Fic: The Truth in His Bones
Title: The Truth in His Bones
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 5.3k
Warnings: Non-consensual everything, body modification, blood drinking, rough sex, violence
Community: SPN Masquerade
Summary: Sam doesn't use the knife in Soul Survivor. Dean does use the hammer. But Dean's not ready to let his brother go - not when he's got a much better idea for how to rebuild their relationship.
The blood pooling under Sam's head looks almost black in the eerie red light of the bunker's lockdown alarm.
"Well, shit." Things have gone a little further a little faster than he's intended to take them.
Dean lets the hammer clatter to the floor. "I barely clocked you, bro. Didn't even use the claw end. We're not done here yet, so wake up." He stomps down on his brother's right knee to get a reaction, enjoying the satisfying crack. "Don't be such a little bitch. I said-" he stomps down again- "get the fuck up."
Sam whimpers, but he doesn't wake up.
The pool of blood gets incrementally larger.
"This is all on you, y'know." Dean stares down at him resentfully. Hard to believe he'd ever gone to hell for the kid. What a waste. "I told you to let me go."
The pool spreads.
"I told you-" he's yelling now- "I was gonna rip your throat out with my teeth. I told you-" He paces back and forth, irrationally angry at Sam for making him do this. "None of this would have happened if you'd been a better brother. If you hadn't made me have to stuff an angel inside you just to keep you alive. If you hadn't made me-"
"D'n-" There's a wet gasp, and the figure below him stirs slightly, slurring out, "don't- don't-" One hand raises up limply and paws at his boot, leaving a red smear down the side of the boot as it flops down again right after.
Dean traces the path of Sam's fingers with his heel, contemplating how it would feel, all those delicate bones cracking underneath as he stomps downward…
And then he thinks about those long, delicate fingers, wrapped around his cock instead.
Well. That's new.
Dean squats down, rice paddy-style, and watches his brother's chest struggle to rise and fall.
I should kill him now, he thinks. And then that little perverse part of his brain adds, I should never let him go.
If he doesn't nip this thing in the bud, the kid'll be a buzzkill on his heels forever.
Already did the job halfway. Fuck it, just finish him.
He can always just leave him to die in the hallway, let some other unlucky bastard find his rotting corpse a year or two down the road. The place would make a great tomb.
(It could also make a great cage.)
He turns and stalks back toward the doors, but only gets a few yards away before some damn part of him protests.
Mine.
He walks back and looks down at Sam one more time. Killing him is kind of a waste, isn't it? The kid had made a hell of a demon, once upon a time. Seems a shame to ignore that potential.
Dean thinks about Sam with coal black eyes, fighting side-by-side with him, a pair of black-souled bastards who could go anywhere, do anything, and never have to worry about saving a goddamn thing.
Blood is trailing out away from the pool, little red rivulets reaching out towards Dean's boots the way the kid has always turned towards him, like a flower in the sun. No, scratch that, that's a terrible metaphor. He hates it.
He imagines Sam looking at him the way he'd looked at Ruby - desperate, half-mad, addicted, trapped. Helpless. Not a demon, that would give him a little too much power. But a thrall, an addict, like Ruby had made him…
Yeah, that gets the old blood pumping.
The kid moans in pain, a wet gurgling sound that shouldn't get Dean as hard as it does. His breaths are coming shallower now.
Shit or get off the pot. If he doesn't make his mind up soon, it's not gonna matter what he chooses.
Yeah. He's made up his mind - he's not gonna kill Sam. He's gonna show him once and all for all who's the boss. Teach him that his place is what it always should have been - by Dean's side, following Dean's lead… obeying Dean's orders.
He kneels down then, letting the green fade back into his eyes while his brother's blood seeps into the threads of his jeans, staining the knees a sticky purple.
"Sammy," he whispers, trying to remember the way he used to sound. "Hey, stay with me." He angles his voice a little lower, a little rougher, a little more desperate. "Oh, god, Sammy, look at me, it's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay."
"D'n?" Sam's head tilts in his direction, but his eyes are unfocused. "Izzat you?"
"Yeah," Dean lies, lips trembling to hide the smirk that wants to break free. "It's me. I'm back." He holds his fingers over Sam's throat, counting out his pulse even as he fights the urge to press down even harder. "Fuck, kid, you don't look so good." Did he sound smug there? Dammit. He tries again, adding a bit more sincerity. "It's gonna be okay. Cas'll be here any minute, he'll fix you right up, you'll see."
