Fanfic - SPN: Going Down - Ch. 5: Shape
Title: Going Down [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER FIVE - SHAPE
The shivers that had none-too-gently rocked Dean to sleep had become a weighted cold in his muscles by the time sunlight dragged his eyes awake. This much closer to the windows, he didn't have to know the date to feel the winter on his skin. Though bright, the sun felt little warmer than a slowly melting snowball lobbed by someone with a death wish at his head.
The cold was only part of the pain, though. His neck was stuck, his head seemingly too heavy for it as he tried to shift from where it had come to rest, packing down carpet at an angle that apparently came with throat-stabbing aches once set. Great. He'd turned on his side, his back to the couch, however, sometime in the night, and he took advantage of his position, awkward though it was, to look around the room.
The bathroom door was shut and the sound of water running allowed him to place Sam. The rest of the room seemed no different. Other than the fact that he was on the floor with barely body-warmed steel around his wrists and ankles, it could have been any morning there. But he didn't kid himself thinking it would stay that way.
Sam emerged from the bathroom, catching his eye but then unlocking the closet to dress. Watching Sam's back half slowly become covered with various articles of clothing, Dean went through the painful process of trying to swivel the kinks out of his neck, a challenge most especially because the chains wouldn't allow him enough slack to sit up. All the while, he tried to think of something he could - or should - say.
Sam's justice had been swift and brutal and Dean was fairly certain that broken glass in bathrooms would continue to give him a chill. But in the daylight, like in the shadow of the dining table, Dean could feel the distance between himself and Sam and it felt ... like maybe that was what he needed right then. Maybe it was stupid and he wasn't actually going to get through to Sam about Dad or any of the rest of the bullshit the powers that be and allies in this world had stuffed into his brother's head. But maybe, given enough space away from the constant press of sex and the brain function disrupting performance of "eagerness," he might find some way to unravel Sam's insanity.
"Do you have something to say to me this morning?" Sam turned, buttoning his shirt, though only three-quarters of the way up from the bottom. His outfits were rarely formal, just upgraded versions of what he'd always worn, smooth cotton button-downs replacing plaid flannel over newer, nicer jeans. Dean always noticed, though, always felt his mind draw distinctions when, really, if Sam had done that college-lawyer life thing, he would've been FBI style five days a week. This was a middle ground. But Dean still wasn't going to meet him on it.
He shook his head, certain and sarcasm-free. "No, sir."
Sam just nodded like he hadn't been expecting anything else, then he flicked a newly free hand in Dean's direction and the metal cuffs popped open. Then he tipped his head in a nod back toward the room he'd just vacated. "Morning routine. Just leave the door open."
Dean forced himself up through the aches of half-frozen muscles and stiffness-locked joints, walking to the bathroom in cautious steps as each pulled at something. Sam didn't move away from him, but didn't reach out either, so Dean just made sure not to bump him or look in any way threatening or intent on disobedience. It didn't seem to matter, though, Sam let him pass untouched.
It was only in the shower, minutes later, that Dean realized Sam hadn't really touched him except when necessary since the dining room the night before. Which was fine. It was nice. He had asked for a break a few times, begged for it even, and now he had it, right? But something still felt... wrong, off, strange, something. It was like Sam had pulled away from him and not the other way around. But even if Sam had, why would that be a problem? This was better. So much better. Right?
He let Sam affix the mitts again when he was dry, but not before his teeth were brushed and Sam filled his mouth with a ball gag. Then Sam maneuvered him onto hands and knees beside the couch in the bedroom, pressing a manageably sized plug into Dean's ass and then tweaking Dean's position this way and that until Dean was reminded once again of sculptures and show animals and the way being furniture had built aches in him over hours. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or anxious when the edge of Sam's hand smoothed his back out level, like he might build something on top of it, and finally slid his fingers away with a satisfied murmur.
Someone knocked on the door and then pushed the door open as the older female maid, apparent mother of the twins, brought in Sam's breakfast on a smaller tray than usual. It looked, from Dean's vantage point, like it carried only one plate, a juice, some milk, and a mug of coffee. But as she got closer, his angle up from the floor lost its usefulness, and then she was right there, standing in front of him and ... Dean found his breath stopping as he realized why she hadn't stopped at the table by the door.
