Fic: Caged Curiosity
Title: Caged Curiosity [formerly titled "Special Delivery"]
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 3,050 words
Series: Caged Desires
Community: Saturday Night Specials
Summary: Sammy's got a secret, and Dean's going to figure it out.
The first time Dean notices that something is going on is when Sam gets all high-and-mighty on him for forgetting to go check the post office box. There's nothing they're expecting in the mail that can't wait another day, not like a cat or a dog or something that needs to breathe, but Sam is bitchy and snippy at him all night anyway, stomping down the hall to his room all straight-backed and stiff-legged, like he's got the biggest stick up his ass of all time.
Whatever.
Dean's almost tempted to not go back into town the next day, but he relents after Sam stares daggers at him all morning. He takes his sweet time, stopping by the diner for a milkshake and a burger while his phone buzzes with text after impatient text, all of which he ignores. After swinging by the local Walmart to get them both new socks and underwear, and trying on but ultimately not buying a new pair of work boots, he ambles toward the post office with a full fifteen minutes to spare before they close.
Hey, it wasn't like the kid couldn't have come with him if he wanted, y'know? But he'd been a pissy little bitch all morning and couldn't step away from the research for a few hours, so screw him.
There's nothing in the mailbox except junk mail, junk mail, postcard from Gath and Bess on their second honeymoon, junk mail, junk mail… and one slim white security envelope for Sam with no return address. It's light, doesn't even feel like there's a letter inside, just a small heavy shape about the size of a key. He presses his fingers against it and yep, that's a key all right.
Well now, Dean thinks, this bears further investigation.
He smooths the envelope down to make sure his fingerprints haven't wrinkled it too suspiciously, then stashes it in-between waves of junk mail, with the postcard nestled on top.
And then, just to top it all off, he stops in at Ladow's and picks up a cherry pie, some burgers and a six pack to go and takes a leisurely drive home.
Sam's nowhere to be found in the bunker when he gets back - probably decided to go out jogging or something after all. Disappointed, he drops the burgers and pie on the table, chucks the beer-minus-one in the fridge, and grabs his phone to call him while he pops the top off the bottle in his hand.
There's no answer at first, then-
"Dean!" The sound of relief in Sam's voice is unmistakable. "Are you back yet?"
"Sure am," Dean says. "I got dinner, too. How long before you're back? Don't want the burgers to-"
"Dean," Sam interrupts. "I'm here. Just, uh, in the bathroom. Indisposed…" He's keeping his tone suspiciously neutral. "Did you get the mail?"
"Sure," Dean says carefully. "Mostly junk, though." He purposely keeps his tone light and measured. "Oh! Garth and Bess sent us a postcard from the Biggest Ball of Twine."
That's Sam's cue to bitch about the fact that there are four of them in the United States so just saying the biggest doesn't help, but he doesn't. Instead, he just says, with a little pained hitch in his voice. "Was there a white envelope for me?"
Gotcha, Dean thinks. Over the phone, he says cheerfully, "Don't think so - didn't see one, anyway."
Sam takes a deep breath, then: "Could you check again? Please?"
Sammy boy, Dean gloats, exactly what have you been up to?
"Sure," he says out loud. "Gimme a moment."
He takes a long sip of beer, then flips the edges of the mail like he's shuffling through it. "Junk… junk… junk… hey, there's gonna be a craft fair down at the library next week… junk…" He pauses. "No man, I don't see it."
Just as Sam draws in a breath to say something, he continues. "Wait, no, there it is. It was stuck in the middle of a timeshare flyer. Hey, good news, we could go halvsies on a condo in-"
"Dean," Sam interrupts again, and that's three Dean's in a row - he's on a roll. "I'm in the bathrooms right now, could you bring that to me? I'm going to be a while in here, something I ate, so I've got n- nothing better to do."
"Huh? Oh yeah sure," Dean says nonchalantly, like Sam isn't lying through his teeth to him. "Want me to grab some Pepto while I'm at it?"
"N-no," Sam says, that strange stutter reappearing as he tries to sound calm. "B-bring the postcard from Garth, too, why don't you."
Dean takes another swig of his beer. "Okay, but I expect a courtesy flush when I get there."
