The Good Son Part 2, Supernatural
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Good Son
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 082 Afraid
Summary: Sam is called back to Stanford to investigate some strange disappearances, and before he could even meet up with the old friend who asked for him, Sam disappears himself, taken prisoner.
Warnings: Very, very Dark Fic. Involves torture and rape. Second part of a larger story (probably another 2 to 3 parts)First Part Here
This is my fifth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
082 Afraid
He was dying. Blood oozed from wounds, from his ears, from his ass and he was dying…alone, in a cold, dark room…alone…violated, beaten, bloodied…and so alone it hurt. He cried out for Dean…Dean who was always there, who took care of him, made him safe, even when he didn’t want it…and only silence echoed back to him…
Sam was only vaguely aware of the transition from nightmare to reality, dim acceptance of the situation making it easy to lay still on the cold concrete floor, feeling every inch of his body, each ache, each pain, every bruise and open wound. He didn’t shift to try to find comfort, had given up on comfort. There was only endless discomfort here. Discomfort and obedience. Some part of his mind worked to identify the music playing in his ears, some part stuck on Dean’s name, repeating it in his head like a mantra to keep him sane.
Sam was afraid. The dream hadn’t been like a vision…there was no blinding pain, no emotional attachment…just a certainty that it wasn’t far from the truth. He didn’t even start as he felt the hand, on the back of his neck. He lay still, as if he were still unconscious, though he was certain the hand…the person who owned the hand, knew.
He was surprised when he felt the pressure on his mouth loosen, involuntarily moving his jaw as the gag was untied and together with the hood, removed. The song ended, Neil Diamond, he realized after the fact. His jaw popped as he moved it, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“On your knees, Sam.”
There was no hesitation, Sam pushed himself up on protesting arms, pulling his legs under him, despite the scrapes on his knees from before, despite the cracking and bleeding he felt on his shins. His hand were heavy with the weight of his bonds and they dropped to his lap as soon as he was upright.
He was going to have to pee again soon. He needed water, food. It felt like days since he’d had either. His throat was raw from screaming. The hand was on his head. “Good boy, Sam. You know I hate to punish you.” The chuckle was deep, rocking into his head, making him dizzy. “No, actually, I rather enjoy it. But you knew that.”
He was being petted, like a dog. “I’m prepared to take care of you this morning, Sam. But, I want you to ask me for what you need.”
Sam sat beneath the stroking hand without speaking, unsure he even had a voice left to speak. “You must be thirsty by now. The human body needs water, Sam. You can’t go much longer without it. Surely you know that.”
”You need to hydrate better, Sam.” Dean said, patting his back as Sam hunched over, clutching at his side.
“Especially in this heat.” John added, throwing a water bottle at them. “Get him to drink that, and then get him inside. He’s done for the day.”
“It’s just a cramp.” Sam protested, trying to straighten up. “I’m fine.”
“Done.” John replied without even looking at him. “Dean and I will finish up.”
There was no use arguing with that tone, Sam knew it. “I’m not a baby,” he growled at Dean, swiping the water bottle and making his own way back into the apartment building.
The hand was stroking his back now, comforting, cajoling. “Tell me what you need Sam. Ask for it.”
Sam swallowed dryly and moved his lips. It took several tries before he could feel his vocal chords respond. “Water?” It felt like he croaked the word, though he couldn’t hear himself to know.
“What about the water, Sam?”
Sam closed his eyes under the blindfold. It was a little thing, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything. “I-I-may I have some…water….please?” he croaked out, shuddering against the gentle hand resting now between his shoulder blades.
“Open your mouth, Sam.”
He felt something against his lips, round, small…a bottle. He opened his mouth and felt the first cool mouthful flow into him. He tilted his head back a little and swallowed, not thinking, just letting the water fill him. When it stopped he sat very still, waiting.
