DJ100fic: All's Fair... (S/D, D/demons, NC-17)
Title: All's Fair in Love and War
Author: smallcaps
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/demons
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean pushes Sam too far, and Sam is determined to put him in his place. Based on prompt #77 for the Demon Jesus 100 flash-fanworks-a-thon, and yes, it did get completely out of hand on me.
[(Edited 28 Dec 11:26 am) Warning: issues of really, truly, dubious consent; that is to say, hardly any. And since that's pretty much the premise of the fic, I'm not giving anything away.]
There were a couple of major problems with simply running away to join the circus.
Sam tried to remind himself of those problems, but right now, walking a literal tightrope instead of a metaphorical one sounded like a really fantastic idea. If he fell off, the worst consequences were all on him. And Dean. Always on Dean.
If he fell, or if he spread his arms and leaned backwards into the empty spaces, he might hit the dirt and die. He might wind up a vegetable or a retard or a tetraplegic. But unless there was something really hardcore going on with flaming hoops underneath him, he was probably not going to cause the world as they knew it to go up in flames.
Maybe there was only one major problem with simply running away to join the circus, which was that Dean would try to set him up with a clown.
That, and the demons would just follow him.
Sam wanted to turn to a blank page in his book and drawing up a list as to which would be worse, trying to escape the demons (his demons now, he reminded himself) or dating a motherfucking clown. Actually, he wanted to be doing pretty much anything other than what he was supposed to be doing. It was too cold and no matter how many shirts he put on he couldn't get warm, and he couldn't figure out how to control the demons.
It all sounded so easy. Man up, take command. Of course, as soon as you took command of something, there were automatically a whole lotta people -- or other creatures -- that wanted to take it off you.
If you were idiot enough to take command of all Hell?
Getting all the demons in line was easy. Keeping them there...trying to keep them there would drive him insane.
"Hey, Sam, wanna make out?"
Unless Dean drove him insane first.
"Or we could just, you know, cuddle or something."
"Cuddle," Sam drawled, rich and sardonic, meeting his brother's eyes. Dean, now, Dean was only wearing one shirt under his leather jacket, and was probably cosy warm anyway. Bastard. "You haven't been giving me all my memos, Dean. I missed the one where 'cuddle' is the new corporate buzzword for you sticking your dick in my ass."
Dean actually blushed a little, at the other side of the table. "Jeez, Sammy, take all the goddamn romance out of it, why don't you."
Romance. Right. Sam barked a tired laugh and rubbed at his own eyes. Both of them brittle and tense and scared: Sam with his thoughts going around and around in circles, Dean desperate for an easy way not to think at all. One wrong step by either of them in the foreseeable future, and they could probably bring the world to an end.
"Not a good time, Dean," he said, and the understatement nearly made his tongue bleed. He looked back down at his notes, convoluted maps of demon politics and whispers of alliances, of who he could cow into submission and who he could buy. "Something's coming," he said, more to himself than to Dean this time. "They're too restless. Something's going to happen."
"You need a break, Sam. You're still human--"
"Barely," Sam muttered, rubbing his arms for warmth, and Dean ignored him.
"--You need to sleep, and you need to eat."
"I don't think your spunk is all that nutritious, Dean."
Dean reached to his chin, lifted his face to make eye contact, stubborn and serious and not backing away from the sharp edge of his sarcasm. "Maybe, maybe not, but I can fuck you til you come so hard you sleep for a day and a half."
The low growl in Dean's tone made Sam's cock stir hopefully. He scowled at both of them. This was wasting time, time he needed. "Dude, you will not die if you go three days in a row without getting laid."
"If you put out, I promise I'll still respect you in the morning." Dean's fingers were tucked warm under Sam's chin, thumb rubbing invitation along his jaw. Eyes dark and promising. "Come on, Sam. Half an hour, lemme spread you out, eat you all up. Take the pressure off. I swear, baby, I'm gonna fuck you so good..."
The 'baby' killed it, because Sam was so not the girl. He let his eyes change, let Dean see everything that was wrong about who they were now. When he spoke, his voice echoed with power. "Back off, Dean. I'm serious. Now is not the time."
That should have been the end of it.