"Do you want this here, commander?"
"Yes, Merta. Just be careful, it's still a bit uneven."
It's still a bit uneven. The words echoed in Dean's mind as the heavy warm tray was set on his back, threatening to bow it, and him, to the ground. The woman held on until he'd stabilized as much as he could, though, leather-covered fists pressed into the floor and head hung between stiff shoulders. Then she stepped away.
"Thank you, Merta."
"Of course, Commander." Then she turned and Dean heard the soft press of shoes on carpet as she walked back toward ad through the door.
Sam... settled in, picking up one item at a time and then replacing it back on the tray after he'd used it. He didn't seem to mind eating while holding the plate or maybe with it in his lap, but Dean wasn't surprised. They'd perfected the art of eating however they could manage whenever food was available.
Dean's own position, though, and, frankly, his lack of breakfast was... more than unexpected. Furniture included tables, sure, but... was Sam just going to starve him out? Was he going to say, "Furniture doesn't need food. Why are you complaining? Didn't you want this?" And the fact that he couldn't complain, couldn't ask why, couldn't see if Sam would change his mind, all because he was gagged like some kind of roasted pig? It was harder for Dean than he'd thought it would be.
Having a hard plastic ball in his mouth made him thirsty and the weight and strange balancing act of the tray on his back made him tense, but along with his concerns over food, he was somehow still battling the cold. It wouldn't shake from where it had burrowed under his skin. And Sam, whose hands and close-pressed body had always brought more warmth than Dean would've liked his way, just ... wasn't present in the same way. There was too much distance between them, even if it was just a foot and the barrier of one arm of the couch.
It felt to Dean like he'd been left outside, like he was the table on the deck he'd seen out below their windows before winter set in. From every way his body ached, chilled and too aware of his nakedness, Dean couldn't even say this felt all that much better than being positioned like this outside. The only difference he really felt was the carpet under his knees.
As the day went on and he remained a table, occasionally used, occasionally cleaned, occasionally adjusted, Dean realized just how little he was thinking those deep strategic thoughts about Sam, the world he worked in, and what he might have to do to show Sam this wasn't the way. Instead, Dean's mind was more often quiet, just ... rustling papers nearby and the right shift of his shoulders to flatten out the lunch tray and whether or not his calves would ever lose the indents made by every fiber of carpet. This was... simple in a way and even in the ways it wasn't, the challenge of it kept him focused on just being what Sam had shaped him into. No less owned property, but no longer a whore. It felt, strangely, almost... safe.
Dean's stomach rumbled mid-afternoon and for a long moment, he thought Sam would ignore it. He seemed remarkably good at ignoring him now. But Sam didn't. He got up, crossed the room, and Dean heard the closet open for him, the soft ring of metal brushing metal before it closed again, then Sam's footfalls moved further away.
At the door, Sam spoke with the guards again, in tones that Dean couldn't hear, and then he waited there, Dean imagining him leaned against the wall with one shoulder, arms folded over his chest. Sam only hid his hands in his pockets when he was feeling awkward, nervous. That wouldn't be Sam's style now. Most everything here was nothing like Sam, as if the good parts, which had been such a huge part of his brother, had been erased or surgically removed. And now all that was left was a smudge or the sensation of phantom limbs, echoes of his brother that couldn't actually function in the world. It wasn't an image he liked, but it felt accurate, maybe even more than the idea that Sam was buried in there somewhere. The way Sam had been the other night, spouting what they'd fed him about their father? About Dean? It rang with too much belief in Sam's mouth, too much hate to align with anything that had ever been part of Sam's thinking.
The idea bloomed and Dean's mind rubberbanded back in time with the precision of a skilled marksman, letting him relive the moments before he'd bled across the bathroom floor. The lights had flickered for the first time that he could remember here. Had there been an electrical storm too or was it just coincidence? Was there anything of his brother in there at all? Had something terrible changed?
