Fanfic - SPN/Oz: A Good Day (NC-17+, Slash: Schillinger/Dean, Schillinger/Sam)
Title: A Good Day
Author: dendritejungle
Fandom: Supernatural/ Oz crossover
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester/ Vern Schillinger
Word Count: ~ 4300 words.
Rating: NC-17 (R? X? Still a little fuzzy on this rating thing.)
Warnings/Spoilers: Slash, PWP, dubious-con, non-con, m/m rape, begging, bondage, branding, knifeplay, bit o’ blood; (very) mild spoilers for Born Under A Bad Sign
Disclaimer: I only wish I owned these boys. But given what I’m doing to them, it’s probably just as well I don’t.
Summary: Vern Schillinger has been annoyed by two new inmates. He’s about to teach them their place.
Betas: missyjack, bless her!
Author's Notes:
Schillinger’s POV. And he’s rather gleeful about the whole thing.
Good grief, this is my first fic ever. It was just...born fully-formed in my brain, inspired by a simple comment, and it wrote itself in 9 straight hours. I’m still kind of in shock.
If you aren’t familiar with the HBO series Oz, all you need to know is that it’s a prison, and Vern Schillinger is a viciously sadistic leader of the neo-Nazi “Brotherhood” chapter in Oz, with a well-established history of branding and rape. A fine, upstanding gentleman, to be sure. I’m tempted to write a sequel in which Dean and Sam give him his comeuppance. Oh, and a shiv is a makeshift knife.
X-Rating Reasoning: *points wordlessly at warning tags*
Schillinger whistled as he walked down the hall. He was having a good day. McManus was in shit from the Warden about...well, who cared, it was just always great to see McManus shafted. And one of his Brotherhood boys had taken down a particularly troubling individual, and his sons were coming to visit. Life? Was good. And he’d been looking forward to this all morning.
Two new inmates - the Winchesters - had been introduced to Oz a couple of days ago. Murder, fraud charges, trespassing, some other stuff. Schillinger wasn’t clear on the details, and frankly didn’t care.
He did care that the older one was a smartass who apparently didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut or recognize who was in charge around here. And the younger one - well, that holier-than-thou prissy look he kept giving everyone and everything had been driving Schillinger nuts. And Schillinger was just dying to take them both down a peg.
He swung into the showers. Perfect, his boys had already set up the table and were there with the older brother. Dean, if memory served. Schillinger had to grin: Dean had clearly given his boys a run for their money. Henke was glowering through a split lip and bloody nose, and after one look at Wick, Schillinger sent him off to the infirmary.
He had expected no less: Dean moved like a fighter, and well, he was good Aryan stock after all, wasn’t he? His boys might be worse for wear having taken Dean down, but taken him they had. Dean was trussed up like a turkey, as he’d instructed - Schillinger wasn’t taking any chances. Even after the working-over they’d given him, he was still alert and glowering up from the floor at him. Damn, the guy had some fight in him. This was going to be fun.
Schillinger squatted down, and looked over his captive for a moment. The guy was pretty, he had to admit. Sharp green eyes, with a fire in them that Schillinger couldn’t help but admire. And those lips...well, he looked forward to seeing what use he could put them to. In the meantime, the gag suited them just fine.
He grinned. Dean had no way of knowing that was not a good sign. “Hi, Dean,” he began cheerfully. “My name’s Vern Schillinger. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I see you’re a little tied up at the moment.
“You’ve been smart-mouthing my boys for the last couple of days. Asking nosy questions, too. And you’ve got a bit of an attitude that, well, I don’t like. I get the impression you think you can just waltz in here and carve out a nice little niche for yourself.
“I hate to break it to you, but it doesn’t work like that, not on my turf. I don’t know what you’re planning, but we’re here to nip it in the bud.”
Right on cue, he heard a scuffling in the hall. Two more of his boys burst in, with an equally well-bound Sam between them. One of them was limping badly, and it would be a while before Mack could see out of his right eye again. But they had the giant shaggy-haired asshole between them. Schillinger signalled them to tie him down.
They leaned Sam over the table, spreading his legs to tie each one firmly to a table leg and his wrists to the top of the table legs on the far side. They made it tight: this guy was strong, and Schillinger wasn’t taking any chances. He had also given some thought to the position of the table: Sam was stretched in front of Dean, who had a perfect side view of his brother’s body. He could clearly watch the proceedings.
Schillinger sauntered over to the table and leaned forward, his face inches from Sam’s. Good, that fucking prissy look was gone. He was a little impressed that Sam looked angry and determined, but not scared at all.
“Hi, Sam. I was just telling your brother here that my name is Vern. And I don’t like you anymore than I like your brother. Less, in fact - at least he seems to have sense of humour, from what I’ve seen over the last couple of days. You’ve spent the last two days just looking annoyed, like you have someplace better to be, and I’m a little tired of it.”
He stood up again to address them both. “I have a bit of a...tradition, here at Oz. Every so often, I like to claim a piece of property. Brand him so everyone will know he’s mine. And Dean, while you’re pretty, I think your brother’s “I’m-too-good-for-this-place” manner needs taking down a notch, don’t you? I think he would benefit more from my...care. I’m sure you won’t mind.”
He glanced over at Dean, who had begun struggling furiously and grunting through the gag what Schillinger was sure were choice words. Perfect. Schillinger had noticed Dean’s protectiveness towards his younger brother, and was delighted he’d guessed correctly: the best way to affect Dean was through Sam.
Enough with the introductions, he decided. Pulling the shiv he’d been carrying from his pocket, he unceremoniously sliced through the back of Sam’s clothes from neck to crotch. He could feel Sam try to struggle, but his boys had done their job well: Sam wasn’t going anywhere. Dean’s growls of frustration were music to his ears.
