Fic: Cacodemon

[firesign10]

Cacodemon

cacodemon
/ˌkækəˈdiːmən/
noun 
1. an evil spirit or devil
Word Origin
C16: from Greek kakodaimōn evil genius

Dean preens at his reflection in the motel mirror. He hitches his utility belt up; handcuffs, grappling hooks, and other useful tools are attached and at the ready. He takes a deep breath, glancing down the expanse of black bodysuit to the bright yellow symbol emblazoned across his chest.

He's Batman.

It's Halloween, and Sam and Dean are undercover--in costume--patrolling the streets of Sunnydale, California. While things that go bump in the night actually avoid Halloween (too much hype and attention), there are plenty of human baddies around, and they love Halloween's atmosphere. The Winchesters have come to Sunnydale--yes, the Sunnydale, home of the Razorbacks and the Slayer--to check out a report of possible black-magic-related hijinks. Dean isn't sure why the Slayer and her back-up can't handle it, but once Sam caught the case, he got a hair up his ass about school kids being in danger and insisted they check it out. Dean figures it can't hurt to personally protect any cheerleaders who just happened to be over eighteen.

Once they'd arrived in town, Dean had decreed that they needed to be in costume themselves. What better way to blend in amidst the trick-or-treaters and partiers? Sam was unable to refute his logic, despite his stated desire to do so. Dean was hugely pleased at scoring a fully-accessorized Dark Knight costume, and highly amused at what he'd found for Sam to wear. Backstage Costumes, where he'd found the Batman outfit, was out of anything in Sam's sasquatch size, so he had to go across town to check out a second store. Happily, Ethan's Costume Shop had a couple of selections for ginormous men, and Dean had spent several enjoyable minutes deciding between the nefarious pirate Blackbeard (complete with stuffed parrot on the shoulder) and an eighteenth century nobleman's outfit of brocade jacket, breeches, and big white wig.

In the end, Dean had selected the nobleman, deciding that the pirate was too macho for his princess of a brother. When he presented it to Sam, his brother had rewarded him with a truly spectacular bitch-face, with extra sarcasm on the eye-roll.

Now Sam is about to dress, and Dean thinks he's gonna pee himself from hilarity. He can't wait to see this.

[expand]"Don't forget the wig, Sammy! You gotta have the wig!" He cackles with laughter as Sam stalks into the bathroom, frilly shirt and breeches in hand.

When he comes out, dressed and ready to don the gold and blue brocade jacket, Dean's laughter dries up. He spends a lot of energy concealing his desire for his brother; he knows how unnatural his thoughts are. Only now the costume's goofy black breeches show every curve of Sam's muscular calves and thighs, as well as emphasizing how long his legs are. They mold to his crotch, revealing his impressive bulge. His shoulders look ridiculously wide under the cutaway jacket, and the rich blue and gold colors set off Sam's hazel eyes perfectly. Dean's mouth is dry as he regards the sex-on-legs that is forbidden fruit--his little brother. He prays that his utility belt's dangling accoutrements mask his own growing bulge, since Batman's black tights hide nothing.

Sam ignores him as he settles the white curled wig on his head. He looks . . . royal. Majestic. Edible.

"There. Done. And if you take one goddamn picture of me, I will end you," Sam growls. Dean thinks that low, commanding voice should not take him from half-chub to rock-hard. Fortunately, Sam turns on his heel immediately, stowing a sheathed knife up his sleeve and his gun in the back of his breeches, where it's hidden by his long coat, prior to their exit.

They head out the door, ready to begin a sweep of the main business area of town. Dean tosses a wireless earpiece to Sam as he fastens one in his own ear. "Here, Sammy, no one will see this in that hair. I don't want us to lose touch at all, okay? Who knows what freaky shit is going on?"

Sam nods--he knows that's how bad situations happen--and he attaches the earpiece to his ear. "Fine." He strides out the door as Dean muffles his giggles, then hastens after him.

The patrol is . . . boring. Dean's too jaded to truly appreciate a town full of people in fancy dress, although the little kids are cute. He sees a pretty little princess and a sweet ballet dancer scamper by, and some toddlers in adorable plushy animal suits. Little superheroes abound, mixed in with football players and ghosts and the odd ninja. He hides his smiles at their cavorting. And, of course, there are plenty of hot adults out as well. Dean appreciates the trend toward slutty costumes--pretty much anything that is tight, skimpy, or both is a winner in his book.

There's nothing supernatural happening, though, no problems like what they were anticipating. A couple of hours of pounding the pavement in a leisurely, non-threatening manner, and Dean is ready to grab some wings and a pizza, a cold six-pack, and head back to the motel room to watch some bad horror flicks.

He and Sam have kept a laconic dialogue up as they patrolled, so he clicks his earpiece on and says, "Hey, Sam, I think we can call this a wash. I'll grab some food and you get the beer--meetcha back at the motel room, okay?" He's already turning his steps toward the take-out joint they passed earlier, only half-waiting for Sam's response.