"Don't be gross, Dean."
As soon as he hangs up, he unlaces his boots, tucking the ends in so they won't click on the ground, and gives himself a once over to get rid of anything noisy or jangly, like his jacket, keys and pocket change. Then he grabs the mail, along with the copy of Bullfinch's that Sam had been thumbing through that morning - and if that's not a sign that Sam is lying, nothing is, because there's nothing useful in that book that Sam doesn't already have memorized - and heads down to the bathrooms, shaking the envelope to make sure the key inside is all the way in the far corner.
He makes a point of banging the door open as loudly as he can. "Mail call!" He strides over to the stall with Sam's feet and pants underneath and shoves the book and the postcard sliding along the floor. The letter he sticks in the crack between the door and the hinge, making sure the half with the key is on the outside, and stomps back toward the door.
"I've got burgers and pie for dinner, so don't take too long in here or I'll eat them all myself, okay?"
"S-sure thing, Dean." He may or may not make a little whimper after that.
Dean walks into the hall and toes his shoes off, then slams the door back open to yell. "Hey! I didn't hear any courtesy flushing going on!"
Sam replies with the expected, "Fuck OFF, Dean!" and that's enough for Dean to slip back inside and slide to the corner where Sam won't see him if he looks under the stall. Which he does, because Sammy is a smart boy. Just not as smart as Dean.
He couldn't have choreographed what happens next any better: First, Sam stands up and kicks his pants out of the stall. Then he kicks the book and postcard in the same direction and sits back down, legs spread wide apart. And then… then he tries to tug the envelope through the crack in the door.
That would work if it was a letter, like he'd said, not a key, like it was. That critical difference in thickness means that it just wedges up against the door and won't go through. Sam yanks at it once, then again, then realizes what's going on with a curse.
And then Dean watches as the letter tilts down, Sam obviously intending for it to fall into his hand below the door. It almost does, but at the last second the corner bounces off Sam's stupidly large fingers, which sends the envelope skittering onto the main floor.
"FFFFFFFfucccckkkkkkk!" Sam growls, another half-sob at the end, sinking to his knees. Then the door creaks open and his brother literally crawls out, naked and flushed and sweaty, leaning forward to try to reach the envelope where it lies.
And now it's all clear.
Sam's naked… almost. There's some kind of weird metal belt running around his waist and between his legs, held in place by a padlock dangling off of the back. And now that he's out of the stall, Dean can hear the strange buzzing noise that is no longer being muffled.
You naughty boy, Dean thinks, blown away by the fact that his straight-laced, salad-eating, no-porn-watching-on the-laptop little brother has somehow locked himself into a chastity belt. A vibrating chastity belt.
Sam scrabbles for the envelope, feeling for the key as he rips it open with shaking hands and then sits up, kneeling as he twists back on himself trying to insert it into the padlock. Just then, the buzzing sound intensifies, and Dean watches as Sam helplessly fucks his hips forward, hands clinging to the bit of belt covering his ass. A second later, he bites his lip with a moan that's half-pleasure, half-pain and collapses forward onto his stomach, ass raised slightly in the air.
He's still trying to get the key in the lock, even as he's humping the ground uncontrollably, muttering fuck fuck fuck oh god oh god oh fuck. Then a particularly bad - or good, Dean supposes, depending on how you look at it - spasm wracks through him and he fumbles the key, which clatters to the floor behind his legs.
Dean's just watched his baby brother come, and hard, too, by the looks of it.
He decides to take pity on him then. "Looks like you got yourself in some kind of a predicament there, baby brother."
Sam starts - as much as it's possible for a man in the throes of being forced into an uncontrollable series of orgasms by what's probably a vibrator locked inside his ass can startle, anyway - and looks up, his face immediately flushing bright red.
"That lock seems like it's giving you a little trouble." He waggles his eyebrows at him as he walks closer. "Need a hand?"
Sam bites his lip as another particularly strong spasm works through him, and something inside him seems to give. He sags to the floor, burying his face in his arms so he doesn't have to look at Dean, and mutters a quiet, "Yes."