And...damn. He stopped for a moment and actually whistled in admiration. He’d been right. Beneath the prison garb Sam was built. All fucking muscle and sinew, long and lean and taut. Jesus, he just went on forever. And that ass. Schillinger helped himself to a feel, and grinned as his own cock twitched in response to the tight flesh.
But first things first. Schillinger moved back around to Sam’s head. He pulled out a lighter, and flipped the shiv around to show Sam the blunt, rounded tip of the metal handle. “See, normally I just do this once. Usually on the ass. But I couldn’t help but notice you’ve already got a brand on your arm. And we can’t have anyone questioning your ownership, now, can we? So we’re going to do this twice: once on your forearm, and then on your ass. One for everyone to see and one for my eyes only.”
He nodded for Mack to hold down Sam’s forearm - Sam had tried to twist it downward. He made a show out of heating the handle of the shiv, holding it up to check the glow of the metal, and when he judged it hot enough, brought it down to that weird shape on Sam’s right arm.
Sam grunted and jerked - or tried to. But the ropes held fast, and Mack bearing down on his arm kept him still. Sam’s flesh sizzled and popped under the metal, and a small tendril of smoke drifted up. Schillinger watched carefully to make sure he burned through all of the surface skin before lifting the shiv. Nice. “See?” he grinned, “No problem, right?”
Dark fury built in Sam’s eyes, but he remained silent. Dean was actively yelling now behind his gag, practically purple with rage as he fought against his ropes. Schillinger loved it.
He re-heated the shiv for a second strike, then a third, then a fourth, then a fifth...
Sam only jerked for the first. Schillinger could feel him trembling, though. Whether it was from pain or barely-contained anger Schillinger didn’t know and didn’t much care, but it made every muscle and tendon on those arms of Sam stand out in gorgeous relief. He was sorry to finish the final strike.
The swastika burned into Sam’s arm stood out angrily against the underlying scar. He glanced at Sam’s face. The fury was still there, sharp as ever, but now joined by a deep anguish. He glanced at Dean, who was struggling as before but with the same pain echoed in his eyes. Schillinger paused for a moment in thought. He bet this Sam was a nice fucker who thought all races were created equal. Jesus, maybe he’d even gone to some liberal-arts university with the faggy equality shit they fed everyone these days. Sam’s arm now said he believed differently - and people would react to that for the rest of his life.
Good. Welcome to the real world, kid, he thought with satisfaction. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows, you know. Time you learned that.
Schillinger moved around to Sam’s ass, and took a leisurely minute to survey the canvas. He settled on the mound of Sam’s left ass cheek: the skin was stretched nicely taut there since Sam was so conveniently bent over, it would hurt Sam like hell for days when he sat down - and best of all Schillinger would be able to feel it against him. Later.
He didn’t need his boys to hold Sam in place this time: Sam was angled hard against the table. Schillinger went to work with less show this time - though he was sure to keep the proceedings in good view for Dean’s benefit. He worked faster, too: Sam was fucking hot, his ass involuntarily quivering under the branding, and Schillinger wanted more than just a brand on Sam’s skin. He took a quick glance at Sam’s dick, exposed under the torn clothing, to see if he was one of those fuckers who got off on pain. But no, it seemed this was one situation Schillinger alone would be enjoying. Which was just the way he wanted it.
Finishing, he blew on the swastika for a moment, raising goosebumps around the brand, and palmed the mark roughly. Sam inhaled sharply at the pain, creating a sensation in Schillinger’s gut as warming as the tortured flesh under his hand.
Sammy? You’re mine.
He passed the shiv off to Mack, and stood back to admire his handiwork. This swastika stood out even more starkly against the pale skin of Sam’s ass than it had on his arm. Now that Schillinger was looking, he could see that Sam’s legs were quivering slightly, too: the angle at which they’d had to tie them to bring his hips down to table-level made for an uncomfortable spread-half-squatting position that had Sam's muscles protesting. Between the straining muscles, the brand and the sheer size of this guy, Schillinger found himself thinking of Sam as a fine stallion. And dammit, he wanted to ride.
First things first, though. He turned back to Dean.
Dean’s arms were raw and bruised where he’d struggled against the ropes. Jesus, he’d practically done more damage to himself than his boys had. Behind the rage in his eyes, he saw a pain even deeper than he’d seen in Sam’s.
Yes.
He leaned in. “See? You can’t even hold onto what you already have. Hell, if you weren’t such a smartass, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about taking your brother from you. So really, you brought it on yourself - and him too. You might want to think about that every time you see Sammy’s marks. Don’t think you can fucking waltz in here like it’s some goddamned party and dance with us just because you’re tough and pretty and have a big mouth.” He smirked. “Though the mouth I can use.”
Schillinger leaned in even closer. “I’m sure you know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? I’m going to fuck Sam. And there’s not a single fucking thing you can do to stop it.” Dean’s eyes blazed at him. Jesus, if looks could kill, he would be burned alive.
Schillinger looked back at Sam, but his eyes were closed. Dammit. Schillinger turned back to Dean. “All you can do is make it...well, not comfortable, but at least somewhat less painful for him. See, the only lube your brother will be getting is your saliva on my cock. So you’d better make sure you do the job well, hadn’t you?"
“Oh, and I should mention” - he motioned to Mack, who pulled Sam’s head back and pressed the shiv hard against his neck - “that if you try anything - biting me, trying to be heroic, looking at me in a way I don’t like, let alone fucking talking - then your brother will be the one who pays. With his life. Am I clear?”