“What else, Sam?” The voice was inside him, and he shook his head as if he could shake loose of it. “Are you hungry? You must be. I’ve brought crackers for you, and bread. Would you like some?”
Sam nodded. The stroking stopped. “Ask.”
He was shaking, he could feel it in his hands, in his stomach. “C-Could I have…bread…?”
“Open.” The hand put a cube of a dry bread on his tongue and Sam closed his mouth over it, his stomach roaring its displeasure. “There’s my good Sam.” The voice said, the hand back on his shoulders, rubbing. “See how I take care of what’s mine, Sam? So much better than your father ever did.”
Sam didn’t answer, he chewed and swallowed and asked for more. This was not submission. It was survival. Dean and his father would find him…would come for him. No matter what the gnawing doubt whispered to him in the voice that invaded his head.
Sam was afraid. Dean was as sure of that as he was that someone, or something, was going to pay for making Sam afraid. He was afraid and alone…hurting…and it hit Dean like a physical blow to the stomach. He searched the dark landscape of his dream, knowing Sam was there, somewhere, in the dark…counting on him to save him. He called out to him, but wind tore the sound away so that even Dean couldn’t hear it. His hands groped the darkness, coming away empty and aching. Whimpers, half heard whispers that might have been his name and Dean turned round and round looking.
The knock at the door brought him up, out of the dream, off the bed, standing between the two hotel beds, still dressed as he had been two nights ago. His father looked up from the computer and they both looked toward the door. It was almost midnight.
Dean nodded to his father and moved to the door, his hand on the gun still stuck in the back of his pants. “Who is it?”
“Dean, it’s Claire. Let me in.”
He stepped back and unlocked the door, admitting the tall red-head with a nod. She looked different then when he had last seen her, the khaki sheriffs’ uniform replaced by the dark blue of the SFPD. “Dad, Claire Aevlin, Claire, my father, John Winchester.”
She shook hands with the older Winchester then dropped a package onto the nearest bed. “I ran into Claire a few years ago, north of here. She had some werewolf trouble.” Dean said in way of explanation. “She moved to San Francisco to be closer to her sister and is now a Lieutenant for the San Fran Police.”
“I hope your being here in the middle of the night means something good.” John said.
“That depends on your definition of good.” Claire replied. “This whole thing has opened a can of worms. There are orders being rushed through court to exhume the bodies, but I don’t need them to know they won’t all match.”
“What?” Dean asked, his face angry.
“No Dean, I did the research myself. Look.” She dumped the contents of the manila envelope she’d carried in onto the bed sorting through the folders that fell onto the bedspread. “This is the most recent. Jacob Armstrong. It is also the most violent. He disappeared two months ago and this body,” she held up a second folder, “was found twenty four days later.” She matched each of the other folders, working back in time. “All 8 of these have characteristics that let us preliminarily match them, height, weight, tattoos, piercings, etc. This one, however…” She pointed to the last one, or the first one. “This one doesn’t match.”
Dean took the folder from her hand. “Jim Salmon. He was a computer science major, excellent grades, extracurriculars, and Sam’s roommate for 6 months.”
“The body that corresponds to approximately 1 month after his disappearance is only 5 foot 5.” Claire said. “He was 5’11”.”
“I remember him.” John said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kinda nerdy guy, curly hair.”
Dean looked up at him. “You met Sam’s roommate.”
“I didn’t say I’d met him.” He met his son’s gaze and Dean smirked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who shadowed Sam to make sure he was safe.
“So, what does this mean?”
Claire stood. “I’m out on a limb here, guys. I owe you one Dean, and I realize your brother’s life is on the line. It would seem to me that this might make Jim Salmon a suspect, but I’m not officially on the case. A task force is being assembled, cops from all three cities, and feds. This is going to get thick with police really quick, especially if those bodies start matching up to missing people.”
“We’ve dealt with stuff like this before, Lt. Aevlin.” John said as she moved to the door. “And we appreciate you taking the time to drive down here.”
