Fanfic - SPN: Walking Nightmares - Ch. 2: Exposed
Title: Walking Nightmares [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Two: Exposed
[006.Apathetic]
Groan. As Dean slipped into awareness again, the weight of his body was draped back against something hard and warm, something shifting with breaths, Sam. He could feel that the leather ring previously warming one wrist was gone now, replaced by a loose circle of fingers that fidgeted, working the second cuff until it unlocked. Freed, Dean's arm fell heavily before being set, one way and then another way, on the bed in front of his none-too-gently bent body. "Ummm …" Whatever dance this was seemed horribly complicated and torturous as his mind tried to untangle Sam's intentions while his body worked to untangle his arms without lighting a five-alarm blaze of pain down his back.
"Hold yourself up. I'm not done."
Huh? Up? He nearly fell forward as he repositioned himself, Sam's grip on his shoulder catching him before he tipped beyond saving. The position Sam then maneuvered him into made him grunt and close his eyes, his body supported at the cost of all comfort, the muscles from his waist to his shoulders pulling through budding bruises until he was swaying with the dizzying ache of it. Shudder. He felt warm exhales filter in between his legs as Sam crouched behind him and the pain had to work for his attention, his dazed mind suddenly crowded with memories and fears, wondering whether he'd stay conscious or just pass out with his legs spread.
Sam stood up and stepped back. "Whore?"
Right. "Yes, sir?" This body was his and that voice was his, but neither were really his. His stomach rippled, on the verge of a noxious repeat performance. These things that had been his belonged to Whore now and Whore belonged to Sam.
"Go start the shower and close the door behind you."
With too little mental energy to really be perplexed, Dean nodded, forcing his body to shift to the left and straighten up, his back screaming enough to make him cease all movement for a few seconds to keep himself from screaming too. Breathe.
"Is there a problem?" Sam didn't have to get any closer to make his voice grate against Dean's skin.
You? Me? Dean shook his head slowly. "No, sir." He wanted to say it was ridiculous that he had to be up and jackrabbit fast right now, but Sam's annoyance edging towards disappointment made his chest tight with something more than fear, though he couldn't name it otherwise. Shaking his head again and pushing his body through the pain, he gave himself a mental shove, putting one foot in front of the other until the hot and cold knobs were turning slick under his hands. Then he waited, his eyes avoiding the mirror.
The shower ran a long time, long enough for him to check it twice, mentally slow but nervous enough to worry over its temperature, adjusting now and then because Sam liked it midway between hot coffee and warm soup. Half a dozen times he thought about cracking the door open or at least listening against it, trying to figure out what was taking Sam so long, but he was already in enough trouble. That was also reason number one for why he didn't sit, kneel, or actually get in the shower. He'd been told to start the shower, which he'd done and then dutifully stood beside it, waiting. Maybe Sam just wanted him well-steamed for some reason or- … He bit his lip working to contain a soft but wild laugh. It wasn't like Sam was going to eat him.
He was losing his mind. He was standing by a hot shower, hunched with a deep ache that had spread from his back to every corner of his body, and he was losing his mind. Maybe it was better that- … Maybe it was better that he couldn't be Dean Winchester anymore. That was fucked up thinking, though, right? Wrong? This would be hard to understand, though, if he was- ... wouldn't it? There was a strength that he didn't have to find now, which meant he wasn't lacking something - less than, broken, defeated. He wasn't that guy anymore because it wasn't allowed, not because he wasn't sure that he knew how anymore.
It wasn't that he was that great at being a whore - being Whore? - but that name had rules and expectations, punishments and rewards, in a way the other didn't anymore and somehow it felt both frightening and freeing to set aside clashing codes of behavior and just … obey, wait and obey, even if a part of him hated the ease of this kind of thinking and this kind of action. The warped reflection in the foggy mirror wasn't anyone he'd known before, but the guy didn't look too bloody, right? Or drugged? That was pretty good, right? Surviving and well enough to help if the fight ever got fair? That was pretty good. Right?
He wondered if he was fooling himself.
When Sam slipped into the room, Dean closed his eyes in relief that he didn't understand and his breath raced in anticipation of moving forward, of doing something more than waiting, even if that something was only obeying. "Get in the shower."
Dean didn't have to think about it, he just got in, Sam pressing in behind him, his hands at Dean's waist then overlapping on his abdomen and chest until the backwards pressure made Dean's sorest parts meet the wall of Sam's front muscles. That wasn't what made Dean shiver, though. His brother's voice, unfiltered and deep in his ear, made him shake.
"I like the feel of your bruises against my skin. They're like … patches of fever made just for me. I want to- …" Sam stopped, shaking his head slowly, his fingers clenching and flexing as he took several long breaths before speaking again. "If I told you to bend over and hold your ankles, would you be able to?"
If. Would. Answer. "I don't know, sir. I would ... try." He could feel his own chest begin to heave, the only thing his body knew to do when he couldn't say 'please', couldn't say 'stop', and couldn't just leave.
Sam seemed to still for a moment, counting Dean's breaths or his own, but he didn't ask for anything, just reached for the soap and nudged Dean to the cold end of the tub to stand alone.
Standing there, Dean could feel anxiety sparking along every strand of nerves, his body on high alert for impending pain or sex or … something. Nothing happened, though. Sam just left him there as he washed himself up and Dean tried to feel relieved, tried to convince his distressed system that it was good not to be forced into anything, that it was nice to have a break when he was hurting. It felt weird to be excluded, though, set aside, especially since usually when he was in here with Sam he started on his knees, Sam's cock in his mouth like some pre-breakfast snack. A part of him felt out of place like this and prodded him repeatedly because he should be helping Sam come, helping him soap up and get clean or- … His face scrunched as he tried to make sense of the logics in his head. Whore would help Sam, because he'd feel … wrong, unwanted, due for punishment ... if he was just pushed away like he wasn't good, like he had fucked up too much or would fuck up or- … Dean, though? He wouldn't care. So, if he felt alone here, cold and anxious, if it was hard to feel relief when he knew that peace and comfort only went with being good, being used, then- … He didn't know what to do with that or who was right anymore.
Eventually, Sam stepped closer and Dean fought instincts that wanted him to resist Sam's handling, no matter how gentle. Then, as Sam began to wash his shoulders, following the soap down his arms to his hands and then back up again, Dean's anxieties alternated unpredictably between rising and falling until he was breathless, as much from the surprising tenderness as he was from fear-filled anticipation. Sam washed Dean's sides, then, his breath almost cool beside Dean's ear as they stood in the steam. The next slide of the soap was over Dean's back, though, and he held his breath, prepared for pain, but Sam's touch was barely there, skimming the surface over and around until the ache under Dean's skin began to fade some, though he'd surely feel its remnants for days yet. One of Sam's hands wrapped sturdily at Dean's hip and Dean felt Sam bend down behind him, soaping his ass, his thighs, his calves, and the tops of his feet, before letting his fingers slip their way up Dean's body as he rose to slide both arms around Dean's waist. The line from Dean's cock to his chest was the last bit that Sam washed, taking his time to run his fingers over nipples and down, hands massaging Dean's sac, shifting the soap on his shaft, and smoothing the water over his abs.