Whatever else he might be, Dean was apparently no fool. He nodded, once, and looked down. At that, one of the boys behind Dean removed the gag. Dean licked his lips but remained quiet. Schillinger stood up and unzipped his pants. He was already half-erect with anticipation. “Come on, pretty-boy,” he leered, “let’s see you put those lips of yours to good use.”
When Dean hesitated for a moment, Schillinger grabbed his head and brought it towards him roughly. Dean took the hint, and opened his mouth to take Schillinger in.
Schillinger thrust in deep again, and again - deeper than he’d intended, since Dean gagged. And dammit, while Dean was being careful about his teeth, he wasn’t using his tongue or lips at all. Schillinger leaned over again and hissed, “Listen. Smarten up or I will hurt your brother more. Do this like you fucking mean it. Or do you want to be responsible for putting him through even more?”
Schillinger saw with satisfaction the resignation in Dean’s eyes before he closed them, and began sucking Schillinger’s cock in earnest. Jesus. That was more like it. Schillinger had suspected that anyone God had gifted with those lips, he’d also gifted with the talent to use them. And holy fuck, he had not been wrong. He groaned involuntarily under Dean’s ministrations, which seemed to involve some sort of lick-slide-suck combination, coupled with something he was doing with his tongue that...fuck, he couldn’t really tell, but it was amazing. He looked down at Dean, and noticed less and less coherently his long eyelashes, under brows knitted in concentration and those indecently, fucking gorgeous lips. The visual was almost as good as the sensation. Almost.
This was quite possibly the best blowjob he’d ever had. Dean had apparently relaxed his throat enough to take him all the way in. He fucked Dean’s mouth with a vengeance, and damned if Dean didn’t respond in turn. God, he was close. He...he...fuck, he was too close. Dean had started bobbing more quickly, and if he didn’t stop now... Clever, Dean.
Schillinger forced himself to pull away, reluctantly, and Dean tried to follow, grunting against the limitations of his ropes in his effort to do so.
It took Schillinger a moment to find his voice. “Good try, Dean. You almost made me come. You don’t want that, do you? And leave nothing left for Sammy-boy here?”
Dean looked up at him, and the level of defeat and pain in his gaze gave Schillinger a profound level of satisfaction. When Dean cleared his throat, Schillinger knew what was coming. What else could Dean offer?
“Yeah, Dean? You got something to say?”
Dean closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough, raspy: whether from his earlier gag-bound yelling or from the fucking his mouth and throat had just taken, Schillinger didn’t know. It was barely audible. When Dean spoke, Schillinger had to strain to hear.
“Take me. Please. Leave Sam alone - take me instead. I’ll...I’ll be good, do whatever you want.”
Schillinger had thought his cock couldn’t be any harder. He’d been wrong. Could it get any better?
“Sorry, Dean, what did you say? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
Dean cleared his throat again, and looked up. Apparently it could get better: Dean was pleading, desperately, with his eyes. It was possibly the most glorious thing Schillinger had ever seen.
“Please. Take me instead of Sam. I - I’m begging you. Just let him be.”
Schillinger knelt down next to Dean, and picked up his discarded gag. Perhaps Dean didn’t realize he’d just given Schillinger everything already? Complete defeat. There was nothing left Dean had that Schillinger wanted - not even his ass. No, now he just wanted Sam.
He handed the gag to Hencke. “Gag him again.”
Ignoring the older brother, Schillinger returned to his current interest: Sam. And he thought Sam had been beautiful before: still bound, and with his head pulled back and the shiv still at his neck, his hair just brushed the top of his back. Now his neck and back were straining with the effort of that awkward position. His face was showing a different strain - of course, he’d been following the conversation with Dean. His eyes were still closed, and his face twisted in a mixture of rage and pain. His forehead furrowed deeply, along well-established lines. Schillinger bet that Sam worried a lot: he looked the type. Right now, of course, he had good reason. Very good reason.
Schillinger ran his fingers lightly over Sam’s body. He could feel Sam suppress a shudder, and exulted in it. He motioned for the shiv: he was in control of Sam now.
But he had forgotten about Dean. The only warning he had, as Mack passed him the shiv, was a sound that he recognized as a shoulder popping out of its socket. Schillinger turned barely in time to dodge Dean’s rolling attempt to trip him. It had been a stupid move: Dean was still tied up, even if he had managed to get his hands in front of him so he could roll effectively, and there were still several large Brotherhood members who were happy to return the bruisings they’d had at the hands of the Winchesters earlier. Hell, the ropes between his wrists and legs were close enough together that he couldn’t even stand - and now he had to deal with a dislocated shoulder. He had to admire the guy’s bravery and spirit - and he was in a generous mood from everything Dean had given him. “Don’t hurt him too badly,” he called over his shoulder as his boys moved in.
Really, the muted thuds of their boots connecting with flesh and bone didn’t sound any more restrained than usual. Oh well.
Turning back to Sam, Schillinger ran the shiv lightly down his back, tracing the mountains and valleys of muscle - and dug in, slightly, just above Sam’s kidney. A single drop of crimson oozed up from under the tip. “Now, Sam,” he said softly, “It’s just you and me.”
Sam turned his head, and looked directly at him. Begging. Oh, this was too much. Who were these guys? But really, he couldn’t resist hearing what Sam wanted to say: he removed the gag. This should be good.
“Please. Ask them to stop.”
Ah, so the little brother cared about his big brother. So touching. “Now why would I bother doing that?”
“It’s...it’s not necessary. You’ve made your point.”
Schillinger guffawed. This was priceless. “And here I thought you went to college. But that’s the best argument you could come up with? I must’ve guessed wrong.” He shook his head.
Sam made that face again, the pissy one. Fucker. Schillinger reached up from behind him and grabbed him by his lanky-ass hair. Stupid bastard. Should learn from his brother and cut it short so it couldn’t be grabbed so easily.
