Fic: Lookin' to Get Hurt (SPN, NC-17)
Title: Lookin' to get hurt
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Lisa, Dean/Others (Male and Female), Dean/Sam overall
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3800
Warnings: verbal and physical abuse, domination, submission, violence, language, hints of daddy issues
Spoilers: Post 5-22
Summary: He wants to do the right thing, but there's nothing right about him. He misses pain. Misses the rush. Misses Sam.
Inspired by a half remembered Bruce Springsteen quote about how most of the guys getting in bar fights, they didn't really want to hit anyone, they wanted to get hit.
He misses pain. If you wanted to put some kind of bow on it, you could call it post-traumatic stress or masochism or just good old kinky bullshit. But that's just what it would be-bullshit. It isn't some kind of garden variety psychological issue he's dealing with and he'll be goddamned before he lets anyone tell him it is. This is bigger than that. He misses the endorphin rush, the way his body overcompensated for the pain of a punch or a cut or a bullet wound. He was used to the pain high and now that high has been taken away from him and he either has to learn to live without it or find it somewhere else, in some other narcotic. Because, when you get right down to it, there's a real fucking amazing thrill that comes from someone bashing your face in. It's not something a person can imagine until he's felt it. Dean's felt it, it's been part of the core of his being for just about as long as he can remember. Damn right he feels lost without that rush. At least junkies get locked in a safe room with round the clock guards to keep them safe. He's got to ween himself off of this fucked up addiction all by himself. Not only that, but he's got to do it while learning to be a partner and a father and starting his life from nothing. No one should have to put up with that much. No one should be expected to be that strong. But that's what he's trying to do. He's Dean fucking Winchester and by God, he is going to be the substitute husband and father, apple pie, white bread, picket fence cliche that he promised Sam he would be. He has to break himself of the rush. He has to find a way to live without it, because there's no way in hell (hell..Sam, dammit) that he's going to be able to keep his promise unless he can learn to give up the thrill.
Lisa
The first time he asks her to hit him, she pulls away from him, rolls over and pretends to fall asleep. Leaves him hard and miserable and so full of self-hatred that he doesn't even bother trying to talk to her for three days.
The second time, she does it. She slaps his face, not hard, but it's clear she's trying. “Harder,” he asks, but she can't do it. She tries, lifts her hand, like she's going to give him exactly what he needs. He braces himself, ready and oh so willing. Her hand drops, weightless, harmless against his cheek and she looks like she's going to cry. He tries to reassure her, pushes up into her, grabs her hips and calls her beautiful. They finish what they started. She braces herself against the wall, moans, soft, sweet, gentle moans and he comes because she's beautiful, and perfect and good to him and it's nice. It's just not enough.
Months later, she gives him what he's been begging her for. They've been fighting. It's just a fight. It doesn't even matter what the subject was. (Milk, he kept buying the wrong milk, he bought whole, she only ever bought skim, but it didn't matter, it wasn't about milk, they both knew that.) The fight has gone on too long. It'd gotten bad enough that Ben had yelled downstairs--told them to stop it, dammit, stop fighting. But they don't. Neither of them could even say why. If you asked, they'd both say it wasn't that big of a deal, but at that moment, by God it mattered. It mattered a whole hell of a lot (...hell) and neither one of them was going to be the one to give an inch. He was screaming at her, screaming and whatever it was he was saying it all boiled down to “You can't do it! You'll never be able to give me what I want.” He meant the rush. He meant the high. He didn't mean that other thing. He wasn't even thinking about the other thing. (He wasn't thinking about Sammy, a gun to his head, a knife to his throat, he would swear on his life, he wasn't thinking about his brother.) The blood rose in her face. She was raw and angry and her voice was fire and hard, sharp edges. He knew damn good and well he was baiting her, he knew he was pushing her. He'd never claim he was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew women weren't raised to fight back. He knew what people weren't supposed to want to fight. It's just that, right then, he didn't give a fuck.
“Do it, goddammit, you know you want to.” He backed her against a wall, not quite pinned, but she wasn't going far unless he let her.
“I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, you cocksucker,” she hissed.
“Takes one to know one, bitch.” He knew damn good and well he had crossed a line. Gone to a place a man did not go with a woman. Said something that was unforgivable. He wouldn't forgive himself for saying shit like that, it wasn't the kind of man he was...but if it got him what he wanted...if he got what he needed...