When the door opened again and Sam brought something over to set down in front of Dean, the answer to his previous questions felt clear. A large metal dog bowl sat heavily on the plush carpet in front of him with dinner steaming in the middle. And DEAN was etched on the side.
"I got this for another set of activities entirely. But this seemed to be the most manageable solution today since you're not allowed to use your hands." Sam nudged the bowl forward a little with the toe of his boot and Dean felt his stomach war with itself, hungry but too twisted up by the means to fix it that Sam had made available to him. "I'll give you a fifteen minute break. Merta?"
"Yes, Commander?"
Dean hadn't heard her come in and hoped to God she hadn't seen the dog bowl. His hopes didn't really matter, though. And he couldn't really let himself be surprised here. It never worked out well for him.
"You can take my lunch tray and come back in half an hour for his bowl. You may want to bring a towel, though. I imagine it'll be messy."
Dean worked not to choke on his breath and not to flinch when the woman stepped up beside him and removed the flat weight from his back. He'd gotten so used to it that for a moment it almost felt like his back was floating upward, too light to be pulled down by gravity, but then the dishes jangled a little as she walked away and the door closed behind her. And Dean was left staring down at a dog bowl full of food, his brother's eyes like two precise pinpricks on the back of his neck.
"Fourteen minutes." Sam stated it calmly, but with more interest than Dean wanted focused on him. Then Sam bent down, his fingers working deftly to unlatch the ball gag and free his mouth. Sam made no shift as if to sit down after that, though, his stance something Dean knew was sustainable even just from the placement of his feet. Sam could stand there and watch him for the entire fifteen minutes.
But Dean didn't move.
"Thirteen minutes."
Dean's stomach rumbled again and the food smelled good, looked good even, chunks of meat and potatoes and fat carrots, not much gravy, just enough for flavor. And it was getting cool, the steam fading to nothing. Maybe he didn't want to give Sam the satisfaction, though. And maybe it wouldn't matter if he wasted food or was punished for doing so.
"Twelve."
Dean sat back on his calves, taking full advantage of the break, even if he wasn't going to eat the food. Glaring up at his brother, he shoved the dog bowl back toward Sam with a mitt-covered fist, his mouth resolutely shut.
Sam's own mouth twitched up in one corner. Then the top of the toybox was flipping open and the open metal gag Dean remembered from the night before was flying into his brother's hand. And Sam just smiled. "You're no use to me if you're too weak to kneel properly or hold anything up. So if you'd prefer for me to gag your mouth open, have your food all blended like you're a toddler, and then have the twins forcibly pour it down your throat every day, I can do that." And he would.
Dean's teeth grated, top against bottom, but he knew he couldn't handle having those boys holding him down with Sam's help, pouring nasty meat milkshakes into his mouth. "Fuck you." He didn't even bother adding sir. Right then he didn't give a shit about Sam's role in his life or his role in Sam's.
Sam checked his watch. "Nine minutes."
Dean wondered if the watch face was large enough to bludgeon Sam unconscious with and he grit his teeth until his skull ached.
"Eight minutes."
When Dean gave in, it wasn't for any reasons but his own. If he was going to think or escape or survive or even just live long enough to die his own goddamn way, then he needed to have protein in his system and enough nutrients to keep his muscles moving. Especially now that Sam had apparently decided that him moving more than half an inch in four hours was too much.
He gave himself time enough to eat slowly, strategically, making as little mess as possible, not because he gave a damn about Sam's carpet, but because he wasn't an animal and wouldn't be compared to one. It was still degrading, there was still gravy on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and when Merta came to retrieve the bowl, his face was wiped down first, then the mess around the bowl. And Dean tried not to feel... anything. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Sam was waiting with the open gag when he was through, checking Dean's teeth himself as he slipped the metal ring in and secured its straps around Dean's head. Dean only didn't bite his brother's fingers because that would just be so exactly the kind of thing Sam would want. Even if it hurt him. It would just be further evidence that Dean was this thing, this it, this mix of animal and object incapable of behaving properly in or out of public.