The only word that seemed to fit was 'worship' and, even as a man so recently punished, he couldn't stop the full-body shiver that slid from hair to toes when Sam kissed the sacred spot behind his ear. He felt right but slightly out-of-place, like a living piece of perfection floating on a kite string, and he had to swallow to quiet hitched breaths that threatened to become something more substantial. He wasn't even entirely sure that the flush in his skin was just from the heat of the water. The fever that Sam had stirred somehow had his body asking questions he could hardly believe. It was like someone else had done the damage and Sam was only soothing him in someone else's aftermath or- … "Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing." Dean shook his head, feeling the thickness of Sam's cock swelling against his ass, his body working to stay relaxed as he waited for Sam to press him up against the tile and fuck him. When Sam tugged them closer together, though, it was only so that he could reach the shampoo, lathering his hands before beginning to wash Dean's hair. The bizarreness of the situation met the floaty feeling in Dean's head and a nervous laugh fell from his mouth, making Sam pause, his voice more insistent.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Sam went back to washing Dean's hair. "Twenty-five strokes."
Dean balked with a blink. "What?! Why?"
"You're supposed to take initiative, remember?"
Initiative? Oh. Dean breathed out slowly, finally understanding why Sam had held back. He'd been waiting for him to beg for it, to beg to do his job, and there was no way Dean could stand to be under the whip much any time soon. Was this really all that different from begging on command? Maybe Sam had even warmed him up. He just shrugged, knowing the words barely mattered at all. "Please, sir, fuck me."
Sam didn't say anything, he just pulled Dean back, angling Dean's body and head to catch the spray of the showerhead, rinsing his hair. As the water from Dean's hair ran clean again, Sam pulled their bodies close, tugging them both away from the falling water toward the other end of the tub, and Dean thought for sure that Sam would give him what he'd begged for, but he didn't.
"You know ... if I hurt you in here, the blood would just ... wash away. Clean." Sam traced slow meaningless lines over Dean's skin with wide fingertips, his voice seductively low but tinged with a cold fascination that made Dean wonder if the hot water had begun to die out. "I think it'd be too clean, though, you know? I wouldn't get to see the way the blood runs over your body, the way it thickens until my hands are sticky when I touch you."
Dean tried to keep his heart rate steady, but it sped on as if he wasn't taking deep, supposedly calming, breaths. The quick slide of Sam from unforgiving disciplinarian to kind caretaker and then to twisted playmate was something that he had only begun to get the swing of and he really didn't know if this was a prelude to serious pain play in the tub or just Sam messing with his head.
"Not today, though. I don't need that today. We can do something else."
Dean shuddered, but couldn't think straight enough to know what he could - or should - really say. "Thank you, sir?"
"It's not a gift. It's just a fact." Sam's voice showed no irritation, but his power slashed a thin line of red below Dean's chest that barely registered as pain, though it made Dean gasp with surprise. "You remember that one, don't you, whore?"
Dean's breathing wouldn't slow the way he needed it to, but he managed to nod. "Yes, sir." How could he forget, his dreamy safe-haven tainted and regulated, a secondary cage.
"That was fun." Sam seemed to smile, then grin, into his hair. "One day I'm going to paint you red and fuck you while you scream. Well- …" Sam's tone dropped lower, his lips brush-kissing Dean's ear. "Maybe more than just one day, but not today. You're already clean." Tilting his arm, Sam made sure that the shower water flowed down his fingers and onto Dean's skin until all the red was gone. He laughed darkly as he let Dean go, turning to switch the water off and draw back the curtain. "Out. And get me a clean towel."
Nodding and slowly stepping out of the tub, Dean worked to push the air in and out of his system through the sudden cold and the weight of fear. He knew better than to dry himself off, though, gathering a towel and spreading it wide in front of him to welcome his owner. Sam's hand, though gentle in his hair as he stepped out, didn't take the chill away and Dean shivered through his drying duties, keeping his eyes down and his mouth shut until Sam let him use the towel on himself. He was almost starting to feel halfway warm again when Sam pushed him toward the sinks.
"Get up on the counter." Sam signaled the direction with the jut of his chin, but Dean didn't entirely understand what he wanted.
"What do you mean?"
"Just hop up and sit on the counter."
"Okay ..." Dean drew the word out, but braced his hands and gingerly climbed up so that his legs swung over the edge, a sink on either side. He had no idea why he was up there, but he wasn't about to ask.
Sam started to run water in the sink on the right, then reached for the nearby can of shaving cream. Dean lifted a hand to brush over his chin as things started to come clear. Sam had insisted on cleaning him up and washing his hair, maybe he'd want to add shaving him to the list of new quirks. He shook the aerosol can in his hand, aiming the nozzle at the opposite palm as he pulled back to stand directly in front of Dean. His lips held the hint of a smile as he opened his mouth. "Spread your legs."
Dean blinked, perplexed. "Why?"
"So I can shave you clean." There really was a smile on Sam's face now.
Dean felt the air rush into him and pause for a moment before rushing out again. "You're not gonna ... shave my legs or something, are you? 'Cause that’s just- ... Why would you do that?"
"Not your legs."
Dean might have breathed a little easier if Sam hadn't immediately climbed his way into a smirk. It made him read even deeper between the skewed lines of his brother's mind and he gasped. "You're not- ... I’m a grown man, Sam, not some chick or something. I'm supposed have hair ... there."
"You're up to fifty strokes now, whore. You should really learn to keep your mouth shut. You think your back would appreciate getting a hundred more strokes tomorrow because you can't shut up?"
Dean's jaw tensed as he looked at his brother, his shoulders taking that tension as he looked away. Submit. "Fine."
Sam huffed, unruffled, and knocked Dean's legs apart with his knee, stepping in between to smear shaving cream at the base of Dean's cock. "Hold still."
Dean's body was heavy with resignation and lingering pain, but it was still hard not to flinch as Sam reached for the razor and brought it toward its intended target. The scrape of the blade over coarse hair and skin that had long been protected put Dean's teeth on edge. Time and time again he found himself gripping the closest edge of each sink, grateful when Sam splashed him with cool water to rinse the shaving cream off. When Sam finally slid a hot hand onto the freshly shaved skin, Dean gasped, squirming, his hips unsure if they wanted to pull away or go towards the new sensation.
"Whore." Sam used the word matter-of-factly as he began to slowly stroke Dean's cock from its passive state into something more active and strong.
"Fuck." Dean couldn't stop gasping, or gripping, his hands aching from the vice-like tension he was channeling through them, despite the way his nails had cut his palms while he endured his whipping. Glimpses of his brother's chest swam together with the darkness behind his eyelids as his eyes fluttered open and closed.
"When I let you go, you're going to go to the closet and get out the black tarp on the right, then you'll lay it out to cover the bed and lay down on top of it, face up. Is that clear?"
The continuing glide of Sam's hand over too-sensitive parts meant Dean was torn between listening for fear of painful consequences and not listening so he could focus on not embarrassing himself by coming like a teenager with a shudder after five strokes. At first, he just nodded, but Sam's gentle squeeze made him pant "yes, sir" before all-but-collapsing as Sam let him go, both of them sweat-tinged and breathing hard.
Sam stepped away. "Go prepare the room."
Sliding carefully off the counter, Dean's eyes flashed away from his brother's, unsure what the intensity there meant. The walk out of the bathroom to the closet felt awkward and highly supervised, his nakedness re-emphasized by the hairlessness of his cock. Yet neither being watched nor being vulnerable particularly dampened his arousal, even though he really wished they would. But no, he was twisted like that, fucked up, wrong. It meant that he actually took comfort in the click of the closet lock opening. He bent and reached in, gathering up enough black fabric to cover much of what was bothering him, only narrowly avoiding the twinge of fear he felt at the sight of the chain-strewn closet floor before he turned away. That part was hopefully over for today.