Dean couldn't just take the warning and shut up. Dean, idiot, rose from his seat, bracing both hands on the wooden table. His brother's eyes, clear and human and flecked with colours, were just as hard as his. "You wanna play big, bad, Demon King? Hell, Sammy, you know I don't mind playing catcher." That filthy mouth quirked in challenge. "Get thee behind me, Satan. Give it to me good."
He shoved Dean, hard, without moving a muscle, shoved so that Dean stumbled backwards and onto his ass. "Don't fucking call me that, asshole."
"What, Demon King?" Dean grinned up at him, nasty and taunting and that was all wrong right now. Got up onto his knees and stayed there. "Satan?"
And Dean knew better, knew better than to give him shit right now while his eyes were like this and he was breathing sin and sulphur. When he was like this Dean was supposed to duck for cover and shut the hell up, let some poor demon take the hit.
Not push at him. Not make it worse.
"Serious," Sam said again; through his teeth, because he was angry and because he was almost cold enough for them to chatter. He'd had to say the word twice and Dean wasn't stopping.
"Or what? I'm right here, you could fuck my face, fill my mouth up with your dick so I can't speak anymore."
Sam stood up. He pushed his chair back and walked around the table to tower over Dean.
"Now, was that so hard?" Dean said, too smug and slow on the uptake, hands reaching for Sam's pants.
Sam ripped open the air behind his brother, flung Dean through, and walked steadily himself into the fires of Hell.
"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, like he'd expected something different. He picked himself up, flinching when his bare hands touched the scorching, jagged tumble of bone and sulphur that they stood on. There were a thousand eyes on them, ten thousand; countless demons and sinners distracted by the sudden arrival of the King and his human brother.
Sam steadied the air behind himself so he could lounge against it, smirking at Dean. He pitched his voice to carry through the smoky, tortured pits, speaking to more than just his brother. "Now that I think about it -- I have been a little preoccupied."
"You think?" Dean's eyes darted uneasily around at their watchers, skin flushing with the heat that was slowly thawing Sam out.
"I keep thinking about...how should I tear down my enemies." He didn't look away from his brother's face, but he could feel them, the intensity of the demons' gazes. "But you're right, Dean, I should make time to reward those who are close to me."
"Okay, great," Dean said, tugging at his jacket as though he wasn't sweltering. "So what's say we ditch the audience and get frisky, huh? Only, it's just that Hell is not my idea of a great honeymoon spot."
"I'm pretty sure that the part they call the honeymoon period is over."
"Come on, Sammy," Dean said quietly, eyes round and a little anxious. "Let's not do this here."
Sam didn't move but he pushed, forced Dean down kneeling on ground that was made of charred and broken bones. "It's. Sam."
Dean lowered his head, but Sam knew better than to take it for abasement. He waited, holding Hell around himself like a blanket, watching. He couldn't see Dean's eyes from this angle, but he saw the tension in his brother's shoulders just before Dean pulled the gun from the small of his back and aimed steadily at Sam, face grim.
"You wanna play hardball?" Dean cocked an eyebrow, both hands steadying the pistol, aiming at Sam's chest without moving from his knees. "Throw down, little brother."
Sam gave a grim smile in return. Dean was really, really begging to be put down hard. The demons were restless and eager; they'd never seen him face off against Dean this way. Dean had always been the Beloved, the Protected. Sam knew that with this little scene, he was ruining all the efforts Dean had made to gain some respect of his own--but Dean was fucking asking for it, this time. "Am I supposed to be intimidated?"
"Hey, you're the Demon King, you tell me."
Sam huffed a laugh; spread his arms. "Dean? You may not have noticed, but we had a slight change of location. That little toy of yours isn't going to do jack shit here."
Dean's aim didn't waver. "Then let's go back and see how tough you are without all this, then, huh?"
"Nice try." Sam walked towards him. "You're not getting off that easy."
He had to give Dean credit for patience; the trigger didn't squeeze until Sam was close enough to take the pistol by hand. He didn't, though; instead, he pushed at the space between them, stretching it, so the stream of holy water hissed and evaporated long before it could reach him.
Sam let the distance snap back, and looked down at his brother with a touch of impatience. "Are you done?"
"Dammit, Sam--" Dean glanced around again, scowling. Apparently, he realised that for Sam to back down in front of every demon in Hell was just too big a weakness--would probably get them both slaughtered. Wincing a little, Dean placed both palms flat on scorching brimstone, pressing his forehead to the backs of his hands. "I apologise, Sam. You know how cranky I get when I miss my naptime."