But Dean? Dean had never been angrier in his life and he planned to use that. Somehow. Somehow he would get the upper hand here. Somehow his time as furniture, plugged and gagged, hobbled and eating out of fucking dog bowls, would be worth something, would help him learn something, something he could use. So Sam could do whatever the fuck he wanted. This wasn't going to be over until Dean said so.
Of course, Sam wasn't going to make it easy and by the time Sam's own dinner came, Dean was again unsure if he could do this. I don't bend this way. And yet he was bending that way, like some kind of pretzel crab or circus gymnast, on his knees again, but bent backward this time, his chest and chin pressed up and his wrist cuffs locked to his ankles behind him.
At first, it had been a nice stretch compared to the hands-and-knees table setup from before, but as the afternoon became evening, his abdomen began to ache, and when Sam slipped the bottom of a slim cup into his gagged open mouth like it was a cup holder, Dean couldn't help the slow blink of disgust that somehow wasn't just about Sam. The sound of someone opening the door only made the torment worse. Everything from his knees to his chest was on display and Sam had made him into some fucked up yoga sculpture with a newly occupied "decently useful" hole.
"Here, Commander?"
"Yes."
Dean shook as she set a hot plate on his unprotected chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
"... It doesn't seem very stable, sir."
"It's not, but it will work or it won't. No sense in coddling furniture that's of no use to me."
Dean wasn't sure the sensation he was feeling was an actual burn or just more heat than he'd been prepared to handle, but it was enough to force a sound from the back of his cup-filled mouth, and he almost wished for a more filling gag.
"Let go, Merta. It will be fine. If I have to, I'll just have another plate brought up and try again."
"Yes, Commander."
Dean was breathing (hard) in small tight jerks as she left, the heat and weight on his chest a little too much for his already straining back and the challenge of balancing it? Any moment now, it was going to tip and spill hot food down his front, not to mention the plate itself. He'd never been so exposed in his life and he couldn't even beg Sam for mercy. Closing his eyes was not enough. His brain was beginning to bloom a new headache behind the front curve of his skull.
Sam didn't help. He didn't pick up the plate to eat and then set it down again when he was through. No, he picked at the food. With a fork. Maybe his fingers sometimes. Dean couldn't tell and couldn't make himself try to look. He was wholly focused on the way the plate tilted and adjusted precariously on his chest while Sam dug into something or pulled something away. It was giving Dean a strange complex, adrenaline spiking with anxiety, his stomach knotting as his muscles worked to get the plate level again, only to rest for mere moments before having to do the same thing again and again and again.
When the twins came to clean the room Dean didn't even hear them. He was dripping sweat, his mind awash in the pain of a hundred tiny cramps with no way to relieve them. No rest. No rest. He almost let go of an animal sound when they finally lifted the cursed plate away.
Sam drew out his cup then, a plastic aftertaste still sitting on Dean's tongue, and since apparently the dinner theater hadn't been torture enough, Sam poured the cool liquid down over Dean's chest and abs, letting it drip over his hips, cock, and thighs. Milk. Dean could barely process the objective relief of the cooling sensation before twitching his nose at the smell if it and the feel of it trickling along every line and dip of his frame, sensuous and sick. He knew how it would look.
Fuck you. But Dean could feel something in him cracking. And when Sam spoke, Dean's breath shook his chest like the first puffs from a coal-run train engine.
"Clean that up for me."
"Yes, Commander."
Someone wiping down his face was- ... It was different. This was- ... It didn't matter that the towel was soft. It didn't matter that the guy's fingers never actually touched him. He could feel someone else's hands moving over his chest and down, sliding damp cloth across his stomach, soaking up the milk on his thighs, and dabbing - thank god not stroking, but still dabbing - in places other men's hands shouldn't be.
Sam had never let anyone that close before and if the point was to shock him, to nauseate him, to make him think about every way that Sam could restrain him and pass him around like a fucking candy dish? Then bravo. He heard the twins leave and felt his body spring up, a note of shock slipping out of his throat as his cuffs were all at once unfastened. He didn't look at his brother. He just got up when told, stumbling and stiff, and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. No, not bed, he corrected himself, you sleep on the floor in chains. That was what he was getting ready for. For cold chains on the floor.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
Back to the Table of Contents
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
CHAPTER FIVE - SHAPE
The shivers that had none-too-gently rocked Dean to sleep had become a weighted cold in his muscles by the time sunlight dragged his eyes awake. This much closer to the windows, he didn't have to know the date to feel the winter on his skin. Though bright, the sun felt little warmer than a slowly melting snowball lobbed by someone with a death wish at his head.