Reaching the bed with his bundle, Dean began to unfold it, curiously examining its dual textures - cotton-soft on one side and slick plastic on the other.
"Plastic side down." Sam called from the closet as he seemed to rummage through boxed items.
Dean mumbled "yes, sir" and threw the tarp over the bed, walking around to straighten it before climbing on and breathing himself down enough to lay on his back, wincing deeply before closing his eyes. The unfamiliar crinkle beneath him made the reality of needing a tarp snap immediately into focus and he shivered despite himself. Maybe- … No, the chains clinked as Sam lifted them. Fuck.
Breathe. Things couldn't be that bad, right? Sam had said he didn't want to bleed him tonight because he was already clean. The tarp implied messy, though, and Dean's mind, no matter how imaginative, was not as twisted as his brother's. Blood and come were all he could think of as options. Food, maybe? They'd had dessert during sex before and there were odd soft sounds accompanying unfamiliar scents as Sam continued his setup. Maybe the tarp was for food. They were still in the dark hours between midnight and dawn, though, and he hadn't seen any food or heard the door, so- ... He swallowed.
The cool of one metal ankle cuff slid into place, the chain fixed tightly to the bedpost. The second was just as cold, his body just as tense. The wrist cuffs made his breathing ramp up and up as Sam clamped them on and stretched his arms up to the top posts of the bed. Even so, Dean didn't want to see just yet, didn't want to know if he'd been cleaned only to be made filthy again. Whore.
"Whore …" Sam echoed his thought, made it real enough to reverberate against his skin as his cock was stroked and fitted with a cloth cock ring. "You've wasted my time with your bullshit tonight. Do you want to make it up to me?"
Dean swallowed hard, but his voice was steady. "Yes, sir." He was glad he'd kept his eyes shut. The urge to get away seemed more surreal somehow, distant and unattainable, when he couldn't see what was coming, couldn't scheme about how to dodge it or charm his way out of it. With his eyes closed, all he felt was trapped, fully bound and powerless.
Sam left his side again, quiet settling around them until Dean could hear his brother breathe deep before exhaling like he'd been holding it for years. Suddenly, the room felt warmer, maybe even brighter through the thin of his eyelids. A faint tendril of smoke tickled his nose, the scent of it forcing his mind to stumble back into the well of his memory, falling until it landed on something pained but solid: Sam's closed expression after disappearing again at night, burning something forest-like.
With a shiver, it occurred to Dean that he hadn't actually seen his brother use this ability and this was probably the closest he'd ever been. He should look, see how it worked, but- … Flash. His face was shoved against warm glass as the world burned, bright and dark, outside the window, as his brother burned him up from skin to soul and back again. Shudder. He pushed away the remembered misery, absently tugging at bonds that he could not escape from, wondering when that despair had shrunk from a perpetual internal scream to an ache and a mutter. Now, it was almost but never quite drowned out by the numbing, striving will to survive. Maybe he'd gone soft here, or in some sick sense gotten used to this reality. Maybe the wrong was seeping into him and taking residence in every pore as he lay there like a good whore waiting for his master.
He didn't have time to set his jaw tight, teeth locked together, before a shout left him, his eyes snapping open as thick wet heat poured onto his stomach, his body bucking up enough to make the small red puddle spill and run over his right side like lava. He gasped, the next drop smaller but no less hot as it fell beside his navel, his hands yanking on chain he couldn't break, as if this was more painful than it really was, the heat fading fast despite the intensity of its beginnings. The candle in Sam's hand seemed made for this, its red tones blending down into black further down the candle like a sunset in Hell.
Sam barely spared a glance at Dean's face, all his attention on the expanse of smooth skin available for his use. "First, I'm going to make you squirm and shout and curse and beg. Then I'll make you work that stubborn little mouth of yours. You'll like that, won't you, whore?"
Dean cried out wordlessly as Sam let a splash of wax stain the already over-wrought skin just above his cock.
"Thought so." Sam smirked as he pulled back, his body no longer blocking Dean's view of the desk, which was bright with at least a dozen candles of every sort and color, some free standing, some in jars. "Where would you like it next?"
Dean's body stilled, blinking up at his brother, his words failing because there were no good answers to this question, only bad ones and some that were possibly worse.
"Fine." Sam turned away with a smirk and set the red and black candle down, trading it in for two glass-encased candles. "These supposedly carry the blessings of obscure saints." His smirk became a Cheshire grin, laughter trickling out as he faced Dean again and began to tilt the candles. "I'm sure you'll wear their glory very well."
Heat. Dean found himself gasping, eyes slamming shut as his chest was doused with wax, hot as liquid flame, a molten waterfall in shades of green and blue. His thrashing spilled the heat into every dent and around every curve, his nipples aching as they fought to handle more warmth than could possibly be healthy. The sound of heavy glass clinking back on the desk almost made him sigh with relief, but all he could do was shudder, his body midway to cooling when drips of warm wax began to trace the lines of his abdomen, curling around muscles and defining the outer edges of his body.
Squirming, Dean worked to breathe as Sam slowly covered him with wax, from his neck to the hollows of his hip bones, the splashes beginning to overlap and finally layer on the warmth. It began to feel like being submerged in a heavy bath, like a mold was being made of his abdomen so it was okay that he was fully encased with no skin finding air below his chin. A lull in intensity allowed him to soak in heat through his wax-made blanket, soak it in like he was sitting in a sauna, his eyes closed and his breath slowing as his mind began to slip away.
He only shivered and gasped when the first small drips of wax slipped further down, over his cock, and the moment pulled him back into his body. His eyes lifted enough to see Sam's hand getting far too close to his cock with a brightly burning stocky little candle. Involuntarily jerking away, though he couldn't go far, Dean stuttered his way to words. "Wait- … Sam- … You're gonna- …"
"Shhh." Sam's eyes glinted as Dean blinked up at him, watching and feeling his brother firmly but gently press the base of the small candle into the pool of wax cooling on his freshly shaved groin. "Stay still. The more you move, the more you'll spill."
That was easier said than done as Sam lifted two big candles again, drizzling stripes directly over Dean's half-soft but twitching cock. Dean huffed and tensed, the ache of his earlier whipping dragging him past the edge of pain again as he struggled to hold still.
Sam lowered a dripping candle and Dean's hips bucked with a shout, the wax feeling hot enough to scald parts too sensitive to handle it. The candle sitting on his skin spilled with his shifts, however, and he ended up bucking and shouting all the more until he'd hollered himself hoarse and his wrists and ankles were sore from twisting. In exhaustion, his body finally started to listen to reason and calmed, the heat finally giving way to warmth as his cock and balls became encased by wax.
Sighing, Dean closed his eyes with relief after Sam set the big candles on the desk again and turned back around to bend and blow out the frighteningly low-burning candle that was riding the plane below his stomach. When the wrist cuffs were unlatched and removed, though, Dean could feel his breaths deepen and slow even more. Having survived Sam's new torture despite a sheet of fresh bruises, his body was content to drift into sleep, but the bed dipped beside him and his ankle cuffs stayed on.
"Keep your arms stretched up to the headboard."
Dean complied easily, his arms heavy enough to have barely moved from their bound positioning, though they were freer than most of the rest of him.
