Fic: Most Floods Are Caused By Man
Title: Most Floods Are Caused By Man
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.6k
Warnings: Noncon
Community: Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest
Summary: Sam's in the panic room, and Dean's along for the ride. Or is he? DTs can be Hell.
When Sam wakes up, he's not on the floor, which is simultaneously a comfort (anything is better than hard, uncomforting concrete) and a pity (it was also cold, and his blood is still simmering with the fires of hell).
If he's not on the floor, where is he?
He's... on some kind of cot or table, it feels like, laid out on his back with his legs bent, feet flat on the cot, arms dangling over the sides, and his head turned to one side in some half-assed attempt to keep him from choking to death on his own vomit. He's probably being uncharitable, but from the taste in his mouth and the way his abdomen aches like it did after he got bronchitis when he was 8 and coughed for two weeks straight, he's pretty sure that's already happened a few times. The vomiting, that is. Not the death.
He can't remember it happening.
He also can't remember the next thing he notices either.
He's not wearing pants.
He's not naked, at least; he's still got a t-shirt on and... boxers, he thinks?
Except he doesn't wear boxers.
There's a faint memory he doesn't want to think about - pain scorching its way through him like lightning, muscles contracting, body contorting like plastic in an oven - crying, limbs flailing, stomach heaving, eyes rolled up. His bladder must have let go somewhere in the middle of it all.
The room doesn't smell like vomit or urine anymore, so it must have happened a while ago, and someone cleaned it up. Someone cleaned it up, and left him here, and it hasn't happened since.
When he goes to sit up, he notices the other other thing: He can't.
He tries to swing his legs off the cot, but can't, because something's tied them in place. He tries to sit up and see what it is, but he can't, because his arms aren't just dangling off the sides of the cot, they're tied there. And his torso is strapped down, too.
He flails against his bonds, trying to wrest his limbs free, but whoever tied him here knew what he was doing.
"We had to," Dean says suddenly from behind him. "The demon blood was flinging you all over the room, all Linda Blair style. And right after that, you had some kind of seizure and shit yourself like a back-alley junkie." He laughs bitterly. "Man, that's some great stuff, huh, totally worth dying for, right?"
He remembers Dean locking him in. Walking away. Leaving him there.
Dean's foot shoots out and kicks the cot, just above where Sam's ankle is strapped down, sending it and Sam skittering a few inches sideways. "Totally worth fucking away your soul for, because my brother, man, my brother makes all the best life choices."
"You were dead, Dean." Sam yanks at his wrists. "What were you expecting me to do?" The cuffs won't budge, the metal edges biting into his wrists.
"Let me go, Dean," he hates how weak his voice sounds now, how unsure of himself, with the blood seeping out of his system moment by moment. "I can kill Lilith, you know I can. Let me up." A cool breeze curls down and around his body and he's suddenly aware of just how undressed and exposed he is.
Dean walks out of Sam's immediate view. "Sure thing, bro. Just as soon as you're clean." There's a slow scrape of metal on cement as Dean pulls a folding chair in front of the cot and plops it down, facing backwards. "Then again, it's not like you can really get clean, can ya?"
He tosses the sentence out like a throw-away line. It lands like a hand grenade.
Dean straddles the chair, arms resting across the top of its back, chin resting on his arms. It's almost a familiar pose, except for the bitter sneer of contempt on his face, the hatred in his eyes.
That's okay. When this is all over, Sam's sure he'll hate himself, too. He steels himself and looks away, resolutely staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't deserve anything more, anyway, because-
"You're always gonna be unclean, Sam. Cas knows it, Zach knows it - hell, even Alistair told me that when I was downstairs. It's just like Azazel said - you got a little hell inside you. It's in your soul and it ain't ever coming out. Hell, I bet we could bleed you dry and you'd still have it in you. That's why you just keep. fucking. things. up." His voice drops to a low growl. "It's why you didn't save me."
"That's not true!" he yanks at his bonds again - tries to kick his feet our or flip on to his side, get off this goddamn cot, if Dean's here the door should be open, it's not too late - heart beating wildly as his brother sneers at him. But there's nowhere to go - the only thing that gives is the muscle in his left shoulder, which pulses with a sudden twang that Sam knows isn't good. "I did everything I could."
"Like hell you did." Dean laughs hollowly. "You wanted me to die."
When Dean lies, his eyes do this little dip to the left, just for a second. They don't dip this time. It's Sam that looks away.
"C'mon, Sam, the jig's up, admit it." Dean's arm shoots out, grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing his head back to look at him. "You wanted me to go to Hell. Wanted me sinful... unredeemed... corrupted..." His lips curls back in distaste. "You wanted me to be like you."
He drops Sam's chin and stands up, kicking his chair away. "You think I don't know why you started drinking that blood? Think I don't know you were planning on going downstairs to find me once you put Lilith down?" He stalks closer to whisper the final blasphemy in Sam's ear. "Did you really think Hell wouldn't tell me all the dirty, dirty things you wanted to do to me when you found me?"