Deciding his brother has suffered enough, Dean walks over to him and fishes the key out from between his legs, close enough to feel the metal vibrating against the hairs of his arm. And holy shit, up close he can see that there are rivulets, literal rivulets, of glistening translucent cum and precum trailing down his legs. "How long have you been wearing this?"
"Th-three-and-a-half days," Sam's voice says, muffled by his arms. "Was supposed to be done yesterday, but someone-"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, and swats his brother's ass. "Next time tell me it's important 'stead of being a little shit about it."
Sam makes a halfhearted grab for the key, so Dean swats him again. "Stop it. I got this." He tries not to think about how his hand felt against Sam's ass.
Then he grabs the lock, tugging on it a little bit just to make Sam feel even more embarrassed, then slides the key in and clicks it open. "Maybe next time don't put it in such a stupid location?" He pops the padlock off entirely and watches as the metal belt clicks apart.
"-was trying to make it more challenging," Sam says, rolling over away from Dean and yanking at the metal bands, which separate and peel away from his body, giving Dean a hint of a heart-shaped plug. Then Sam's ass curls out of sight, replaced by the musky aroma of Sam's groin tinted with an acrid hint of urine, and - a cock cage with another padlock on it?
"Seriously?!"
Sam ignores him in favor of lifting up the padlock holding the cage in place and making gimme hands at Dean. "Let me see the key."
And normally he would, because fondling his brother's junk is his brother's job, but there's something charged in the air about this whole situation. If Dean's honest with himself, it's got him a little hot under the collar, and he has a suspicion it's doing something for Sam, too. So he bats Sam's hand away - "In for a penny, in for a pound, right?" - and wraps his own digits around the lock, excruciatingly aware of the way his fingertips brush against Sam's dick through the metal rings of the cage and come away sticky with incriminating white fluids.
There's only so long he can torture Sam, though, because three and a half days has gotta be hell. Instead, he unlocks the cage and steps back, pocketing the locks and the keys as his brother reaches down underneath him and turns the vibrator off with a sigh of relief.
"Uh, Dean-" Sam's cheeks are so red now it's a wonder there's blood left anywhere else in his body.
"Outside, yeah, I'm going. You-" he gestures vaguely in the direction of the stalls and the showers- "go do whatever it is you need to do. But we-" he gestures between the two of them- "are having words after this, capiche?"
He waits until the bathroom door is between them before he gives in to the insane urge to lick his fingers clean.
* * *
"Three and a half days?! What on earth were you thinking?"
Sam shrugs his shoulders sullenly, clearly wanting to be anywhere than having this discussion, but Dean's not having any of that. The burgers are gone and the leftover pie is in the fridge, which means it's time for one of the most awkward conversations in the history of awkward Winchester conversations.
"I was bored, Dean. I was thinking - thinking the last time was too easy, the lock was too easy to pick. There was no challenge, or danger."
Dean snorts. "It's your dick, Sammy. There's not supposed to be danger."
Sam rolls his eyes. "You play stranger-danger roulette at every bar we stop in on during a hunt. This is a lot safer than that."
"Safer?! That's what we're calling this? Your system's not meant to handle that kind of-" he waves his hand at his unrepentant, secretly kinky little brother- "all that for one day, let alone three."
"There are ways, Dean." Sam crosses his arms. "It's not like I didn't do the research first. I mean - do you really want me to go into the details? Because I can." He grins, that savage little bit of bitchery that would have made him a great lawyer suddenly springing to the offense. "As a matter of fact, I can give you excruciating levels of details about high colonics and how to flush out your system like you'd flush out a carburetor. You can learn more about the inner workings of my intestines than you'd ever like to know, or you can drop the subject right here and I will never mention it again."
Dean thinks about it for a moment. No, he does not really want that. He takes the out.
"Okay, fine, but even so - trusting the post office to get something here on time? Even you gotta admit that's a little dumb for you, especially in light of whatever the hell was going on at the end there."
Sam looks away because yeah, he's got no defense against that point. "It should have been fine, Dean. I'd calculated it all out - timing, risks, everything. If the worst happened, I thought. I could pick the lock, or worst, call Cas... or you."
"So what happened."