“Oh you asshole,” she said, shaping a fist and bringing it down against his shoulder.
“What? Spit it out,” he said. “What do you want to say to me?”
“You motherfucker!” She pounded her hands against his chest, dragged her fingernails against the cotton fabric of his t-shirt..
He pressed against the wall. “Don't stop there, you cunt. Don't fucking stop now.” Jesus Christ he hated himself. Hated that he could say these things to someone he loved. Hated that those words even crossed his mind, let alone his lips. Then there was that voice, making it worse. Somehow making him hate himself even more. Shut up Sammy. Shut up. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. The end of the fucking world would be better than this.
“Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my house!” With the last word she brought a hand across his face. One fast, hard, slap. Just enough to send a quick shiver down his spine.
“Do it again,” he said through clenched teeth. “Please.”
“Fuck you.” Tears running down her face. Her whole body shaking. She was broken. He knew the look well. He'd been there more than a few times himself.
“Lisa, please,” he was barely able to keep the tears in check. They were there, forcing themselves against his eyelids. He didn't dare open his eyes. Anymore than that and he'd break along with her. He couldn't do that. Not until he'd earned the right, and he didn't think he had yet. Breaking her heart wasn't good enough. He had to hurt, dammit. He had to feel like the motherfucker cocksucking asshole sonofabitch failure that he was and he didn't yet. “Do. It. Again.”
The next time her hand met his face it stung, really burned, the way he was used to, the way he hoped it would. There was no doubt on this earth she meant it. He winced, turned his face and waiting for the next blow. She obliged, slapping so hard his head bounced against the wall. He could feel the hot tears pushing against his eyes. One more, he just needed one more, that would be enough.
You're lying to yourself.
“Get out,” she said through tears.
“Lisa...”
“You heard me.”
He tried to find the right words. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I love you,” he said, because he meant it.
“I know.”
She'd turned away from him, walked upstairs to their bedroom, and locked the door behind her. He tried talking through the door. Tried to tell her it was just a momentary lapse, but they both knew that wasn't the case. It wasn't momentary. It wasn't a lapse. It was who he was. He'd slept on the couch that night. Next day, he didn't bother going into work. He stayed home and packed what little he had worth taking, what little he had he could claim as his own, and was on the road before Ben got home from school. He didn't say goodbye. Just left a two word note: “I'm sorry.”
Sonny
He was tall and thin and had ridiculous hair that could do with a wash and a run in with a pair of scissors. If Dean had thought about it much, he was too thin and not tall enough and his hair was too blonde, but one thing Dean wasn't doing lately was thinking. He had lost the little bit he had, lost the last moorings he had been holding on to for dear life. There was no point in being picky at this point. The guy didn't ask questions. Didn't want background details. Just nodded and said he could do that, no problem, wouldn't be the first time. If he managed to do a halfway decent proximity of being in character, it was more than Dean deserved.
“Bend over,” he said, his voice not quite deep enough, his tone a little too amused.
“Since when do you get to make the rules?” Dean tried to sound confident, thought it would make it feel more real.
“Since you proved once and for all you can't be trusted to do a damn thing right.” He pushed Dean down over the edge of the motel room table and kicked his legs apart. “Unbutton your pants, bitch.”
Dean's dick twitched at the last word. Without standing up, he reached over and popped open the button on his jeans. He felt the denim slide down his legs until they were bunched around his ankles. He heard Sonny (Not Sam...His name is Sonny...Sam's gone...Sam will never, would never, do this) unbuckle his belt and slide the leather through the loops, slow, so that there was a tiny snap every second or two. Dean winced at the sound, painfully aware that those small snaps were nothing compared to what he was in for.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he barked.
“I'll go at my own sweet pace. Or maybe I'll just stop right now.” His voice sounded like it was moving away. Like he really was going to walk out.
“You wouldn't.”
“Masochist says 'beat me, beat me.' Sadist says, 'No," he taunted.
“I'm the one with the money asshole. You want to pay power games, maybe you ought to get paid first.”
He laughed. A laugh that made Dean dig his fingers along the top of the wood grain table. “I'll leave, doesn't matter to me. Some other sick fuck will come along soon enough. He may not be as pretty as you are, but I bet he can pay more.”
