinted, skeptical and challenging. "You want me to read?"

Sam nodded with a lift of one shoulder. "When you're not attending to other things, then yes, it would be great if you read some. I'd want you to talk to me about whatever you read, though, because it's still not about you; it's about pleasing me. I mean, I've read most of these books, so there should be plenty to talk about, but if I haven't read something and you're interested, we can always read it together. There's even a little library downstairs. I've been collecting books for a while now."

He couldn't help peering at his brother, completely perplexed by the amount of sincerity on Sam's face. "You're serious."

"Yeah." The weight of obviousness that Sam pressed into the word thoroughly chastised Dean for his lack of imagination.

"I- …" He felt adrift all of a sudden, unsure if his drugstore GED could meet his brother's ivy league near-degree without falling flat like a poorly-made house of cards. "I've never really, ya know, been good with books." It wasn't like he was illiterate or anything, but … shit, it used to be that if he was reading for entertainment, his choices were skin mags, weirdo newspapers, and trashy paperbacks not so unlike the trashy movies he loved. Who was he to read the so-called classics? Wouldn't he just make an ass of himself? Get himself chained up in the corner with a red ass and a dunce cap on his head? "I dunno, Sam."

Sam's tone quietly nudged Dean's ego like it was a shy child. "You've gotten better at all kinds of things since you've been here, haven't you?"

"I guess." His nails scratched the back of his head as he mulled over this unexpected turn of events.

"Well then. Just- …" Sam drew in a deep breath and let it out with a magician's gesture for 'voila'. "Just consider it part of your training to serve me well."

Dean tipped his head, definitely classifying this as some weird shit for a sex slave to be training in, but- ... "Okay ..." Reading, regardless of its complexity, couldn't possibly be harder to master than learning how to not say 'no'. His heart seemed to stop when Sam reached for him, though, deft fingers holding his cheek and his chin.

"I love how you're changing for me." Sam's hands on his face were purposeful, sensual, his thumb playing over Dean's lips, so despite whatever he was saying about books and reading, those were probably the furthest things from Sam's mind right then.

"You want to use me now, don't you, sir?" The 'sir' was snide, but it was better than literally biting off his tongue.

"Of course." Sam's eyes were vampire-cold, though his tone remained sweet and light like some deceptively dessert-housed poison. "But that doesn't mean that fucking is all you should think about. Sex is not your reason for living. I am."

Funny, it didn't feel that way.

"We'll do something different today, though. Would you like that?"

Wary, but perhaps morbidly curious, Dean ventured. "Like what?"

"Like …" Sam let his hands drop and pulled back, reaching for Dean's relaxed cock, then he looked up at Dean as he opened his mouth and dipped to run his tongue around the head.

Dean shuddered, his air puffing out in an almost-cough as his cock perked up expectantly. "You- … you would … do that?" Was the world spinning backwards today?

"If I want to, yeah." Mirth mixed with the gravity of Sam's words, wrapping the sound in playful seduction. "I still want you to beg for it, though, just like you do for everything else."

Dean nodded, his mind hastily merging southward even as he tried to find the words. "Umm … please sir … suck my … cock?" It definitely had a question mark on the end, because it sounded so … wrong. He may as well have been teaching an elephant to play a Styx guitar riff. "That sounds weird."

Sam's face scrunched unpleasantly, but he moved to lie between Dean's legs anyway. "You're right. It does."

Blinking, utterly distracted, Dean tried to wrap his brain around phrasing that would be more in line with the power structure here. How had he constructed his begging before? The formula was in his brain somewhere, so he just rattled through something, anxious and strangely hopeful all at once. "Umm … please, sir … use my cock … for your pleasure … and, uh … if it would please you … when you're through with me … may I please, umm … lick my come off your tongue?"

In the dense hush that followed, he couldn't run from the full stiffening of his cock or the dangerous hunger in his brother's eyes.

Sam's grin had an element of fire in it and he was already breathing hard when he broke the silence. "Damn! You are such a good little whore." The intense set of his jaw said his spring was wound tight and any moment Dean would be devoured or fucked into beautiful destruction. The brightness of that smile seemed to spill into Dean's veins somehow, lighting him up from the inside out.