It doesn't come. Dean goes several paces before that really registers with him. "Sam?" He stops, tapping the earpiece. "Yo, Sam, you there?"

Now the unmistakable thrill of alarm makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He taps the earpiece again.

"Sam? Sammy?"

"Hello." Sam's voice is deep and calm, immediately reassuring Dean.

"Sammy! You doofus! Don't do that again! Jesus Christ, I thought something was wrong." Dean breathes deep with relief. "Something going on at your end?"

A slight pause, then Sam replies, "Yes. Come to me."

Dean starts walking fast. "Okay, using your GPS location. Be right there!" His fear is slightly allayed by hearing Sam's voice, but he knows well that a single fact might not tell the whole story.

He's there in a few minutes, looking around for Sam. It's a deserted street here. All the trick-or-treaters are a good couple of blocks away. Sam steps out from the shadows of an empty store, giving Dean a bit of a start. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"Sam! Dude, what's going on? What did you find?" He hurries to Sam's side. Sam seems to be standing stiffly, so Dean worries that he's injured himself. "You okay? Are you hurt?" He starts to pat Sam down, checking for wounds.

Suddenly he's whirled around, spinning dizzily as he's thrust through the doorway and propelled down the empty sales floor. With a vigorous push, he's plopped onto a wooden chair. His head reels as Sam's hands keep him pinned there.

He glares at his brother. "Sam! What the fuck, man! What the hell are you doing?"

Sam coolly looks Dean over, giving Dean a very uncomfortable feeling. Was that . . . lust in his eyes? He shifts uncomfortably on his chair.

"I'm doing whatever I want. I don't know who this 'Sam' is, but I'm quite grateful to him for bringing you to me. You are a very attractive man, even in that outlandish garb. It does at least showcase many fine attributes of your form." Sam keeps his left hand anchored on Dean's shoulder, while his right skims over the exposed area of Dean's face.

"Sam, I don't know what you're playing at, but knock it off. We're not doing Halloween pranks right now!" Dean strives to inject as much authority as possible into his voice, but it's all a front. Sam is freaking him the hell out, with the creepy touching and pushing around. "This is no time for fooling around!" He starts to get up, pushing back against Sam's arm.

Sam slams him back down with a force that takes Dean's breath away. His butt is momentarily numbed, and his heart pounds in shock. Shit! Is he possessed? Adrenaline floods his body and he feels hyper-alert.

"It's a perfect time for 'fooling around'!" Sam trails a finger under Dean's Batman hood as he keeps an iron hand around Dean's throat. He can breathe, but he can feel those fingers pressing on his trachea. It only takes twenty pounds of pressure to collapse a man's windpipe, he remembers John telling them. "Who is this Sam? Is he your lover? Lucky bastard! Tell me what he means to you." He peels the hood off and murmurs approvingly. "Beautiful!" His eyes gleam appreciatively, but Dean sees something cold behind them. For the first time, he feels a chill of real fear.

"What? Lover? No! Sam--you--you're my brother!" Dean's brain scrambles to figure out what the hell is going on. Why doesn't Sam remember they're brothers? Amnesia? Possession? More info, he thinks. Come on, Dean, focus. Find out more. Work the case. He challenges, "Who are you, then, if you aren't my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

"Brother!" Sam laughs, a light-hearted laugh that sounds totally out of place in this dark, empty space. "Oh, this is delightful! I could not have hoped to stumble on such iniquity! This indeed will be something to savor!" He laughs again, and Dean doesn't miss the cruel edge to it now. It's not a sound he's ever heard from Sam before, and it unnerves the hell out of him. Sam drags his hands over Dean's chest and arms as he continues, "I am not unknown in my homeland of France. My name is François, but perhaps you might be more familiar with my title, the Marquis de Sade."

Dean's mind reels. What? The Marquis de Sade? What? How? And where's Sam--is he still inside there? But even more alarming are his brother's next words. "We're going to have so much fun! Not just playing with you, my beautiful toy, but truly debauching you, perverting your innocent brotherly affections unto a whole new level of depravity! Showing you a darker side you could not have imagined you possess, and making you revel in it! But first--" A piece of rope appears in his hands, and he swiftly ties Dean's hands behind him, then fastening the rope to the chair back as well.

"Sam! Come on, it's me, Dean! Snap out of it!" Now Dean is pissed at himself. What was he doing, just sitting there, listening to the ravings of a madman and a satyr? He should have fought while he had the chance and asked questions later, crushed windpipe or not. Just because these words are coming out of his brother's mouth is no reason to drop his guard. Mentally kicking himself, he grits his teeth before biting out, "Enough with the incest crap! What the hell are you doing? Untie me, you asshole!" He tests the strength of his bonds as he fights to ignore the shiver of fear underlying his anger. If this really is the Marquis de Sade, and given their track record of the bizarre he has no reason to think otherwise, then this evening just got incredibly dangerous.