“Just do it and you can get on with you night, all right?” He was dangerously close to reconsidering this whole stupid idea. But he didn't want to go to bed another night feeling like he had every night since he'd left Lisa's. He didn't dare ask someone he didn't plan to pay to do this. Money had to be exchanged. Only way he could let it happen. The only somewhat safe way of fixing the misfire in his brain. Even if it was just a temporary fix. It was better than nothing.
The belt cut through the air, he heard it before it hit, but the sound was nothing compared to the sensation. He clenched his teeth, but didn't make a sound.
“Count,” he was instructed.
“One,” he said, doing his best to sound cocky, like he didn't give a damn that he was getting his ass beat.
The second blow crossed the second. “Two,” he said as the third and fourth strike came down on his rapidly growing tender ass that he couldn't even get both numbers out. They came out as one word, “threefor.” The fifth was harder than all the others, hard enough it made him jump, his right hand reached out to block the belt.
“Don't do that,” came the instruction. “Don't do that, or I'll add more. You understand?”
“Yes--sir,” Dean said, aware as soon as the word left his mouth that this was getting sicker and more twisted with each second.
A hand stroked his sore, hot ass, offering relief he knew he hadn't earned yet. “You'll get at least 10 more. You don't have to count them out loud, but it's up to you to keep track. I'm not going to stop until you tell me to.”
Dean inhaled. This was stirring up shit he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with. But he'd started. He wasn't going to pussy out, now. “OK.”
“Dean.” A hand weaved fingers through his hair, tugged at the roots, pulled his head back. “Show some respect.”
“Yes sir,” he answered, ever the obedient soldier. Don't think about Dad. This has nothing to do with Dad. “Whatever you want, sir.” No. It has nothing to do with Dad. That would be sick. This is about your brother. That makes it so much better.
“That's good, Dean. That's good.” The last word was barely out before the belt was connecting with the back of his thighs. Drawing back, slicing through the air, coming down over and over, the leather wrapping around his hips and slicing into the soft, tender flesh on the edge of his stomach. He didn't count, didn't measure the time between blows, didn't do anything but close his eyes and feel the pain spreading across his back and ass and down his legs. Leather to flesh. Flesh to leather. Pain building steady until he could feel the endorphins start to kick in. That familiar high, edging into the mind space held by the pain.
“Harder, “ he said.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn't ask,” he had to stop and catch his breath. “I wouldn't ask if I wasn't.”
“Fine.” The next few moments were nothing but flashes of hot pain followed by adrenaline. He knew he wouldn't be walking easy anytime soon. The pain was intense and concentrated right on the tenderest, fleshiest part of his ass and thighs. This guy knew what he was doing. Sitting would be a nightmare for a day or two at least. Maybe he ought make himself drive a couple of states over, just to make the pain last. That would serve him right, a constant reminder of the bruises and pain, of all the pain he'd caused everyone he'd ever loved. It wouldn't come close to making up for what he'd done. He needed more.
“Fuck me.”
The strikes from the belt came to an abrupt halt. “It'll cost you.”
“You're a whore. It's what you do. Show me what you've got.”
“It's your money.”
A few seconds later, Dean felt the cold slick being rubbed against his hole. He closed his eyes and reminded himself to relax. A finger slid inside him, he took a deep breath, steadied himself for the second finger. He knew the pattern, 1 finger, 2 fingers, 3 fingers, cock. He'd been through it before. He had time for that. He wanted to hurt. Even with prep, it would hurt plenty. He didn't want to be gutted. He wasn't nearly as stupid as he was crazy. Two fingers inside him now, scissoring open, spreading him apart. And the third. Awhile longer and the tip, pressing into him, spreading him in a way no fingers could. He pressed his forehead against the table, pushed back against the cock and let his mind go. “Sammy. God, I've missed you so much. I can't do this without you.” Out loud, he only moaned. Pushed back, taking the stranger's cock as deep as he could get it. Bucking against the table. Throwing his head back. No words. Just violent, growls and unformed, guttural, vulgar sounds.
When it was over, he pulled his pants up, took out his wallet and offered the contents. “If that's not enough, I can get more, but it'll take awhile.”
Sonny, who didn't even look that much like Sam now that Dean really looked at him, counted out his fee and handed the rest back. It was enough to get him through a couple of days, it wouldn't be a great couple of days, if he slept anywhere but the car he'd be broke before the weekend, but at least he hadn't cleaned him completely out.