And just like that, Sam's on the defensive again. "The program for the- the device-"
"Butt plug," Dean interrupts with a grin. "If you can stick it up your ass, you can sure as hell use the right name for it."
A tiny part of him is wondering why he's taking so much enjoyment from watching his brother squirm and turn red. The larger part of him is too busy processing the fact that Sam hasn't walked away yet. He could have - in fact, probably should have. Dean would have bitched, but then he would have dropped the topic and that would ultimately have been that. That part is wondering whether maybe Sam is getting off a little on this conversation, too. There's no way in hell he's gonna get it up anytime soon, but he's still doing that telltale ants-in-his-pants squirm in his seat.
Sam glares at him. "The butt plug has a remote control," he says. "I programmed in a timer for it, but I must have dropped a bracket someplace. It was all evenly spaced out at the beginning, but after the second day, it started happening faster and faster. It was… difficult to concentrate on picking the lock after that."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, Dad never trained us on how to do it under those conditions." He sits back and flips the lid off a new beer. "So all that really does it for you?"
Sam shrugs helplessly, nursing at his own brew. "Yeah." He pauses, gaining confidence. "Yeah, it does. I like getting out of my head like that, giving up control, but-"
Dean gets it. "But it's a hell of a risk, putting yourself in the control of anyone else, knowing what we know."
He sips his beer instead of spitting out the words hanging on the edge of his tongue. If he says them, suggests what he's thinking, everything is going to change. He can feel it in his gut, the vertigo you get when you are standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down. But on the other hand, this is his little brother, the kid he went fists-first against the worst that heaven and hell had to threaten him with. It's his job to keep him safe, even if John had no idea that something like this was even a possibility.
In fact, there's only ever been one thing it wasn't his job to keep Sam safe from… and that was Dean.
He thinks about what it would feel like to add another key to the key chain in his pants, and finds that he doesn't just not mind the thought. He likes it. He wonders if the key will burn like a brand through his pocket, a constant reminder of what else he's keeping safe. Of what he has at his control.
Thinks about the first time Sam might come to him asking for the key.
Thinks about what it would feel like to tell him no.
And smiles.
"Okay," he says, leaning forward. "Here's how it's gonna go."
~End~
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 3,050 words
Series: Caged Desires
Community: Saturday Night Specials
Summary: Sammy's got a secret, and Dean's going to figure it out.
The first time Dean notices that something is going on is when Sam gets all high-and-mighty on him for forgetting to go check the post office box. There's nothing they're expecting in the mail that can't wait another day, not like a cat or a dog or something that needs to breathe, but Sam is bitchy and snippy at him all night anyway, stomping down the hall to his room all straight-backed and stiff-legged, like he's got the biggest stick up his ass of all time.
Whatever.
Dean's almost tempted to not go back into town the next day, but he relents after Sam stares daggers at him all morning. He takes his sweet time, stopping by the diner for a milkshake and a burger while his phone buzzes with text after impatient text, all of which he ignores. After swinging by the local Walmart to get them both new socks and underwear, and trying on but ultimately not buying a new pair of work boots, he ambles toward the post office with a full fifteen minutes to spare before they close.
Hey, it wasn't like the kid couldn't have come with him if he wanted, y'know? But he'd been a pissy little bitch all morning and couldn't step away from the research for a few hours, so screw him.
There's nothing in the mailbox except junk mail, junk mail, postcard from Gath and Bess on their second honeymoon, junk mail, junk mail… and one slim white security envelope for Sam with no return address. It's light, doesn't even feel like there's a letter inside, just a small heavy shape about the size of a key. He presses his fingers against it and yep, that's a key all right.
Well now, Dean thinks, this bears further investigation.
He smooths the envelope down to make sure his fingerprints haven't wrinkled it too suspiciously, then stashes it in-between waves of junk mail, with the postcard nestled on top.
And then, just to top it all off, he stops in at Ladow's and picks up a cherry pie, some burgers and a six pack to go and takes a leisurely drive home.
Sam's nowhere to be found in the bunker when he gets back - probably decided to go out jogging or something after all. Disappointed, he drops the burgers and pie on the table, chucks the beer-minus-one in the fridge, and grabs his phone to call him while he pops the top off the bottle in his hand.