He cradles Sam's head in his hands, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into the fractures in the bone that he himself put there. "Don't leave me. I've got you."
"m tired, Dean, I can't, I can't see you. It hurts-" Sam whimpers and damn if that doesn't do things for him. He shifts his crotch to give his suddenly rock-hard erection room to breathe under the pretense of pulling Sam closer to him.
"I'm right here, Sammy." He makes a show of patting the kid down. "Oh man, this is - I'm not gonna lie to you, it's bad, but you- you've lived through worse."
Sam smiles lopsidedly, one half of his face not working quite right. "It's okay, D'n, if you're okay, I can- I knew you-"
"Sammy, no, fuck, I'm so, so goddamn sorry." Dean lays it on thick, choking out each word. "Why didn't you stop me? You had the knife. You could have just stabbed me. I woulda deserved it."
Sam's hand grasps weakly at Dean's. "'s always been you, Dean. I'd do anything-"
"Don't say that," Dean says, meaning exactly the opposite. Time to drive the sale home. "I'd do that too, you know. I'd give anything to make this better, Sam, you get that, right?"
Say it, he thinks. C'mon. Do it.
And so help him, the kid does.
"Me too, Dean. Y'r m' broth'r, an I, I love you." He fades out at the end, so Dean shakes him. Just a bit. "'d give anything to make it bett'r too."
"Heart, soul, the works, right?" His smile is entirely sincere this time, as Sam hands him everything he wants.
Sam smiles wanly, eyes staring off at nothing. "Anythin' n' everythin', Dean. You know that."
He can't keep the eagerness out of his voice, but the kid's too far gone right now to notice. "All right then. Your heart and soul… and I'll make you better… in every possible way."
And zing, there it is, just like Crowley had described it. The minute the erstwhile contract clicks into place, power flows into him, the power of having a soul - Sam's soul - tethered to him. "Souls are what let us work the magic," Crowley had said. "Make the lame walk, heal the dying, give John Travolta a career - it's like a little battery full of wonders… for ten years, anyway."
It comes with another surprise, the real surprise - even on the brink of death, Sam's soul isn't just a battery. It's a fucking nuclear powerhouse. No wonder Azazel had such a hard-on for him.
The green in Dean's eyes fades back to inky black pools. He kisses Sam's forehead, licking the blood off his lips afterwards. It tastes like fireworks under a summer moon. He's almost sorry to see the skin begin to knit back together - then again, it's not like he can't tap a vein now and then for old time's sake when he feels like it.
Sam's his now.
Sam's breathing loses its torturous gasping quality, evening out into deep sleep as his brain tissue reknits itself and his arteries sew themselves back together. His knee crunches and shifts as the broken fragments realign.
Dean thinks about the freedom those words give him - anything to make it better - and chuckles darkly. Just as well the kid never became a lawyer. Traumatic brain injury or no, he's given Dean a loophole big enough to drive a semi through.
"I'll show you 'better', kid." He smiles and pushes Sam deeper into sleep. "I'll make you so much better - for me - that you won't even recognize yourself."
If Sam wants to get the band back together? So be it. But this time, he's going to play the tune Dean wants, and nothing else. Dean will make sure Sam lives up to his potential - his real potential. He'll make sure nothing will ever come between them. He'll make Sam his, and his alone, and no one will be able to even look at his little brother without knowing that fact.
Dean isn't the man who once sold his soul for his family, not any longer. If Sam had looked at Dean during all that hogwash with the blood and the chanting and the trying to turn him back into a pathetic, guilt-ridden human… if he had looked at him, really looked at him, not that puppy dog half-look-glance-away bullshit - he wouldn't have recognized him in the slightest.
And when Dean's done with Sam, he won't recognize himself, either.
* * *
"I'm the king of hell, Dean. Why on earth am I lowering myself to help you move bodies again?"
"A body," Dean corrects, lifting Sam's knees higher.
"A body," Crowley agrees, "although one - unf - as large and - oop - heavy as your brother's really ought to count as three."
Sam shifts and whimpers a little in Crowley's arms, head lolling to one side, revealing the still-healing wound. "Nice job driving the point home, squirrel. Honestly, I didn't think you had it in you. But why not go for the home run? Why leave the job half-done?"
"I got my reasons."