Dean's breath is hot, moist against Sam's skin, and his tongue is honeyed sandpaper as it licks down his neck. He fits his teeth against his neck, canines pressed against Sam's jugular, and Sam's heart stops, breath caged in his chest. He didn't- He wouldn't-
Dean bites down, gently, and to his horror Sam's cock springs to attention, the boxers leaving nothing to the imagination.
"Well, wouldja look at that." Dean laughs meanly again. "You wanted to go darkside? Drink a little blood, kick a lotta ass, be the hero your big brother was too weak to be?" Inky darkness slinks over his eyes. "Kid, you don't know what dark means. But I'm gonna teach you."
Someplace outside of Sam's field of vision, there's the familiar snikt of Dean's favorite pocket knife opening.
"I'm gonna give you everything you've been begging for."
The blade presses against Sam's ankle and slides its sinuous way up his calf and thigh.
"I'm gonna cut these boxers right off you, and then I'm gonna fuck you dry, the way you've been begging me to do ever since I came back."
This isn't Dean, Sam thinks, it's not possible- but his traitorous cock isn't with the program. With every inch that Dean moves the blade north, his dick hardens even more, threatening to spring free before Dean can even enact his threat.
"And you know what then?" The blade slips under his boxer leg and travels up, up, up until it's nestled against the deep femoral vein, and for a wild moment, Sam wants him to do it.
He wonders how he will taste.
Dean wrenches the knife up and out, neatly bisecting Sam's underwear, which falls away in tatters. Dean picks up the remnants, balls them up, and shoves it in Sam's mouth.
"And then I'm gonna carve a couple new holes in you for me to fuck, one for every single time you opened up that bitch's veins, drank her down and lied to yourself that it was for me."
The knife clatters to the floor behind him.
"This is what you wanted, Sammy."
A zipper pulls down.
"Is it everything you dreamed of?"
Boots step coldly forward.
"Do you love me better now?"
The feel of denim pressing against his thighs wakes Sam out of his daze, and he flails again, looking for a weak point in his bonds but there's nothing except the feel of Dean's hands on Sam's thighs, pulling his ass flush against the edge of the cot, and pressing his knees far apart as they can go until his muscles are screaming and his arms are taut against the edge of their sockets, and then he presses in, and in, and in, and Sam screams and screams and screams.
* * *
The window in the panic room door slides open, and a pair of familiar green eyes peers in at Sam, flat and unmoving on the cot inside, eyes and lips screwed shut and a look of agony on his face. But his breath is coming regular and steady. He'll be okay, Dean tells himself. Whatever he's going through now, it can't be worse than what that demon bitch was putting him through.
He'll be okay.
~fin~
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.6k
Warnings: Noncon
Community: Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest
Summary: Sam's in the panic room, and Dean's along for the ride. Or is he? DTs can be Hell.
When Sam wakes up, he's not on the floor, which is simultaneously a comfort (anything is better than hard, uncomforting concrete) and a pity (it was also cold, and his blood is still simmering with the fires of hell).
If he's not on the floor, where is he?
He's... on some kind of cot or table, it feels like, laid out on his back with his legs bent, feet flat on the cot, arms dangling over the sides, and his head turned to one side in some half-assed attempt to keep him from choking to death on his own vomit. He's probably being uncharitable, but from the taste in his mouth and the way his abdomen aches like it did after he got bronchitis when he was 8 and coughed for two weeks straight, he's pretty sure that's already happened a few times. The vomiting, that is. Not the death.
He can't remember it happening.
He also can't remember the next thing he notices either.
He's not wearing pants.
He's not naked, at least; he's still got a t-shirt on and... boxers, he thinks?
Except he doesn't wear boxers.
There's a faint memory he doesn't want to think about - pain scorching its way through him like lightning, muscles contracting, body contorting like plastic in an oven - crying, limbs flailing, stomach heaving, eyes rolled up. His bladder must have let go somewhere in the middle of it all.
The room doesn't smell like vomit or urine anymore, so it must have happened a while ago, and someone cleaned it up. Someone cleaned it up, and left him here, and it hasn't happened since.
When he goes to sit up, he notices the other other thing: He can't.
He tries to swing his legs off the cot, but can't, because something's tied them in place. He tries to sit up and see what it is, but he can't, because his arms aren't just dangling off the sides of the cot, they're tied there. And his torso is strapped down, too.
He flails against his bonds, trying to wrest his limbs free, but whoever tied him here knew what he was doing.
"We had to," Dean says suddenly from behind him. "The demon blood was flinging you all over the room, all Linda Blair style. And right after that, you had some kind of seizure and shit yourself like a back-alley junkie." He laughs bitterly. "Man, that's some great stuff, huh, totally worth dying for, right?"
He remembers Dean locking him in. Walking away. Leaving him there.
Dean's foot shoots out and kicks the cot, just above where Sam's ankle is strapped down, sending it and Sam skittering a few inches sideways. "Totally worth fucking away your soul for, because my brother, man, my brother makes all the best life choices."
"You were dead, Dean." Sam yanks at his wrists. "What were you expecting me to do?" The cuffs won't budge, the metal edges biting into his wrists.