Trouble
That was the first. There werea lot more. Different scenarios, same goal. Motel rooms off state routes. Apartments just outside of town. Rooms off of alleys near the main street. He wasn't picky. He was equal opportunity, he found women and men willing to do the job. He took beatings in ways he'd never imagined. On his knees, gagged, his hands tied over his head, a woman in Chicago used a riding crop on him until he was sure he'd have scars. He was disappointed when he was wrong. In Ohio things had gotten a little weird, even for him, and somehow turned into a bad schoolboy scenario that he did not enjoy, but didn't bother stopping, either. He got paddled so hard he'd wasted almost $100 on two nights in motels because he couldn't sit to drive. It was as predictable as it was sad.
Wasn't long before that wasn't enough, so he started getting into fights. Went to bars, had a few drinks, picked a big guy and made him mad. The rest was easy. A few words, a threat and he was getting a good punch in the face. After the guy started, he didn't even have to do anything. He just had to stand there (and eventually lie there, then curl up on the ground there) and let it happen. It hurt. Oh Christ, yeah, it hurt. But it was physical, it wasn't like that gnawing feeling deep in his gut that made him want to drive his car off of a bridge or into a tree. He was in control of this pain. He chose when and where it happened. That was how he kept going. He knew he could pull off and ease the ache inside him with a few choice words. Get a few fresh bruises and some public humiliation to keep him going until the next time it got to be too much.
Sam
The day Sam showed up, Dean was in a motel off of 31W nursing a black eye, a sore everything and what he suspected might be a couple of broken ribs and a little internal bleeding. It'd been a rough couple of days. Every day was rough, but the last few...hell, he was only alive because he didn't have the balls to kill himself. He was working hard at finding someone who would do it for him. He'd come close last night, but the guy's friends had dragged him off before he'd finished the job. He was hurt good this time. He wasn't even sure how he'd managed to drive back to the motel.
When he heard the knock on the door he thought maybe the big guy had tracked him down. That'd be great. Save him the trouble of binding his ribs and going down the road until he found some guy who was drunk, alone and easily provoked.
“It ain't locked, come the fuck in if you want,” he said. He didn't even open his eyes to see who was opening the door. He just waited for the blow, or the bullet or whatever it was that would do him in this time. No more heavenly interference to save him anymore. He'd looked hard enough. Cas hadn't showed his face in all the months since this had escalated into a real full throttle suicide mission. No one had. His phone hadn't even rang in weeks. He was alone and he was ready to die.
“Dean?” That voice. He was sure he'd never hear that voice again. He must've died and missed it. The bed dipped, the blankets shifted, and he felt a hand on his head. “Shit, Dean. What have you done this time?”
He didn't want to talk. Afraid if he said anything he'd break whatever trance he'd put himself in and he'd be alone again. He reached one hand over towards where he the mattress had sagged under the weight of what was unmistakably another person. His fingers brushed against soft, worn denim. He reached out further, rested his hand on what was clearly a leg. “Is that really you Sammy?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I'm dead?” He didn't want to sound as hopeful as he did.
“Sorry, no. Looks like you came close, though.”
He wanted to sit up and look at this creature that sounded and felt so much like his brother, but he was in too much pain and too afraid of what he might see. He opened his eyes and turned his head as much as he dared. That was Sam, all right. Sam, looking whole and normal and not even a little possessed or even slightly dead. “What's going on?”
“I thought staying away was the right thing. But, since you've almost got yourself killed a half dozen times in the last few weeks...” He shrugged. “I figured I couldn't make it any worse.”
“You've been following me?”
Sam nodded. “Since Maryland. I knew you'd keep my phone on, so I had the phone company turn on the GPS. Every night, I thought maybe that'd be the night I'd walk in and sit down next to you, order a beer, just to see the look on your face. But I couldn't do it. Couldn't bring myself to talk to you. I thought you were upset because things didn't work with Lisa. I figured I'd let you work it out on your own. Until I realized you had a fucking death wish. I'm not going to let you kill yourself, I don't care what excuse you have.”
“I don't know whether to kick your ass or kiss you,” Dean said.
Sam leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Dean's lips. Dean reached up and tried to pull Sam closer. “No,” he carefully wrapped an arm across Dean's chest and rested his head on his brother's shoulder. “You can kick my ass later.. Right now, just rest. It'll be all right.”