Sam stayed silent a moment, until Dean's arms were trembling with the force of will required to keep both hands pressed to the heat of the ground. Dean was bowing before him but it wasn't enough, not even close. Dean should suffer, should hurt. For always pushing, always taunting. For being so goddamned smug. For getting to be saved.
"Get up," Sam said finally.
Dean sprang to his feet, shaking his hands with a pink-cheeked grimace of pain. Both palms were reddened, burned. The knees of Dean's jeans showed scorch marks. It wasn't enough. Damn it all, why'd Dean have to push at him? Stirring up the parts of Hell that Sam carried with him always now. Dean was supposed to know the lines, know when to stop. When to run.
Dean was supposed to help him and Sam was angry enough at the betrayal that if he clenched his teeth, he could see blue flames like burning sulphur dance behind his eyes.
"Where are my generals," he ground out, calling them forth. Four great demons who'd come to his side early, leading his forces to easy victory, and Dean had named them after the Horsemen of the Apocalypse because...well, the obvious. He could do worse than throw these four some favour, now.
Dean's weight shifted briefly, but his older brother didn't move but for that and a visible swallow in his throat. Sam eyed him, eyed his lowered head -- more truly penitent now -- standing closer he could see the look of resigned trepidation his brother wore.
Sweat was beading on Dean's forehead, on the upper curve of his mouth. Instead of licking it off, Sam stepped backwards. "This is what you asked for." His generals were creeping forward, glistening with blood that could be from lesser demons just as easily as it could be from damned souls. There weren't a lot of clear distinctions in this place. "This is exactly what you asked for, brother. Big, bad Demon King is going to get you laid."
Dean jerked his head up, eyes going wide and shocked. "Sam, they're demons."
"Maybe you should have worried about getting dirty before you chose to be on my side."
"You're not going to," Dean said, half-questioning. Sweat was darkening the roots of his hair. "It's the first commandment, they don't touch me--"
"Without my say-so." Sam stared into his brother's eyes, darkly satisfied to see the rising fear in them. He was so tired of Dean trying to order him around, acting like older brother and parent and babysitter all combined, always Dean-knows-best. Dean needed to start remembering that the balance of power had changed.
"Sam, please," Dean hissed, trembling with the effort not to fight him in front of the demons. "Don't--I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, Sam, I was an ass, but please don't."
"Good dog," Sam said, alive with the feel of his blood racing through him, no more sluggish and chilled by the world up above. He'd come to understand why free demons always possessed a human host. As much as they might despise mankind, burrowing into hot, living flesh was the perfect home in a world that was so much chillier than Hell's unnatural fires. "Just for that, they're not allowed to bleed you. But you might want to take your jacket off before they tear it."
Dean flinched, visibly. Screwing his eyes closed, Dean lowered his head again, hiding his face from the demons as he slowly, deliberately stripped. He even took off his boots and socks, standing barefoot on ground that burned and cut.
"Good dog," Sam breathed again, his anger ebbing at this clear submission. "Just right, Dean. See, you do know how to behave. Set a good example, and my generals reward you." He inclined his head to the four demons, giving them permission.
They lunged forward, settling rank with a minimum of biting and tearing at each other. Death seized Dean, jerking him forward to his knees, and Dean buried his face away from the smell of blood and decay. War settled in behind, spreading Dean's thighs with wet, red hands, the triumphant winner of the pack's tussle. The two that Dean called Famine and Plague, when he could tell the demons apart, licked at his sides and laughed at his trembling helplessness, but mostly they stood guard as if any other demon would be stupid enough to attack right now, under Sam's watchful eyes.
"Sweet Consort," War crooned, rubbing at Dean's skin, painting him with the blood of souls and reckless demons. "Beautiful child of Adam. Have you seen how you glitter when you fall?"
"Naturally, you picked the crazy ones," Dean muttered, eyes still closed tight. His shoulders flexed, bare skin glistening with sweat, and he made a soft noise low in his throat as the demon slid into him.
"Don't hurt," the demon said, and the one holding Dean forward gave a growl of agreement. "We won't hurt the one who pleases Master, not while Master gives us power. Just obey, tame dog, tame child of Adam. So warm."