"Good boy."
He didn't have the strength to glare or grit his teeth, but his pulse sped at Sam's words, dragging his eyes open in time to see Sam straddle his abdomen, facing away on his knees and shifting until his calves were under Dean's arms with his feet comfortably pressed into the pillows beside Dean's head. All Dean could see was the curve of his brother's ass meeting the sinewed lines of his back and he'd thought through his response before Sam even gave the order.
"Put that pretty mouth of yours to work, whore."
Dean breath hiccoughed as his anxiety returned, but he stayed silent, shifting one leg enough to feel the tug of the chain, to remind himself that he couldn't get away.
Sam twisted to give him a hard look over a shoulder. "Don't tell me your stubborn little mouth needs more encouragement tonight. I don't see the point in wasting my soap, but I can wash it out with piss if that'll make things easier for you." His eyebrow rose in challenge. "Are you not filthy enough to be a good whore for me?"
Dean barely blinked, but didn't return the challenge. He'd already learned that Sam didn't bluff and didn't back down here, no matter how horrific the results. "No- … I just- ..." I've never done this.
The tightness of Sam's lips melted into a smug grin. "I'll let you go slow to start, but you'd better learn fast." He snickered as he turned away again, bending more at the hip and pressing his ass against Dean's chin. "You can use your hands if you need to, but for all the aggravation it's caused tonight, I think your mouth deserves more of a workout."
The words filtered through Dean's brain, but the act to come loomed larger.
Mechanically, Dean took a breath and bent his arms so he could slowly grasp and separate the halves of Sam's ass, and as Sam's hole came into view, he found himself struggling to breathe deep, like he was nervous and gearing up for a sprint. It wasn't like he'd never seen this part of Sam before, never made his brother feel good or even downright fucked him, but this was a new vantage point colored by new circumstances. Yes, pleasure was one of the goals, but he knew it was also about humbling himself, enacting the hierarchy of filthy lowly slave and pristine high master. He was supposed to be worshipful and feel humiliated by this extension of his punishment. That reality alone made the contents of his stomach shift restlessly, but he began to lean in anyway. No choice.
At first it was just skin to freshly washed skin, the press of his lips against the inner crease of Sam's ass, and he closed his eyes, pressing kisses around, up, over, and down, his brother's breath hitching as he mouthed gently over the wrinkled hole.
"Lick."
Dean shuddered, but let his tongue flick out, faintly tasting sweat and remnants of soap with something vaguely bitter hidden underneath.
"More." Sam's voice was heavy but distant, like his mind was elsewhere or maybe gone altogether.
Shifting to get a better angle, Dean set his tongue just below Sam's balls and licked upwards in a wide stripe until he'd licked passed Sam's clenching hole.
"Yeah." Sam shivered. "Like that. Like that."
Dean's mouth resisted a sort of smile, but he could feel it under the surface as he repeated the motion Sam liked - faster, slower, more to one side, then the other - until Sam was panting over him.
"In. … Go inside. … Yeah." Sam's hips began to move, his hole rubbing down on the rough wet tip of Dean's tongue.
Spurred on, Dean spread Sam's cheeks even wider, relishing the nearly pained noises Sam made as his tongue pushed its way deeper into his brother's tight tunnel, circling inside for short but satisfying moments before pulling out again.
"Deeper."
Dean fucked his tongue deeper into Sam's hole, tasting more bitter than his mind wanted to acknowledge, but Sam moaned over him and reached back to thread fingers into his hair with an encouraging tug. If there was power for Dean here, it was only in acts like these, clouded in shame but fulfilling in a different sort of way. Was it wrong that his cock began to stiffen and he started to match his brother's groans? This place was turning him wrong, making him into something wrong. When his brother pulled harder on his hair, though, straining the line of bruised muscles connecting his back to his neck, Dean's sense of power fled and he groaned from pain instead.
"Mmmm. Yeah. You like that, whore?" Sam ground his ass onto Dean's face, blotting out sight, smell, taste, and air as Dean struggled to make his mouth as effective a fucktoy as his brother was moaning for. Just when Dean's body started to shake and his ministrations slowed from lack of air, Sam let go and lifted off of him long enough to allow two gulped breaths, but then he was back to forcing Dean into the role of human fuck-bench.
Dean was too busy trying to please and breathe in equal measure to notice when Sam's fingers began to find the wax on his abs and cock, ungently stripping them back down to tender skin. The feel of Sam's hand wrapping around his cock, though, made him dizzy in concert with everything else and his hips didn't seem to care that his mouth was tired, his tongue filthy as he strained to properly debase himself for his owner. So, when Sam's hand released his cock and returned to his hair, Dean was almost relieved, but then Sam was keeping him right where he wanted him - keeping him there and keeping him there, shoving their bodies together and not letting him up for air. His lungs began to ache, his head spinning, but Sam's moans were rising and wholly unregulated, his ass rocking wantonly over him, and when Sam finally shouted and tensed, wet warmth splashing Dean's stomach ... everything stopped, Dean's consciousness lost with the last of his oxygen. He came to with a shaky breath, unknown moments later, looking up at Sam's back once more.
"You wanna come for me, whore?"
Dean felt exhausted just trying to find air, let alone words or desire, but Sam was already smearing come down to his cock and taking it in hand.
"Your initiative is lacking tonight, whore. I'm disappointed." Sam began a slip-pull motion over the flesh in his fingers, though it seemed too slow in returning to a hardened state. "What's that now? Seventy-five strokes?"
Dean let out a sigh, too beaten down to more loudly reflect the frustration inside. He just turned away, eyes drifting open to take in the predawn light beyond the window as his throat scratched out hoarse words. "May I please … come for you, sir?"
"Yeah. Quick. Or not at all." Moving rapidly, Sam's hand smoothed over Dean's cock, up and down and back again, making him shiver despite the color of his mood.
Closing his eyes as concentration and resignation blurred together, Dean worked to channel every shard of his shattered desire down to his cock, too exhausted to even beat himself up for finding any satisfaction in becoming a tool for his brother's pleasure. In strokes enough to count, he came, weakly but sincerely, giving in to his baser wants as he licked his work-swollen lips clean, tasting sweat and filth and Sam.
After that, it wasn't hard or even strange to thank Sam as he climbed off of him before turning around, deftly washing away the flavors of Dean's shame with a hefty dose of force-fed come, dripped from sticky fingers. At least this was old hat. There was no fight over the gag that went in next, though, either, nor the plug that pressed in behind him or the ropes that replaced the metal restraints. Dean was done.
He was bound in a tipped over kneeling-prayer position, his hands together palm to palm, forearms close enough to tug his shoulders, his ankles tethered to his thighs, and his thighs to his biceps. Everything was bent and straining, but the fight had left him already, exhaustion eating him alive. He just lay there when Sam was through, his body throbbing and his mind numb as his mouth shifted around the plastic in an aborted yawn.
When Sam lay down beside him and turned away, it was a move that Dean was too far gone to analyze. Distantly, he felt something in him flip and curdle, but he guessed it was supposed to. That was the lot of a whore 'on punishment': shame and aches and disconnection all packaged up pretty and tied well enough to be fucked without fuss. He might've laughed if he'd been sure that it would stay a laugh and not morph into something more broken and dark. Instead, he closed his eyes in sleep, too exhausted and overwhelmed to wait for the sun to chase away the night.
He didn't dream.