He jerked back hard on Sam’s head, bringing it back to a painful angle he knew was made much worse by the pull of his bound arms in the other direction. Both brothers would have dislocated shoulders, if they weren’t careful. He jabbed the shiv between Sam’s ear and jaw - not deep, but excruciating nonetheless, he knew. Not a sound came from Sam, though he could feel Sam’s body tense even further. Close, next to Sam’s ear, Schillinger hissed, “Get that fucking exasperated look off your face.”
He watched as Sam tried to compose himself. Sam managed: he knew his brother’s life might depend on it. He must hear how sickening the thuds against Dean’s body were, must be gauging their impact.
Sam tried again. “Please. What...what will it take to make them stop? We...I don’t have anything to offer you.”
Schillinger bit down on Sam’s ear. Hard. No grunt, nothing. He pressed in deeper with the shiv. Still nothing, though he could feel Sam’s body shudder in protest. Jesus, this guy could take pain. “No, you don’t have anything to offer. And even if you did, I would just take it anyway.”
Huh. For all of Sam’s dewy eyes, Dean really begged much more satisfyingly.
Still.
He pulled back, glanced over at Dean, and back at Sam. He hated to admit it, but their strength, and loyalty to each other moved him. Oh, what the hell. They were white, after all - he was willing to be generous.
“Okay, guys, stop.”
Immediately they pulled back. Dean didn’t move, and was curled away from Schillinger so he couldn’t see Dean’s face. There was some blood, of course, but not much, considering. Fortunately, Sam couldn’t see anything from his angle. Schillinger twitched an eyebrow at his men: was Dean dead? Three heads shook. Good.
He turned back to Sam. No more delays. He was aching for this. Curtly he said, “Your brother’s alive.”
Sam visibly relaxed - or tried to, as far as his contorted position allowed. Schillinger leaned forward again and murmured into Sam’s ear. “I suggest you also try to relax your ass.”
He must like these guys, he thought. That was more foreplay than he’d given in ages.
He released Sam’s hair, slid his hands back down Sam’s back, over that gorgeous ass with his mark, and kneaded those cheeks roughly for a moment, savoring this, before pulling them apart.
Schillinger grinned at the first touch. Sam hadn’t relaxed his ass. Probably didn’t even know how to. He bet that Sam had only ever fucked women. Probably people he loved, for fuck’s sake. Fortunately, Schillinger had more than enough experience for the both of them.
He wasn’t gentle. He wanted it to hurt - to see what reactions he could wring from this man. What was left of Dean’s saliva didn’t make much difference for Sam, which was fine with Schillinger. He relished watching every muscle in Sam’s body tense in screaming protest to this violation. Relished Sam’s attempt to choke off what might have been a grunt, or a sob. Later Sam made a single, tiny, mewling cry torn from the back of his throat, almost inaudible and quickly silenced. Sam’s sharp intake of breath with each stroke was the only other sound he let escape, as Schillinger drove in deeper, painfully deeper with thrust after thrust. Sam was silent, beyond those few noises. Schillinger was used to screaming, begging, crying. But each miniscule sound he wrested from Sam he treasured above it all.
God, what a body. What a ride. He was in to the hilt, now, and Sam was so hot under him, and impossibly tight. A virgin ass, staked and claimed as his alone. He could feel the left ass cheek, even hotter under protest from the unwelcome branding, the burned edges of Sam’s flesh pressed against his skin. And Sam’s body was betraying the reactions he wouldn’t let past his lips. The muscles in Sam’s legs and arms and back that were quivering before were shaking now, shaking uncontrollably. Sam’s hands, those massive paws, clenched helplessly.
He’d wanted this to last, but there was no way. Sam’s reactions were driving him over the edge. He wanted to see Sam’s face before he came, though, dammit: he grabbed a fistful of Sam’s hair, that fucking hair, dragging his head back and up and twisting it as far around as he could. He caught Sam’s face in quarter profile, his eyes shut and face contorted in agony, but Schillinger could see the desperate clench of his jaw as he fought for control over his own reactions, the only thing he had left. Fighting to the end. A warrior, Schillinger thought suddenly. Like his brother.
Warriors conquered. For this battle, if not the war, they were utterly defeated. It was Schillinger’s last exultant thought before that euphoric pressure built up impossibly high, higher - and he came with a holler, emptying himself deep inside Sam. He involuntarily jerked Sam’s head even further back, revelling in the perfect curve of Sam’s wide back down towards him, Sam’s narrow hips - and Schillinger was still coming, emptying everything he had into this man. His man. His Sam.
At last, utterly spent, Schillinger let go of Sam’s hair and withdrew himself. He held out a hand, and one of his boys obligingly tossed him a towel: they knew the drill. He mopped himself up: there was some blood, of course, that was to be expected, but nothing too bad, really. Fuck, he felt great. That Sam might well have been the best ride he’d ever had.
He tucked himself in, slapped Sam on the ass congenially, tossed his gag to Mack to put back on him, and walked over to Dean’s inert body. Dean was a mess: there was no question that he’d be in the infirmary for a while. But he’d live. And so would Sam.
Schillinger found himself pleased at this prospect. He’d put them in their place, showed them exactly where they stood in Oz - but frankly, in the process had gained some respect for them. They’d make life around here more interesting. Now that Schillinger knew which buttons of theirs to press, he could do so at will, and he was planning on thoroughly enjoying himself when he did so.
With a motion he gathered his boys, and together they left the room without a backward glance. Someone would find Sam and Dean soon enough; someone always did. It might get traced back to him, but perhaps not: other plans were in motion for the eventuality.