Sam leans down and rubs his smooth cheek against Dean's. He whispers lasciviously into Dean's ear, "I don't know this Sam, your brother. There is only me, François, and you, Dean, and we're going to play. I haven't played with anyone in a long, long time, and you--you are so beautiful. I have so much to show you, about love, about yourself." He licks Dean's ear before he straightens up, pursing his lips as he studies Dean. "What shall we do first? It's so difficult to choose with such a lovely toy. Pleasure first? Or pain?"

Dean's not exactly sure what kind of "playing" this creepy dude has in mind, but he doesn't think it's going to go well for him. Panic is nibbling at the edges of his mind, and he shoves it aside as best he can, working to stay present and focused. Whoever this asshole thinks he is, it's clear he isn't Sam Winchester. There wouldn't be any fucking ear-licking going on with his brother. Sam would be more likely to accuse Dean of poor ear-hygiene than lick it. Dean's no slouch with history, what with all the research hours he's logged, and he knows damn well what the Marquis de Sade is famous for. "Sadism" wasn't named for this mook by accident. And right now, "François" is holding all the cards.

This is not how Dean likes things to go. And no one has his back. For a split second, he wishes he had contacted the Slayer when they got into town after all.

Fuck.

Dean kicks hard at Sam, hoping to take out his knee. He doesn't want to hurt his brother, but there is some very bad mojo going on here, and knees can be fixed. His leg is too constrained by his restraints, so his kick just glances off Sam's rock-hard thigh, and in return he's dealt a mighty blow to his cheek, whipping his head to the side and rocking his chair. There's a coppery taste in his mouth, and his tongue finds the cut. His head reels for a moment, the balance center in his brain struggling to reset after such a spinning blow. Fuck, Sam's strong. Dean's not usually on the receiving end of it. He sure as hell can't afford to overlook it again. He suddenly feels incredibly powerless.

"Christo!" he spits out.

Sam--François-- laughs evilly again. "You're very amusing! However." He gets close to Dean again, staring him in the eyes. The coldness in there shocks Dean--it's like looking into a shark's eyes. "If you do something that foolish again, I will break you." He grips one hand around Dean's neck again and squeezes, making him gasp and choke. "This body is enormously powerful, and I don't doubt it can leave you in pieces. I'd prefer to have you whole for our games, but it isn't strictly necessary. Damaged bodies can still yield great pleasure. Even dead ones can, despite the lack of warmth." He releases Dean's neck only to capture his mouth in a savage kiss, bruising his mouth as he plunders it.

Despite Dean's efforts to resist it, he's often felt something . . . unbrotherly toward Sam. He's fought off unhealthy thoughts and desires about his brother for a long time, but he's never dreamed of acting on it. Sometimes Sam has given him a look, a passing expression, that's made him wonder about Sam's own feelings, but he's never asked and Sam's never told. Instead, they've buried themselves instead in hunts and research and the family business. Dean fucks any female who catches his eye, has an active porn hobby, and takes a lot of cold showers. On the rare night he does spend completely alone, he allows himself to dream in the dark about being with Sam, about them sharing what little they haven't already shared in their intense bond of brothers and hunters. Sharing bodies, mouths, souls. And when the sun comes up and his boxers are stiff, he shakes it off and returns to life as he knows it.

While this kiss is powerful enough to stir that unspoken desire in Dean, it's mitigated by the knowledge that Sam is not driving. This isn't his brother, but something hollow and vile wearing his meatsuit. Juggling the knowledge that this is the sensation he craves versus it being a complete mockery makes his head spin dizzily and his stomach roil.

"Ah, you like that," François says with a flinty smile. "Interesting. Do you desire your brother, Dean? Do you crave his body? Perhaps you are already more twisted than I realized!" He chuckles darkly as he rubs a hand over Dean's crotch, making him gasp.

Sammy's hand, Sammy's fingers on me . . . no, not him! It's not him! He wills his body not to respond, letting images of dead monsters and gore flash through his head.

"Fuck you!" he spits, glaring at the Marquis. There ya go, use the anger, his brain says, laboring to stay rational while trying to cope with this bizarre situation. You're no pushover! You're Dean Winchester!

"No, darling, fuck you. Now, in fact." François sneers at him. "It's not every day a man gets to fuck his brother, after all. My manhood swells as we speak." He squeezes himself in his breeches as he leers at Dean, bucking his hips suggestively.

Dean catches his breath in shock. He really hadn't thought it would go there. Apparently, he was wrong. He tries to wrench himself away, fall over to the side even, but he can't get enough force. His mind scrabbles to hide from his impending rape, but there's nowhere for it to go. Dean is trapped, and he knows that he will have to endure the ruthless actions of his brother's body. He doesn't know if stoicism will be enough.

No, no, please . . . not this, not Sammy . . .

François pulls the short folding knife from Dean's utility belt and cuts the rope that anchors him to the wooden chair, leaving his hands still bound behind him. He hoists Dean painfully up by his arms and drags him a few steps over to a battered couch. He drops Dean over it like dead weight, face down, and neatly slits the black tights from front to back, baring his junk and hole.