Chapters: 1.Lost - 2.Exposed - 3.Used - 4.Hurt - 5.Modified
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Two: Exposed
[006.Apathetic]
Groan. As Dean slipped into awareness again, the weight of his body was draped back against something hard and warm, something shifting with breaths, Sam. He could feel that the leather ring previously warming one wrist was gone now, replaced by a loose circle of fingers that fidgeted, working the second cuff until it unlocked. Freed, Dean's arm fell heavily before being set, one way and then another way, on the bed in front of his none-too-gently bent body. "Ummm …" Whatever dance this was seemed horribly complicated and torturous as his mind tried to untangle Sam's intentions while his body worked to untangle his arms without lighting a five-alarm blaze of pain down his back.
"Hold yourself up. I'm not done."
Huh? Up? He nearly fell forward as he repositioned himself, Sam's grip on his shoulder catching him before he tipped beyond saving. The position Sam then maneuvered him into made him grunt and close his eyes, his body supported at the cost of all comfort, the muscles from his waist to his shoulders pulling through budding bruises until he was swaying with the dizzying ache of it. Shudder. He felt warm exhales filter in between his legs as Sam crouched behind him and the pain had to work for his attention, his dazed mind suddenly crowded with memories and fears, wondering whether he'd stay conscious or just pass out with his legs spread.
Sam stood up and stepped back. "Whore?"
Right. "Yes, sir?" This body was his and that voice was his, but neither were really his. His stomach rippled, on the verge of a noxious repeat performance. These things that had been his belonged to Whore now and Whore belonged to Sam.
"Go start the shower and close the door behind you."
With too little mental energy to really be perplexed, Dean nodded, forcing his body to shift to the left and straighten up, his back screaming enough to make him cease all movement for a few seconds to keep himself from screaming too. Breathe.
"Is there a problem?" Sam didn't have to get any closer to make his voice grate against Dean's skin.
You? Me? Dean shook his head slowly. "No, sir." He wanted to say it was ridiculous that he had to be up and jackrabbit fast right now, but Sam's annoyance edging towards disappointment made his chest tight with something more than fear, though he couldn't name it otherwise. Shaking his head again and pushing his body through the pain, he gave himself a mental shove, putting one foot in front of the other until the hot and cold knobs were turning slick under his hands. Then he waited, his eyes avoiding the mirror.
The shower ran a long time, long enough for him to check it twice, mentally slow but nervous enough to worry over its temperature, adjusting now and then because Sam liked it midway between hot coffee and warm soup. Half a dozen times he thought about cracking the door open or at least listening against it, trying to figure out what was taking Sam so long, but he was already in enough trouble. That was also reason number one for why he didn't sit, kneel, or actually get in the shower. He'd been told to start the shower, which he'd done and then dutifully stood beside it, waiting. Maybe Sam just wanted him well-steamed for some reason or- … He bit his lip working to contain a soft but wild laugh. It wasn't like Sam was going to eat him.
He was losing his mind. He was standing by a hot shower, hunched with a deep ache that had spread from his back to every corner of his body, and he was losing his mind. Maybe it was better that- … Maybe it was better that he couldn't be Dean Winchester anymore. That was fucked up thinking, though, right? Wrong? This would be hard to understand, though, if he was- ... wouldn't it? There was a strength that he didn't have to find now, which meant he wasn't lacking something - less than, broken, defeated. He wasn't that guy anymore because it wasn't allowed, not because he wasn't sure that he knew how anymore.
It wasn't that he was that great at being a whore - being Whore? - but that name had rules and expectations, punishments and rewards, in a way the other didn't anymore and somehow it felt both frightening and freeing to set aside clashing codes of behavior and just … obey, wait and obey, even if a part of him hated the ease of this kind of thinking and this kind of action. The warped reflection in the foggy mirror wasn't anyone he'd known before, but the guy didn't look too bloody, right? Or drugged? That was pretty good, right? Surviving and well enough to help if the fight ever got fair? That was pretty good. Right?
He wondered if he was fooling himself.
When Sam slipped into the room, Dean closed his eyes in relief that he didn't understand and his breath raced in anticipation of moving forward, of doing something more than waiting, even if that something was only obeying. "Get in the shower."
Dean didn't have to think about it, he just got in, Sam pressing in behind him, his hands at Dean's waist then overlapping on his abdomen and chest until the backwards pressure made Dean's sorest parts meet the wall of Sam's front muscles. That wasn't what made Dean shiver, though. His brother's voice, unfiltered and deep in his ear, made him shake.
"I like the feel of your bruises against my skin. They're like … patches of fever made just for me. I want to- …" Sam stopped, shaking his head slowly, his fingers clenching and flexing as he took several long breaths before speaking again. "If I told you to bend over and hold your ankles, would you be able to?"
If. Would. Answer. "I don't know, sir. I would ... try." He could feel his own chest begin to heave, the only thing his body knew to do when he couldn't say 'please', couldn't say 'stop', and couldn't just leave.
Sam seemed to still for a moment, counting Dean's breaths or his own, but he didn't ask for anything, just reached for the soap and nudged Dean to the cold end of the tub to stand alone.
Standing there, Dean could feel anxiety sparking along every strand of nerves, his body on high alert for impending pain or sex or … something. Nothing happened, though. Sam just left him there as he washed himself up and Dean tried to feel relieved, tried to convince his distressed system that it was good not to be forced into anything, that it was nice to have a break when he was hurting. It felt weird to be excluded, though, set aside, especially since usually when he was in here with Sam he started on his knees, Sam's cock in his mouth like some pre-breakfast snack. A part of him felt out of place like this and prodded him repeatedly because he should be helping Sam come, helping him soap up and get clean or- … His face scrunched as he tried to make sense of the logics in his head. Whore would help Sam, because he'd feel … wrong, unwanted, due for punishment ... if he was just pushed away like he wasn't good, like he had fucked up too much or would fuck up or- … Dean, though? He wouldn't care. So, if he felt alone here, cold and anxious, if it was hard to feel relief when he knew that peace and comfort only went with being good, being used, then- … He didn't know what to do with that or who was right anymore.
Eventually, Sam stepped closer and Dean fought instincts that wanted him to resist Sam's handling, no matter how gentle. Then, as Sam began to wash his shoulders, following the soap down his arms to his hands and then back up again, Dean's anxieties alternated unpredictably between rising and falling until he was breathless, as much from the surprising tenderness as he was from fear-filled anticipation. Sam washed Dean's sides, then, his breath almost cool beside Dean's ear as they stood in the steam. The next slide of the soap was over Dean's back, though, and he held his breath, prepared for pain, but Sam's touch was barely there, skimming the surface over and around until the ache under Dean's skin began to fade some, though he'd surely feel its remnants for days yet. One of Sam's hands wrapped sturdily at Dean's hip and Dean felt Sam bend down behind him, soaping his ass, his thighs, his calves, and the tops of his feet, before letting his fingers slip their way up Dean's body as he rose to slide both arms around Dean's waist. The line from Dean's cock to his chest was the last bit that Sam washed, taking his time to run his fingers over nipples and down, hands massaging Dean's sac, shifting the soap on his shaft, and smoothing the water over his abs.