Death licked at Dean's throat, slow, and Sam's mouth watered. Watching, he could almost taste Dean's skin, Dean's sweat. He could shrink the distance between them, could slide his tongue up the groove of Dean's spine, lap at the salty skin. He'd be able to smell Dean, then; all he could smell now was brimstone and burning, rotten eggs and ashes.
Death stretched charred, tattered wings and spoke in a low rumble, "You taste like living."
The demon sounded almost envious. Sam folded his arms, smiling darkly, because that was one thing Dean had above all these demons. One thing even Sam still had; a human soul. One thing the demons could never, ever have, no matter how much power they clawed from each other or how tightly they wrapped themselves in human skins.
"Do you want off the ground?" he asked his brother, and Dean barely hesitated before nodding hard.
War glowed feral, triumphant, pulling Dean's hips up hard. Blood dripped from Dean's knees onto the broken bone carpet, hissing and scattering away as tiny, burnt-red spiders. Dean grunted, half in pain but half-hard, bracing his hands against Death's chest.
"Do you even know how many angels fell for you?" War thrust into him with long, savouring strokes, holding Dean away from the burning and sharp edges. "Fell for this, child of Adam? Even Master loves you best." The demon's voice was a mixture of anger and hunger in equal parts as it demanded with a snarl, "What makes you worth it?"
Dean's eyes glinted open briefly, sarcasm writ clear on his face. "My girlish figure?"
Death laughed at that, at Dean getting the better of one of the other generals. It looked at Sam in obedience and question. "I can have his clever mouth? Not to hurt your dog, sir. He speaks with knives; I want to fuck the edges."
"Do it," Sam said, watching Dean's eyes fall closed again, watching his brother's mouth close around the demon's flesh. Dean did have a very clever mouth, full of wit and obscenity and wet heat. He wasn't at all surprised to see the demon bleeding as it pushed in and out of Dean's lips.
One of the watching demons had drifted too close in its greed and fascination. As it crossed some invisible line, one of the other generals -- Famine -- darted from Dean's side to fall on it with a bloodthirsty battle-cry. War howled along, rocking faster against Dean as Famine ripped open the intruding demon's guts. Dean moaned, squirming in the two demons' hold, rising to full hardness.
Sam knew he was envious, but he wasn't sure where he'd rather be; tearing at the hapless demon, fucking a helpless and submissive Dean, or being the captive toy himself. He knew though that he would never dare trust a demon enough to let it have that much control. His brother was the only one he could trust enough to surrender to.
War reared up with a shout, wings unfurling with a cloud of soot and ash. They trembled, stretched out to full span as the demon twitched and came. With barely a pause War pulled free and loped towards the broken demon nearby; with a cuff over Famine's head, it seized the kill, gnawing at the bones before the creature got around to reviving.
Sam tactfully decided not to comment on the resemblance to Dean's own post-coital snack missions, partly because Plague had seized the opportunity to take its turn. This demon caressed Dean's skin, one hand holding him up while the other smoothed at the small of his back, at his spine, rubbed at the knots behind his shoulders. Sam could almost feel it, sense-memory of Dean's hands on him, Dean touching him, teasing him, while he writhed restrained and helpless.
"You liking this?" Plague asked Death, using its real name, a name Sam still had trouble wrapping his mouth around. "Is he cutting you up, making you bleed and sting? Is his mouth as sharp as you'd hoped?"
"Sharper," Death breathed happily, leaning forward.
The demons kissed, Dean between them, while Famine slunk around the edges and complained, "My turn, my turn."
Death was rumbling low and pleased; Dean was giving soft, stifled moans. Plague squeezed the back of Dean's neck, slid its hand up to cup Death's darkly beautiful face, blood smeared over the three of them. Sam bit his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth as he watched the kiss, watched Dean being cradled and fucked, watched all of them revel in primal sins.
Death came first, half-choking Dean. Plague followed not long after, pulling back with bloodied, torn lips and a look of bliss. They still had enough sense left in them to keep Dean away from the ground, laying him over them as they sprawled contentedly. Famine darted foward gleefully, rolling Dean belly-up and holding his thighs to bury deep inside him.
"Fuck," Dean whispered, head falling back against the demons that served as his mattress. He was flushed all over, sweat trickling through the smears of blood the demons had painted him with. "Sam, we gotta move. I. Fuck."