But in the meantime, it was definitely a good day. Schillinger started whistling again.
Author: dendritejungle
Fandom: Supernatural/ Oz crossover
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester/ Vern Schillinger
Word Count: ~ 4300 words.
Rating: NC-17 (R? X? Still a little fuzzy on this rating thing.)
Warnings/Spoilers: Slash, PWP, dubious-con, non-con, m/m rape, begging, bondage, branding, knifeplay, bit o’ blood; (very) mild spoilers for Born Under A Bad Sign
Disclaimer: I only wish I owned these boys. But given what I’m doing to them, it’s probably just as well I don’t.
Summary: Vern Schillinger has been annoyed by two new inmates. He’s about to teach them their place.
Betas: missyjack, bless her!
Author's Notes:
Schillinger’s POV. And he’s rather gleeful about the whole thing.
Good grief, this is my first fic ever. It was just...born fully-formed in my brain, inspired by a simple comment, and it wrote itself in 9 straight hours. I’m still kind of in shock.
If you aren’t familiar with the HBO series Oz, all you need to know is that it’s a prison, and Vern Schillinger is a viciously sadistic leader of the neo-Nazi “Brotherhood” chapter in Oz, with a well-established history of branding and rape. A fine, upstanding gentleman, to be sure. I’m tempted to write a sequel in which Dean and Sam give him his comeuppance. Oh, and a shiv is a makeshift knife.
X-Rating Reasoning: *points wordlessly at warning tags*
Schillinger whistled as he walked down the hall. He was having a good day. McManus was in shit from the Warden about...well, who cared, it was just always great to see McManus shafted. And one of his Brotherhood boys had taken down a particularly troubling individual, and his sons were coming to visit. Life? Was good. And he’d been looking forward to this all morning.
Two new inmates - the Winchesters - had been introduced to Oz a couple of days ago. Murder, fraud charges, trespassing, some other stuff. Schillinger wasn’t clear on the details, and frankly didn’t care.
He did care that the older one was a smartass who apparently didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut or recognize who was in charge around here. And the younger one - well, that holier-than-thou prissy look he kept giving everyone and everything had been driving Schillinger nuts. And Schillinger was just dying to take them both down a peg.
He swung into the showers. Perfect, his boys had already set up the table and were there with the older brother. Dean, if memory served. Schillinger had to grin: Dean had clearly given his boys a run for their money. Henke was glowering through a split lip and bloody nose, and after one look at Wick, Schillinger sent him off to the infirmary.
He had expected no less: Dean moved like a fighter, and well, he was good Aryan stock after all, wasn’t he? His boys might be worse for wear having taken Dean down, but taken him they had. Dean was trussed up like a turkey, as he’d instructed - Schillinger wasn’t taking any chances. Even after the working-over they’d given him, he was still alert and glowering up from the floor at him. Damn, the guy had some fight in him. This was going to be fun.
Schillinger squatted down, and looked over his captive for a moment. The guy was pretty, he had to admit. Sharp green eyes, with a fire in them that Schillinger couldn’t help but admire. And those lips...well, he looked forward to seeing what use he could put them to. In the meantime, the gag suited them just fine.
He grinned. Dean had no way of knowing that was not a good sign. “Hi, Dean,” he began cheerfully. “My name’s Vern Schillinger. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I see you’re a little tied up at the moment.
“You’ve been smart-mouthing my boys for the last couple of days. Asking nosy questions, too. And you’ve got a bit of an attitude that, well, I don’t like. I get the impression you think you can just waltz in here and carve out a nice little niche for yourself.
“I hate to break it to you, but it doesn’t work like that, not on my turf. I don’t know what you’re planning, but we’re here to nip it in the bud.”
Right on cue, he heard a scuffling in the hall. Two more of his boys burst in, with an equally well-bound Sam between them. One of them was limping badly, and it would be a while before Mack could see out of his right eye again. But they had the giant shaggy-haired asshole between them. Schillinger signalled them to tie him down.
They leaned Sam over the table, spreading his legs to tie each one firmly to a table leg and his wrists to the top of the table legs on the far side. They made it tight: this guy was strong, and Schillinger wasn’t taking any chances. He had also given some thought to the position of the table: Sam was stretched in front of Dean, who had a perfect side view of his brother’s body. He could clearly watch the proceedings.
Schillinger sauntered over to the table and leaned forward, his face inches from Sam’s. Good, that fucking prissy look was gone. He was a little impressed that Sam looked angry and determined, but not scared at all.
“Hi, Sam. I was just telling your brother here that my name is Vern. And I don’t like you anymore than I like your brother. Less, in fact - at least he seems to have sense of humour, from what I’ve seen over the last couple of days. You’ve spent the last two days just looking annoyed, like you have someplace better to be, and I’m a little tired of it.”
He stood up again to address them both. “I have a bit of a...tradition, here at Oz. Every so often, I like to claim a piece of property. Brand him so everyone will know he’s mine. And Dean, while you’re pretty, I think your brother’s “I’m-too-good-for-this-place” manner needs taking down a notch, don’t you? I think he would benefit more from my...care. I’m sure you won’t mind.”
He glanced over at Dean, who had begun struggling furiously and grunting through the gag what Schillinger was sure were choice words. Perfect. Schillinger had noticed Dean’s protectiveness towards his younger brother, and was delighted he’d guessed correctly: the best way to affect Dean was through Sam.
Enough with the introductions, he decided. Pulling the shiv he’d been carrying from his pocket, he unceremoniously sliced through the back of Sam’s clothes from neck to crotch. He could feel Sam try to struggle, but his boys had done their job well: Sam wasn’t going anywhere. Dean’s growls of frustration were music to his ears.