The only word that seemed to fit was 'worship' and, even as a man so recently punished, he couldn't stop the full-body shiver that slid from hair to toes when Sam kissed the sacred spot behind his ear. He felt right but slightly out-of-place, like a living piece of perfection floating on a kite string, and he had to swallow to quiet hitched breaths that threatened to become something more substantial. He wasn't even entirely sure that the flush in his skin was just from the heat of the water. The fever that Sam had stirred somehow had his body asking questions he could hardly believe. It was like someone else had done the damage and Sam was only soothing him in someone else's aftermath or- … "Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing." Dean shook his head, feeling the thickness of Sam's cock swelling against his ass, his body working to stay relaxed as he waited for Sam to press him up against the tile and fuck him. When Sam tugged them closer together, though, it was only so that he could reach the shampoo, lathering his hands before beginning to wash Dean's hair. The bizarreness of the situation met the floaty feeling in Dean's head and a nervous laugh fell from his mouth, making Sam pause, his voice more insistent.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Sam went back to washing Dean's hair. "Twenty-five strokes."
Dean balked with a blink. "What?! Why?"
"You're supposed to take initiative, remember?"
Initiative? Oh. Dean breathed out slowly, finally understanding why Sam had held back. He'd been waiting for him to beg for it, to beg to do his job, and there was no way Dean could stand to be under the whip much any time soon. Was this really all that different from begging on command? Maybe Sam had even warmed him up. He just shrugged, knowing the words barely mattered at all. "Please, sir, fuck me."
Sam didn't say anything, he just pulled Dean back, angling Dean's body and head to catch the spray of the showerhead, rinsing his hair. As the water from Dean's hair ran clean again, Sam pulled their bodies close, tugging them both away from the falling water toward the other end of the tub, and Dean thought for sure that Sam would give him what he'd begged for, but he didn't.
"You know ... if I hurt you in here, the blood would just ... wash away. Clean." Sam traced slow meaningless lines over Dean's skin with wide fingertips, his voice seductively low but tinged with a cold fascination that made Dean wonder if the hot water had begun to die out. "I think it'd be too clean, though, you know? I wouldn't get to see the way the blood runs over your body, the way it thickens until my hands are sticky when I touch you."
Dean tried to keep his heart rate steady, but it sped on as if he wasn't taking deep, supposedly calming, breaths. The quick slide of Sam from unforgiving disciplinarian to kind caretaker and then to twisted playmate was something that he had only begun to get the swing of and he really didn't know if this was a prelude to serious pain play in the tub or just Sam messing with his head.
"Not today, though. I don't need that today. We can do something else."
Dean shuddered, but couldn't think straight enough to know what he could - or should - really say. "Thank you, sir?"
"It's not a gift. It's just a fact." Sam's voice showed no irritation, but his power slashed a thin line of red below Dean's chest that barely registered as pain, though it made Dean gasp with surprise. "You remember that one, don't you, whore?"
Dean's breathing wouldn't slow the way he needed it to, but he managed to nod. "Yes, sir." How could he forget, his dreamy safe-haven tainted and regulated, a secondary cage.
"That was fun." Sam seemed to smile, then grin, into his hair. "One day I'm going to paint you red and fuck you while you scream. Well- …" Sam's tone dropped lower, his lips brush-kissing Dean's ear. "Maybe more than just one day, but not today. You're already clean." Tilting his arm, Sam made sure that the shower water flowed down his fingers and onto Dean's skin until all the red was gone. He laughed darkly as he let Dean go, turning to switch the water off and draw back the curtain. "Out. And get me a clean towel."
Nodding and slowly stepping out of the tub, Dean worked to push the air in and out of his system through the sudden cold and the weight of fear. He knew better than to dry himself off, though, gathering a towel and spreading it wide in front of him to welcome his owner. Sam's hand, though gentle in his hair as he stepped out, didn't take the chill away and Dean shivered through his drying duties, keeping his eyes down and his mouth shut until Sam let him use the towel on himself. He was almost starting to feel halfway warm again when Sam pushed him toward the sinks.
"Get up on the counter." Sam signaled the direction with the jut of his chin, but Dean didn't entirely understand what he wanted.
"What do you mean?"
"Just hop up and sit on the counter."
"Okay ..." Dean drew the word out, but braced his hands and gingerly climbed up so that his legs swung over the edge, a sink on either side. He had no idea why he was up there, but he wasn't about to ask.
Sam started to run water in the sink on the right, then reached for the nearby can of shaving cream. Dean lifted a hand to brush over his chin as things started to come clear. Sam had insisted on cleaning him up and washing his hair, maybe he'd want to add shaving him to the list of new quirks. He shook the aerosol can in his hand, aiming the nozzle at the opposite palm as he pulled back to stand directly in front of Dean. His lips held the hint of a smile as he opened his mouth. "Spread your legs."
Dean blinked, perplexed. "Why?"
"So I can shave you clean." There really was a smile on Sam's face now.
Dean felt the air rush into him and pause for a moment before rushing out again. "You're not gonna ... shave my legs or something, are you? 'Cause that’s just- ... Why would you do that?"
"Not your legs."
Dean might have breathed a little easier if Sam hadn't immediately climbed his way into a smirk. It made him read even deeper between the skewed lines of his brother's mind and he gasped. "You're not- ... I’m a grown man, Sam, not some chick or something. I'm supposed have hair ... there."
"You're up to fifty strokes now, whore. You should really learn to keep your mouth shut. You think your back would appreciate getting a hundred more strokes tomorrow because you can't shut up?"
Dean's jaw tensed as he looked at his brother, his shoulders taking that tension as he looked away. Submit. "Fine."
Sam huffed, unruffled, and knocked Dean's legs apart with his knee, stepping in between to smear shaving cream at the base of Dean's cock. "Hold still."
Dean's body was heavy with resignation and lingering pain, but it was still hard not to flinch as Sam reached for the razor and brought it toward its intended target. The scrape of the blade over coarse hair and skin that had long been protected put Dean's teeth on edge. Time and time again he found himself gripping the closest edge of each sink, grateful when Sam splashed him with cool water to rinse the shaving cream off. When Sam finally slid a hot hand onto the freshly shaved skin, Dean gasped, squirming, his hips unsure if they wanted to pull away or go towards the new sensation.
"Whore." Sam used the word matter-of-factly as he began to slowly stroke Dean's cock from its passive state into something more active and strong.
"Fuck." Dean couldn't stop gasping, or gripping, his hands aching from the vice-like tension he was channeling through them, despite the way his nails had cut his palms while he endured his whipping. Glimpses of his brother's chest swam together with the darkness behind his eyelids as his eyes fluttered open and closed.
"When I let you go, you're going to go to the closet and get out the black tarp on the right, then you'll lay it out to cover the bed and lay down on top of it, face up. Is that clear?"
The continuing glide of Sam's hand over too-sensitive parts meant Dean was torn between listening for fear of painful consequences and not listening so he could focus on not embarrassing himself by coming like a teenager with a shudder after five strokes. At first, he just nodded, but Sam's gentle squeeze made him pant "yes, sir" before all-but-collapsing as Sam let him go, both of them sweat-tinged and breathing hard.
Sam stepped away. "Go prepare the room."
Sliding carefully off the counter, Dean's eyes flashed away from his brother's, unsure what the intensity there meant. The walk out of the bathroom to the closet felt awkward and highly supervised, his nakedness re-emphasized by the hairlessness of his cock. Yet neither being watched nor being vulnerable particularly dampened his arousal, even though he really wished they would. But no, he was twisted like that, fucked up, wrong. It meant that he actually took comfort in the click of the closet lock opening. He bent and reached in, gathering up enough black fabric to cover much of what was bothering him, only narrowly avoiding the twinge of fear he felt at the sight of the chain-strewn closet floor before he turned away. That part was hopefully over for today.