Sam recognised the broken heat in his brother's voice; his guts tightened hotly and he bit down before he could stop himself, tearing his lip with a splash of blood on his tongue. "Gonna come, Dean?"
"Yeah." Dean gave a shuddering gasp, jerking helplessly against the demon fucking him. He moaned, starting to reach for his hard-on before forcing his hand back to his side, stilled in a fist. "Sam, oh God. Not here."
"That's it, Dean." Sam leaned forward, not surprised to realise his own hands were balled tightly. "Spread your legs. I want to see how deep you can take it. I want to see your whole body beg."
"Sam!" Dean's eyes opened, dark and wild, unfocused. "Please, please not here. Not in front of them. Please, Sam, I'm begging!"
"Love it when you beg me," Sam said, his voice almost as hoarse and tight as Dean's. "I love it when you let everything go. Beg me, Dean, come on, come for me--"
"Not here," Dean pleaded, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, "please, not like this, please Sam, please--"
He almost couldn't stand it, watching Dean beg, honest and unguarded; watching Dean sob and twist against the demon fucking wetly into him; watching Dean shake and gasp and come in white, ropy strands over his own stomach. Some fell on the ground and slithered away as milky serpents, hiding in the bones. Sam flushed hard and deep, throbbing with a hunger that set his teeth on edge.
"Please," Dean was still sobbing, still weeping, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"My turn, my turn," Famine was chanting quietly, taking its pleasure, and Sam had just about had enough.
"Mine," he said firmly, pulling Dean to him; ignoring his general's disappointment, he tore open the air again and took both Dean and himself back out of Hell.
Breathing hard, he reached for his brother physically, with his hands; "Dean, you--you have no idea how damn hot you--"
"Are they watching?" Dean asked breathlessly. Sweat-soaked and flushed and wearing blood like warpaint -- scorched and torn and right now Sam wanted so hard he could barely breathe.
"No," he promised, pressing his palms to Dean's chest, feeling the heat and Dean's pounding heartbeat. "Just us. I wanna--"
"I need a shower," Dean choked out; stumbled backwards and locked the bathroom door behind him.
Aw...fuck.
"Dean." Sam went to the closed door, touched it carefully. "Dean?"
No answer, just sounds of water and a human body climbing into the spray while it was still cold. Fine for Dean; Sam could feel his own teeth wanting to start chattering again. He sat on his bed and wrapped himself in blankets, waiting.
Finally, Dean came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist and one wrapped around his hair. There was no steam; the water had never gotten hot.
Sam was suddenly, unjustifiably angry. Dean had started this, dammit, had pushed him beyond the point he could be safely pushed. "You could have said," he snarled, pulling his blankets tight as he stood up. "You know you could have said. I would have stopped it, Dean."
"I know that, shithead," Dean snapped back, rummaging in the drawers for a clean teeshirt and shorts. "That's why I couldn't say it. They would have ripped us both apart, and I don't know about you anymore but I'm pretty sure I can't survive having my intestines spread across fifty yards of brimstone."
"You--" Sam swallowed around the thick lump that mental image made. "But you like--"
"No, Sam, you gigantic moron, you like being helpless." Dean had his back turned, wasn't looking at him. "You love being able to turn off the responsibility now and then. Your sex issues are not my sex issues."
"What, so you just, you've been faking it when you bottom?" Sam could hear his voice rising, could feel himself spiralling out of control again, but what the hell was this bullshit now?
"Did I say that?" Dean dumped the towel off his head, pulled a grey teeshirt on, still not turning around.
Sam ground his teeth, frustrated. He didn't understand what Dean was trying to say, couldn't understand why Dean had started it in the first place. It was taking all his restraint not to stride forward, get up in Dean's face. "Fuck's sake, if you could just shut up when--"
Dean rounded on him, eyes wet and blazing. "I thought you'd just have them beat the crap out of me!"
Sam blinked at him for a moment. "What?"
"I thought--" Dean turned half away again, pulling his shorts on under the towel before he removed it. His knees weren't bleeding anymore, were just red and raw. "I just figured you'd have me beaten 'til I grovelled, you know, the King's Dog, all that bullshit."
Sam sat down, hard, gaping at his brother. "You did it on purpose? Dean, what the hell?"
Dean gave him a strange, quiet look that was at odds with the anger simmering under his surface. "You just gave the Unholy Consort over to four of your best generals. You stood and watched while he begged. There is not a demon down there that doubts you, now."
