The sky too is folding under you (and it's all over now, baby blue), part 4
That night, Mr. Lyle paid him a visit. He was shackled to the wall, which was new, but he figured that it was all part of whatever plan Lyle had in his sick, twisted mind, since he showed up alone for the first time since they’d been introduced.
Dean was expecting jumper cables again, or even just a crow bar, but the only thing Lyle had in hand was a big envelope. He sat down next to Dean, not even fearing retaliation, knowing even breathing was painful to Dean right then.
“Come to gloat?” Dean hissed, trying to straighten up a bit, not wanting to give Lyle the satisfaction of seeing him as such a mess.
“You should watch your mouth, boy. You were doing so well. Really. It’s such a shame.” Lyle shook his head, feigning concern.
“You can do whatever the hell you want, Lyle, I’m not gonna help you kill an innocent kid,” Dean spat, wishing he could choke the life out of him. It wouldn’t solve anything, and would probably make things worse, but it would be so nice.
“You should be reasonable. Is it worth it, really?”
“Yeah.”
Lyle sighed.
“I wished it hadn’t come to this, Dean, but you leave me no other choice.”
He grabbed the enveloped and reached for its contents, dropping it on the floor.
Sam.
Pictures of his baby brother, some with a pretty blonde, some with other boys. These weren’t just surveillance pictures. His brother wasn’t just being watched. In each one, Sam and whoever else was in the picture were smiling genuinely; the person behind the camera was a friend to these people.
“Lyle, I swear if you touch him, I -” Dean started, only to be cut off by a sharp pain in his side.
Lyle had gotten closer, a hand firmly pressed to Dean’s bruised and abused torso, his breath tickling Dean’s skin, his teeth an inch away from Dean’s ear.
“Do not threaten me, Dean. You don’t want to play that game with me. You want to go on strike? Fine. But remember I know where dear Sammy lives. In fact, I have someone probably planning a barbecue with him right as we speak. And for every day you refuse to work, Dean, I’ll make sure someone Sammy cares about dies. I’ll make sure Sammy feels like his life is a living hell, that he’s responsible for everyone around him dying. And when there’s no one left, you want to know what I’ll do?”
Dean swallowed painfully, tears streaming down his face despite his best efforts. He had thought things couldn’t get any worse after what had happened to him just lately. He had been so wrong - this was worse than anything that had come before.
“When all there’s left is your brother, I’ll bring him in here, right next to you, and I’ll make sure he experiences everything you’ve experienced so far, and more.”
Lyle released the pressure applied to the wound, and closed his hand around Dean’s nape, gripping tight.
“So. Do we have a deal?”
Dean swallowed hard, trying to ignore surfacing memories of Lyle’s touch on his skin.
“Do we have a deal?” Lyle repeated, hissing through his teeth.
“Yes,” Dean finally answered, voice broken, vision blurry through the tears. The grip tightened: not good enough. “… Mr. Lyle.”
“Good boy,” Lyle whispered in his ear. He released the grip, leaving the hand at the base of Dean’s skull, massaging the abused shoulders. “Such a good boy. I wish it hadn’t come to that, you know?” The hand roamed across Dean’s back, the touch light and soothing, yet alien and heavy. “I didn’t want you to have to worry about that, I swear,” he went on; his free hand was now resting on Dean’s thigh. “You know I only want to help, right?”
Dean sobbed. “Yes, Mr. Lyle.” It was the answer he wanted to hear, Dean knew.
“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?” Lyle soothed, sounding eerily sympathetic. Dean could have seen right through the act, if he had wanted. He’d been around Lyle long enough to know there was no such thing as sympathy from the man. But it wasn’t what he needed. “Come on, it’s okay. I know what you need.” Dean let the words sink in, pretending this fake kindness was real. Lyle’s gaze went to the security camera, and Dean followed it, instantly noticing that the red light wasn’t flashing on and off like it was supposed to. They were alone.
The hand resting on the thigh started stroking it up and down, firm and possessive, warming the skin through the cotton pants. Dean closed his eyes, pretending he wasn’t chained up to a wall, hurting. Pretending pictures of his brother weren’t still sprawled out in front of him.
His breath hitched when the hand closed on his crotch, palming his cock. “It’s okay,” Lyle shushed once again, hot breath against his neck. The glove was still massaging his nape, running up and down his spine, relaxing his hands. His fist unclenched under the chains, and Dean let out a breath he’d been holding for an eternity.