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Lisa, Dean/Others (Male and Female), Dean/Sam overall
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3800
Warnings: verbal and physical abuse, domination, submission, violence, language, hints of daddy issues
Spoilers: Post 5-22
Summary: He wants to do the right thing, but there's nothing right about him. He misses pain. Misses the rush. Misses Sam.
Inspired by a half remembered Bruce Springsteen quote about how most of the guys getting in bar fights, they didn't really want to hit anyone, they wanted to get hit.
He misses pain. If you wanted to put some kind of bow on it, you could call it post-traumatic stress or masochism or just good old kinky bullshit. But that's just what it would be-bullshit. It isn't some kind of garden variety psychological issue he's dealing with and he'll be goddamned before he lets anyone tell him it is. This is bigger than that. He misses the endorphin rush, the way his body overcompensated for the pain of a punch or a cut or a bullet wound. He was used to the pain high and now that high has been taken away from him and he either has to learn to live without it or find it somewhere else, in some other narcotic. Because, when you get right down to it, there's a real fucking amazing thrill that comes from someone bashing your face in. It's not something a person can imagine until he's felt it. Dean's felt it, it's been part of the core of his being for just about as long as he can remember. Damn right he feels lost without that rush. At least junkies get locked in a safe room with round the clock guards to keep them safe. He's got to ween himself off of this fucked up addiction all by himself. Not only that, but he's got to do it while learning to be a partner and a father and starting his life from nothing. No one should have to put up with that much. No one should be expected to be that strong. But that's what he's trying to do. He's Dean fucking Winchester and by God, he is going to be the substitute husband and father, apple pie, white bread, picket fence cliche that he promised Sam he would be. He has to break himself of the rush. He has to find a way to live without it, because there's no way in hell (hell..Sam, dammit) that he's going to be able to keep his promise unless he can learn to give up the thrill.
Lisa
The first time he asks her to hit him, she pulls away from him, rolls over and pretends to fall asleep. Leaves him hard and miserable and so full of self-hatred that he doesn't even bother trying to talk to her for three days.
The second time, she does it. She slaps his face, not hard, but it's clear she's trying. “Harder,” he asks, but she can't do it. She tries, lifts her hand, like she's going to give him exactly what he needs. He braces himself, ready and oh so willing. Her hand drops, weightless, harmless against his cheek and she looks like she's going to cry. He tries to reassure her, pushes up into her, grabs her hips and calls her beautiful. They finish what they started. She braces herself against the wall, moans, soft, sweet, gentle moans and he comes because she's beautiful, and perfect and good to him and it's nice. It's just not enough.
Months later, she gives him what he's been begging her for. They've been fighting. It's just a fight. It doesn't even matter what the subject was. (Milk, he kept buying the wrong milk, he bought whole, she only ever bought skim, but it didn't matter, it wasn't about milk, they both knew that.) The fight has gone on too long. It'd gotten bad enough that Ben had yelled downstairs--told them to stop it, dammit, stop fighting. But they don't. Neither of them could even say why. If you asked, they'd both say it wasn't that big of a deal, but at that moment, by God it mattered. It mattered a whole hell of a lot (...hell) and neither one of them was going to be the one to give an inch. He was screaming at her, screaming and whatever it was he was saying it all boiled down to “You can't do it! You'll never be able to give me what I want.” He meant the rush. He meant the high. He didn't mean that other thing. He wasn't even thinking about the other thing. (He wasn't thinking about Sammy, a gun to his head, a knife to his throat, he would swear on his life, he wasn't thinking about his brother.) The blood rose in her face. She was raw and angry and her voice was fire and hard, sharp edges. He knew damn good and well he was baiting her, he knew he was pushing her. He'd never claim he was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew women weren't raised to fight back. He knew what people weren't supposed to want to fight. It's just that, right then, he didn't give a fuck.
“Do it, goddammit, you know you want to.” He backed her against a wall, not quite pinned, but she wasn't going far unless he let her.
“I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, you cocksucker,” she hissed.
“Takes one to know one, bitch.” He knew damn good and well he had crossed a line. Gone to a place a man did not go with a woman. Said something that was unforgivable. He wouldn't forgive himself for saying shit like that, it wasn't the kind of man he was...but if it got him what he wanted...if he got what he needed...