For a moment, Sam could only stare. He felt a little sick. While he'd been worrying how to keep the demons in line, snapping at his brother, Dean had come up with an entire plan and carried it out. Dean had been willing to kneel in Hell and be tortured to secure Sam's throne, Sam's safety. Dean had won the whole war while Sam had only been thinking about how to stop his brother being such a damned smartass all the time.
It was times like this he was really, really convinced the demons had picked the wrong Winchester brother for their King.
"I couldn't have let them hurt you," he said weakly.
"You just let them fuck me," Dean said, full of shame and disgust. "Demons, Sam."
"I--"
"Dude, I so don't want to talk about this. I'm going to sleep." Dean climbed into the other bed, raising a hand when Sam started to protest. "Don't even start. You're on the metaphorical couch, asshole."
Sam switched off the light and climbed into his own bed. He knew he should just shut up, but he turned his head and blurted, "If you don't like being helpless, what is it you like?"
"You are so fucking stupid," Dean muttered, in a broken, angry voice.
Sam closed his mouth and decided not to dig his hole any deeper.
When he woke up in the morning, Dean had already gone out and there was a devil's trap painted around the bed. The message was obvious: Sam's turn to be the helpless one. He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a slow breath.
His first instinct was to pull at the bedside table for his cellphone, but it wasn't there; nothing flew into his hand. He stopped and looked around; saw both his cellphone and the laptop sitting outside the painted sigils, beyond his reach. Fuck. Jerk.
At least he knew the answer to one question. All night, he'd dreamed of smoky blue sulphur fires, of Dean twisting and begging. His dreams had mingled with memories, of Dean begging under him, of laughing into his brother's skin, of happier times. And he knew exactly what had made Dean come to pieces under him, those times, why Dean liked to bottom just as much as he liked to manhandle Sam and drive him insane with pleasure.
Dean didn't want to be helpless; Dean just wanted to be wanted.
And giving him to the demons, Sam hadn't laid a hand on him. Hadn't so much as brushed against him, hadn't even jerked off in front of him. That was probably the worst part of it, in Dean's mind.
Sam sprawled out on the bed, alone in his invisible cage, and stared at the ceiling. He really needed to not think about his brother naked and begging, right now, because he had a feeling he could be sleeping on Dean's metaphorical couch for quite some time.
Definitely time to run away and join the circus.
Author: smallcaps
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/demons
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean pushes Sam too far, and Sam is determined to put him in his place. Based on prompt #77 for the Demon Jesus 100 flash-fanworks-a-thon, and yes, it did get completely out of hand on me.
[(Edited 28 Dec 11:26 am) Warning: issues of really, truly, dubious consent; that is to say, hardly any. And since that's pretty much the premise of the fic, I'm not giving anything away.]
There were a couple of major problems with simply running away to join the circus.
Sam tried to remind himself of those problems, but right now, walking a literal tightrope instead of a metaphorical one sounded like a really fantastic idea. If he fell off, the worst consequences were all on him. And Dean. Always on Dean.
If he fell, or if he spread his arms and leaned backwards into the empty spaces, he might hit the dirt and die. He might wind up a vegetable or a retard or a tetraplegic. But unless there was something really hardcore going on with flaming hoops underneath him, he was probably not going to cause the world as they knew it to go up in flames.
Maybe there was only one major problem with simply running away to join the circus, which was that Dean would try to set him up with a clown.
That, and the demons would just follow him.
Sam wanted to turn to a blank page in his book and drawing up a list as to which would be worse, trying to escape the demons (his demons now, he reminded himself) or dating a motherfucking clown. Actually, he wanted to be doing pretty much anything other than what he was supposed to be doing. It was too cold and no matter how many shirts he put on he couldn't get warm, and he couldn't figure out how to control the demons.
It all sounded so easy. Man up, take command. Of course, as soon as you took command of something, there were automatically a whole lotta people -- or other creatures -- that wanted to take it off you.
If you were idiot enough to take command of all Hell?
Getting all the demons in line was easy. Keeping them there...trying to keep them there would drive him insane.
"Hey, Sam, wanna make out?"
Unless Dean drove him insane first.
"Or we could just, you know, cuddle or something."