The hand reached inside his pants, the loose elastic around Dean’s hips allowing it to move freely inside them. It was warm and soft, strange and yet familiar. Dean hadn’t jerked off, not since he’d been brought there, and he had somehow forgotten the feeling of a hand around his penis.
The stroking, that long, slow motion of up and down, up and down, up and down, was strangely synchronized with his own heartbeat. The faster the motion got, the faster his heart pulsed. Lyle was still beside him, his free hand resting against the small of Dean’s back, and it felt heavy and meaningful. Dean’s chin was resting against his chest, eyes closed firmly; breathing hard, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. His hands were closing into fists again, trying to grip sheets that weren’t there, and every stroke that was too sudden made his breath rise too quickly, sending a jolt of pain through his abdomen.
“That’s it,” Lyle encouraged. He quickened the pace, his penis slick with pre-come. “See? I can take care of you. You just have to be a good boy.”
Dean’s face closed in a frown, trying to concentrate only on what his body was feeling; trying to block out the voice that kept eventually passing through the barriers, finding its way into Dean’s mind.
Dean could feel his pulse beating against the heavy cuffs. He was getting lightheaded, the fast breathing forcing too much oxygen in his brain. Lyle must have noticed his laborious breathing and slowed down the pace consequently, stealing a moan out of Dean’s throat.
Lyle’s chuckle was cut off by the sound of rattling chains, as Dean tried to move his hands to close around his penis, taking control of the action. The sound grew louder as Lyle grabbed the chains and pulled on it. Dean’s hands jerked backwards, pinned there by Lyle’s firm grip on them.
Dean pushed back the thoughts of how wrong it was that he’d lost control over that too, and then the pace increased again, and suddenly Lyle was breathing against his skin, short of breath and bothered, and whispering words to Dean, encouraging him. Dean felt so lost and confused, the mixed feelings and emotions going through his body short-circuiting his brain, rendering him unable to process anything other than pain or pleasure.
His breathing got more erratic, his chest painfully complaining over the beating he’d taken not long ago, and his hands were trying to jump free of his chains, bruising his skin. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth slightly open, tongue dry and heavy. The guttural sounds emanating from his throat were of both pleasure and pain, Dean unable to tell where either came from.
And then, just as he was about to come, Lyle gripped the base of his cock tightly and Dean’s vision cleared. He gasped in shock, his body shaking and almost feverish.
“Come on, Dean,” he hissed in his ear, words echoing in his mind like a snake curling around its prey. “You know what I want to hear.”
Dean was trying his best to control the animalistic sounds that came out of his throat, his mouth dry and his voice cracked. He licked the tears on his upper lip, salty and sweaty, and arched his hips into Lyle’s hand.
“Please, Mr. Lyle,” he whispered, vocal chords barely functioning.
“Yes?”
“I need to…” Dean had no rational thinking left. He didn’t register the words coming out, or how ashamed he should have been for speaking them; the only thing in his system that raw, primal need. “I need to come.”
“Now, Dean,” Lyle taunted, stroking his penis very slowly yet firmly, tearing another whimper from Dean. “It’s not really how it’s done. Come on, try again.”
Christ.
“Please, Mr. Lyle… may I… may I come?”
“Good boy.”
Everything came crashing down, Dean’s back arching, his hands still pulled behind his back, shaping his torso at an awkward angle, like a man trying to draw a breath after too much time underwater.
Lyle didn’t bother cleaning the come before leaving the cell.
***
“Sam?” Jess called, eyelids still heavy. “Baby? Come back to bed?”
“In a minute.”
“Sam, it’s 5 in the morning. What the hell are you doing up? In sweatpants?” She raised an eyebrow as she sat on the couch next to him, cuddling against his body.
“Nothing, just… going over some paperwork for the interview,” he replied, still focused on the papers in front of him.
“Again, it’s 5 in the morning. Couldn’t it wait? And why do you smell like you just went for a run?”
“Cause I did. I’m sorry I woke you up, baby,” he apologized, turning to her to place a kiss on her forehead.
“You had another nightmare?”
“Nothing to worry about,” he shrugged off, not wanting to dwell on the subject. He did not want to think about that.
“Sam, I’m kinda worried about these nightmares of yours. You’ve been getting them an awful lot, lately…”
“I… I guess I’ve just been stressed, okay? Just… go back to bed, baby. I’ll join you in a bit.”
She kissed him and left pretty much after that, leaving him to his own thoughts.
He reached for the phone on the table, going through his contacts list; his finger stopped as the cursor reached Dean’s number. God, he wanted to call him so badly… But he hadn’t in so long. It felt like calling to talk about nightmares would only prove that he was still that kid who needed his big brother to protect him.