Reaching the bed with his bundle, Dean began to unfold it, curiously examining its dual textures - cotton-soft on one side and slick plastic on the other.
"Plastic side down." Sam called from the closet as he seemed to rummage through boxed items.
Dean mumbled "yes, sir" and threw the tarp over the bed, walking around to straighten it before climbing on and breathing himself down enough to lay on his back, wincing deeply before closing his eyes. The unfamiliar crinkle beneath him made the reality of needing a tarp snap immediately into focus and he shivered despite himself. Maybe- … No, the chains clinked as Sam lifted them. Fuck.
Breathe. Things couldn't be that bad, right? Sam had said he didn't want to bleed him tonight because he was already clean. The tarp implied messy, though, and Dean's mind, no matter how imaginative, was not as twisted as his brother's. Blood and come were all he could think of as options. Food, maybe? They'd had dessert during sex before and there were odd soft sounds accompanying unfamiliar scents as Sam continued his setup. Maybe the tarp was for food. They were still in the dark hours between midnight and dawn, though, and he hadn't seen any food or heard the door, so- ... He swallowed.
The cool of one metal ankle cuff slid into place, the chain fixed tightly to the bedpost. The second was just as cold, his body just as tense. The wrist cuffs made his breathing ramp up and up as Sam clamped them on and stretched his arms up to the top posts of the bed. Even so, Dean didn't want to see just yet, didn't want to know if he'd been cleaned only to be made filthy again. Whore.
"Whore …" Sam echoed his thought, made it real enough to reverberate against his skin as his cock was stroked and fitted with a cloth cock ring. "You've wasted my time with your bullshit tonight. Do you want to make it up to me?"
Dean swallowed hard, but his voice was steady. "Yes, sir." He was glad he'd kept his eyes shut. The urge to get away seemed more surreal somehow, distant and unattainable, when he couldn't see what was coming, couldn't scheme about how to dodge it or charm his way out of it. With his eyes closed, all he felt was trapped, fully bound and powerless.
Sam left his side again, quiet settling around them until Dean could hear his brother breathe deep before exhaling like he'd been holding it for years. Suddenly, the room felt warmer, maybe even brighter through the thin of his eyelids. A faint tendril of smoke tickled his nose, the scent of it forcing his mind to stumble back into the well of his memory, falling until it landed on something pained but solid: Sam's closed expression after disappearing again at night, burning something forest-like.
With a shiver, it occurred to Dean that he hadn't actually seen his brother use this ability and this was probably the closest he'd ever been. He should look, see how it worked, but- … Flash. His face was shoved against warm glass as the world burned, bright and dark, outside the window, as his brother burned him up from skin to soul and back again. Shudder. He pushed away the remembered misery, absently tugging at bonds that he could not escape from, wondering when that despair had shrunk from a perpetual internal scream to an ache and a mutter. Now, it was almost but never quite drowned out by the numbing, striving will to survive. Maybe he'd gone soft here, or in some sick sense gotten used to this reality. Maybe the wrong was seeping into him and taking residence in every pore as he lay there like a good whore waiting for his master.
He didn't have time to set his jaw tight, teeth locked together, before a shout left him, his eyes snapping open as thick wet heat poured onto his stomach, his body bucking up enough to make the small red puddle spill and run over his right side like lava. He gasped, the next drop smaller but no less hot as it fell beside his navel, his hands yanking on chain he couldn't break, as if this was more painful than it really was, the heat fading fast despite the intensity of its beginnings. The candle in Sam's hand seemed made for this, its red tones blending down into black further down the candle like a sunset in Hell.
Sam barely spared a glance at Dean's face, all his attention on the expanse of smooth skin available for his use. "First, I'm going to make you squirm and shout and curse and beg. Then I'll make you work that stubborn little mouth of yours. You'll like that, won't you, whore?"
Dean cried out wordlessly as Sam let a splash of wax stain the already over-wrought skin just above his cock.
"Thought so." Sam smirked as he pulled back, his body no longer blocking Dean's view of the desk, which was bright with at least a dozen candles of every sort and color, some free standing, some in jars. "Where would you like it next?"
Dean's body stilled, blinking up at his brother, his words failing because there were no good answers to this question, only bad ones and some that were possibly worse.
"Fine." Sam turned away with a smirk and set the red and black candle down, trading it in for two glass-encased candles. "These supposedly carry the blessings of obscure saints." His smirk became a Cheshire grin, laughter trickling out as he faced Dean again and began to tilt the candles. "I'm sure you'll wear their glory very well."
Heat. Dean found himself gasping, eyes slamming shut as his chest was doused with wax, hot as liquid flame, a molten waterfall in shades of green and blue. His thrashing spilled the heat into every dent and around every curve, his nipples aching as they fought to handle more warmth than could possibly be healthy. The sound of heavy glass clinking back on the desk almost made him sigh with relief, but all he could do was shudder, his body midway to cooling when drips of warm wax began to trace the lines of his abdomen, curling around muscles and defining the outer edges of his body.
Squirming, Dean worked to breathe as Sam slowly covered him with wax, from his neck to the hollows of his hip bones, the splashes beginning to overlap and finally layer on the warmth. It began to feel like being submerged in a heavy bath, like a mold was being made of his abdomen so it was okay that he was fully encased with no skin finding air below his chin. A lull in intensity allowed him to soak in heat through his wax-made blanket, soak it in like he was sitting in a sauna, his eyes closed and his breath slowing as his mind began to slip away.
He only shivered and gasped when the first small drips of wax slipped further down, over his cock, and the moment pulled him back into his body. His eyes lifted enough to see Sam's hand getting far too close to his cock with a brightly burning stocky little candle. Involuntarily jerking away, though he couldn't go far, Dean stuttered his way to words. "Wait- … Sam- … You're gonna- …"
"Shhh." Sam's eyes glinted as Dean blinked up at him, watching and feeling his brother firmly but gently press the base of the small candle into the pool of wax cooling on his freshly shaved groin. "Stay still. The more you move, the more you'll spill."
That was easier said than done as Sam lifted two big candles again, drizzling stripes directly over Dean's half-soft but twitching cock. Dean huffed and tensed, the ache of his earlier whipping dragging him past the edge of pain again as he struggled to hold still.
Sam lowered a dripping candle and Dean's hips bucked with a shout, the wax feeling hot enough to scald parts too sensitive to handle it. The candle sitting on his skin spilled with his shifts, however, and he ended up bucking and shouting all the more until he'd hollered himself hoarse and his wrists and ankles were sore from twisting. In exhaustion, his body finally started to listen to reason and calmed, the heat finally giving way to warmth as his cock and balls became encased by wax.
Sighing, Dean closed his eyes with relief after Sam set the big candles on the desk again and turned back around to bend and blow out the frighteningly low-burning candle that was riding the plane below his stomach. When the wrist cuffs were unlatched and removed, though, Dean could feel his breaths deepen and slow even more. Having survived Sam's new torture despite a sheet of fresh bruises, his body was content to drift into sleep, but the bed dipped beside him and his ankle cuffs stayed on.
"Keep your arms stretched up to the headboard."
Dean complied easily, his arms heavy enough to have barely moved from their bound positioning, though they were freer than most of the rest of him.
"Good boy."