“You be careful. Don’t get in the way and end up behind bars. You can’t help him if you do.” She smiled at Dean and he nodded.
“Thanks, Claire.”
She nodded and disappeared out the door. Dean sighed and sat on the bed. “Could this really be just some guy? Some guy grabbed Sam?” Dean asked, scrubbing at the growth on his face.
John sighed and returned to the computer. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean…you hunt long enough, you start to think everything has a demon or ghost or something behind it. But that isn’t necessarily the way it works. People can be sick creatures.”
He pulled his hand over his face, pressing the heels of his hands against tired eyes. “Try to get some more sleep. I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Jim Salmon.”
“Dean, wake up.” John’s hand grabbed Dean’s wrist and pulled him awake. “Get up and get in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Fremont.”
“Huh?” Dean was on his feet, moving, but still disoriented.
“Fremont. Salmon lives across the fucking bridge in Fremont.”
Still half asleep, Dean followed his father to the Impala, feeling like he was missing something. He started as the car door closed and he realized what it was. Sam. Sam was what he was missing. “Hold on, Sam.” He thought it around clenched teeth and a fist against his thigh.
“Dean.”
The word escaped him before he could recall it, and he knew, he heard it. The headphones were gone. His voice sounded strange, strained and pale and weak. He hadn’t been asleep, but he wasn’t really awake. If he had he would have known, he would have held still, held his tongue.
The movement stopped. Hands on his back, pressing him into the harsh edge of the pedestal. “What did you say, Sam?”
Sam shook his head. The body behind him pushed harder, and Sam groaned. His head was swimming with images, with Dean’s voice. The cock was buried inside him, pulsing, waiting. He wanted it to be done, to get past this part. He was growing accustomed to the routine and it made it easier.
“Say it again, Sam,” the voice demanded.
“Dean. I said Dean.”
“You call out your brother’s name while you’re getting fucked?” The cock moved, pulling out slowly, almost completely before pressing in just as slowly. “While you’re getting fucked by me?”
Sam hung his head. He had no words. His cock was hard, and the insistent invasion of the cock in his ass was overwhelming…it wasn’t violent, it was slow, methodical…touching him in ways he had craved without knowing it, taking him places all the wild fucking with Dean never had. There was no intimacy, no that wasn’t right. There was, two people couldn’t know each other as well as they did without intimacy. It was never gentle, it was never slow…it was never admitted to or talked about. It happened, it was over and they moved on.
Nails down his already welted and sore back brought Sam back to his predicament. “Do you fuck your brother, Sam? Do you let him fuck you?”
Sam shook his head, but his cock quirked with his words, and he knew. “You are a dirty, dirty boy, Sam.”
There was a hand on his cock now, roughly pulling. The other hand unexpectedly pulled the blindfold off, and Sam squinted his eyes against the sudden glare, even as his head was turned toward the wall, toward a mirrored wall. “Do you see how dirty you are, Sam?”
Sam stared at the reflection, at the hand pulling on his dick, on the dick shoving itself inside him. His skin was marbled in varied shades of blue and black and purple. His eyes moved, up to finally see…but the hand in his hair pulled his head down and away. “You see what I want you to see.”
He was angry now, his thrusting erratic. “Look, Sam. Look at yourself. Dirty brother-fucker.”
“Dean.” It was pleading…it was desperate and it made it worse.
“Again, Sam. Say it.”
“Dean.” Throaty and deep, his voice sounded foreign to him.
“Again.”
He screamed it, pouring himself into the name and his orgasm as he came, watching helplessly as this cum flowed onto the floor beneath him…as his captor fucked him harder and harder, finally pulling Sam’s face back to him as he came, filling Sam’s ass. The blindfold was roughly replaced and Sam’s arms hauled up over his head. There would be punishment, and Sam knew it would be harsh. He closed his eyes as he heard the door open and whispered Dean’s name.