He couldn't help the way his eyes ducked or the way his cheeks flushed as his lips tilted in an almost-smirk. It was a pretty good line, right? Too many times Sam hardly seemed to notice him beyond whatever hole he was fucking or whatever bit of flesh he was bruising or bleeding. So, maybe it was fucked up, but, in that moment, Sam's praise seemed like a gift wrapped in gold and, yeah, he really meant it, when he said: "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, whore. And just for that?" Sam's mouth set into a wicked smirk that made Dean's dick jerk. "I'm going to blow your mind out through your dick."

Deer in headlights had more coherent thoughts than Dean right then and he watched with reverence, awe, and the first hint of need as Sam became fantasy-made-flesh between the spread of his legs. His lips pressed to Dean's cock without hesitation, making it his own in a way he hadn't in months, a far cry from the kiss of his whip though still not enough sensation for the whore who begged to bridge the gap. The tongue that flitted out had not forgotten how to tease the tender slit at the tip, nor the shiver that could be called into being with a sharp swipe along the edge of the corona. He pressed harder as he mapped the veins underneath, coaxing the blood down and then up again, until Dean's near-stoic shock gave way to sighs, a dream of utterly unreal proportions unfolding before his eyes and over the heat of his groin.

Sam grinned as his breath huffed, humid and warm, over Dean's sac before his mouth engulfed one orb and then the other, making Dean's fingers twitch, his arms straining with the effort to remain apart from Sam's body, despite the feel of his recent injuries. Even when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see, imprinted in the inky black, was the wish of his fingers to tangle in Sam's hair and encourage him, not for dominance, but for pleasure. "Fuck." The urge was so strong, a need like he hadn't felt in what seemed like years. This was not his Sam, but even so, this creature made of sin and power and skill- … god and skill, made his blood rush and he wanted to pull him closer.

"Fuck yes!" The massaging caress of Sam's sloppy-wet lips at the base of Dean's cock had Dean arching up, his body begging to be enveloped from the tip down. The strong hands that gripped and steadied his thighs didn't even faze him now, though, and he kept grinding his cock against that parted mouth, groaning when he let his eyes slip open and he could see the slick of both of their desires smeared over Sam's cheek and swelling his lips. Their eyes found each other's and the heat there was like a jolt of current straight from a car battery and Dean shouted as his head threw back.

"Fuck me … fuck me, please sir … with your mouth … take what's yours … fuck, please!" He didn't know if it made sense or if his brain was addled with homemade pleasure chemicals, but he begged like a slut as he rubbed his cock and balls against his master's face. When Sam finally deigned to use him, to put his mouth on his slave's cock and make him groan and buck and whimper and beg even more, Dean lost himself in the heat of it, the puddles of ice-water soaking in around his fingertips unable to numb even that small part of him.

The gentle scrape of teeth shook loose a shudder in him, half desire and half nerves, until he had to hold his breath to steady himself. He gasped as Sam took the sensations to the next level, though, the rough of teeth surrounding the head of his cock while the tip of Sam's tongue lathed and prodded his piss-hole. This was head crafted in a paradise with seventy-two whores, his mind stumbling at the image like he was caught between two distorted mirrors, watching reflections of wrong layer out into infinity. All at once, he was worshiped and defiled, his throat caught in fresh and constant moaning as Sam swallowed his cock down and fucked his mouth tight and wet and hot around it. The seconds stopped and sped and spun with his crashing thoughts and then … heat.

His every cell seem to boil over and burst, his body shuddering and squeezing as Sam dragged the come out of his ravaged cock, wasting no seconds at all before prowling over him and shoving a milky sticky mess onto his slave's tongue with a kiss that made Dean's lips ache. He groaned into his master's mouth as his nape was grabbed, his head held just right for his mouth to be properly fucked by his master's tongue, invaded, explored, and conquered without reprieve until they were both panting and sweating into each other's hair. His only thought was that if he had to be owned, then goddamn this was the way to do it.

"Damn." Sam unwittingly echoed, sighing as he finally let Dean go and pulled away, the back of his forearm swiping the sweat from his brow.

Dean swallowed, exhaling heavily as he slumped back against the headboard again, his eyes drifting closed and open as he looked at his brother. The chill in his hands finally caught his attention, though, and he glanced at the huge wet spots on the bed, shaking his head with the start of what might've been a genuine smile. "I think we melted the ice, sir. Think the doc's gonna be mad?"