No. He’d stopped being that kid when he got on the bus, leaving his family behind.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
Dean was expecting jumper cables again, or even just a crow bar, but the only thing Lyle had in hand was a big envelope. He sat down next to Dean, not even fearing retaliation, knowing even breathing was painful to Dean right then.
“Come to gloat?” Dean hissed, trying to straighten up a bit, not wanting to give Lyle the satisfaction of seeing him as such a mess.
“You should watch your mouth, boy. You were doing so well. Really. It’s such a shame.” Lyle shook his head, feigning concern.
“You can do whatever the hell you want, Lyle, I’m not gonna help you kill an innocent kid,” Dean spat, wishing he could choke the life out of him. It wouldn’t solve anything, and would probably make things worse, but it would be so nice.
“You should be reasonable. Is it worth it, really?”
“Yeah.”
Lyle sighed.
“I wished it hadn’t come to this, Dean, but you leave me no other choice.”
He grabbed the enveloped and reached for its contents, dropping it on the floor.
Sam.
Pictures of his baby brother, some with a pretty blonde, some with other boys. These weren’t just surveillance pictures. His brother wasn’t just being watched. In each one, Sam and whoever else was in the picture were smiling genuinely; the person behind the camera was a friend to these people.
“Lyle, I swear if you touch him, I -” Dean started, only to be cut off by a sharp pain in his side.
Lyle had gotten closer, a hand firmly pressed to Dean’s bruised and abused torso, his breath tickling Dean’s skin, his teeth an inch away from Dean’s ear.
“Do not threaten me, Dean. You don’t want to play that game with me. You want to go on strike? Fine. But remember I know where dear Sammy lives. In fact, I have someone probably planning a barbecue with him right as we speak. And for every day you refuse to work, Dean, I’ll make sure someone Sammy cares about dies. I’ll make sure Sammy feels like his life is a living hell, that he’s responsible for everyone around him dying. And when there’s no one left, you want to know what I’ll do?”
Dean swallowed painfully, tears streaming down his face despite his best efforts. He had thought things couldn’t get any worse after what had happened to him just lately. He had been so wrong - this was worse than anything that had come before.
“When all there’s left is your brother, I’ll bring him in here, right next to you, and I’ll make sure he experiences everything you’ve experienced so far, and more.”
Lyle released the pressure applied to the wound, and closed his hand around Dean’s nape, gripping tight.
“So. Do we have a deal?”
Dean swallowed hard, trying to ignore surfacing memories of Lyle’s touch on his skin.
“Do we have a deal?” Lyle repeated, hissing through his teeth.
“Yes,” Dean finally answered, voice broken, vision blurry through the tears. The grip tightened: not good enough. “… Mr. Lyle.”
“Good boy,” Lyle whispered in his ear. He released the grip, leaving the hand at the base of Dean’s skull, massaging the abused shoulders. “Such a good boy. I wish it hadn’t come to that, you know?” The hand roamed across Dean’s back, the touch light and soothing, yet alien and heavy. “I didn’t want you to have to worry about that, I swear,” he went on; his free hand was now resting on Dean’s thigh. “You know I only want to help, right?”
Dean sobbed. “Yes, Mr. Lyle.” It was the answer he wanted to hear, Dean knew.
“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?” Lyle soothed, sounding eerily sympathetic. Dean could have seen right through the act, if he had wanted. He’d been around Lyle long enough to know there was no such thing as sympathy from the man. But it wasn’t what he needed. “Come on, it’s okay. I know what you need.” Dean let the words sink in, pretending this fake kindness was real. Lyle’s gaze went to the security camera, and Dean followed it, instantly noticing that the red light wasn’t flashing on and off like it was supposed to. They were alone.
The hand resting on the thigh started stroking it up and down, firm and possessive, warming the skin through the cotton pants. Dean closed his eyes, pretending he wasn’t chained up to a wall, hurting. Pretending pictures of his brother weren’t still sprawled out in front of him.
His breath hitched when the hand closed on his crotch, palming his cock. “It’s okay,” Lyle shushed once again, hot breath against his neck. The glove was still massaging his nape, running up and down his spine, relaxing his hands. His fist unclenched under the chains, and Dean let out a breath he’d been holding for an eternity.
The hand reached inside his pants, the loose elastic around Dean’s hips allowing it to move freely inside them. It was warm and soft, strange and yet familiar. Dean hadn’t jerked off, not since he’d been brought there, and he had somehow forgotten the feeling of a hand around his penis.