Dean and his father sat in the Impala across the street from a diner, watching. Jim-fucking-Salmon smiled at a customer, made small talk with a waitress, and generally looked like any normal person should. Dean was fairly certain there was nothing normal about Jim-fucking-Salmon.
“Let’s go beat him up and make him tell us where Sam is.” Dean said through clenched teeth.
“We can’t just go beat up some guy because he used to go to school with your brother.” John said, his eyes scouring the street. “We need to be more subtle.”
Dean looked at his father with a face that clearly said, I don’t do subtle. “Come on. Follow my lead.”
There wasn’t much lead to follow, as soon as they’d stepped into the diner, Salmon was at their side, showing them to a table and looking at Dean with recognition all over his face. “Aren’t you….um…Dean, right?”
Dean nodded, and Salmon’s face broke into a grin. “Sam’s brother. I could never forget such a pretty face.”
“Hey. How you doing?”
“Things are good. How is Sam? I lost track of him after I left school.”
“Yeah…he’s…he’s…good.” Dean looked at his father but John was staring at his hands. No help there. So much for leading. “Actually, he’s not so good. He’s missing.”
“Oh…no. I’m very sorry.” He actually looked sorry. His face paled and he called over his shoulder for someone named Paul. “Hey, keep an eye on things?”
The other man, slightly older, beginning to bald nodded and Salmon pulled a chair over. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well…he was last seen at the school, two nights-no, it’s three now. We were…visiting.”
“Did Davis ask him to come by?”
“Davis?”
Salmon nodded. “Truthfully, I think Davis would do anything to get old friends together. He doesn’t have anyone since his partner died. He comes in here about once a week. Lately he’s been talking about people disappearing. He mentioned Sam.”
“Well, now Sam is missing.” John looked up, glancing first at Dean before pinning Salmon to his chair with his eyes. “What do you know about this Davis?”
“Oh, no…don’t get the wrong idea. Davis is lonely, but not…not a criminal. He sees patterns, things most people don’t get. He just doesn’t do well socially.”
“What about these disappearances?” Dean asked.
Salmon hunched forward. “I really don’t know. They all seem so random. I knew a few. Markin and Josher were friends of Garrett’s, so they were around. Two of the others were pledging the fraternity my study partner was in. They really don’t seem to have much in common.”
“So who’s this Garrett?”
Salmon blushed. “Kendall Garrett. He was my…boyfriend. Strange guy now that I look back on it. He came from a really wealthy family, but he hung around with us…the ones who earned our way in. He was always giving me things, buying me stuff I didn’t want. He liked to take care of me. It started out small, but when I called it off it was so bad he’d get angry if I opened a door for myself or made myself something to eat. It was all too much for me.”
“Is that why you left school?” Dean asked.
“Partly. I met Paul, and he was so much more stable than Garrett. I didn’t think I fit in at Stanford. My financial aid went farther at San Jose State…and I got my degree there, although I changed to a business major to help Paul run this place.”
“Did Garrett know Sam?”
“In passing. He met sometimes in the dorm room, but Sam was always so dedicated to his studies. Garrett sometimes commented on it, said he was cute and all…but Garrett…he had a type.”
“A type?”
Salmon nodded. “I realized it shortly after I started dating him. His eyes wandered. Sam was definitely his type. Tall, lean, shy, kind of geeky…and above all, not wealthy.”
“Do you think this Garrett is capable of…kidnapping?” Dean asked. At the least.
Salmon shrugged. “I really don’t know. He was possessive, but he was never violent, not with me.”
“Thank you for your time.” Dean and his father stood, moving out of the diner and back to the Impala. “It isn’t him.”
“No,” his father agreed. “It isn’t.”
“So we find Garrett.”
“And beat him until he coughs up your brother.”