There's no answer at first, then-
"Dean!" The sound of relief in Sam's voice is unmistakable. "Are you back yet?"
"Sure am," Dean says. "I got dinner, too. How long before you're back? Don't want the burgers to-"
"Dean," Sam interrupts. "I'm here. Just, uh, in the bathroom. Indisposed…" He's keeping his tone suspiciously neutral. "Did you get the mail?"
"Sure," Dean says carefully. "Mostly junk, though." He purposely keeps his tone light and measured. "Oh! Garth and Bess sent us a postcard from the Biggest Ball of Twine."
That's Sam's cue to bitch about the fact that there are four of them in the United States so just saying the biggest doesn't help, but he doesn't. Instead, he just says, with a little pained hitch in his voice. "Was there a white envelope for me?"
Gotcha, Dean thinks. Over the phone, he says cheerfully, "Don't think so - didn't see one, anyway."
Sam takes a deep breath, then: "Could you check again? Please?"
Sammy boy, Dean gloats, exactly what have you been up to?
"Sure," he says out loud. "Gimme a moment."
He takes a long sip of beer, then flips the edges of the mail like he's shuffling through it. "Junk… junk… junk… hey, there's gonna be a craft fair down at the library next week… junk…" He pauses. "No man, I don't see it."
Just as Sam draws in a breath to say something, he continues. "Wait, no, there it is. It was stuck in the middle of a timeshare flyer. Hey, good news, we could go halvsies on a condo in-"
"Dean," Sam interrupts again, and that's three Dean's in a row - he's on a roll. "I'm in the bathrooms right now, could you bring that to me? I'm going to be a while in here, something I ate, so I've got n- nothing better to do."
"Huh? Oh yeah sure," Dean says nonchalantly, like Sam isn't lying through his teeth to him. "Want me to grab some Pepto while I'm at it?"
"N-no," Sam says, that strange stutter reappearing as he tries to sound calm. "B-bring the postcard from Garth, too, why don't you."
Dean takes another swig of his beer. "Okay, but I expect a courtesy flush when I get there."
"Don't be gross, Dean."
As soon as he hangs up, he unlaces his boots, tucking the ends in so they won't click on the ground, and gives himself a once over to get rid of anything noisy or jangly, like his jacket, keys and pocket change. Then he grabs the mail, along with the copy of Bullfinch's that Sam had been thumbing through that morning - and if that's not a sign that Sam is lying, nothing is, because there's nothing useful in that book that Sam doesn't already have memorized - and heads down to the bathrooms, shaking the envelope to make sure the key inside is all the way in the far corner.
He makes a point of banging the door open as loudly as he can. "Mail call!" He strides over to the stall with Sam's feet and pants underneath and shoves the book and the postcard sliding along the floor. The letter he sticks in the crack between the door and the hinge, making sure the half with the key is on the outside, and stomps back toward the door.
"I've got burgers and pie for dinner, so don't take too long in here or I'll eat them all myself, okay?"
"S-sure thing, Dean." He may or may not make a little whimper after that.
Dean walks into the hall and toes his shoes off, then slams the door back open to yell. "Hey! I didn't hear any courtesy flushing going on!"
Sam replies with the expected, "Fuck OFF, Dean!" and that's enough for Dean to slip back inside and slide to the corner where Sam won't see him if he looks under the stall. Which he does, because Sammy is a smart boy. Just not as smart as Dean.
He couldn't have choreographed what happens next any better: First, Sam stands up and kicks his pants out of the stall. Then he kicks the book and postcard in the same direction and sits back down, legs spread wide apart. And then… then he tries to tug the envelope through the crack in the door.
That would work if it was a letter, like he'd said, not a key, like it was. That critical difference in thickness means that it just wedges up against the door and won't go through. Sam yanks at it once, then again, then realizes what's going on with a curse.
And then Dean watches as the letter tilts down, Sam obviously intending for it to fall into his hand below the door. It almost does, but at the last second the corner bounces off Sam's stupidly large fingers, which sends the envelope skittering onto the main floor.
"FFFFFFFfucccckkkkkkk!" Sam growls, another half-sob at the end, sinking to his knees. Then the door creaks open and his brother literally crawls out, naked and flushed and sweaty, leaning forward to try to reach the envelope where it lies.