And...damn. He stopped for a moment and actually whistled in admiration. He’d been right. Beneath the prison garb Sam was built. All fucking muscle and sinew, long and lean and taut. Jesus, he just went on forever. And that ass. Schillinger helped himself to a feel, and grinned as his own cock twitched in response to the tight flesh.
But first things first. Schillinger moved back around to Sam’s head. He pulled out a lighter, and flipped the shiv around to show Sam the blunt, rounded tip of the metal handle. “See, normally I just do this once. Usually on the ass. But I couldn’t help but notice you’ve already got a brand on your arm. And we can’t have anyone questioning your ownership, now, can we? So we’re going to do this twice: once on your forearm, and then on your ass. One for everyone to see and one for my eyes only.”
He nodded for Mack to hold down Sam’s forearm - Sam had tried to twist it downward. He made a show out of heating the handle of the shiv, holding it up to check the glow of the metal, and when he judged it hot enough, brought it down to that weird shape on Sam’s right arm.
Sam grunted and jerked - or tried to. But the ropes held fast, and Mack bearing down on his arm kept him still. Sam’s flesh sizzled and popped under the metal, and a small tendril of smoke drifted up. Schillinger watched carefully to make sure he burned through all of the surface skin before lifting the shiv. Nice. “See?” he grinned, “No problem, right?”
Dark fury built in Sam’s eyes, but he remained silent. Dean was actively yelling now behind his gag, practically purple with rage as he fought against his ropes. Schillinger loved it.
He re-heated the shiv for a second strike, then a third, then a fourth, then a fifth...
Sam only jerked for the first. Schillinger could feel him trembling, though. Whether it was from pain or barely-contained anger Schillinger didn’t know and didn’t much care, but it made every muscle and tendon on those arms of Sam stand out in gorgeous relief. He was sorry to finish the final strike.
The swastika burned into Sam’s arm stood out angrily against the underlying scar. He glanced at Sam’s face. The fury was still there, sharp as ever, but now joined by a deep anguish. He glanced at Dean, who was struggling as before but with the same pain echoed in his eyes. Schillinger paused for a moment in thought. He bet this Sam was a nice fucker who thought all races were created equal. Jesus, maybe he’d even gone to some liberal-arts university with the faggy equality shit they fed everyone these days. Sam’s arm now said he believed differently - and people would react to that for the rest of his life.
Good. Welcome to the real world, kid, he thought with satisfaction. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows, you know. Time you learned that.
Schillinger moved around to Sam’s ass, and took a leisurely minute to survey the canvas. He settled on the mound of Sam’s left ass cheek: the skin was stretched nicely taut there since Sam was so conveniently bent over, it would hurt Sam like hell for days when he sat down - and best of all Schillinger would be able to feel it against him. Later.
He didn’t need his boys to hold Sam in place this time: Sam was angled hard against the table. Schillinger went to work with less show this time - though he was sure to keep the proceedings in good view for Dean’s benefit. He worked faster, too: Sam was fucking hot, his ass involuntarily quivering under the branding, and Schillinger wanted more than just a brand on Sam’s skin. He took a quick glance at Sam’s dick, exposed under the torn clothing, to see if he was one of those fuckers who got off on pain. But no, it seemed this was one situation Schillinger alone would be enjoying. Which was just the way he wanted it.
Finishing, he blew on the swastika for a moment, raising goosebumps around the brand, and palmed the mark roughly. Sam inhaled sharply at the pain, creating a sensation in Schillinger’s gut as warming as the tortured flesh under his hand.
Sammy? You’re mine.
He passed the shiv off to Mack, and stood back to admire his handiwork. This swastika stood out even more starkly against the pale skin of Sam’s ass than it had on his arm. Now that Schillinger was looking, he could see that Sam’s legs were quivering slightly, too: the angle at which they’d had to tie them to bring his hips down to table-level made for an uncomfortable spread-half-squatting position that had Sam's muscles protesting. Between the straining muscles, the brand and the sheer size of this guy, Schillinger found himself thinking of Sam as a fine stallion. And dammit, he wanted to ride.
First things first, though. He turned back to Dean.
Dean’s arms were raw and bruised where he’d struggled against the ropes. Jesus, he’d practically done more damage to himself than his boys had. Behind the rage in his eyes, he saw a pain even deeper than he’d seen in Sam’s.
Yes.
He leaned in. “See? You can’t even hold onto what you already have. Hell, if you weren’t such a smartass, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about taking your brother from you. So really, you brought it on yourself - and him too. You might want to think about that every time you see Sammy’s marks. Don’t think you can fucking waltz in here like it’s some goddamned party and dance with us just because you’re tough and pretty and have a big mouth.” He smirked. “Though the mouth I can use.”
Schillinger leaned in even closer. “I’m sure you know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? I’m going to fuck Sam. And there’s not a single fucking thing you can do to stop it.” Dean’s eyes blazed at him. Jesus, if looks could kill, he would be burned alive.
Schillinger looked back at Sam, but his eyes were closed. Dammit. Schillinger turned back to Dean. “All you can do is make it...well, not comfortable, but at least somewhat less painful for him. See, the only lube your brother will be getting is your saliva on my cock. So you’d better make sure you do the job well, hadn’t you?"
“Oh, and I should mention” - he motioned to Mack, who pulled Sam’s head back and pressed the shiv hard against his neck - “that if you try anything - biting me, trying to be heroic, looking at me in a way I don’t like, let alone fucking talking - then your brother will be the one who pays. With his life. Am I clear?”
Whatever else he might be, Dean was apparently no fool. He nodded, once, and looked down. At that, one of the boys behind Dean removed the gag. Dean licked his lips but remained quiet. Schillinger stood up and unzipped his pants. He was already half-erect with anticipation. “Come on, pretty-boy,” he leered, “let’s see you put those lips of yours to good use.”