There goes my deposit, Dean thinks dazedly. François pulls the sides of the slit apart, tearing the fabric further as he exposes more of Dean's ass. Dean feels the cool evening air on his skin. It is not refreshing, chilling the sweat popping out on his body.

This isn't real... His mind refuses to accept what's happening. For a few moments, everything feels very dream-like, like he's watching a movie. It isn't Dean draped over a piece of furniture, ass bared and waiting to be breached; he's in the Impala, AC/DC blasting, Sam by his side and bitching at his choice of music...

The reverie is broken as his face bumps against the musty upholstery of the couch. Sam's hands--Jesus, he never realized how huge they were--are groping his cheeks, squeezing and pinching the soft flesh. A finger stabs at his hole, and he bites his lip not to cry out. He hears a rustling behind him--François must be opening his breeches. Dean closes his eyes, trying to find that soothing trance again, anything not to be here. The finger probes again, the dry friction making Dean gasp. This is gonna hurt like a bitch... Dean's not unfamiliar with anal sex, but it's always been with prep and lube. Not in some derelict building with a crazy French guy who gets off on pain...

Something cool and slippery is smeared in the crack of his ass. He starts, surprised.

François says matter-of-factly, "I do not wish to overly damage you now and thus shorten our playtime. And sad experience has taught me that blood, while quite exciting, makes a very poor lubricant. I found a tin with some type of grease in it. It should suffice." François slaps his ass, alternating sharp smacks with merciless kneading, stopping occasionally to slide a finger or two into Dean's hole. Within half a dozen heavy blows on each side, Dean's buttocks sting and smart, but the strikes go on for far longer than that. By the time François is ready to move on to the main event, Dean's face is sweaty and he's puffing; the pain tells him how red his cheeks must be. François rubs them appreciatively, the friction of his hands aggravating it even more.

François leans over and grabs Dean's hair, twisting his head back as he growls, "Now, pretty, you are ready for me! Your backside is a lovely crimson, and I can't wait to plunge into you!" He lets Dean's head flop back down as he stands back up.

A cock probes at his hole--it feels enormous. Dean tries to breathe deeply, knowing that tension will only make it hurt more, but it's difficult with his face rubbing into the must and dust of the couch, much less the pain from the brutal spanking. It's impossible not to be tense; this creature isn't Sam, this is not happening of his own free will. It's like his muscles themselves are trying to repel the attack. The intruder pokes, jabs, and then breeches him, pushing hard into the tight opening. He gasps, tears springing to his eyes. Jesus! So fucking big! Oh, shit! He seizes up, trying to buck off his invader, and François cuffs the side of his head hard as he snarls a curse.

"Fight all you want, I will have you! Your struggles only add to my pleasure!" He cackles, and it is not a sane sound.

François grunts as he keeps pushing in, rubbing Dean's inflamed skin as he sinks inside. Dean clenches his jaw to keep a cry in--he doesn't want to give his rapist the satisfaction of a reaction. François is unfazed by his victim's silence, though, as he pushes and rubs, muttering little nonsense words as he drives ever deeper in Dean. His cock fills every space inside Dean until he feels like he can't even breathe. The fuzzy bulges of Sam's balls push against his ass as François seats himself all the way. Dean chokes as he tries to adjust to the massive intrusion, but already François is pulling halfway out and then slamming back in to the hilt. He yelps in startled pain, which just makes François laugh and do it again.

"Oh, you are so tight! I haven't fucked someone so delicious in a very long time! This will be a spectacular ride!" He leans over, a heavy weight covering Dean's back as he hisses softly into his ear. The lace and brocade of his clothing chafes Dean's back as their bodies move. "And what added pleasure it is that you know your brother is riding you, fucking you; that you not only are submitting to me, but also perverting your sacred fraternal love to the most depraved level possible!" He bucks forcefully into Dean a couple of times, his weight crushing Dean, before adding maliciously, "And you--you will enjoy it and then despise yourself!" François laughs and straightens up, running his nails down Dean's back, digging them in just enough to make Dean feel the long scratches. "Oh, I could not have chosen a better toy!" He croons wordlessly as he slaps Dean's rump. Tears leak from Dean's eyes, slipping out despite his fight against them.

He fucks Dean hard and fast, his hips battering Dean's ass, slamming against his balls. Sam's hands grip his hips so hard, Dean knows there will be bruises marking him for days. François gasps and grunts in wanton pleasure, occasionally spanking Dean's thighs and ass smartly as he thrusts. Dean jounces against the couch with each push, helpless under the onslaught, his bound hands leaving him unable to brace himself. Just trying to breathe is an effort, as his nose and mouth bounce roughly against the coarse fabric. The interrupted airflow just adds to the surreal feeling, the dream-like state he finds himself in. This is really happening. He's inside me, fucking me. Raping me. Somewhere inside him is a fiery ball of rage, but he can't really get to it. He can only hang there over the couch back and try to survive.