He didn't have the strength to glare or grit his teeth, but his pulse sped at Sam's words, dragging his eyes open in time to see Sam straddle his abdomen, facing away on his knees and shifting until his calves were under Dean's arms with his feet comfortably pressed into the pillows beside Dean's head. All Dean could see was the curve of his brother's ass meeting the sinewed lines of his back and he'd thought through his response before Sam even gave the order.
"Put that pretty mouth of yours to work, whore."
Dean breath hiccoughed as his anxiety returned, but he stayed silent, shifting one leg enough to feel the tug of the chain, to remind himself that he couldn't get away.
Sam twisted to give him a hard look over a shoulder. "Don't tell me your stubborn little mouth needs more encouragement tonight. I don't see the point in wasting my soap, but I can wash it out with piss if that'll make things easier for you." His eyebrow rose in challenge. "Are you not filthy enough to be a good whore for me?"
Dean barely blinked, but didn't return the challenge. He'd already learned that Sam didn't bluff and didn't back down here, no matter how horrific the results. "No- … I just- ..." I've never done this.
The tightness of Sam's lips melted into a smug grin. "I'll let you go slow to start, but you'd better learn fast." He snickered as he turned away again, bending more at the hip and pressing his ass against Dean's chin. "You can use your hands if you need to, but for all the aggravation it's caused tonight, I think your mouth deserves more of a workout."
The words filtered through Dean's brain, but the act to come loomed larger.
Mechanically, Dean took a breath and bent his arms so he could slowly grasp and separate the halves of Sam's ass, and as Sam's hole came into view, he found himself struggling to breathe deep, like he was nervous and gearing up for a sprint. It wasn't like he'd never seen this part of Sam before, never made his brother feel good or even downright fucked him, but this was a new vantage point colored by new circumstances. Yes, pleasure was one of the goals, but he knew it was also about humbling himself, enacting the hierarchy of filthy lowly slave and pristine high master. He was supposed to be worshipful and feel humiliated by this extension of his punishment. That reality alone made the contents of his stomach shift restlessly, but he began to lean in anyway. No choice.
At first it was just skin to freshly washed skin, the press of his lips against the inner crease of Sam's ass, and he closed his eyes, pressing kisses around, up, over, and down, his brother's breath hitching as he mouthed gently over the wrinkled hole.
"Lick."
Dean shuddered, but let his tongue flick out, faintly tasting sweat and remnants of soap with something vaguely bitter hidden underneath.
"More." Sam's voice was heavy but distant, like his mind was elsewhere or maybe gone altogether.
Shifting to get a better angle, Dean set his tongue just below Sam's balls and licked upwards in a wide stripe until he'd licked passed Sam's clenching hole.
"Yeah." Sam shivered. "Like that. Like that."
Dean's mouth resisted a sort of smile, but he could feel it under the surface as he repeated the motion Sam liked - faster, slower, more to one side, then the other - until Sam was panting over him.
"In. … Go inside. … Yeah." Sam's hips began to move, his hole rubbing down on the rough wet tip of Dean's tongue.
Spurred on, Dean spread Sam's cheeks even wider, relishing the nearly pained noises Sam made as his tongue pushed its way deeper into his brother's tight tunnel, circling inside for short but satisfying moments before pulling out again.
"Deeper."
Dean fucked his tongue deeper into Sam's hole, tasting more bitter than his mind wanted to acknowledge, but Sam moaned over him and reached back to thread fingers into his hair with an encouraging tug. If there was power for Dean here, it was only in acts like these, clouded in shame but fulfilling in a different sort of way. Was it wrong that his cock began to stiffen and he started to match his brother's groans? This place was turning him wrong, making him into something wrong. When his brother pulled harder on his hair, though, straining the line of bruised muscles connecting his back to his neck, Dean's sense of power fled and he groaned from pain instead.
"Mmmm. Yeah. You like that, whore?" Sam ground his ass onto Dean's face, blotting out sight, smell, taste, and air as Dean struggled to make his mouth as effective a fucktoy as his brother was moaning for. Just when Dean's body started to shake and his ministrations slowed from lack of air, Sam let go and lifted off of him long enough to allow two gulped breaths, but then he was back to forcing Dean into the role of human fuck-bench.
Dean was too busy trying to please and breathe in equal measure to notice when Sam's fingers began to find the wax on his abs and cock, ungently stripping them back down to tender skin. The feel of Sam's hand wrapping around his cock, though, made him dizzy in concert with everything else and his hips didn't seem to care that his mouth was tired, his tongue filthy as he strained to properly debase himself for his owner. So, when Sam's hand released his cock and returned to his hair, Dean was almost relieved, but then Sam was keeping him right where he wanted him - keeping him there and keeping him there, shoving their bodies together and not letting him up for air. His lungs began to ache, his head spinning, but Sam's moans were rising and wholly unregulated, his ass rocking wantonly over him, and when Sam finally shouted and tensed, wet warmth splashing Dean's stomach ... everything stopped, Dean's consciousness lost with the last of his oxygen. He came to with a shaky breath, unknown moments later, looking up at Sam's back once more.
"You wanna come for me, whore?"
Dean felt exhausted just trying to find air, let alone words or desire, but Sam was already smearing come down to his cock and taking it in hand.
"Your initiative is lacking tonight, whore. I'm disappointed." Sam began a slip-pull motion over the flesh in his fingers, though it seemed too slow in returning to a hardened state. "What's that now? Seventy-five strokes?"
Dean let out a sigh, too beaten down to more loudly reflect the frustration inside. He just turned away, eyes drifting open to take in the predawn light beyond the window as his throat scratched out hoarse words. "May I please … come for you, sir?"
"Yeah. Quick. Or not at all." Moving rapidly, Sam's hand smoothed over Dean's cock, up and down and back again, making him shiver despite the color of his mood.
Closing his eyes as concentration and resignation blurred together, Dean worked to channel every shard of his shattered desire down to his cock, too exhausted to even beat himself up for finding any satisfaction in becoming a tool for his brother's pleasure. In strokes enough to count, he came, weakly but sincerely, giving in to his baser wants as he licked his work-swollen lips clean, tasting sweat and filth and Sam.
After that, it wasn't hard or even strange to thank Sam as he climbed off of him before turning around, deftly washing away the flavors of Dean's shame with a hefty dose of force-fed come, dripped from sticky fingers. At least this was old hat. There was no fight over the gag that went in next, though, either, nor the plug that pressed in behind him or the ropes that replaced the metal restraints. Dean was done.
He was bound in a tipped over kneeling-prayer position, his hands together palm to palm, forearms close enough to tug his shoulders, his ankles tethered to his thighs, and his thighs to his biceps. Everything was bent and straining, but the fight had left him already, exhaustion eating him alive. He just lay there when Sam was through, his body throbbing and his mind numb as his mouth shifted around the plastic in an aborted yawn.
When Sam lay down beside him and turned away, it was a move that Dean was too far gone to analyze. Distantly, he felt something in him flip and curdle, but he guessed it was supposed to. That was the lot of a whore 'on punishment': shame and aches and disconnection all packaged up pretty and tied well enough to be fucked without fuss. He might've laughed if he'd been sure that it would stay a laugh and not morph into something more broken and dark. Instead, he closed his eyes in sleep, too exhausted and overwhelmed to wait for the sun to chase away the night.
He didn't dream.
Chapters: 1.Lost - 2.Exposed - 3.Used - 4.Hurt - 5.Modified