"Cuddle," Sam drawled, rich and sardonic, meeting his brother's eyes. Dean, now, Dean was only wearing one shirt under his leather jacket, and was probably cosy warm anyway. Bastard. "You haven't been giving me all my memos, Dean. I missed the one where 'cuddle' is the new corporate buzzword for you sticking your dick in my ass."
Dean actually blushed a little, at the other side of the table. "Jeez, Sammy, take all the goddamn romance out of it, why don't you."
Romance. Right. Sam barked a tired laugh and rubbed at his own eyes. Both of them brittle and tense and scared: Sam with his thoughts going around and around in circles, Dean desperate for an easy way not to think at all. One wrong step by either of them in the foreseeable future, and they could probably bring the world to an end.
"Not a good time, Dean," he said, and the understatement nearly made his tongue bleed. He looked back down at his notes, convoluted maps of demon politics and whispers of alliances, of who he could cow into submission and who he could buy. "Something's coming," he said, more to himself than to Dean this time. "They're too restless. Something's going to happen."
"You need a break, Sam. You're still human--"
"Barely," Sam muttered, rubbing his arms for warmth, and Dean ignored him.
"--You need to sleep, and you need to eat."
"I don't think your spunk is all that nutritious, Dean."
Dean reached to his chin, lifted his face to make eye contact, stubborn and serious and not backing away from the sharp edge of his sarcasm. "Maybe, maybe not, but I can fuck you til you come so hard you sleep for a day and a half."
The low growl in Dean's tone made Sam's cock stir hopefully. He scowled at both of them. This was wasting time, time he needed. "Dude, you will not die if you go three days in a row without getting laid."
"If you put out, I promise I'll still respect you in the morning." Dean's fingers were tucked warm under Sam's chin, thumb rubbing invitation along his jaw. Eyes dark and promising. "Come on, Sam. Half an hour, lemme spread you out, eat you all up. Take the pressure off. I swear, baby, I'm gonna fuck you so good..."
The 'baby' killed it, because Sam was so not the girl. He let his eyes change, let Dean see everything that was wrong about who they were now. When he spoke, his voice echoed with power. "Back off, Dean. I'm serious. Now is not the time."
That should have been the end of it.
Dean couldn't just take the warning and shut up. Dean, idiot, rose from his seat, bracing both hands on the wooden table. His brother's eyes, clear and human and flecked with colours, were just as hard as his. "You wanna play big, bad, Demon King? Hell, Sammy, you know I don't mind playing catcher." That filthy mouth quirked in challenge. "Get thee behind me, Satan. Give it to me good."
He shoved Dean, hard, without moving a muscle, shoved so that Dean stumbled backwards and onto his ass. "Don't fucking call me that, asshole."
"What, Demon King?" Dean grinned up at him, nasty and taunting and that was all wrong right now. Got up onto his knees and stayed there. "Satan?"
And Dean knew better, knew better than to give him shit right now while his eyes were like this and he was breathing sin and sulphur. When he was like this Dean was supposed to duck for cover and shut the hell up, let some poor demon take the hit.
Not push at him. Not make it worse.
"Serious," Sam said again; through his teeth, because he was angry and because he was almost cold enough for them to chatter. He'd had to say the word twice and Dean wasn't stopping.
"Or what? I'm right here, you could fuck my face, fill my mouth up with your dick so I can't speak anymore."
Sam stood up. He pushed his chair back and walked around the table to tower over Dean.
"Now, was that so hard?" Dean said, too smug and slow on the uptake, hands reaching for Sam's pants.
Sam ripped open the air behind his brother, flung Dean through, and walked steadily himself into the fires of Hell.
"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, like he'd expected something different. He picked himself up, flinching when his bare hands touched the scorching, jagged tumble of bone and sulphur that they stood on. There were a thousand eyes on them, ten thousand; countless demons and sinners distracted by the sudden arrival of the King and his human brother.
Sam steadied the air behind himself so he could lounge against it, smirking at Dean. He pitched his voice to carry through the smoky, tortured pits, speaking to more than just his brother. "Now that I think about it -- I have been a little preoccupied."
"You think?" Dean's eyes darted uneasily around at their watchers, skin flushing with the heat that was slowly thawing Sam out.
"I keep thinking about...how should I tear down my enemies." He didn't look away from his brother's face, but he could feel them, the intensity of the demons' gazes. "But you're right, Dean, I should make time to reward those who are close to me."