"Let me go, Dean," he hates how weak his voice sounds now, how unsure of himself, with the blood seeping out of his system moment by moment. "I can kill Lilith, you know I can. Let me up." A cool breeze curls down and around his body and he's suddenly aware of just how undressed and exposed he is.
Dean walks out of Sam's immediate view. "Sure thing, bro. Just as soon as you're clean." There's a slow scrape of metal on cement as Dean pulls a folding chair in front of the cot and plops it down, facing backwards. "Then again, it's not like you can really get clean, can ya?"
He tosses the sentence out like a throw-away line. It lands like a hand grenade.
Dean straddles the chair, arms resting across the top of its back, chin resting on his arms. It's almost a familiar pose, except for the bitter sneer of contempt on his face, the hatred in his eyes.
That's okay. When this is all over, Sam's sure he'll hate himself, too. He steels himself and looks away, resolutely staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't deserve anything more, anyway, because-
"You're always gonna be unclean, Sam. Cas knows it, Zach knows it - hell, even Alistair told me that when I was downstairs. It's just like Azazel said - you got a little hell inside you. It's in your soul and it ain't ever coming out. Hell, I bet we could bleed you dry and you'd still have it in you. That's why you just keep. fucking. things. up." His voice drops to a low growl. "It's why you didn't save me."
"That's not true!" he yanks at his bonds again - tries to kick his feet our or flip on to his side, get off this goddamn cot, if Dean's here the door should be open, it's not too late - heart beating wildly as his brother sneers at him. But there's nowhere to go - the only thing that gives is the muscle in his left shoulder, which pulses with a sudden twang that Sam knows isn't good. "I did everything I could."
"Like hell you did." Dean laughs hollowly. "You wanted me to die."
When Dean lies, his eyes do this little dip to the left, just for a second. They don't dip this time. It's Sam that looks away.
"C'mon, Sam, the jig's up, admit it." Dean's arm shoots out, grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing his head back to look at him. "You wanted me to go to Hell. Wanted me sinful... unredeemed... corrupted..." His lips curls back in distaste. "You wanted me to be like you."
He drops Sam's chin and stands up, kicking his chair away. "You think I don't know why you started drinking that blood? Think I don't know you were planning on going downstairs to find me once you put Lilith down?" He stalks closer to whisper the final blasphemy in Sam's ear. "Did you really think Hell wouldn't tell me all the dirty, dirty things you wanted to do to me when you found me?"
Dean's breath is hot, moist against Sam's skin, and his tongue is honeyed sandpaper as it licks down his neck. He fits his teeth against his neck, canines pressed against Sam's jugular, and Sam's heart stops, breath caged in his chest. He didn't- He wouldn't-
Dean bites down, gently, and to his horror Sam's cock springs to attention, the boxers leaving nothing to the imagination.
"Well, wouldja look at that." Dean laughs meanly again. "You wanted to go darkside? Drink a little blood, kick a lotta ass, be the hero your big brother was too weak to be?" Inky darkness slinks over his eyes. "Kid, you don't know what dark means. But I'm gonna teach you."
Someplace outside of Sam's field of vision, there's the familiar snikt of Dean's favorite pocket knife opening.
"I'm gonna give you everything you've been begging for."
The blade presses against Sam's ankle and slides its sinuous way up his calf and thigh.
"I'm gonna cut these boxers right off you, and then I'm gonna fuck you dry, the way you've been begging me to do ever since I came back."
This isn't Dean, Sam thinks, it's not possible- but his traitorous cock isn't with the program. With every inch that Dean moves the blade north, his dick hardens even more, threatening to spring free before Dean can even enact his threat.
"And you know what then?" The blade slips under his boxer leg and travels up, up, up until it's nestled against the deep femoral vein, and for a wild moment, Sam wants him to do it.
He wonders how he will taste.
Dean wrenches the knife up and out, neatly bisecting Sam's underwear, which falls away in tatters. Dean picks up the remnants, balls them up, and shoves it in Sam's mouth.
"And then I'm gonna carve a couple new holes in you for me to fuck, one for every single time you opened up that bitch's veins, drank her down and lied to yourself that it was for me."
The knife clatters to the floor behind him.
"This is what you wanted, Sammy."
A zipper pulls down.
"Is it everything you dreamed of?"
Boots step coldly forward.
"Do you love me better now?"
The feel of denim pressing against his thighs wakes Sam out of his daze, and he flails again, looking for a weak point in his bonds but there's nothing except the feel of Dean's hands on Sam's thighs, pulling his ass flush against the edge of the cot, and pressing his knees far apart as they can go until his muscles are screaming and his arms are taut against the edge of their sockets, and then he presses in, and in, and in, and Sam screams and screams and screams.
* * *
The window in the panic room door slides open, and a pair of familiar green eyes peers in at Sam, flat and unmoving on the cot inside, eyes and lips screwed shut and a look of agony on his face. But his breath is coming regular and steady. He'll be okay, Dean tells himself. Whatever he's going through now, it can't be worse than what that demon bitch was putting him through.
He'll be okay.
~fin~