The cold was only part of the pain, though. His neck was stuck, his head seemingly too heavy for it as he tried to shift from where it had come to rest, packing down carpet at an angle that apparently came with throat-stabbing aches once set. Great. He'd turned on his side, his back to the couch, however, sometime in the night, and he took advantage of his position, awkward though it was, to look around the room.
The bathroom door was shut and the sound of water running allowed him to place Sam. The rest of the room seemed no different. Other than the fact that he was on the floor with barely body-warmed steel around his wrists and ankles, it could have been any morning there. But he didn't kid himself thinking it would stay that way.
Sam emerged from the bathroom, catching his eye but then unlocking the closet to dress. Watching Sam's back half slowly become covered with various articles of clothing, Dean went through the painful process of trying to swivel the kinks out of his neck, a challenge most especially because the chains wouldn't allow him enough slack to sit up. All the while, he tried to think of something he could - or should - say.
Sam's justice had been swift and brutal and Dean was fairly certain that broken glass in bathrooms would continue to give him a chill. But in the daylight, like in the shadow of the dining table, Dean could feel the distance between himself and Sam and it felt ... like maybe that was what he needed right then. Maybe it was stupid and he wasn't actually going to get through to Sam about Dad or any of the rest of the bullshit the powers that be and allies in this world had stuffed into his brother's head. But maybe, given enough space away from the constant press of sex and the brain function disrupting performance of "eagerness," he might find some way to unravel Sam's insanity.
"Do you have something to say to me this morning?" Sam turned, buttoning his shirt, though only three-quarters of the way up from the bottom. His outfits were rarely formal, just upgraded versions of what he'd always worn, smooth cotton button-downs replacing plaid flannel over newer, nicer jeans. Dean always noticed, though, always felt his mind draw distinctions when, really, if Sam had done that college-lawyer life thing, he would've been FBI style five days a week. This was a middle ground. But Dean still wasn't going to meet him on it.
He shook his head, certain and sarcasm-free. "No, sir."
Sam just nodded like he hadn't been expecting anything else, then he flicked a newly free hand in Dean's direction and the metal cuffs popped open. Then he tipped his head in a nod back toward the room he'd just vacated. "Morning routine. Just leave the door open."
Dean forced himself up through the aches of half-frozen muscles and stiffness-locked joints, walking to the bathroom in cautious steps as each pulled at something. Sam didn't move away from him, but didn't reach out either, so Dean just made sure not to bump him or look in any way threatening or intent on disobedience. It didn't seem to matter, though, Sam let him pass untouched.
It was only in the shower, minutes later, that Dean realized Sam hadn't really touched him except when necessary since the dining room the night before. Which was fine. It was nice. He had asked for a break a few times, begged for it even, and now he had it, right? But something still felt... wrong, off, strange, something. It was like Sam had pulled away from him and not the other way around. But even if Sam had, why would that be a problem? This was better. So much better. Right?
He let Sam affix the mitts again when he was dry, but not before his teeth were brushed and Sam filled his mouth with a ball gag. Then Sam maneuvered him onto hands and knees beside the couch in the bedroom, pressing a manageably sized plug into Dean's ass and then tweaking Dean's position this way and that until Dean was reminded once again of sculptures and show animals and the way being furniture had built aches in him over hours. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or anxious when the edge of Sam's hand smoothed his back out level, like he might build something on top of it, and finally slid his fingers away with a satisfied murmur.
Someone knocked on the door and then pushed the door open as the older female maid, apparent mother of the twins, brought in Sam's breakfast on a smaller tray than usual. It looked, from Dean's vantage point, like it carried only one plate, a juice, some milk, and a mug of coffee. But as she got closer, his angle up from the floor lost its usefulness, and then she was right there, standing in front of him and ... Dean found his breath stopping as he realized why she hadn't stopped at the table by the door.