The stroking, that long, slow motion of up and down, up and down, up and down, was strangely synchronized with his own heartbeat. The faster the motion got, the faster his heart pulsed. Lyle was still beside him, his free hand resting against the small of Dean’s back, and it felt heavy and meaningful. Dean’s chin was resting against his chest, eyes closed firmly; breathing hard, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. His hands were closing into fists again, trying to grip sheets that weren’t there, and every stroke that was too sudden made his breath rise too quickly, sending a jolt of pain through his abdomen.
“That’s it,” Lyle encouraged. He quickened the pace, his penis slick with pre-come. “See? I can take care of you. You just have to be a good boy.”
Dean’s face closed in a frown, trying to concentrate only on what his body was feeling; trying to block out the voice that kept eventually passing through the barriers, finding its way into Dean’s mind.
Dean could feel his pulse beating against the heavy cuffs. He was getting lightheaded, the fast breathing forcing too much oxygen in his brain. Lyle must have noticed his laborious breathing and slowed down the pace consequently, stealing a moan out of Dean’s throat.
Lyle’s chuckle was cut off by the sound of rattling chains, as Dean tried to move his hands to close around his penis, taking control of the action. The sound grew louder as Lyle grabbed the chains and pulled on it. Dean’s hands jerked backwards, pinned there by Lyle’s firm grip on them.
Dean pushed back the thoughts of how wrong it was that he’d lost control over that too, and then the pace increased again, and suddenly Lyle was breathing against his skin, short of breath and bothered, and whispering words to Dean, encouraging him. Dean felt so lost and confused, the mixed feelings and emotions going through his body short-circuiting his brain, rendering him unable to process anything other than pain or pleasure.
His breathing got more erratic, his chest painfully complaining over the beating he’d taken not long ago, and his hands were trying to jump free of his chains, bruising his skin. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth slightly open, tongue dry and heavy. The guttural sounds emanating from his throat were of both pleasure and pain, Dean unable to tell where either came from.
And then, just as he was about to come, Lyle gripped the base of his cock tightly and Dean’s vision cleared. He gasped in shock, his body shaking and almost feverish.
“Come on, Dean,” he hissed in his ear, words echoing in his mind like a snake curling around its prey. “You know what I want to hear.”
Dean was trying his best to control the animalistic sounds that came out of his throat, his mouth dry and his voice cracked. He licked the tears on his upper lip, salty and sweaty, and arched his hips into Lyle’s hand.
“Please, Mr. Lyle,” he whispered, vocal chords barely functioning.
“Yes?”
“I need to…” Dean had no rational thinking left. He didn’t register the words coming out, or how ashamed he should have been for speaking them; the only thing in his system that raw, primal need. “I need to come.”
“Now, Dean,” Lyle taunted, stroking his penis very slowly yet firmly, tearing another whimper from Dean. “It’s not really how it’s done. Come on, try again.”
Christ.
“Please, Mr. Lyle… may I… may I come?”
“Good boy.”
Everything came crashing down, Dean’s back arching, his hands still pulled behind his back, shaping his torso at an awkward angle, like a man trying to draw a breath after too much time underwater.
Lyle didn’t bother cleaning the come before leaving the cell.
***
“Sam?” Jess called, eyelids still heavy. “Baby? Come back to bed?”
“In a minute.”
“Sam, it’s 5 in the morning. What the hell are you doing up? In sweatpants?” She raised an eyebrow as she sat on the couch next to him, cuddling against his body.
“Nothing, just… going over some paperwork for the interview,” he replied, still focused on the papers in front of him.
“Again, it’s 5 in the morning. Couldn’t it wait? And why do you smell like you just went for a run?”
“Cause I did. I’m sorry I woke you up, baby,” he apologized, turning to her to place a kiss on her forehead.
“You had another nightmare?”
“Nothing to worry about,” he shrugged off, not wanting to dwell on the subject. He did not want to think about that.
“Sam, I’m kinda worried about these nightmares of yours. You’ve been getting them an awful lot, lately…”
“I… I guess I’ve just been stressed, okay? Just… go back to bed, baby. I’ll join you in a bit.”
She kissed him and left pretty much after that, leaving him to his own thoughts.
He reached for the phone on the table, going through his contacts list; his finger stopped as the cursor reached Dean’s number. God, he wanted to call him so badly… But he hadn’t in so long. It felt like calling to talk about nightmares would only prove that he was still that kid who needed his big brother to protect him.
No. He’d stopped being that kid when he got on the bus, leaving his family behind.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10