"You'd bloody well better." Crowley shifts his arms to get a firmer handhold on the unconscious hunter as they near the corner of the hallway. "Thanks to you, I've got blood and brains smeared all over my suit, and it's going to totally put me off my lunch."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean scrambles as Crowley almost drops Sam as he turns the corner. "You're the King of Hell, you've got suits coming out of your ass and twice on Sundays. Besides, I said I'd make it worth your while, didn't I?"
The demon sighs. "It had better be. We could have already been on our second pitcher of mimosas with those blonde triplets by now."
"Trust me, it will be worth it. I just need to get Sam down to the room where we stashed you after the whole gate thing went south."
"Oh yes, jolly good." Crowley rolls his eyes. "What could possibly top carrying your mostly dead brother on a tour through my least-favorite residential experiences?"
"Shut up and help." Dean wonders if Crowley has always been this much of a little bitch. Suddenly his plans are sounding better and better.
Crowley sighs dramatically. "Fine, fine, as long as you aren't expecting me to heal Moose here. I can't do any of that without a soul to power it."
"I got that covered." For some reason Dean wants to keep that little detail to himself right now. "Don't worry, you're gonna love this. Half an hour from now, you're gonna be singing my praises."
* * *
The thing about angels, Dean thinks gleefully, is how damn predictable they are. When Crowley calls Castiel to come heal Sam, pretending to have just found him, the angel immediately rushes to his side. He's so busy fixing the last of Sam's injuries that he doesn’t even notice Dean moving in with the Men of Letters' binding manacles until it's too late and they're around his wrists.
And without his powers… it doesn't take him and Crowley very long to deck him out with a nice little crown of nails through his head.
Crowley looks over at Dean. "Well, you're right, this is exciting. My very own pet angel. I like the way you think."
Dean looks over at Castiel and his blanked-out zombie look. "He'll do whatever you want him to do as long as you've got those nails in place, right?"
Crowley nods. "Absolutely. What are you thinking of doing?"
Dean smirks evilly. "Cas carved a whole buncha Enochian onto Sam's and my ribs once to hide us from Heaven and Lucifer. Let's just say I've got plans for the other 190 or so of his bones. Feel like a little existential surgery?"
Crowley raises his eyebrows, glancing between Castiel and Sam. "You're right. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
* * *
Everything hurts.
That's the only thing Sam can process when he wakes up. Everything aches, like his bones have been pulled out of his body and scraped clean. Skin, muscles, tendons, bones - it feels like someone's been using him as a punching bag for days. It feels wrong. His head is pulsing with the worst migraine he's ever had, worse even than the ones he used to get with his visions. He opens his eyes, but the light hurts so much he immediately clenches them shut again, waiting for the nausea to pass.
The quick glimpse he did get looks like his room in the Bunker, or one of the bedrooms, anyway. He's never really bothered to add anything too personal to his room, a fact he regrets now. If it's not his room, it'll be harder to orient himself, but if it is… he reaches out a shaking hand, eyes still tightly closed, and fumbles for the nightstand, tracing his hand over it until he finds the lamp and turns it off.
The light behind his eyelids flickers and darkens, and he sighs in relief. But the feeling of fear, of un-rightness - that remains.
It takes half an hour or so before Sam's headache retreats to something close to manageable, before he can do more than lie perfectly still and wait for the pain to ebb so he can try to figure out what's happened to him.
He remembers the knife.
Panic washes over him - his brother, where is he? He was so close, so nearly cured-
He remembers the hammer.
He remembers-
He remembers-
No. He doesn't want to think about that.
He remembers that Dean was almost human again. He tries to cling onto that as his skull begins to pound again.
* * *
The next time Sam wakes, his head feels better, but that feeling of not-rightness is even more pervasive. His body feels unnatural, there's no other word for it. He's naked underneath the covers, and he doesn't know when that happened. His feet are stiff and he can't wiggle his toes. His hips ache, and so do his wrists. His head is too heavy, and his neck feels… different. Denser. He tries to stand up and nearly falls off the bed. His center of gravity is off, and there's a sheet or something still dangling off of him. His head - there's something-
"Shhh," Dean says from the doorway, all black-eyed and smug. "Look at you, Sammy, taking your very first steps all over again. Shh, don't rush it, you've got time."
Sam's stomach drops when he sees the streaks of dried blood spattered across Dean's arms and shirt. "Dean, what did you do?" It's almost a whisper. Almost a prayer. "Cas-"
"-ain't gonna help you," Dean says, "but there's a mirror over there so you can see for yourself." He nods towards the far corner.