"Do you want this here, commander?"
"Yes, Merta. Just be careful, it's still a bit uneven."
It's still a bit uneven. The words echoed in Dean's mind as the heavy warm tray was set on his back, threatening to bow it, and him, to the ground. The woman held on until he'd stabilized as much as he could, though, leather-covered fists pressed into the floor and head hung between stiff shoulders. Then she stepped away.
"Thank you, Merta."
"Of course, Commander." Then she turned and Dean heard the soft press of shoes on carpet as she walked back toward ad through the door.
Sam... settled in, picking up one item at a time and then replacing it back on the tray after he'd used it. He didn't seem to mind eating while holding the plate or maybe with it in his lap, but Dean wasn't surprised. They'd perfected the art of eating however they could manage whenever food was available.
Dean's own position, though, and, frankly, his lack of breakfast was... more than unexpected. Furniture included tables, sure, but... was Sam just going to starve him out? Was he going to say, "Furniture doesn't need food. Why are you complaining? Didn't you want this?" And the fact that he couldn't complain, couldn't ask why, couldn't see if Sam would change his mind, all because he was gagged like some kind of roasted pig? It was harder for Dean than he'd thought it would be.
Having a hard plastic ball in his mouth made him thirsty and the weight and strange balancing act of the tray on his back made him tense, but along with his concerns over food, he was somehow still battling the cold. It wouldn't shake from where it had burrowed under his skin. And Sam, whose hands and close-pressed body had always brought more warmth than Dean would've liked his way, just ... wasn't present in the same way. There was too much distance between them, even if it was just a foot and the barrier of one arm of the couch.
It felt to Dean like he'd been left outside, like he was the table on the deck he'd seen out below their windows before winter set in. From every way his body ached, chilled and too aware of his nakedness, Dean couldn't even say this felt all that much better than being positioned like this outside. The only difference he really felt was the carpet under his knees.
As the day went on and he remained a table, occasionally used, occasionally cleaned, occasionally adjusted, Dean realized just how little he was thinking those deep strategic thoughts about Sam, the world he worked in, and what he might have to do to show Sam this wasn't the way. Instead, Dean's mind was more often quiet, just ... rustling papers nearby and the right shift of his shoulders to flatten out the lunch tray and whether or not his calves would ever lose the indents made by every fiber of carpet. This was... simple in a way and even in the ways it wasn't, the challenge of it kept him focused on just being what Sam had shaped him into. No less owned property, but no longer a whore. It felt, strangely, almost... safe.
Dean's stomach rumbled mid-afternoon and for a long moment, he thought Sam would ignore it. He seemed remarkably good at ignoring him now. But Sam didn't. He got up, crossed the room, and Dean heard the closet open for him, the soft ring of metal brushing metal before it closed again, then Sam's footfalls moved further away.
At the door, Sam spoke with the guards again, in tones that Dean couldn't hear, and then he waited there, Dean imagining him leaned against the wall with one shoulder, arms folded over his chest. Sam only hid his hands in his pockets when he was feeling awkward, nervous. That wouldn't be Sam's style now. Most everything here was nothing like Sam, as if the good parts, which had been such a huge part of his brother, had been erased or surgically removed. And now all that was left was a smudge or the sensation of phantom limbs, echoes of his brother that couldn't actually function in the world. It wasn't an image he liked, but it felt accurate, maybe even more than the idea that Sam was buried in there somewhere. The way Sam had been the other night, spouting what they'd fed him about their father? About Dean? It rang with too much belief in Sam's mouth, too much hate to align with anything that had ever been part of Sam's thinking.
The idea bloomed and Dean's mind rubberbanded back in time with the precision of a skilled marksman, letting him relive the moments before he'd bled across the bathroom floor. The lights had flickered for the first time that he could remember here. Had there been an electrical storm too or was it just coincidence? Was there anything of his brother in there at all? Had something terrible changed?