Laughing, Sam shook his head and pulled away the dying ice packs, throwing their remains on the floor and checking the dexterity in each of Dean's hands. "Nah, I think we're good."

Looking into Sam's eyes right then, Dean felt his heart swell, a shimmer of his Sam glinting even in the eyes of this living shadow. "Good." Maybe he wasn't as crazy as he'd thought.

Kneeling up, Sam adjusted the heavy cock that was tightening his jeans and Dean fought against the shudder that wanted to accompany the act as it drew his eyes.

"You, uh- …" It was hard not to let his previously light spirit shuttle back into darkness. He cleared his throat. "How would you like me to take care of that, sir?"

Sam stopped midway through absently smoothing out the side of his jeans, his expression stilling to something wholly opaque, though he spoke slowly. "You don't have to."

Dean worked to read Sam's eyes for a long moment, but he couldn't tell what the agenda or the right answer was. The lack of input gave something in him space to fill with its own baggage and gunk, but he still refused to choose or decline his usual box. "I- … What?"

Sam repeated himself, surer this time. "You don't have to. Not if you don't want to."

It felt like they both slowed, like the spinning world slowed, and a part of Dean chimed in with a merry-sounding 'great'. What his mouth said, though, was more honest and more wary. "Just- … May I take a minute, sir?"

Sam considered him cautiously for a moment, as if their snake and mouse game had reversed roles. "Sure." He nodded, skipping his way back to speed with a shrug and a quick shift from kneeling over to sitting beside Dean, their shoulders reacquainting by the headboard.

Whoa. The casual ease of Sam's reaction shoved Dean's mind into freefall and he grabbed for any and everything in reach. Bloody knuckles and bloody glass. He'd ended up this way because he wasn't allowed to say 'no'. Was this what he'd been fighting for? Sucking come from Sammy's dick-swollen lips- … from Sam's dick-swollen lips. He shivered on the exhale, wanton again though his cock barely budged. How could he repay that with nothing? How could he let the man who technically – though twistedly – owned him earn nothing from his- … well, from his generosity?

Maybe there were other issues at play? "Are you … worried about my hands?"


"Do you think I'm going to injure myself if I … do my job?"

"Since when do you use your hands to pleasure me?"

Dean nodded thoughtfully. Point taken.

Sam turned and leaned a little closer, though, his mouth near Dean's ear. "Only when you're touching yourself for me, coming and licking your hands clean for me."

Dean shuddered, his system asking his cock hard questions about when it might be ready to go again. "So … I'm allowed to suck your cock then, right?"

"If you want to." The casualness was a little more strained now, but still present.

"I- …" Want to? Was that what you were about to say, whore? "Umm …" Could he really just sit here and not do anything, just bask in his own afterglow while Sam remained unfulfilled? He swallowed again, but his chest and everything in it was tight. The silence and inaction just didn't feel freeing, even if maybe, in some objective way they were, and when Sam sighed again, quiet and contented though it seemed, Dean couldn't fight the impulse to offer himself any more. "Could I- … I mean … may I suck your cock please, sir?" The relief came with a slightly bitter aftertaste, but he ignored it because things were different this time, weren't they? It was mutual, reciprocal, right?

"Of course." Sam's hand slid to the bundle just below his hips, but he didn't unbutton or unzip. "You want to stretch your fingers or you need some help?"

Tipping his head askew as he climbed over and down between Sam's legs, Dean was caught between feeling cared-for and patronizingly coddled. "I'll stretch my fingers, thank you … sir."

"Well fine then." Sam laughed as he set his hand aside and Dean couldn't help but smile some too, even though his fingers felt stiff, his joints tight. He must've really tore things up. He shuddered but refused to answer his own silent question 'why'. Things were different this time.

Sam's pants were a great test of and practice in dexterity and the mood in the room gave him time to savor this moment of partial control. He followed the urges of his lightened heart, teasing his brother and playing around as he dramatically rubbed his cheek over the tent in Sam's jeans like some slutty cat. His reward was a snicker-becoming-a-moan and he set his mouth to work further up, his fingers pulling the button apart before his tongue traced and fucked its way through the buttonhole to lick the brass of the button. "Fuck" blew over his ears as he pulled away only to dive in again, his lips and tongue discovering Sam's skin and the thin cloth of his shorts as he tugged down the zipper one inch at a time.