“Oh you asshole,” she said, shaping a fist and bringing it down against his shoulder.
“What? Spit it out,” he said. “What do you want to say to me?”
“You motherfucker!” She pounded her hands against his chest, dragged her fingernails against the cotton fabric of his t-shirt..
He pressed against the wall. “Don't stop there, you cunt. Don't fucking stop now.” Jesus Christ he hated himself. Hated that he could say these things to someone he loved. Hated that those words even crossed his mind, let alone his lips. Then there was that voice, making it worse. Somehow making him hate himself even more. Shut up Sammy. Shut up. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. The end of the fucking world would be better than this.
“Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my house!” With the last word she brought a hand across his face. One fast, hard, slap. Just enough to send a quick shiver down his spine.
“Do it again,” he said through clenched teeth. “Please.”
“Fuck you.” Tears running down her face. Her whole body shaking. She was broken. He knew the look well. He'd been there more than a few times himself.
“Lisa, please,” he was barely able to keep the tears in check. They were there, forcing themselves against his eyelids. He didn't dare open his eyes. Anymore than that and he'd break along with her. He couldn't do that. Not until he'd earned the right, and he didn't think he had yet. Breaking her heart wasn't good enough. He had to hurt, dammit. He had to feel like the motherfucker cocksucking asshole sonofabitch failure that he was and he didn't yet. “Do. It. Again.”
The next time her hand met his face it stung, really burned, the way he was used to, the way he hoped it would. There was no doubt on this earth she meant it. He winced, turned his face and waiting for the next blow. She obliged, slapping so hard his head bounced against the wall. He could feel the hot tears pushing against his eyes. One more, he just needed one more, that would be enough.
You're lying to yourself.
“Get out,” she said through tears.
“Lisa...”
“You heard me.”
He tried to find the right words. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I love you,” he said, because he meant it.
“I know.”
She'd turned away from him, walked upstairs to their bedroom, and locked the door behind her. He tried talking through the door. Tried to tell her it was just a momentary lapse, but they both knew that wasn't the case. It wasn't momentary. It wasn't a lapse. It was who he was. He'd slept on the couch that night. Next day, he didn't bother going into work. He stayed home and packed what little he had worth taking, what little he had he could claim as his own, and was on the road before Ben got home from school. He didn't say goodbye. Just left a two word note: “I'm sorry.”
Sonny
He was tall and thin and had ridiculous hair that could do with a wash and a run in with a pair of scissors. If Dean had thought about it much, he was too thin and not tall enough and his hair was too blonde, but one thing Dean wasn't doing lately was thinking. He had lost the little bit he had, lost the last moorings he had been holding on to for dear life. There was no point in being picky at this point. The guy didn't ask questions. Didn't want background details. Just nodded and said he could do that, no problem, wouldn't be the first time. If he managed to do a halfway decent proximity of being in character, it was more than Dean deserved.
“Bend over,” he said, his voice not quite deep enough, his tone a little too amused.
“Since when do you get to make the rules?” Dean tried to sound confident, thought it would make it feel more real.
“Since you proved once and for all you can't be trusted to do a damn thing right.” He pushed Dean down over the edge of the motel room table and kicked his legs apart. “Unbutton your pants, bitch.”
Dean's dick twitched at the last word. Without standing up, he reached over and popped open the button on his jeans. He felt the denim slide down his legs until they were bunched around his ankles. He heard Sonny (Not Sam...His name is Sonny...Sam's gone...Sam will never, would never, do this) unbuckle his belt and slide the leather through the loops, slow, so that there was a tiny snap every second or two. Dean winced at the sound, painfully aware that those small snaps were nothing compared to what he was in for.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he barked.
“I'll go at my own sweet pace. Or maybe I'll just stop right now.” His voice sounded like it was moving away. Like he really was going to walk out.
“You wouldn't.”
“Masochist says 'beat me, beat me.' Sadist says, 'No," he taunted.
“I'm the one with the money asshole. You want to pay power games, maybe you ought to get paid first.”
He laughed. A laugh that made Dean dig his fingers along the top of the wood grain table. “I'll leave, doesn't matter to me. Some other sick fuck will come along soon enough. He may not be as pretty as you are, but I bet he can pay more.”