Third Part Here
Title: The Good Son
Characters/Pairing: Sam, John, Dean, implied Sam/Dean, graphic Sam/Other
Rating: NC-17, for graphic violence and sex, rape
Table: #1
Prompt: 082 Afraid
Summary: Sam is called back to Stanford to investigate some strange disappearances, and before he could even meet up with the old friend who asked for him, Sam disappears himself, taken prisoner.
Warnings: Very, very Dark Fic. Involves torture and rape. Second part of a larger story (probably another 2 to 3 parts)First Part Here
This is my fifth ficlet for my Supernatural claim on 100_situations. Clicky for table
082 Afraid
He was dying. Blood oozed from wounds, from his ears, from his ass and he was dying…alone, in a cold, dark room…alone…violated, beaten, bloodied…and so alone it hurt. He cried out for Dean…Dean who was always there, who took care of him, made him safe, even when he didn’t want it…and only silence echoed back to him…
Sam was only vaguely aware of the transition from nightmare to reality, dim acceptance of the situation making it easy to lay still on the cold concrete floor, feeling every inch of his body, each ache, each pain, every bruise and open wound. He didn’t shift to try to find comfort, had given up on comfort. There was only endless discomfort here. Discomfort and obedience. Some part of his mind worked to identify the music playing in his ears, some part stuck on Dean’s name, repeating it in his head like a mantra to keep him sane.
Sam was afraid. The dream hadn’t been like a vision…there was no blinding pain, no emotional attachment…just a certainty that it wasn’t far from the truth. He didn’t even start as he felt the hand, on the back of his neck. He lay still, as if he were still unconscious, though he was certain the hand…the person who owned the hand, knew.
He was surprised when he felt the pressure on his mouth loosen, involuntarily moving his jaw as the gag was untied and together with the hood, removed. The song ended, Neil Diamond, he realized after the fact. His jaw popped as he moved it, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“On your knees, Sam.”
There was no hesitation, Sam pushed himself up on protesting arms, pulling his legs under him, despite the scrapes on his knees from before, despite the cracking and bleeding he felt on his shins. His hand were heavy with the weight of his bonds and they dropped to his lap as soon as he was upright.
He was going to have to pee again soon. He needed water, food. It felt like days since he’d had either. His throat was raw from screaming. The hand was on his head. “Good boy, Sam. You know I hate to punish you.” The chuckle was deep, rocking into his head, making him dizzy. “No, actually, I rather enjoy it. But you knew that.”
He was being petted, like a dog. “I’m prepared to take care of you this morning, Sam. But, I want you to ask me for what you need.”
Sam sat beneath the stroking hand without speaking, unsure he even had a voice left to speak. “You must be thirsty by now. The human body needs water, Sam. You can’t go much longer without it. Surely you know that.”
”You need to hydrate better, Sam.” Dean said, patting his back as Sam hunched over, clutching at his side.
“Especially in this heat.” John added, throwing a water bottle at them. “Get him to drink that, and then get him inside. He’s done for the day.”
“It’s just a cramp.” Sam protested, trying to straighten up. “I’m fine.”
“Done.” John replied without even looking at him. “Dean and I will finish up.”
There was no use arguing with that tone, Sam knew it. “I’m not a baby,” he growled at Dean, swiping the water bottle and making his own way back into the apartment building.
The hand was stroking his back now, comforting, cajoling. “Tell me what you need Sam. Ask for it.”
Sam swallowed dryly and moved his lips. It took several tries before he could feel his vocal chords respond. “Water?” It felt like he croaked the word, though he couldn’t hear himself to know.
“What about the water, Sam?”
Sam closed his eyes under the blindfold. It was a little thing, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything. “I-I-may I have some…water….please?” he croaked out, shuddering against the gentle hand resting now between his shoulder blades.
“Open your mouth, Sam.”
He felt something against his lips, round, small…a bottle. He opened his mouth and felt the first cool mouthful flow into him. He tilted his head back a little and swallowed, not thinking, just letting the water fill him. When it stopped he sat very still, waiting.