Taking care not to damage his wrapped knuckles, he reached in when the zipper bottomed out and found himself a hard hot dick to explore. His eyes saw it all anew, though his memory was strong enough, and his mouth wanted to seek out every new taste – the tang of sweat, the salt of precome, the musk that only covered his lips when he'd swallowed the whole thing down, the sick-hot feel of his throat clenching and gagging as he let Sam fuck deeper than he could easily go. Fuck. It was no wonder that his cock was raging hard as he swallowed Sam's spunk, soaking in all his groans, and when he moved to kneel up, his cock only throbbed harder, his mind finally realizing that Sam's hands had never drifted to his hair or held him down on his blood-heavy cock. Anything he'd given was a gift, a spate of reciprocity, and fuck if he wasn't willing to do it all again.

"Come here." Sam's words lifted Dean's gaze from his cock to his face, but eventually the gesturing digits caught his eye and Dean climbed back up to the headboard, only into the curve of Sam's arm this time. "Closer." Dean leaned in more, their bodies overlapping instead of just sitting side-by-side, but Sam wanted more, and turned to curl Dean deeper into him, Dean's face directed closer to his own. "Like this." Then their lips were caught up in each other and Dean's well-used mouth was slowly examined and soothed before Sam pulled back again and settled them both, nearly cheek-to-cheek against the pillow-softened headboard. "Good boy."

And, for an odd little moment, in between his breath and Sam's, Dean didn't mind being called that.

* * *

After they'd caught their breath for a while, Sam took a deep preparatory inhale and restarted a not-so-new conversation. "So … are you gonna try the books now?"

Shrugging, but content enough to comply, Dean nodded. "If I need to."

"You should go back to 'Candide', the book you started before. You might have a new perspective on it now."

"Okay." Coping mechanism number one: play with a possibly-not-so-imaginary friend. Coping mechanism number two: read an owner-designated book. "Sure." He gasped, shocked out of his reverie, as Sam's hand found his half-mast cock.

"Are you going to be okay?"

Dean huffed, voice straining as his body fought to control itself. "I- … I was. Don't know about now, though."

Sam laughed, moving his fingers languorously over Dean's warm flesh, pulling his hand away only to seek out his own spent cock, stroking it to the lazy beat of his breaths. "Give me a minute and I'll fix it for you."

It was fucked up, but watching Sam jack off was a kind of filthy hypnotic that Dean still wasn't immune to and he licked his lips, every sense recalling each inch Sam had let him service and pleasure.

"You want it?"

Dean startled but quickly stilled, having inadvertently leaned deeper into Sam's space, his ear and Sam's mouth mere inches away from each other.

"I know you want it." Sam continued his easy stroking, his cock more than half hard now and flushed with pent up desire.

Dean swallowed, but couldn't answer. Did he want it? Did he expressly not want it? Sam was elbowing him over into the center of the bed before he could decide. Their eyes caught as Sam rose up, gripping one of Dean's arms and turning him over, his body naturally assuming an all-fours position.

"Of course the whore wants it."

Fingers played over Dean's back even as he could hear Sam continue to coax his cock to fullness, but Dean wasn't sure if his pulse was racing just from seduction anymore. The sound and feel of spit hitting the crease of his ass, then the palm of Sam's hand, made Dean flinch, but he didn't let himself contemplate the complications here. He was hard, wasn't he? That was a kind of want, right? Two fingers immediately spread the spit around his hole and fucked it in as Sam let out a groan behind him.

"Pretty whore, gonna fuck you so good." Those filthy fingers that dragged their way out of his ass found their way up to his mouth as Sam positioned his cock and began to press in. "Clean me up, whore."

Pressing back like a good whore, breathing deep to lessen the ache, Dean put a virtual clamp on his stomach and turned his head to suck on Sam's fingers until they were clean. This was- … No, he wasn't thinking about it. The breath was shoved out of him as Sam fucked his way deeper, the spit barely greasing his way.

Dean shouted, huffing like a locomotive, as Sam grabbed his hips and rammed the final inches home. "Fuck!"

"So fucking tight." He began a rough and steady fuck, slowly dragging out then swiftly slamming in again. "Such a good little whore."

Dean could feel his face twisting as he worked to contain tremors born of pain as well as simmering shame, but he buried it in the pillows, dropping from his hands to his elbows, and fucking himself onto his owner's thrusting cock, willing Sam's pleasure to rise.