François grabs Dean's leg and hoists it up, propping his knee against the ridge of the couch back. Dean feels split open now, as François fucks in even deeper. Then Dean experiences a fresh wash of horror at feeling his cock harden. With the new angle, François is now nailing his prostate, and Dean's body automatically responds to the vigorous stimulation. He's angry at responding by reflex, feeling betrayed by his own body; his physical reaction is the polar opposite of his mental state. The mechanical nature of his arousal repels him, angering him at how it's being forced out of him. At the same time, his mind tries to grapple with the jarring reality that whoever this being is, it's wearing Sam's face, using Sam's body. In completely different--and consensual--circumstances, he could have enjoyed giving himself to Sam, sharing himself physically. It's not like he hasn't thought about it. He's just been afraid to even remotely act on it, terrified to cross that taboo line. As it's happening now, an alien force is controlling Sam--it's nothing but a mockery and a violation. A corruption of something Dean held as sacred and pure.

It's a palpable loss of something deep in his core. And something he's never going to be able to forget.

Dean can't help letting out a moan of grief as he continues to be slammed into the couch, his hips banging against the wooden frame; grief for the crude, painful theft of what he would have gladly given to the real Sam, grief that this may be all he ever knows, grief that this repugnant act will stay with him forever.

François laughs when he hears Dean moan. His words are choppy, as his breath huffs with each buck of his hips. "Does this not feel blissful? Oh, this Sam is a splendid fellow! What a magnificent prick! Lie there and rejoice that it is your loving brother who is fucking you so soundly! Understand that exploring every possible depravity is how we discover our true selves! What is your true self, Dean? I think you want to be used and fucked. A whore, spreading your legs on command. A slut for your brother."

Dean tries not to listen to the Marquis' honeyed venom as his body is battered. He thinks instead about how this is going to completely fuck Sam up when it's over; when the Marquis is gone and Sam is returned to himself, his brother is going to be devastated. (He resolutely refuses to contemplate how that is even going to happen for now. One ordeal at a time is all he can handle.) Dean winces at the thought of Sam's revulsion as his body flinches under the hammering of Sam's cock. He's convinced that when this evil son-of-a-bitch somehow leaves, Sam will remain, but a Sam who will be filled with sorrow and self-loathing. He's going to be as damaged as Dean.

François yells and squeezes Dean's hips even harder, and Dean can feel his cock pulsing inside him, hot fluid filling him. He's gaspingly relieved that it's finally over. Hatefully, his cock still bobs hard and unsatisfied between his legs, stimulated from the merciless hammering on his prostate. The conflict of his clamoring body and horrified mind threatens to overcome him--it's too much. How can he be aroused by this abhorrent, unwanted sex? Why can't he just shut down this mechanical reaction? What kind of pervert is he, after all, getting hard from being screwed against his will? He squeezes his eyes shut as he tells his stupid dick to cut it out. In no way does he want any relief or satisfaction from this monster.

A big hand grips his shoulder and turns him around. François cackles with laughter when he sees Dean's erection. "Splendid! You did enjoy it, you scoundrel! How does it feel, getting off on your own rape, Dean? I knew you would revel in your own degradation!" He hefts Sam's cock with approbation; even half-soft, it's still sizeable. He tugs at it, rubbing it up against Dean's erection. "Well, Dean, you have a fine dick, but nothing on this monster, eh? How does it feel to know little brother has the bigger prick? Is he more of a man than you? This is a king among cocks!" He winks at Dean, eyes glittering with malice and lust, perverting the clear, intelligent gaze of the real Sam. "How'd that feel in your arse, Dean? Could you feel it deep inside, flooding you with my seed? Did you feel it pierce your very entrails?" He laughed as he grasped both cocks in his hand and stroked them together in one large hand.

Dean wants to vomit at the vile words, at the loathsome touch. At his own dick's rebellious erection, further fostered by the long fingers caressing it so firmly. At the come slowly trickling from his sore hole in a ticklish, unpleasant trail. His stomach churns, and yet he's having a hard time separating that from the heat in his balls.

"What a fine fuck you are! Such a sweet, tight arse! And watching the debasement of your brotherly love, a simply sinful joy!" François shivers in delight. "Oh, incest, a thrill unmatched! I yearn to use you again and again, Dean, with the triumph of watching you sink ever further into iniquity, fouling your very soul with our taboo carnality." He runs his fingers down Dean's cheek, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "This mouth is magnificent! So lush, so pink and full." He kisses Dean, not as savagely as before, more lingering and leisurely, but nips it sharply before he breaks contact.

Dean thinks about biting Sam's tongue, but is pretty sure he'd pay dearly for that. If his sore ass and bruised hips and aching head are just from enthusiastic fucking, he's not in a hurry to see what a true punishment entails. He tries to not respond, but simply let the kiss happen. It kills him to think that these are Sam's lips--that it's Sammy's sweet mouth on his, and yet--it's is not Sam. It's a taunting, cruel joke of everything he ever wanted to have with Sam. His brain hurts from trying to reconcile this surreal existence of two Sams--one his beloved brother and the other a depraved beast. He draws a whimpering breath; the Marquis is eroding his strength . . . his own sense of himself. He's never considered himself a victim before. Never helpless.