When Dean hesitated for a moment, Schillinger grabbed his head and brought it towards him roughly. Dean took the hint, and opened his mouth to take Schillinger in.
Schillinger thrust in deep again, and again - deeper than he’d intended, since Dean gagged. And dammit, while Dean was being careful about his teeth, he wasn’t using his tongue or lips at all. Schillinger leaned over again and hissed, “Listen. Smarten up or I will hurt your brother more. Do this like you fucking mean it. Or do you want to be responsible for putting him through even more?”
Schillinger saw with satisfaction the resignation in Dean’s eyes before he closed them, and began sucking Schillinger’s cock in earnest. Jesus. That was more like it. Schillinger had suspected that anyone God had gifted with those lips, he’d also gifted with the talent to use them. And holy fuck, he had not been wrong. He groaned involuntarily under Dean’s ministrations, which seemed to involve some sort of lick-slide-suck combination, coupled with something he was doing with his tongue that...fuck, he couldn’t really tell, but it was amazing. He looked down at Dean, and noticed less and less coherently his long eyelashes, under brows knitted in concentration and those indecently, fucking gorgeous lips. The visual was almost as good as the sensation. Almost.
This was quite possibly the best blowjob he’d ever had. Dean had apparently relaxed his throat enough to take him all the way in. He fucked Dean’s mouth with a vengeance, and damned if Dean didn’t respond in turn. God, he was close. He...he...fuck, he was too close. Dean had started bobbing more quickly, and if he didn’t stop now... Clever, Dean.
Schillinger forced himself to pull away, reluctantly, and Dean tried to follow, grunting against the limitations of his ropes in his effort to do so.
It took Schillinger a moment to find his voice. “Good try, Dean. You almost made me come. You don’t want that, do you? And leave nothing left for Sammy-boy here?”
Dean looked up at him, and the level of defeat and pain in his gaze gave Schillinger a profound level of satisfaction. When Dean cleared his throat, Schillinger knew what was coming. What else could Dean offer?
“Yeah, Dean? You got something to say?”
Dean closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough, raspy: whether from his earlier gag-bound yelling or from the fucking his mouth and throat had just taken, Schillinger didn’t know. It was barely audible. When Dean spoke, Schillinger had to strain to hear.
“Take me. Please. Leave Sam alone - take me instead. I’ll...I’ll be good, do whatever you want.”
Schillinger had thought his cock couldn’t be any harder. He’d been wrong. Could it get any better?
“Sorry, Dean, what did you say? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
Dean cleared his throat again, and looked up. Apparently it could get better: Dean was pleading, desperately, with his eyes. It was possibly the most glorious thing Schillinger had ever seen.
“Please. Take me instead of Sam. I - I’m begging you. Just let him be.”
Schillinger knelt down next to Dean, and picked up his discarded gag. Perhaps Dean didn’t realize he’d just given Schillinger everything already? Complete defeat. There was nothing left Dean had that Schillinger wanted - not even his ass. No, now he just wanted Sam.
He handed the gag to Hencke. “Gag him again.”
Ignoring the older brother, Schillinger returned to his current interest: Sam. And he thought Sam had been beautiful before: still bound, and with his head pulled back and the shiv still at his neck, his hair just brushed the top of his back. Now his neck and back were straining with the effort of that awkward position. His face was showing a different strain - of course, he’d been following the conversation with Dean. His eyes were still closed, and his face twisted in a mixture of rage and pain. His forehead furrowed deeply, along well-established lines. Schillinger bet that Sam worried a lot: he looked the type. Right now, of course, he had good reason. Very good reason.
Schillinger ran his fingers lightly over Sam’s body. He could feel Sam suppress a shudder, and exulted in it. He motioned for the shiv: he was in control of Sam now.
But he had forgotten about Dean. The only warning he had, as Mack passed him the shiv, was a sound that he recognized as a shoulder popping out of its socket. Schillinger turned barely in time to dodge Dean’s rolling attempt to trip him. It had been a stupid move: Dean was still tied up, even if he had managed to get his hands in front of him so he could roll effectively, and there were still several large Brotherhood members who were happy to return the bruisings they’d had at the hands of the Winchesters earlier. Hell, the ropes between his wrists and legs were close enough together that he couldn’t even stand - and now he had to deal with a dislocated shoulder. He had to admire the guy’s bravery and spirit - and he was in a generous mood from everything Dean had given him. “Don’t hurt him too badly,” he called over his shoulder as his boys moved in.
Really, the muted thuds of their boots connecting with flesh and bone didn’t sound any more restrained than usual. Oh well.
Turning back to Sam, Schillinger ran the shiv lightly down his back, tracing the mountains and valleys of muscle - and dug in, slightly, just above Sam’s kidney. A single drop of crimson oozed up from under the tip. “Now, Sam,” he said softly, “It’s just you and me.”
Sam turned his head, and looked directly at him. Begging. Oh, this was too much. Who were these guys? But really, he couldn’t resist hearing what Sam wanted to say: he removed the gag. This should be good.
“Please. Ask them to stop.”
Ah, so the little brother cared about his big brother. So touching. “Now why would I bother doing that?”
“It’s...it’s not necessary. You’ve made your point.”
Schillinger guffawed. This was priceless. “And here I thought you went to college. But that’s the best argument you could come up with? I must’ve guessed wrong.” He shook his head.
Sam made that face again, the pissy one. Fucker. Schillinger reached up from behind him and grabbed him by his lanky-ass hair. Stupid bastard. Should learn from his brother and cut it short so it couldn’t be grabbed so easily.