When the door opened again and Sam brought something over to set down in front of Dean, the answer to his previous questions felt clear. A large metal dog bowl sat heavily on the plush carpet in front of him with dinner steaming in the middle. And DEAN was etched on the side.
"I got this for another set of activities entirely. But this seemed to be the most manageable solution today since you're not allowed to use your hands." Sam nudged the bowl forward a little with the toe of his boot and Dean felt his stomach war with itself, hungry but too twisted up by the means to fix it that Sam had made available to him. "I'll give you a fifteen minute break. Merta?"
"Yes, Commander?"
Dean hadn't heard her come in and hoped to God she hadn't seen the dog bowl. His hopes didn't really matter, though. And he couldn't really let himself be surprised here. It never worked out well for him.
"You can take my lunch tray and come back in half an hour for his bowl. You may want to bring a towel, though. I imagine it'll be messy."
Dean worked not to choke on his breath and not to flinch when the woman stepped up beside him and removed the flat weight from his back. He'd gotten so used to it that for a moment it almost felt like his back was floating upward, too light to be pulled down by gravity, but then the dishes jangled a little as she walked away and the door closed behind her. And Dean was left staring down at a dog bowl full of food, his brother's eyes like two precise pinpricks on the back of his neck.
"Fourteen minutes." Sam stated it calmly, but with more interest than Dean wanted focused on him. Then Sam bent down, his fingers working deftly to unlatch the ball gag and free his mouth. Sam made no shift as if to sit down after that, though, his stance something Dean knew was sustainable even just from the placement of his feet. Sam could stand there and watch him for the entire fifteen minutes.
But Dean didn't move.
"Thirteen minutes."
Dean's stomach rumbled again and the food smelled good, looked good even, chunks of meat and potatoes and fat carrots, not much gravy, just enough for flavor. And it was getting cool, the steam fading to nothing. Maybe he didn't want to give Sam the satisfaction, though. And maybe it wouldn't matter if he wasted food or was punished for doing so.
"Twelve."
Dean sat back on his calves, taking full advantage of the break, even if he wasn't going to eat the food. Glaring up at his brother, he shoved the dog bowl back toward Sam with a mitt-covered fist, his mouth resolutely shut.
Sam's own mouth twitched up in one corner. Then the top of the toybox was flipping open and the open metal gag Dean remembered from the night before was flying into his brother's hand. And Sam just smiled. "You're no use to me if you're too weak to kneel properly or hold anything up. So if you'd prefer for me to gag your mouth open, have your food all blended like you're a toddler, and then have the twins forcibly pour it down your throat every day, I can do that." And he would.
Dean's teeth grated, top against bottom, but he knew he couldn't handle having those boys holding him down with Sam's help, pouring nasty meat milkshakes into his mouth. "Fuck you." He didn't even bother adding sir. Right then he didn't give a shit about Sam's role in his life or his role in Sam's.
Sam checked his watch. "Nine minutes."
Dean wondered if the watch face was large enough to bludgeon Sam unconscious with and he grit his teeth until his skull ached.
"Eight minutes."
When Dean gave in, it wasn't for any reasons but his own. If he was going to think or escape or survive or even just live long enough to die his own goddamn way, then he needed to have protein in his system and enough nutrients to keep his muscles moving. Especially now that Sam had apparently decided that him moving more than half an inch in four hours was too much.
He gave himself time enough to eat slowly, strategically, making as little mess as possible, not because he gave a damn about Sam's carpet, but because he wasn't an animal and wouldn't be compared to one. It was still degrading, there was still gravy on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and when Merta came to retrieve the bowl, his face was wiped down first, then the mess around the bowl. And Dean tried not to feel... anything. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Sam was waiting with the open gag when he was through, checking Dean's teeth himself as he slipped the metal ring in and secured its straps around Dean's head. Dean only didn't bite his brother's fingers because that would just be so exactly the kind of thing Sam would want. Even if it hurt him. It would just be further evidence that Dean was this thing, this it, this mix of animal and object incapable of behaving properly in or out of public.