“What else, Sam?” The voice was inside him, and he shook his head as if he could shake loose of it. “Are you hungry? You must be. I’ve brought crackers for you, and bread. Would you like some?”
Sam nodded. The stroking stopped. “Ask.”
He was shaking, he could feel it in his hands, in his stomach. “C-Could I have…bread…?”
“Open.” The hand put a cube of a dry bread on his tongue and Sam closed his mouth over it, his stomach roaring its displeasure. “There’s my good Sam.” The voice said, the hand back on his shoulders, rubbing. “See how I take care of what’s mine, Sam? So much better than your father ever did.”
Sam didn’t answer, he chewed and swallowed and asked for more. This was not submission. It was survival. Dean and his father would find him…would come for him. No matter what the gnawing doubt whispered to him in the voice that invaded his head.
Sam was afraid. Dean was as sure of that as he was that someone, or something, was going to pay for making Sam afraid. He was afraid and alone…hurting…and it hit Dean like a physical blow to the stomach. He searched the dark landscape of his dream, knowing Sam was there, somewhere, in the dark…counting on him to save him. He called out to him, but wind tore the sound away so that even Dean couldn’t hear it. His hands groped the darkness, coming away empty and aching. Whimpers, half heard whispers that might have been his name and Dean turned round and round looking.
The knock at the door brought him up, out of the dream, off the bed, standing between the two hotel beds, still dressed as he had been two nights ago. His father looked up from the computer and they both looked toward the door. It was almost midnight.
Dean nodded to his father and moved to the door, his hand on the gun still stuck in the back of his pants. “Who is it?”
“Dean, it’s Claire. Let me in.”
He stepped back and unlocked the door, admitting the tall red-head with a nod. She looked different then when he had last seen her, the khaki sheriffs’ uniform replaced by the dark blue of the SFPD. “Dad, Claire Aevlin, Claire, my father, John Winchester.”
She shook hands with the older Winchester then dropped a package onto the nearest bed. “I ran into Claire a few years ago, north of here. She had some werewolf trouble.” Dean said in way of explanation. “She moved to San Francisco to be closer to her sister and is now a Lieutenant for the San Fran Police.”
“I hope your being here in the middle of the night means something good.” John said.
“That depends on your definition of good.” Claire replied. “This whole thing has opened a can of worms. There are orders being rushed through court to exhume the bodies, but I don’t need them to know they won’t all match.”
“What?” Dean asked, his face angry.
“No Dean, I did the research myself. Look.” She dumped the contents of the manila envelope she’d carried in onto the bed sorting through the folders that fell onto the bedspread. “This is the most recent. Jacob Armstrong. It is also the most violent. He disappeared two months ago and this body,” she held up a second folder, “was found twenty four days later.” She matched each of the other folders, working back in time. “All 8 of these have characteristics that let us preliminarily match them, height, weight, tattoos, piercings, etc. This one, however…” She pointed to the last one, or the first one. “This one doesn’t match.”
Dean took the folder from her hand. “Jim Salmon. He was a computer science major, excellent grades, extracurriculars, and Sam’s roommate for 6 months.”
“The body that corresponds to approximately 1 month after his disappearance is only 5 foot 5.” Claire said. “He was 5’11”.”
“I remember him.” John said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kinda nerdy guy, curly hair.”
Dean looked up at him. “You met Sam’s roommate.”
“I didn’t say I’d met him.” He met his son’s gaze and Dean smirked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who shadowed Sam to make sure he was safe.
“So, what does this mean?”
Claire stood. “I’m out on a limb here, guys. I owe you one Dean, and I realize your brother’s life is on the line. It would seem to me that this might make Jim Salmon a suspect, but I’m not officially on the case. A task force is being assembled, cops from all three cities, and feds. This is going to get thick with police really quick, especially if those bodies start matching up to missing people.”