“Just do it and you can get on with you night, all right?” He was dangerously close to reconsidering this whole stupid idea. But he didn't want to go to bed another night feeling like he had every night since he'd left Lisa's. He didn't dare ask someone he didn't plan to pay to do this. Money had to be exchanged. Only way he could let it happen. The only somewhat safe way of fixing the misfire in his brain. Even if it was just a temporary fix. It was better than nothing.
The belt cut through the air, he heard it before it hit, but the sound was nothing compared to the sensation. He clenched his teeth, but didn't make a sound.
“Count,” he was instructed.
“One,” he said, doing his best to sound cocky, like he didn't give a damn that he was getting his ass beat.
The second blow crossed the second. “Two,” he said as the third and fourth strike came down on his rapidly growing tender ass that he couldn't even get both numbers out. They came out as one word, “threefor.” The fifth was harder than all the others, hard enough it made him jump, his right hand reached out to block the belt.
“Don't do that,” came the instruction. “Don't do that, or I'll add more. You understand?”
“Yes--sir,” Dean said, aware as soon as the word left his mouth that this was getting sicker and more twisted with each second.
A hand stroked his sore, hot ass, offering relief he knew he hadn't earned yet. “You'll get at least 10 more. You don't have to count them out loud, but it's up to you to keep track. I'm not going to stop until you tell me to.”
Dean inhaled. This was stirring up shit he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with. But he'd started. He wasn't going to pussy out, now. “OK.”
“Dean.” A hand weaved fingers through his hair, tugged at the roots, pulled his head back. “Show some respect.”
“Yes sir,” he answered, ever the obedient soldier. Don't think about Dad. This has nothing to do with Dad. “Whatever you want, sir.” No. It has nothing to do with Dad. That would be sick. This is about your brother. That makes it so much better.
“That's good, Dean. That's good.” The last word was barely out before the belt was connecting with the back of his thighs. Drawing back, slicing through the air, coming down over and over, the leather wrapping around his hips and slicing into the soft, tender flesh on the edge of his stomach. He didn't count, didn't measure the time between blows, didn't do anything but close his eyes and feel the pain spreading across his back and ass and down his legs. Leather to flesh. Flesh to leather. Pain building steady until he could feel the endorphins start to kick in. That familiar high, edging into the mind space held by the pain.
“Harder, “ he said.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn't ask,” he had to stop and catch his breath. “I wouldn't ask if I wasn't.”
“Fine.” The next few moments were nothing but flashes of hot pain followed by adrenaline. He knew he wouldn't be walking easy anytime soon. The pain was intense and concentrated right on the tenderest, fleshiest part of his ass and thighs. This guy knew what he was doing. Sitting would be a nightmare for a day or two at least. Maybe he ought make himself drive a couple of states over, just to make the pain last. That would serve him right, a constant reminder of the bruises and pain, of all the pain he'd caused everyone he'd ever loved. It wouldn't come close to making up for what he'd done. He needed more.
“Fuck me.”
The strikes from the belt came to an abrupt halt. “It'll cost you.”
“You're a whore. It's what you do. Show me what you've got.”
“It's your money.”
A few seconds later, Dean felt the cold slick being rubbed against his hole. He closed his eyes and reminded himself to relax. A finger slid inside him, he took a deep breath, steadied himself for the second finger. He knew the pattern, 1 finger, 2 fingers, 3 fingers, cock. He'd been through it before. He had time for that. He wanted to hurt. Even with prep, it would hurt plenty. He didn't want to be gutted. He wasn't nearly as stupid as he was crazy. Two fingers inside him now, scissoring open, spreading him apart. And the third. Awhile longer and the tip, pressing into him, spreading him in a way no fingers could. He pressed his forehead against the table, pushed back against the cock and let his mind go. “Sammy. God, I've missed you so much. I can't do this without you.” Out loud, he only moaned. Pushed back, taking the stranger's cock as deep as he could get it. Bucking against the table. Throwing his head back. No words. Just violent, growls and unformed, guttural, vulgar sounds.
When it was over, he pulled his pants up, took out his wallet and offered the contents. “If that's not enough, I can get more, but it'll take awhile.”
Sonny, who didn't even look that much like Sam now that Dean really looked at him, counted out his fee and handed the rest back. It was enough to get him through a couple of days, it wouldn't be a great couple of days, if he slept anywhere but the car he'd be broke before the weekend, but at least he hadn't cleaned him completely out.