But Dean? Dean had never been angrier in his life and he planned to use that. Somehow. Somehow he would get the upper hand here. Somehow his time as furniture, plugged and gagged, hobbled and eating out of fucking dog bowls, would be worth something, would help him learn something, something he could use. So Sam could do whatever the fuck he wanted. This wasn't going to be over until Dean said so.
Of course, Sam wasn't going to make it easy and by the time Sam's own dinner came, Dean was again unsure if he could do this. I don't bend this way. And yet he was bending that way, like some kind of pretzel crab or circus gymnast, on his knees again, but bent backward this time, his chest and chin pressed up and his wrist cuffs locked to his ankles behind him.
At first, it had been a nice stretch compared to the hands-and-knees table setup from before, but as the afternoon became evening, his abdomen began to ache, and when Sam slipped the bottom of a slim cup into his gagged open mouth like it was a cup holder, Dean couldn't help the slow blink of disgust that somehow wasn't just about Sam. The sound of someone opening the door only made the torment worse. Everything from his knees to his chest was on display and Sam had made him into some fucked up yoga sculpture with a newly occupied "decently useful" hole.
"Here, Commander?"
"Yes."
Dean shook as she set a hot plate on his unprotected chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
"... It doesn't seem very stable, sir."
"It's not, but it will work or it won't. No sense in coddling furniture that's of no use to me."
Dean wasn't sure the sensation he was feeling was an actual burn or just more heat than he'd been prepared to handle, but it was enough to force a sound from the back of his cup-filled mouth, and he almost wished for a more filling gag.
"Let go, Merta. It will be fine. If I have to, I'll just have another plate brought up and try again."
"Yes, Commander."
Dean was breathing (hard) in small tight jerks as she left, the heat and weight on his chest a little too much for his already straining back and the challenge of balancing it? Any moment now, it was going to tip and spill hot food down his front, not to mention the plate itself. He'd never been so exposed in his life and he couldn't even beg Sam for mercy. Closing his eyes was not enough. His brain was beginning to bloom a new headache behind the front curve of his skull.
Sam didn't help. He didn't pick up the plate to eat and then set it down again when he was through. No, he picked at the food. With a fork. Maybe his fingers sometimes. Dean couldn't tell and couldn't make himself try to look. He was wholly focused on the way the plate tilted and adjusted precariously on his chest while Sam dug into something or pulled something away. It was giving Dean a strange complex, adrenaline spiking with anxiety, his stomach knotting as his muscles worked to get the plate level again, only to rest for mere moments before having to do the same thing again and again and again.
When the twins came to clean the room Dean didn't even hear them. He was dripping sweat, his mind awash in the pain of a hundred tiny cramps with no way to relieve them. No rest. No rest. He almost let go of an animal sound when they finally lifted the cursed plate away.
Sam drew out his cup then, a plastic aftertaste still sitting on Dean's tongue, and since apparently the dinner theater hadn't been torture enough, Sam poured the cool liquid down over Dean's chest and abs, letting it drip over his hips, cock, and thighs. Milk. Dean could barely process the objective relief of the cooling sensation before twitching his nose at the smell if it and the feel of it trickling along every line and dip of his frame, sensuous and sick. He knew how it would look.
Fuck you. But Dean could feel something in him cracking. And when Sam spoke, Dean's breath shook his chest like the first puffs from a coal-run train engine.
"Clean that up for me."
"Yes, Commander."
Someone wiping down his face was- ... It was different. This was- ... It didn't matter that the towel was soft. It didn't matter that the guy's fingers never actually touched him. He could feel someone else's hands moving over his chest and down, sliding damp cloth across his stomach, soaking up the milk on his thighs, and dabbing - thank god not stroking, but still dabbing - in places other men's hands shouldn't be.
Sam had never let anyone that close before and if the point was to shock him, to nauseate him, to make him think about every way that Sam could restrain him and pass him around like a fucking candy dish? Then bravo. He heard the twins leave and felt his body spring up, a note of shock slipping out of his throat as his cuffs were all at once unfastened. He didn't look at his brother. He just got up when told, stumbling and stiff, and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. No, not bed, he corrected himself, you sleep on the floor in chains. That was what he was getting ready for. For cold chains on the floor.
Chapters: Prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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