“We’ve dealt with stuff like this before, Lt. Aevlin.” John said as she moved to the door. “And we appreciate you taking the time to drive down here.”
“You be careful. Don’t get in the way and end up behind bars. You can’t help him if you do.” She smiled at Dean and he nodded.
“Thanks, Claire.”
She nodded and disappeared out the door. Dean sighed and sat on the bed. “Could this really be just some guy? Some guy grabbed Sam?” Dean asked, scrubbing at the growth on his face.
John sighed and returned to the computer. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean…you hunt long enough, you start to think everything has a demon or ghost or something behind it. But that isn’t necessarily the way it works. People can be sick creatures.”
He pulled his hand over his face, pressing the heels of his hands against tired eyes. “Try to get some more sleep. I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Jim Salmon.”
“Dean, wake up.” John’s hand grabbed Dean’s wrist and pulled him awake. “Get up and get in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Fremont.”
“Huh?” Dean was on his feet, moving, but still disoriented.
“Fremont. Salmon lives across the fucking bridge in Fremont.”
Still half asleep, Dean followed his father to the Impala, feeling like he was missing something. He started as the car door closed and he realized what it was. Sam. Sam was what he was missing. “Hold on, Sam.” He thought it around clenched teeth and a fist against his thigh.
“Dean.”
The word escaped him before he could recall it, and he knew, he heard it. The headphones were gone. His voice sounded strange, strained and pale and weak. He hadn’t been asleep, but he wasn’t really awake. If he had he would have known, he would have held still, held his tongue.
The movement stopped. Hands on his back, pressing him into the harsh edge of the pedestal. “What did you say, Sam?”
Sam shook his head. The body behind him pushed harder, and Sam groaned. His head was swimming with images, with Dean’s voice. The cock was buried inside him, pulsing, waiting. He wanted it to be done, to get past this part. He was growing accustomed to the routine and it made it easier.
“Say it again, Sam,” the voice demanded.
“Dean. I said Dean.”
“You call out your brother’s name while you’re getting fucked?” The cock moved, pulling out slowly, almost completely before pressing in just as slowly. “While you’re getting fucked by me?”
Sam hung his head. He had no words. His cock was hard, and the insistent invasion of the cock in his ass was overwhelming…it wasn’t violent, it was slow, methodical…touching him in ways he had craved without knowing it, taking him places all the wild fucking with Dean never had. There was no intimacy, no that wasn’t right. There was, two people couldn’t know each other as well as they did without intimacy. It was never gentle, it was never slow…it was never admitted to or talked about. It happened, it was over and they moved on.
Nails down his already welted and sore back brought Sam back to his predicament. “Do you fuck your brother, Sam? Do you let him fuck you?”
Sam shook his head, but his cock quirked with his words, and he knew. “You are a dirty, dirty boy, Sam.”
There was a hand on his cock now, roughly pulling. The other hand unexpectedly pulled the blindfold off, and Sam squinted his eyes against the sudden glare, even as his head was turned toward the wall, toward a mirrored wall. “Do you see how dirty you are, Sam?”
Sam stared at the reflection, at the hand pulling on his dick, on the dick shoving itself inside him. His skin was marbled in varied shades of blue and black and purple. His eyes moved, up to finally see…but the hand in his hair pulled his head down and away. “You see what I want you to see.”
He was angry now, his thrusting erratic. “Look, Sam. Look at yourself. Dirty brother-fucker.”
“Dean.” It was pleading…it was desperate and it made it worse.
“Again, Sam. Say it.”
“Dean.” Throaty and deep, his voice sounded foreign to him.
“Again.”
He screamed it, pouring himself into the name and his orgasm as he came, watching helplessly as this cum flowed onto the floor beneath him…as his captor fucked him harder and harder, finally pulling Sam’s face back to him as he came, filling Sam’s ass. The blindfold was roughly replaced and Sam’s arms hauled up over his head. There would be punishment, and Sam knew it would be harsh. He closed his eyes as he heard the door open and whispered Dean’s name.