"Yeah. Good boy." Sam rocked into him, shifting one hand from hips to shoulder and pumping faster. "Yeah. You like that."

Rough as it was, the lack of real prep and the thick of Sam's cock was making Dean's ass ache in more ways than just pain and his stiff fingers flexed and tightened, gripping tufts of pillow, as his cock strained for contact. Fucking whore. Fucking property. He shook his head, but that wasn't enough to stop his mental onslaught and he reached blindly for the headboard, pressing bandaged hands against the cool wood before starting his own brand of perverted pushups, driving himself back against his brother with bed-shaking force. "Fuck. … Yeah." The hurt and the pleasure blurred like a tornado, flinging all his thoughts away, and his gasps seemed to drown out their echoes.

"Want your ass fucked deep, don't you slut?" Sam was panting now, his speed rising almost past his control.

"Yes. Fuck yes." He could barely draw in a full breath, every exhale stuttered with the deep pounding that was making his head spin, his spine heating like a live wire as his cock jerked, body begging. "Please- …"

"You wanna come on my cock, whore? Huh, you wanna come on my dick?"

"Yes. … Please."

"Yeah. You've earned it."

Dean moaned like the well-trained slut he was when Sam fisted his cock, dragging up as he pulled out and down as he fucked his way in again, up and out and down and in and god and fuck and fuck yeah and fuck yeah and- … "Ohfuckyeah!" Dean sputtered and tensed and shook and spilled, his body swallowing Sam's cock desperately until Sam growled a curse and come finally slicked his way out.

"Hell yeah." Sam groaned as he let himself slump over his whore, pressing them both into the bed, still bonded together and sighing.

Long moments of deepening breathing passed as they lay together, but Dean felt like half his muscles were beginning to stick and Sam's weight curtailed his ability to flex and relax them. "May I stretch, please, sir?"

Sam remained silent for more heartbeats than expected. "I don't know. … I'm concerned about your ability to properly care for and protect my property."

Dean exhaled shakily, now understanding Sam's earlier indulgent behavior for the emotionally-padded transition that it was. "I'm- …" He tried to inhale deep enough to draw his assertive nature back in, but couldn't quite figure it out. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Are you? This is the second time, Dean." He sounded genuinely tired, rubbing the side of his face against Dean's ear and cheek, in a mix between something affectionate and something claiming, marking. "First, your dick was out of control. Now your hands. And both of these should be restrained by the perfectly capable mind that I want you to apply to those books over there." He blew out air with an exhausted overtone. "You have got to get control of yourself, Dean, because I can't keep coming home to this shit. Hell, you don't want me to keep coming home to this shit. I have to be able to trust that you're not going to throw my instructions – your training – out the window every time I turn my back."

"I'm- …"

"No. I don't want apologies. I want assurances." Sam's tone walked a tight line between griping and commanding, like they'd been climbing a mountain together and he was seriously contemplating giving up halfway to the top, if Dean didn't hurry up and get his shit together. "I have told you repeatedly to ask for help when you need it, even if that means going to the fucking guards and having them restrain you until I come home. And when I am home, if you feel yourself spinning out of control, edging toward doing something stupid, talk to me. I may not like the content, but at least I'll know that you actually listened to me instead of trying to do everything by yourself even if that always leads to failure."

Dean was pretty sure it wasn't as simple as blithely noting an oncoming psychotic break and calling in the cavalry, but he tried to clarify Sam's instructions anyway, even if he might not end up following them. "So- … I'm a little confused." And distractingly uncomfortable, he silently added. "Usually, you don't want me to … mention anything negative or … ask you to stop." His stomach flipped, knowing that every day was harder because he kept waking up to a world where he had no control, where he just had to take it and then go to bed knowing the next day would more of the same. "So, how am I supposed to … talk to you about having a hard time?"

Sam nodded against Dean's shoulder, making Dean shiver, though he tried to clench his nervous muscles instead. "Well, for one, don't focus on what you can't do or what you want me to stop doing. Neither of those is going to matter to me, not really. Asking to get out of something difficult is not the same as asking for help in dealing with the situation as it is." Sam yawned in an oddly human interruption, but didn't stop his explanation. "One implies that difficult experiences can be brushed aside while the other acknowledges their permanence and, even, their rightness in your life right now."