It's a trap, Sam knows it is. He goes anyway, wobbly and woozy, but he gets there. Only a few seconds after, he's staggering back, recoiling from the mirror in horror.
"Dean - what did you do?" he repeats, uselessly. "What did you do to me?"
And then Dean's there, pressed up against Sam, hips grinding his hard cock up against Sam's ass, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other around his neck, propelling him back to the mirror.
"I improved you, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully, pulling Sam's hips back against his cock. "I made you all better."
And Sam knows. There's no coming back from this.
* * *
Sam was tall before - he's taller now, almost seven feet from hooves to horns.
The horns are a work of art, modelled after the big, curly kind you find on a ram. They curve up from his forehead and curl down to his jawline before twisting back upwards and out to the side. He grew them from the bones of Sam's skull itself, stained red with blood that darkens red-brown to complement his hair.
"Cas helped," Dean says, "with the horns, I mean. Couldn't have you anything but healthy while I did frickin' brain surgery, could I? They're hollow, so your neck doesn't snap, and blunt, so you don't accidentally hurt yourself, and check it-" he moves the hand on Sam's neck up and grips one of the horns. "-perfect handlebars, just like the joke goes!" He drops his voice into the low, flirty tones that have gotten him laid time and time again. "And don't think we won't be trying them out later."
Below the horns, his body looks relatively unaltered, in shape, anyway. Two arms, two hands, his genitals - it's all normal. There are tattoos across his shoulders and chest, down his neck, but he can't even think about those now because-
Sam's always had large feet. Size 13, shoes big as boats to fit them in. He doesn't need size 13 shoes anymore.
He doesn't even need shoes anymore.
Under his knees, his legs bend sharply back, the short brown hair that's always coated them turning thicker and darker and fuller until it culminates in hooves. Black, split-toe hooves, like he's a satyr, or… or a demon.
"Fun fact," Dean says, blithely unconcerned with the way Sam's trying not to throw up, "that second knee there is actually your heel. We just extended your foot downwards and used the ball of the foot to grow it into your hooves."
"Why-?" Sam croaks out, and Dean sneers.
"Why? Because I could, bitch… and because I got tired. Tired of lying to you and saying you weren't a monster when we both know better. Tired of having no one else see you for the freak you really are. Tired of having you run off to college, or Jessica, or Becky, Amelia, or whoever was going to come along next. Tired of having you not listening when I asked you to respect my fucking life choices."
It's true, if Sam had looked like this from the start, he never would have even thought about leaving Dean behind for college. It would have been inconceivable. Then again, if Sam had looked like this from the start, his father would have smothered him in his crib. There's no place for this Sam except right at Dean's side, and there never will be. Which is undoubtedly what he wanted.
Dean tightens his grip on Sam's waist, and Sam realizes the legs his brother has given him force his hips to tilt, pushing his ass back and up so anyone could-
"Oh and hey, check this out, too," Dean continues like Sam's not having a complete breakdown. He steps back and wraps his hand around - around something that sits right above Sam's tailbone and yanks at it.
Sam yelps. That hurt- what-
He has a tail.
It's exactly the kind of devil tail you see in the cartoons, long and slender and pointed at one end, although it doesn't look much like an arrow, it looks more like a - like a stylized cock.
"Like it?" Dean says. "I think it's pretty handy, myself. Just think of the possibilities… 'cause I know I did."
The tail is the final straw, the final cue for Sam's body and brain to check out because this is not happening. It isn't. It just isn't. His knees wobble one second, and then next he's slumping down to the ground. It's a strange position - the second bend in his leg means it's more like he's squatting on his hooves. It takes him a moment to figure out how to fold them back again underneath him until he's actually sitting on the ground.
"You should be thanking me," Dean says sharply, stepping back and frowning down at him, hands crossed disapprovingly over his chest.
And that's just-
"Thanking you?!" Sam bursts out incredulously. "For what? This?! Turning me into some kind of freak?!"
"Hey," Dean says mildly, "Crowley was all for turning your hands into hooves, too, but I held off until I could see whether you could behave." His voice grows harsher and louder with every word. "It's not too late for you to be walking around here like a fucking goat with no way to scratch your ass, so fucking thank me for my restraint."
Sam bites back his bile. "Thank you for not making me even more of a freak," he mutters sullenly.
"There," Dean pats him on the head. "Was that so hard?"
"Fuck you," Sam snarks back.
"Why don't you go take a closer look, Sammy? You're missing some of my best work."
Sam just glares at him. "No thanks, I've seen enough."