Trouble
That was the first. There werea lot more. Different scenarios, same goal. Motel rooms off state routes. Apartments just outside of town. Rooms off of alleys near the main street. He wasn't picky. He was equal opportunity, he found women and men willing to do the job. He took beatings in ways he'd never imagined. On his knees, gagged, his hands tied over his head, a woman in Chicago used a riding crop on him until he was sure he'd have scars. He was disappointed when he was wrong. In Ohio things had gotten a little weird, even for him, and somehow turned into a bad schoolboy scenario that he did not enjoy, but didn't bother stopping, either. He got paddled so hard he'd wasted almost $100 on two nights in motels because he couldn't sit to drive. It was as predictable as it was sad.
Wasn't long before that wasn't enough, so he started getting into fights. Went to bars, had a few drinks, picked a big guy and made him mad. The rest was easy. A few words, a threat and he was getting a good punch in the face. After the guy started, he didn't even have to do anything. He just had to stand there (and eventually lie there, then curl up on the ground there) and let it happen. It hurt. Oh Christ, yeah, it hurt. But it was physical, it wasn't like that gnawing feeling deep in his gut that made him want to drive his car off of a bridge or into a tree. He was in control of this pain. He chose when and where it happened. That was how he kept going. He knew he could pull off and ease the ache inside him with a few choice words. Get a few fresh bruises and some public humiliation to keep him going until the next time it got to be too much.
Sam
The day Sam showed up, Dean was in a motel off of 31W nursing a black eye, a sore everything and what he suspected might be a couple of broken ribs and a little internal bleeding. It'd been a rough couple of days. Every day was rough, but the last few...hell, he was only alive because he didn't have the balls to kill himself. He was working hard at finding someone who would do it for him. He'd come close last night, but the guy's friends had dragged him off before he'd finished the job. He was hurt good this time. He wasn't even sure how he'd managed to drive back to the motel.
When he heard the knock on the door he thought maybe the big guy had tracked him down. That'd be great. Save him the trouble of binding his ribs and going down the road until he found some guy who was drunk, alone and easily provoked.
“It ain't locked, come the fuck in if you want,” he said. He didn't even open his eyes to see who was opening the door. He just waited for the blow, or the bullet or whatever it was that would do him in this time. No more heavenly interference to save him anymore. He'd looked hard enough. Cas hadn't showed his face in all the months since this had escalated into a real full throttle suicide mission. No one had. His phone hadn't even rang in weeks. He was alone and he was ready to die.
“Dean?” That voice. He was sure he'd never hear that voice again. He must've died and missed it. The bed dipped, the blankets shifted, and he felt a hand on his head. “Shit, Dean. What have you done this time?”
He didn't want to talk. Afraid if he said anything he'd break whatever trance he'd put himself in and he'd be alone again. He reached one hand over towards where he the mattress had sagged under the weight of what was unmistakably another person. His fingers brushed against soft, worn denim. He reached out further, rested his hand on what was clearly a leg. “Is that really you Sammy?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I'm dead?” He didn't want to sound as hopeful as he did.
“Sorry, no. Looks like you came close, though.”
He wanted to sit up and look at this creature that sounded and felt so much like his brother, but he was in too much pain and too afraid of what he might see. He opened his eyes and turned his head as much as he dared. That was Sam, all right. Sam, looking whole and normal and not even a little possessed or even slightly dead. “What's going on?”
“I thought staying away was the right thing. But, since you've almost got yourself killed a half dozen times in the last few weeks...” He shrugged. “I figured I couldn't make it any worse.”
“You've been following me?”
Sam nodded. “Since Maryland. I knew you'd keep my phone on, so I had the phone company turn on the GPS. Every night, I thought maybe that'd be the night I'd walk in and sit down next to you, order a beer, just to see the look on your face. But I couldn't do it. Couldn't bring myself to talk to you. I thought you were upset because things didn't work with Lisa. I figured I'd let you work it out on your own. Until I realized you had a fucking death wish. I'm not going to let you kill yourself, I don't care what excuse you have.”
“I don't know whether to kick your ass or kiss you,” Dean said.
Sam leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Dean's lips. Dean reached up and tried to pull Sam closer. “No,” he carefully wrapped an arm across Dean's chest and rested his head on his brother's shoulder. “You can kick my ass later.. Right now, just rest. It'll be all right.”