Ah. "Right." Well, that would probably explain why he was having such a difficult time with wrapping his brain around it then.

"Listen. Contrary to whatever beliefs that you might have about me, I'm not actually an unjust owner. I want you to succeed. If you think that I enjoy punishing you, know that I enjoy your obedience infinitely more." The silkening of Sam's voice after its gruffer start made something ripple, not wholly unpleasantly, but confusingly, in Dean's gut. "I do my best to give you the tools that you need to succeed, but this is like that old saying about horses and water. … I can shove your face in a lake, but if you keep fighting the natural progression of things, whether that fight is intentional or instinctual, you're going to end up drowning yourself, so you'll be both thirsty and dead. But … maybe I haven't asked the question in a way you understand." He shifted subtly, pressing his lips to the outer rim of Dean's ear in a not-quite-kiss. "Are you thirsty, Dean? Do you want to succeed here?"

Feeling his forehead scrunch, Dean worked to parse out his complex reactions to the question. "I don't know if I know what that means anymore. I mean … I know what you think it means, but- …"

"Do you? Really?"

He shrugged. It felt obvious, as uncomplicated and blunt as an anvil to the head. "Surrender?"

"No." Sam shook his head, his facial features inscrutable from Dean's tricky positioning. "No. Not even for you. In your case, surrender may be what success looks like on the surface or what it fundamentally requires, but no." He took a breath before starting what Dean could already tell would be a lesson of some sort. "The first measure of success everywhere is survival, plain and simple. That's our animal understanding of success and I've found it to be the core foundation for success, the only consistently essential part of what people mean when they think of success. Then, the second measure of success is being able to move beyond surviving to craft a full life, to triumph and thrive. So … maybe you already answered it, but then again maybe not. Do you want to survive here? Is that important to you?"

It was strange how starkly and promptly his answer came to him, its conditional nature wholly unapologetic. "Yes." If there's a chance for my Sam, then yes. He truncated his thought there, letting its remaining trails stay unexplored.

"Okay, that's a start. Do you want to do more than that? Do you want to build a life for yourself here? To thrive?" Sam shifted again, seeming to relax and settle in for the long haul.

Dean found his body and even his spirit stilling to listen to the barely-there whistle of his thoughts through the forest of his mind. "I don't know." Too much was contingent on the conditions of the first measure of success. He wasn't even sure this question would remain sensible if his earlier conditions were actually met. "Honestly? I don't know."

"Well … regardless, you need to drink to survive so you don't die of thirst, and when I say drink, I guess I mean obey in a broader sense, surrender, like you said. I am not holding you underwater for no reason, okay? Trust me."

That last part seemed to reach into Dean's chest and pluck a single dusty heartstring, and for a minute he vacillated between head-splitting anger and a seemingly misplaced sense of compassion. He cleared his throat, feeling weirdly formal all of a sudden, despite the way they'd been blurring partnership and ownership all day. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Sam thought about it for a moment rather than carelessly approving it right away, which was, sadly, if honestly, probably best for both of them. When he spoke, though, his tone was just as formal as Dean's, maybe more so, his words clipped and business-like, brokering no debate. "I'll grant you that permission. But, just so there isn't any confusion later, your behavior today earned you two hundred lashes, which you'll take tomorrow before I leave and, on top of that, you'll be in chains all day without the privilege of exercise, entertainment, food, drink, or bathroom use until I get home. We'll just call it a one-day tour of your life without a single shred of my trust. So … yeah, you can speak freely and I won't punish you for being honest with me, but you will be punished for your behavior regardless of whatever comes out of your mouth right now."

Dean's eyes slid closed as he rolled his jaw, grinding teeth that would bite to blood if dreams were options, and he almost didn't open his mouth back up again. "… That's- …" He tried again. "That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Your … methods … of trying to get me to drink, to survive? They feel a hell of a lot more … dangerous, threatening … than the thirst that you say you're trying to get me to quench. I feel like- …" He didn't quite know how to describe it, but he took a shot in the dark, struggling for the right words. "I honestly feel like you're rushing me, and not that there can't be some deadline for my … 'success' … one that I don't know about, but … maybe I'd be more likely to drink if I actually thought I was going to die of thirst instead of dying from you drowning me." He let that sit a minute, but wasn't sure he liked it. "All I'm trying to say is … maybe there are other, less violent ways, to get me to do what you want." He stopped, on the verge of satisfaction, but then his heart skipped a beat, or maybe half a dozen. "I mean, less violent and non-chemical ways."