Dean's voice drops, low and dangerous, and a hint of sulfur permeates the room. "Did I say it was optional?" He mutters something in Enochian then, spitting each syllable out with bile, and Sam's brain barely has time to translate it as I command you before his legs, his body are moving of their own accord, unfolding and standing up and moving closer to the mirror with a grace Sam will never feel. This isn't him, this is Dean somehow -
He tries to twist his head to look at Dean, but he can't. His head, his eyes remain resolutely forward, staring into the mirror. From this close, barely a foot away, Sam can see all the little glittering adornments that Dean has added to his body. Rings glitter in both ears, in his eyebrow, from his septum, even two evenly spaced snakebite piercings on his lips. Chains hang down from the ones on his ears, jingling whenever he moves.
"Tongue, Sam," Dean says, and his body obediently sticks its tongue out, displaying the dual barbells pierced through it.
His nipples are pierced, too, he realizes, and his belly button as well. He doesn't dare look lower. Not yet.
Following his hairline, his face is framed by slender, light-and-dark colored tattoos that are surprisingly flattering. They swirl along his face in abstract tribal patterns that - no, he realizes, not patterns. Sigils.
He looks closer.
Sigils of ownership, sigils of possession, sigils of control. Scrawled aesthetically in Enochian, Theban, Aramaic, Latin - a declaration and challenge to all other supernatural creatures that might witness it. A death sentence to any hunters who do the same.
"Whaddaya think, Sam?" Dean says cheerfully. "You wanted my undivided attention, so I gave it to you. Aren't you happy now?"
The sigils continue down and around his neck, where they shape a virtual collar, inscribed in ink but a collar nonetheless, and then flow down over his shoulders and arms. The colorful, full sleeve design is full of more sigils, intermingled with thorns, roses, flames, occult symbols and fucking little pitchforks. Mocking images of his anti-possession tattoo, purposely marred with a slash through them. A pair of eyes, black as night but rimmed in green - Dean's eyes. The initials they'd carved in Baby's dash. A statement in Aramaic declaring him Azazel's successor, the Crown Prince of Hell. A statement in English declaring him Property of Dean Winchester. A beautiful cursive rendering across his shoulder blades in front that simply reads, Dean's Bitch.
His chest is mostly bare, undoubtedly for the aesthetics of it, but more designs adorn the sides of his torso. The further down the tattoos go, the closer they get to his groin, the bawdier they get. Instead of lofty declarations in Enochian, there are obscene phrases in English: Cocksucker. Brotherfucker. Demon whore. Dean's fuck toy. Cunt boy. Worthless slut. And so many more. He's pretty sure there are obscene phrases in Enochian and Latin sprinkled in there, too.
He risks a look at his cock, blanching when he sees what Dean has done. Above his dick, there's an arrow pointing down next to the word, Useless. Underneath it, his dick is crammed into a cock cage, the metal kind with rings, and every ring of the cage is held in place with a piercing. His balls hang fat and heavy beneath it, pushed down and separated by their own metal rings. There's a prince albert through the end of his cock, and the final indignity, the cherry on top, is the tattoos that run down along it. It's in Enochian, and he can't quite make it out through the rings -
His wrists move of their own accord, lifting the cage up so he can see the tattoos more clearly.
"It says, 'Sam Winchester is never touching this cock again'," Dean explains helpfully. "The sigil on the back is to keep it nice and soft, so you won't get hard and hurt yourself by straining the piercings. Nobody hurts you except me-" he lowers his voice like a lover's murmur- "and believe me, I will hurt you enough for the both of us."
Sam believes.
"You should be flattered," Dean says. "Crowley found a tattoo artist willing to sell his soul for fame and talent, just for you. After we closed the deal, he did all the aesthetic work for me, piercings and all - except for your wrists and ankles, of course. That was all me."
Wrists and ankles? Sam lifts his wrist up to examine it, relieved when his body doesn't fight him. That's when he notices the ring in it, running directly through his wrist itself. He lifts his other wrist up, and there's another ring through it. He looks down at his- at his hooves, and sees a ring running through the flesh on the back of each ankle, hanging down above the hoof.
Sam's stomach lurches. "Dean- what- this isn't you-"
"This is exactly me." Dean says angrily. "You were always supposed to be by my side, but you left. Over and over again, you left. But you're mine now, Sammy. Those sigils go straight down to the bone, and that means you'll do whatever I tell you to, when I tell you to do it, and I'll always know exactly where you are. Those rings on your arms and legs go right through the bones in your joints and they're fuckin' fused there, they ain't ever coming off, so when I chain you up, you'll stay exactly where I want you to be."