"You're so enticing!" François purrs, licking over Dean's lips. He nips them, then alternates deep kisses with sharp little bites. He pauses to peel off the rest of Dean's costume, murmuring appreciatively as Dean's arms and shoulders, abs, and pink nipples come into view. "Captivating all over! You perfect creature!" He toys with Dean's nipples as he continues biting and kissing his mouth, twisting and tugging, pinching and flicking them with his fingernails.

Tears threaten Dean's eyes, and he fights them back. His nipples are very sensitive, always have been, and he can't help reacting to the stimulation, unwanted though it is. His nubs harden, which only eggs François on, and the little electric jolts from his fondling keep Dean's erection at full mast. He arches his chest without meaning to, alarmed at finding himself reacting but only straightening back up when François starts to suckle at his chest. Sam's mouth is hot and wet on Dean's electrified skin, and a tiny moan escapes him. François chuckles in approval and casually grips his rigid cock again. "Look at this! You protest, but look how you respond! See what a hypocrite you are? You are complicit in your own debauching!" He jacks Dean ever so slowly as he bites all over his chest, sucking bruises in and leaving teeth marks scattered over Dean's freckled skin. "See how you love this. See what I give to you. What a filthy dog you really are, Dean. Own it. A world of carnality awaits you."

As François resumes his exploration of Dean's torso, he murmurs, "Like a fine confection! I could feast on you for hours! These little pink jewels are divinely tempting!" He bites each nipple hard, and Dean's powerless to keep from yelping or his dick from jumping. François laughs throatily and pinches the hard little buds fiercely, then slaps them smartly. The tears Dean's fought off so far fill his eyes promptly at the stinging pain.

François lowers himself to his knees, taking hold of Dean's cock and examining it. "Splendid piece of manhood, very pretty, and such a lovely dark pink! So flushed and swollen! And here's a sweet pearl for my tongue!" He licks right into the slit, then suckles the head, humming gently. Dean thinks he's ready to die now, because it's like the dream he's had for so long of Sammy sucking him off. It's incredible to look down and see Sammy's pink lips stretched around his cock, feel Sam's tongue pressing against his tender flesh. It's fucking fantastic.

Except it's not Sam.

"Stop . . .please . . ."

It's all he can get out, his voice strangled by arousal and grief. He knows it won't do any good.

François pulls off and laughs. "Oh, silly man! We're not done, why would I stop?" He gets up and kisses Dean deeply, his tongue fucking into Dean's mouth. Dean can taste his own precome on Sam's tongue. "But I'll stop now." He pushes on Dean's shoulders and forces him onto to his knees. One big hand keeps Dean there as the other grips his hair. "Go on! Suck me!" He lowers his voice, but sounds even more menacing. "And, Dean? Make it good."

Dean manages a slight nod and faces Sam's cock. Despite his earlier orgasm, he's already half-hard again, and Dean's grateful for the assist. It's been a while since he blew someone, but he remembers what to do, it's not rocket science. His hands are still bound behind him, so he has to pick up Sam's (holy crap, big) dick with his mouth alone. He runs his tongue up and down the length, tracing the veins. He's rewarded by approving hums from François, who starts rocking his hips and thrusting into Dean's mouth. Dean's caught off-guard and tries to match François's rhythm, timing himself with François' movement so he can both suck and breathe.

Then François speeds up.

Dean's struggling a little now. His mouth is getting sloppy with saliva as well as the pre-come that's leaking from Sam's cock. The extra fluids make it even easier for François to piston in and out of Dean's slippery mouth. Dean's lips are feeling the abuse--he knows that the tingling and sensitivity means that they're getting red and swollen. The extra speed of François' thrusts is also making it difficult for Dean to keep his balance, as he wobbles on his knees.

François pets Dean's head. "Fuck, you should see how luscious your mouth looks. Your lips are utterly succulent, wrapped around my prick! They beg to be fucked hard!" With one hand now painfully clutching Dean's hair, Sam's other hand grips his jaw, and he begins to seriously fuck into Dean's mouth. Dean panics for a minute, as the big dick hits his throat and blocks his air for a second. He gags, forcing more saliva and pre-come from his lips and onto Sam's dick, then fights to catch his breath between strokes.

François laughs as Dean chokes. He takes his hand from Dean's jaw and catches the dripping fluids, smearing them around his cock and onto Dean's face. He fucks in fast and hard; Dean gurgles and chokes as his face is battered. He feels tears streaming from his eyes, and his heart pounds as his lungs work to get air. He starts feeling dizzy from the oxygen deprivation, and tiny sparkles begin floating around his eyes. Black dots mix in with the sparkles, and he knows he's going to pass out shortly. François is panting and cursing, raving about Dean's perfect mouth, yanking Dean's hair with abandon as his cock drives in and out. As the black spots grow larger and sounds begin to fall away, Dean dimly hears François yell as his dick slams into the back of Dean's throat and convulses, releasing a thick stream of come. François holds his head tightly, keeping Dean's face jammed into his groin as his seed finishes spilling, then releasing Dean and letting him collapse to the floor as he passes out.