"Interesting." Sam's tone was non-committal and perhaps a shade of amused. "So what might you suggest then?"

"A focus on rewards instead of punishments." It was the first thing that came to mind.

"Really?" Now he sounded thoroughly amused, even smug. "So, what 'reward' would make you beg to be beaten and fucked 'til you bled? … Blueberry pie? A blowjob? A breath of fresh air?"

The first two were definite no's, but the last? "Well … no, but … maybe- … maybe a little drive, like … even just driving around the block."

Sam stilled, his stomach eventually quaking against Dean's back, but he had the graciousness not to laugh in Dean's face. "Huh. Yeah. I- … If I can't trust you to follow explicit instructions – like count your orgasms – or implicit ones – like don't break your own goddamned hands – then why on Earth would I cart you downstairs and put you in a fucking car with me? Really?" He pressed in closer, his teeth deliberately scraping over Dean's ear and Dean shivered, wondering if he'd get bitten as Sam's voice dropped half an octave. "Do you think I'm that stupid, whore? Do you think that I'd ever agree to offer regular outlandish rewards for an insubordinate little whore who's done nothing to earn my trust and everything to throw it away?"

Dean felt something bitter bubble in his throat, his body seizing up from his chest to the back of his teeth as the plea for surrender from the Sam in his dreams came back to haunt him. "You're right." He found himself nodding, the felt or imagined constriction of his airway forcing out words he didn't want to say. "I should- … I will try harder. Okay? I- …" Can't promise anything? "It's- …" Hard for me? "I'll do what I can."

"You'd better."

"I will … sir." He hated how his voice shook, how fucking scared he was, how much his punishment loomed like some fucking reaper over his need for freedom and the little leeway offered by his brother's waning trust. "I will."

Inhaling slow and easy, Sam let his arms go lax enough to sink into Dean's body even more. "Okay then."

With the words out and accepted, Dean could finally breathe again. The deep breath he wanted remained limited, though, by Sam's weight as it settled over him. Still, he waited as long as he could bear before speaking. "So … may I stretch, sir? Please?"

Sam seemed to sigh a little, but didn't roll over and didn't get up. "No, Dean. We're sleeping like this tonight."

Dean felt his whole body shudder in a way he couldn't even attempt to hide, but he ate his defiance, knowing the conversation was done. "Yes, sir."


The word struck him and echoed like a metal gong, his eyelids fluttering as if their tremors would make up for the total restriction of the rest of his body. He would sleep like an untrustworthy whore tonight, like a well-used piece of property, with come gelling inside him and his master's cock plugging his hole. The fingers that slid around each of his wrists, then, only confirmed his known facts and he silenced his resistance to Sam's careful placement of his bandaged hands. This was punishment as much as protection here, his brother's property well-guarded and restrained from further damage or any other misconception of its value or status.

Yet, this was also about building trust – wasn't it? – and about honing his own brand of it, trying to believe that his brother wanted him to survive, to drink and not die, drink and not drown. Why Sam had come to believe in sticks over carrots, though, Dean couldn't begin to understand, even when he heard his brother blow his reward plan into tiny pieces of idiocy. Whatever brought this Sam into being seemed stronger than either of them, stronger than both, and even though he didn't want to believe it, in moments like these, it was hard not to wonder if that darkly creative force hadn't broken down their bonds of history and love and blood, broken them beyond the reach of even the most carefully crafted solutions. Maybe, in a world so darkened by horror and pain, the equal partnership that they'd been playing at before was truly just as lost and senseless and unlikely as each of their nostalgic bids for one another's trust. Maybe this was the only thing that could work … even if it really didn't.

It was that weight of despair that milled his exhaustion into sleep and he squeezed his stinging eyes more tightly shut, knowing that he was sticky and full, connected and crushed. But, for once here, just for once, he replayed the best parts of his day as if they could stay good and real, wondering if the mix of dreams and life and artifice would be enough to keep him sane tomorrow and the far too many days to follow after that. For now, it seemed, and perhaps for always, his coerced, conflicted, and roughly whispered 'yes' was all that it could be, all that it would be, and all that his owner would let him choose.
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December 2016


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