And now it's all clear.
Sam's naked… almost. There's some kind of weird metal belt running around his waist and between his legs, held in place by a padlock dangling off of the back. And now that he's out of the stall, Dean can hear the strange buzzing noise that is no longer being muffled.
You naughty boy, Dean thinks, blown away by the fact that his straight-laced, salad-eating, no-porn-watching-on the-laptop little brother has somehow locked himself into a chastity belt. A vibrating chastity belt.
Sam scrabbles for the envelope, feeling for the key as he rips it open with shaking hands and then sits up, kneeling as he twists back on himself trying to insert it into the padlock. Just then, the buzzing sound intensifies, and Dean watches as Sam helplessly fucks his hips forward, hands clinging to the bit of belt covering his ass. A second later, he bites his lip with a moan that's half-pleasure, half-pain and collapses forward onto his stomach, ass raised slightly in the air.
He's still trying to get the key in the lock, even as he's humping the ground uncontrollably, muttering fuck fuck fuck oh god oh god oh fuck. Then a particularly bad - or good, Dean supposes, depending on how you look at it - spasm wracks through him and he fumbles the key, which clatters to the floor behind his legs.
Dean's just watched his baby brother come, and hard, too, by the looks of it.
He decides to take pity on him then. "Looks like you got yourself in some kind of a predicament there, baby brother."
Sam starts - as much as it's possible for a man in the throes of being forced into an uncontrollable series of orgasms by what's probably a vibrator locked inside his ass can startle, anyway - and looks up, his face immediately flushing bright red.
"That lock seems like it's giving you a little trouble." He waggles his eyebrows at him as he walks closer. "Need a hand?"
Sam bites his lip as another particularly strong spasm works through him, and something inside him seems to give. He sags to the floor, burying his face in his arms so he doesn't have to look at Dean, and mutters a quiet, "Yes."
Deciding his brother has suffered enough, Dean walks over to him and fishes the key out from between his legs, close enough to feel the metal vibrating against the hairs of his arm. And holy shit, up close he can see that there are rivulets, literal rivulets, of glistening translucent cum and precum trailing down his legs. "How long have you been wearing this?"
"Th-three-and-a-half days," Sam's voice says, muffled by his arms. "Was supposed to be done yesterday, but someone-"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, and swats his brother's ass. "Next time tell me it's important 'stead of being a little shit about it."
Sam makes a halfhearted grab for the key, so Dean swats him again. "Stop it. I got this." He tries not to think about how his hand felt against Sam's ass.
Then he grabs the lock, tugging on it a little bit just to make Sam feel even more embarrassed, then slides the key in and clicks it open. "Maybe next time don't put it in such a stupid location?" He pops the padlock off entirely and watches as the metal belt clicks apart.
"-was trying to make it more challenging," Sam says, rolling over away from Dean and yanking at the metal bands, which separate and peel away from his body, giving Dean a hint of a heart-shaped plug. Then Sam's ass curls out of sight, replaced by the musky aroma of Sam's groin tinted with an acrid hint of urine, and - a cock cage with another padlock on it?
"Seriously?!"
Sam ignores him in favor of lifting up the padlock holding the cage in place and making gimme hands at Dean. "Let me see the key."
And normally he would, because fondling his brother's junk is his brother's job, but there's something charged in the air about this whole situation. If Dean's honest with himself, it's got him a little hot under the collar, and he has a suspicion it's doing something for Sam, too. So he bats Sam's hand away - "In for a penny, in for a pound, right?" - and wraps his own digits around the lock, excruciatingly aware of the way his fingertips brush against Sam's dick through the metal rings of the cage and come away sticky with incriminating white fluids.
There's only so long he can torture Sam, though, because three and a half days has gotta be hell. Instead, he unlocks the cage and steps back, pocketing the locks and the keys as his brother reaches down underneath him and turns the vibrator off with a sigh of relief.
"Uh, Dean-" Sam's cheeks are so red now it's a wonder there's blood left anywhere else in his body.