Dean comes to lying on his back on the same couch he'd been fucked against. He senses he's been out very briefly--Sam's cock is still exposed, and Dean's mouth and throat still feel wrecked. His hands are still tied behind his back, making an awkward lump underneath him, and his ankles are now also bound together. The only good thing is he's lost his erection. Everything else still looks pretty bad. Like, hopelessly bad.

"Awake? Excellent. I was afraid I'd gotten too enthusiastic. That happens sometimes. Now, where were we?"

Dean stares at François in horror. What now?

François casually tucks himself back into his breeches, looking at Dean's now-flaccid dick. "Well, now, that's sad. Where is our rampant soldier?"

"Uh, 's fine." Dean says hoarsely, attempting to sit half-way up.

"No, no, I demand your satisfaction! Your brother would insist on you climaxing." François pushes Dean back down on the couch and undoes the rope around his ankles. He takes hold of Dean's cock, petting and tweaking it. "I'm sure he's generous like that. He's probably wanted to do this to you himself all these years, having such a beautiful sibling like you. Wanted to fuck you, suck you, have you obey him. Wanted you to pleasure him just like you've been pleasuring me." He bends to take Dean's cock into his mouth, sucking it all the way in, rolling Dean's balls in his other hand. He jerks it at the base and uses his mouth on the head, running his tongue around the cap, flicking it at the slit. Dean fights to stay soft, but Sam--or François--is undeniably talented, and all too soon Dean is hard again.

Yes, François. This is François. Not Sam, never Sam. Sam would never do this. I've got to remember it's François.

"There we are! Such a pretty cock! Now you just lie back," François purrs in mock entreaty. His fingers seem to be everywhere--playing with Dean's balls, rubbing and probing his still-slippery hole, stroking his inner thighs and groin, flicking his mauled nipples. All the while either his mouth or hand is on Dean's dick, massaging the length, poking the slit, rubbing the nerve bundle under the cap. It would be blissful if it weren't so abhorrent.

He watches helplessly as François manipulates and sucks his cock with consummate skill for what seems like hours. It's swollen, throbbing, flushed purple from the need to come. His balls are tight and heavy, bloated with come, but every time he gets to the point of blessed release, François stops. He wraps a couple of long fingers around the base of Dean's dick and squeezes hard, or grabs his balls and tugs sharply, sometimes delivering a sharp smack to them that resounds throughout Dean's whole body. Sometimes he stimulates one area as he punishes the other, like when he mouths Dean's balls as he holds on tight to his dick to block Dean's ejaculation. Over and over, Dean is tormented with the denial of his climax, until the pleasure ebbs and becomes pain; pain that arcs in his groin and scrotum and cock, created from blood and come building up to an unbearable pressure. He grits his jaw as hard as he can, but his body is no longer under his conscious control--he is at the whim of a man whose entire focus is on tormenting with sex, pleasure, and pain.

Dean screams when he's finally brought to orgasm--his system is so overloaded, his flesh so sensitized, that feather-light touches are painful and ejaculation is not relief, but merely the necessary purging of his system. He's limp on the couch, legs splayed, cock drained, skin sweaty, the tears he's fought back before finally seeping out from his closed lids. He knows his climax was not of his choice, but he now feels entirely complicit in his own abuse. He slowly opens his eyes to see François lounging on an armchair, contentedly licking Dean's come from his right hand as his left casually strokes himself.

What now? he thinks, as he watches Sam's pink tongue carefully lick between his long fingers, lapping up Dean's mess. I have no clues, no info, no idea how this happened. How can I even try to get him back? I can't even protect myself. He's so tired, he doesn't know how he's even going to get away from this hell.

Somewhere in town, a clock strikes midnight, the bell ringing mutedly in the empty shop. Dean's puzzled for a moment--surely it's well past midnight, he must have been here for hours and hours.

Sam suddenly stops licking his hand, instead staring confusedly at it. He stops masturbating, and then registers that Dean is looking at him.

"Dean? What the hell?" He shoves his still half-erect cock into his breeches and hastily wipes his hand off on the chair. His eyes dart around, his confusion growing. "Dean? Where are we? What--" He looks full at Dean, jaw dropping as he takes in Dean's nudity and pose. "Dean?"

Dean swings his legs down, stifling a moan. His muscles are stiff and his junk is beyond sore. "Sam? Sammy?"