Dean and his father sat in the Impala across the street from a diner, watching. Jim-fucking-Salmon smiled at a customer, made small talk with a waitress, and generally looked like any normal person should. Dean was fairly certain there was nothing normal about Jim-fucking-Salmon.
“Let’s go beat him up and make him tell us where Sam is.” Dean said through clenched teeth.
“We can’t just go beat up some guy because he used to go to school with your brother.” John said, his eyes scouring the street. “We need to be more subtle.”
Dean looked at his father with a face that clearly said, I don’t do subtle. “Come on. Follow my lead.”
There wasn’t much lead to follow, as soon as they’d stepped into the diner, Salmon was at their side, showing them to a table and looking at Dean with recognition all over his face. “Aren’t you….um…Dean, right?”
Dean nodded, and Salmon’s face broke into a grin. “Sam’s brother. I could never forget such a pretty face.”
“Hey. How you doing?”
“Things are good. How is Sam? I lost track of him after I left school.”
“Yeah…he’s…he’s…good.” Dean looked at his father but John was staring at his hands. No help there. So much for leading. “Actually, he’s not so good. He’s missing.”
“Oh…no. I’m very sorry.” He actually looked sorry. His face paled and he called over his shoulder for someone named Paul. “Hey, keep an eye on things?”
The other man, slightly older, beginning to bald nodded and Salmon pulled a chair over. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well…he was last seen at the school, two nights-no, it’s three now. We were…visiting.”
“Did Davis ask him to come by?”
“Davis?”
Salmon nodded. “Truthfully, I think Davis would do anything to get old friends together. He doesn’t have anyone since his partner died. He comes in here about once a week. Lately he’s been talking about people disappearing. He mentioned Sam.”
“Well, now Sam is missing.” John looked up, glancing first at Dean before pinning Salmon to his chair with his eyes. “What do you know about this Davis?”
“Oh, no…don’t get the wrong idea. Davis is lonely, but not…not a criminal. He sees patterns, things most people don’t get. He just doesn’t do well socially.”
“What about these disappearances?” Dean asked.
Salmon hunched forward. “I really don’t know. They all seem so random. I knew a few. Markin and Josher were friends of Garrett’s, so they were around. Two of the others were pledging the fraternity my study partner was in. They really don’t seem to have much in common.”
“So who’s this Garrett?”
Salmon blushed. “Kendall Garrett. He was my…boyfriend. Strange guy now that I look back on it. He came from a really wealthy family, but he hung around with us…the ones who earned our way in. He was always giving me things, buying me stuff I didn’t want. He liked to take care of me. It started out small, but when I called it off it was so bad he’d get angry if I opened a door for myself or made myself something to eat. It was all too much for me.”
“Is that why you left school?” Dean asked.
“Partly. I met Paul, and he was so much more stable than Garrett. I didn’t think I fit in at Stanford. My financial aid went farther at San Jose State…and I got my degree there, although I changed to a business major to help Paul run this place.”
“Did Garrett know Sam?”
“In passing. He met sometimes in the dorm room, but Sam was always so dedicated to his studies. Garrett sometimes commented on it, said he was cute and all…but Garrett…he had a type.”
“A type?”
Salmon nodded. “I realized it shortly after I started dating him. His eyes wandered. Sam was definitely his type. Tall, lean, shy, kind of geeky…and above all, not wealthy.”
“Do you think this Garrett is capable of…kidnapping?” Dean asked. At the least.
Salmon shrugged. “I really don’t know. He was possessive, but he was never violent, not with me.”
“Thank you for your time.” Dean and his father stood, moving out of the diner and back to the Impala. “It isn’t him.”
“No,” his father agreed. “It isn’t.”
“So we find Garrett.”
“And beat him until he coughs up your brother.”
Third Part Here