"Outside, yeah, I'm going. You-" he gestures vaguely in the direction of the stalls and the showers- "go do whatever it is you need to do. But we-" he gestures between the two of them- "are having words after this, capiche?"
He waits until the bathroom door is between them before he gives in to the insane urge to lick his fingers clean.
* * *
"Three and a half days?! What on earth were you thinking?"
Sam shrugs his shoulders sullenly, clearly wanting to be anywhere than having this discussion, but Dean's not having any of that. The burgers are gone and the leftover pie is in the fridge, which means it's time for one of the most awkward conversations in the history of awkward Winchester conversations.
"I was bored, Dean. I was thinking - thinking the last time was too easy, the lock was too easy to pick. There was no challenge, or danger."
Dean snorts. "It's your dick, Sammy. There's not supposed to be danger."
Sam rolls his eyes. "You play stranger-danger roulette at every bar we stop in on during a hunt. This is a lot safer than that."
"Safer?! That's what we're calling this? Your system's not meant to handle that kind of-" he waves his hand at his unrepentant, secretly kinky little brother- "all that for one day, let alone three."
"There are ways, Dean." Sam crosses his arms. "It's not like I didn't do the research first. I mean - do you really want me to go into the details? Because I can." He grins, that savage little bit of bitchery that would have made him a great lawyer suddenly springing to the offense. "As a matter of fact, I can give you excruciating levels of details about high colonics and how to flush out your system like you'd flush out a carburetor. You can learn more about the inner workings of my intestines than you'd ever like to know, or you can drop the subject right here and I will never mention it again."
Dean thinks about it for a moment. No, he does not really want that. He takes the out.
"Okay, fine, but even so - trusting the post office to get something here on time? Even you gotta admit that's a little dumb for you, especially in light of whatever the hell was going on at the end there."
Sam looks away because yeah, he's got no defense against that point. "It should have been fine, Dean. I'd calculated it all out - timing, risks, everything. If the worst happened, I thought. I could pick the lock, or worst, call Cas... or you."
"So what happened."
And just like that, Sam's on the defensive again. "The program for the- the device-"
"Butt plug," Dean interrupts with a grin. "If you can stick it up your ass, you can sure as hell use the right name for it."
A tiny part of him is wondering why he's taking so much enjoyment from watching his brother squirm and turn red. The larger part of him is too busy processing the fact that Sam hasn't walked away yet. He could have - in fact, probably should have. Dean would have bitched, but then he would have dropped the topic and that would ultimately have been that. That part is wondering whether maybe Sam is getting off a little on this conversation, too. There's no way in hell he's gonna get it up anytime soon, but he's still doing that telltale ants-in-his-pants squirm in his seat.
Sam glares at him. "The butt plug has a remote control," he says. "I programmed in a timer for it, but I must have dropped a bracket someplace. It was all evenly spaced out at the beginning, but after the second day, it started happening faster and faster. It was… difficult to concentrate on picking the lock after that."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, Dad never trained us on how to do it under those conditions." He sits back and flips the lid off a new beer. "So all that really does it for you?"
Sam shrugs helplessly, nursing at his own brew. "Yeah." He pauses, gaining confidence. "Yeah, it does. I like getting out of my head like that, giving up control, but-"
Dean gets it. "But it's a hell of a risk, putting yourself in the control of anyone else, knowing what we know."
He sips his beer instead of spitting out the words hanging on the edge of his tongue. If he says them, suggests what he's thinking, everything is going to change. He can feel it in his gut, the vertigo you get when you are standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down. But on the other hand, this is his little brother, the kid he went fists-first against the worst that heaven and hell had to threaten him with. It's his job to keep him safe, even if John had no idea that something like this was even a possibility.
In fact, there's only ever been one thing it wasn't his job to keep Sam safe from… and that was Dean.
He thinks about what it would feel like to add another key to the key chain in his pants, and finds that he doesn't just not mind the thought. He likes it. He wonders if the key will burn like a brand through his pocket, a constant reminder of what else he's keeping safe. Of what he has at his control.
Thinks about the first time Sam might come to him asking for the key.
Thinks about what it would feel like to tell him no.
And smiles.
"Okay," he says, leaning forward. "Here's how it's gonna go."
~End~