Sam kneels in front of him, hands on Dean's face and shoulder. "Dean! What the hell is going on? Why are you--"

Dean sees it hit him. Sees the memory of the last few hours slide in and settle down in Sam's brain. Sees the horror that crosses his face, the tears springing to his eyes. "Dean!" He drops his head onto Dean's lap, uncaring of his naked state, long arms encircling his waist. "No!" Dean can feel Sam's hot tears falling on his thigh and his body vibrates with sobs.

Dean's eyes, still moist from his own pain, water anew with Sam's pain. "Shh, Sammy, it's okay. I'm okay." He leans against his little brother, wincing as he moves.

Sam lifts his head, stares at Dean with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. "Dean, did I . . . is it . . . true? Did I . . . rape you? Do all . . . .all those things to you?"

"No, Sammy, no." Dean kisses his forehead. "You didn't do anything. It wasn't you. Never you." His fresh tears trickle into Sam's hair. "I knew it wasn't you." He starts to shake, knows he's going into shock. "Sammy, help me . . . we gotta get out of here."

Sam nods, finding the knife and cutting Dean's bindings. His mouth quivers as he helps Dean first sit up, then stand. Dean has to hang on to Sam's arm, his limbs are so stiff and his body protesting every movement. He sees Sam's eyes roving over him, noting the bites, the bruises. Dean's thighs are slick with both men's come, and between the sex and his sweat, he knows he must reek.

"Dean . . . Jesus . . ." And Sam suddenly turns away and vomits, heaving up little but water and bile as his stomach spasms. Dean can't help him, it's all he can do to remain standing as he clutches the same couch that served as his torture rack. Sam finally finishes with a last few choking gasps, drawing his sleeve across his mouth as he turns back to Dean.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get out of here." Dean's so tired, he needs them to get moving while he still can. He's also unhappily not sure how he feels about Sam touching him right now. That uncertainty is heartbreaking--this is his brother. The real deal. Dean can see the intelligence, the love and concern, back in those captivating eyes.

"Yeah, of course. Hang on a sec." Sam pulls away again, but only to return with the black cape from Batman's costume. "Here, put this around you."

Dean draws the black fabric around him gratefully. He's so eager to get out of there he would have left naked, but he's grateful to be covered.

They stumble through the door, and Dean feels a lot better just being out in the fresh air.

As they stand a moment to catch their breath, there's a noise nearby. They whirl to face it, Dean shaking and Sam holding him protectively, but it's just some teenagers in costume, walking toward them with solemn faces.

One of the teenagers, a slim girl with copper-bright hair, darts toward them. "Hey! What are you doing here? Are you guys okay?" She radiates concern.

"We, uh, we got kidnapped. My brother is hurt. I need to get him to shelter." Sam has an arm tight around Dean. Dean wavers between hanging on to Sammy and pushing him away.

She peers at them, and recognition dawns on her face.

"I know who you are!" She turns back to the other teens--a guy in military green, a brunette in a cat suit, and a blonde in some kind of long, fancy dress, like out of a painting. She's very pretty, but her expression makes Dean think warrior rather than princess. "Guys! It's them! It's the Winchesters!" Turning back to Sam and Dean, she gives a little smile and wave. "Hi. I'm Willow."

Sam and Dean look at each other in surprise.

The warrior-princess comes over now. "Sam? Dean?" Her eyes flick over them in concern. "What happened?"

Sam looks at Dean. Dean clears his throat and says, "I don't know. One minute Sam was my brother, and then he wasn't. Now he is again."

The blonde girl sighs. "And you were Batman?" She nods at the cape.

"Yeah."

"But you didn't turn into Batman."

Dean looks at her. He starts getting it.

"No, I didn't turn into Batman." He thinks, Yeah, a far fucking cry from Batman. About as far as possible."

She looks at Sam. "Who were you?"

Sam shakes his head. His mouth is set, but Dean can see his jaw muscles quivering.

She comes closer. "Hey. It's okay. It wasn't you. Whoever you were, it wasn't you."

Dean says hoarsely, "What the fuck was going on?"

The redhead says, "It was a costume shop that sold enchanted costumes. Whatever costume you wore, you . . . became." She shook her head. "Things have been very . . . interesting the last few hours around here."

Dean closes his eyes for a second. He opens them to look at the blonde girl--Buffy, she had to be the Slayer--and said, "Ethan's Costume Shop."

She nods. "Yeah. There's a whole backstory there, but we don't need to go into it now. Let's get you two someplace warm."

They all start moving, but Dean stops after just a couple of steps. "Is it . . .over?"

Buffy looks at him, and he sees pain and understanding mixed in her eyes. She nods and says softly, "It's over."

Sam gives a small sob, rubbing his arm over his face. He looks at his arm and suddenly starts stripping his clothes off frantically, tears running down his face. The coat, the frilly shirt, the wig, all go flying, leaving him only in his breeches, skin already popping goosebumps.

Dean shivers as well. He's cold, all right, in the chilly night, naked under his cape. But he knows he'll still be cold once they're inside, after an hour-long hot shower, with a flannel shirt and jeans back on and whiskey inside him. He's still going to be cold.

He's not sure he'll ever be warm again.