Sam's head swims. "How…"
The compulsion to look at the mirror finally stops, and Sam whirls around as best he can, to find Dean standing by the door. Then he steps to one side. In the hall beyond, Crowley waggles his fingers in a devilish hello. Next to him, Cas stands impassively, with a collar around his neck and a circlet of nails pounded into his forehead. His face is slack, his eyes unfocused.
"Yeah, that's right, Cas ain't coming to save you," Dean says. "Matter of fact, he's the guy who helped me do your bones and your horns. Turns out, he's downright useful once you get his head on straight. Man, can you imagine how the apocalypse woulda gone if we'd known this then?"
I'm sorry, Cas, Sam thinks. Whether the angel can hear him, he has no way to tell.
"Eyes on me," Dean commands, and Sam's gaze refocuses on his brother. His pants are unzipped now, his erect cock bobbing free in front of him. Above it, he's holding a knife in one hand, blade poised over the palm of his other.
"I've been giving you a little boost of juice every day to help move things along, but now that you're awake and everything's been tested, there's no reason to take it slow. Gonna get you back up to speed and watch those pretty hazel eyes turn black, and you won't ever use your powers against me, because you're mine."
He draws the blade across his palm, rich sulfuric blood pooling to the surface in its wake. Small droplets splatter to the floor as they drip off the blade.
Sam's mouth waters at the sight.
Enjoying the way Sam is staring at him, Dean slowly rubs the blood across the head and shaft of his cock, masturbating himself to even greater hardness.
"On your knees, Sammy. Crawl over here and lick up the mess I made. If you make it good, I might even give you a reward."
Sam can't tell anymore whether it's the sigils or just his own weakness at the sight and smell of Dean's blood that make his knees fold under him. Mesmerized, he crawls across the floor to Dean on his hands and knees, rings jingling as he goes. Behind Dean, he can see Castiel on his knees as well, as Crowley begins to fuck his face with a wicked, victorious grin.
When Sam reaches Dean, he crouches down low, kissing his brother's boots as if he had done so his entire life. Carefully, meticulously, he licks up every glistening drop from the floor, ignoring the squirming feeling that grows in his stomach from the act and Dean's resultant, "Good boy." Then, gingerly, worshipfully, he rises and takes his brother's glistening red cock into his mouth and begins to flick his tongue over the drops of blood, loving how they burn in his mouth.
"Burns, I know." Dean says consolingly. "But that's what you get for sanctifying your blood. You were all pure from the Trials when we started, but not for much longer, hey? When I get done with you, there won't be anything pure about you."
Dean grasps his horns then, using them like handlebars to push his cock even further into Sam's mouth, forcing him to swallow it all down to the root. The scent of Dean's musk, sulfuric and pungent and male, seeps into his nose, filling it until he can think of nothing other than the cock in his mouth and the (brother) (owner) (master) to whom it and he belongs.
Sam lets his mouth and throat go limp so Dean can fuck into him, enjoying the way his throat constricts and his eyes water every time his oxygen is cut off by his brother's cock. It feels good to be of use, feels right to be on his knees like this before his brother.
He's vaguely aware of his tail twisting and turning behind him, seeking some kind of-
"You're mine, Sammy. Always have been, always will be."
Like it's possessed, Sam's tail finds its target and sinks home, tickling his sphincter and then pushing through, fucking in and filling up Sam's ass more than he'd ever thought possible. Without his conscious intent, his feet shift further apart to give it easier entrance as it shifts in and out inside him without his control, insistently rubbing over his prostate.
"Can't even tell where your will ends and mine begins, can you?" Dean laughs, grinding his hips against Sam's face. "Just give in, Sammy. Let it happen."
Sam's caged cock twitches as precum begins to dribble out of it, and Dean's cock swells even larger in his mouth.
"I tried to let you go. I told you to let me go. But that's all behind us now. Now, you're mine for good. Forever."
As Dean's cum spurts into his mouth and throat, and Sam's soft cock begins to spurt cum from the way his tail is incessantly milking his prostate, Sam can't deny the truth of that anymore. He's Dean's. There's no escaping that fact now. His soul belongs not to God, or Lucifer, or even himself. It belongs to Dean, now, always, and forever.
And that fact is carved into his soul now…
Into his very bones.
~fin~