He jerked back hard on Sam’s head, bringing it back to a painful angle he knew was made much worse by the pull of his bound arms in the other direction. Both brothers would have dislocated shoulders, if they weren’t careful. He jabbed the shiv between Sam’s ear and jaw - not deep, but excruciating nonetheless, he knew. Not a sound came from Sam, though he could feel Sam’s body tense even further. Close, next to Sam’s ear, Schillinger hissed, “Get that fucking exasperated look off your face.”
He watched as Sam tried to compose himself. Sam managed: he knew his brother’s life might depend on it. He must hear how sickening the thuds against Dean’s body were, must be gauging their impact.
Sam tried again. “Please. What...what will it take to make them stop? We...I don’t have anything to offer you.”
Schillinger bit down on Sam’s ear. Hard. No grunt, nothing. He pressed in deeper with the shiv. Still nothing, though he could feel Sam’s body shudder in protest. Jesus, this guy could take pain. “No, you don’t have anything to offer. And even if you did, I would just take it anyway.”
Huh. For all of Sam’s dewy eyes, Dean really begged much more satisfyingly.
Still.
He pulled back, glanced over at Dean, and back at Sam. He hated to admit it, but their strength, and loyalty to each other moved him. Oh, what the hell. They were white, after all - he was willing to be generous.
“Okay, guys, stop.”
Immediately they pulled back. Dean didn’t move, and was curled away from Schillinger so he couldn’t see Dean’s face. There was some blood, of course, but not much, considering. Fortunately, Sam couldn’t see anything from his angle. Schillinger twitched an eyebrow at his men: was Dean dead? Three heads shook. Good.
He turned back to Sam. No more delays. He was aching for this. Curtly he said, “Your brother’s alive.”
Sam visibly relaxed - or tried to, as far as his contorted position allowed. Schillinger leaned forward again and murmured into Sam’s ear. “I suggest you also try to relax your ass.”
He must like these guys, he thought. That was more foreplay than he’d given in ages.
He released Sam’s hair, slid his hands back down Sam’s back, over that gorgeous ass with his mark, and kneaded those cheeks roughly for a moment, savoring this, before pulling them apart.
Schillinger grinned at the first touch. Sam hadn’t relaxed his ass. Probably didn’t even know how to. He bet that Sam had only ever fucked women. Probably people he loved, for fuck’s sake. Fortunately, Schillinger had more than enough experience for the both of them.
He wasn’t gentle. He wanted it to hurt - to see what reactions he could wring from this man. What was left of Dean’s saliva didn’t make much difference for Sam, which was fine with Schillinger. He relished watching every muscle in Sam’s body tense in screaming protest to this violation. Relished Sam’s attempt to choke off what might have been a grunt, or a sob. Later Sam made a single, tiny, mewling cry torn from the back of his throat, almost inaudible and quickly silenced. Sam’s sharp intake of breath with each stroke was the only other sound he let escape, as Schillinger drove in deeper, painfully deeper with thrust after thrust. Sam was silent, beyond those few noises. Schillinger was used to screaming, begging, crying. But each miniscule sound he wrested from Sam he treasured above it all.
God, what a body. What a ride. He was in to the hilt, now, and Sam was so hot under him, and impossibly tight. A virgin ass, staked and claimed as his alone. He could feel the left ass cheek, even hotter under protest from the unwelcome branding, the burned edges of Sam’s flesh pressed against his skin. And Sam’s body was betraying the reactions he wouldn’t let past his lips. The muscles in Sam’s legs and arms and back that were quivering before were shaking now, shaking uncontrollably. Sam’s hands, those massive paws, clenched helplessly.
He’d wanted this to last, but there was no way. Sam’s reactions were driving him over the edge. He wanted to see Sam’s face before he came, though, dammit: he grabbed a fistful of Sam’s hair, that fucking hair, dragging his head back and up and twisting it as far around as he could. He caught Sam’s face in quarter profile, his eyes shut and face contorted in agony, but Schillinger could see the desperate clench of his jaw as he fought for control over his own reactions, the only thing he had left. Fighting to the end. A warrior, Schillinger thought suddenly. Like his brother.
Warriors conquered. For this battle, if not the war, they were utterly defeated. It was Schillinger’s last exultant thought before that euphoric pressure built up impossibly high, higher - and he came with a holler, emptying himself deep inside Sam. He involuntarily jerked Sam’s head even further back, revelling in the perfect curve of Sam’s wide back down towards him, Sam’s narrow hips - and Schillinger was still coming, emptying everything he had into this man. His man. His Sam.
At last, utterly spent, Schillinger let go of Sam’s hair and withdrew himself. He held out a hand, and one of his boys obligingly tossed him a towel: they knew the drill. He mopped himself up: there was some blood, of course, that was to be expected, but nothing too bad, really. Fuck, he felt great. That Sam might well have been the best ride he’d ever had.
He tucked himself in, slapped Sam on the ass congenially, tossed his gag to Mack to put back on him, and walked over to Dean’s inert body. Dean was a mess: there was no question that he’d be in the infirmary for a while. But he’d live. And so would Sam.
Schillinger found himself pleased at this prospect. He’d put them in their place, showed them exactly where they stood in Oz - but frankly, in the process had gained some respect for them. They’d make life around here more interesting. Now that Schillinger knew which buttons of theirs to press, he could do so at will, and he was planning on thoroughly enjoying himself when he did so.
With a motion he gathered his boys, and together they left the room without a backward glance. Someone would find Sam and Dean soon enough; someone always did. It might get traced back to him, but perhaps not: other plans were in motion for the eventuality.
But in the meantime, it was definitely a good day. Schillinger started whistling again.