"Okay, great," Dean said, tugging at his jacket as though he wasn't sweltering. "So what's say we ditch the audience and get frisky, huh? Only, it's just that Hell is not my idea of a great honeymoon spot."
"I'm pretty sure that the part they call the honeymoon period is over."
"Come on, Sammy," Dean said quietly, eyes round and a little anxious. "Let's not do this here."
Sam didn't move but he pushed, forced Dean down kneeling on ground that was made of charred and broken bones. "It's. Sam."
Dean lowered his head, but Sam knew better than to take it for abasement. He waited, holding Hell around himself like a blanket, watching. He couldn't see Dean's eyes from this angle, but he saw the tension in his brother's shoulders just before Dean pulled the gun from the small of his back and aimed steadily at Sam, face grim.
"You wanna play hardball?" Dean cocked an eyebrow, both hands steadying the pistol, aiming at Sam's chest without moving from his knees. "Throw down, little brother."
Sam gave a grim smile in return. Dean was really, really begging to be put down hard. The demons were restless and eager; they'd never seen him face off against Dean this way. Dean had always been the Beloved, the Protected. Sam knew that with this little scene, he was ruining all the efforts Dean had made to gain some respect of his own--but Dean was fucking asking for it, this time. "Am I supposed to be intimidated?"
"Hey, you're the Demon King, you tell me."
Sam huffed a laugh; spread his arms. "Dean? You may not have noticed, but we had a slight change of location. That little toy of yours isn't going to do jack shit here."
Dean's aim didn't waver. "Then let's go back and see how tough you are without all this, then, huh?"
"Nice try." Sam walked towards him. "You're not getting off that easy."
He had to give Dean credit for patience; the trigger didn't squeeze until Sam was close enough to take the pistol by hand. He didn't, though; instead, he pushed at the space between them, stretching it, so the stream of holy water hissed and evaporated long before it could reach him.
Sam let the distance snap back, and looked down at his brother with a touch of impatience. "Are you done?"
"Dammit, Sam--" Dean glanced around again, scowling. Apparently, he realised that for Sam to back down in front of every demon in Hell was just too big a weakness--would probably get them both slaughtered. Wincing a little, Dean placed both palms flat on scorching brimstone, pressing his forehead to the backs of his hands. "I apologise, Sam. You know how cranky I get when I miss my naptime."
Sam stayed silent a moment, until Dean's arms were trembling with the force of will required to keep both hands pressed to the heat of the ground. Dean was bowing before him but it wasn't enough, not even close. Dean should suffer, should hurt. For always pushing, always taunting. For being so goddamned smug. For getting to be saved.
"Get up," Sam said finally.
Dean sprang to his feet, shaking his hands with a pink-cheeked grimace of pain. Both palms were reddened, burned. The knees of Dean's jeans showed scorch marks. It wasn't enough. Damn it all, why'd Dean have to push at him? Stirring up the parts of Hell that Sam carried with him always now. Dean was supposed to know the lines, know when to stop. When to run.
Dean was supposed to help him and Sam was angry enough at the betrayal that if he clenched his teeth, he could see blue flames like burning sulphur dance behind his eyes.
"Where are my generals," he ground out, calling them forth. Four great demons who'd come to his side early, leading his forces to easy victory, and Dean had named them after the Horsemen of the Apocalypse because...well, the obvious. He could do worse than throw these four some favour, now.
Dean's weight shifted briefly, but his older brother didn't move but for that and a visible swallow in his throat. Sam eyed him, eyed his lowered head -- more truly penitent now -- standing closer he could see the look of resigned trepidation his brother wore.
Sweat was beading on Dean's forehead, on the upper curve of his mouth. Instead of licking it off, Sam stepped backwards. "This is what you asked for." His generals were creeping forward, glistening with blood that could be from lesser demons just as easily as it could be from damned souls. There weren't a lot of clear distinctions in this place. "This is exactly what you asked for, brother. Big, bad Demon King is going to get you laid."
Dean jerked his head up, eyes going wide and shocked. "Sam, they're demons."
"Maybe you should have worried about getting dirty before you chose to be on my side."
"You're not going to," Dean said, half-questioning. Sweat was darkening the roots of his hair. "It's the first commandment, they don't touch me--"
"Without my say-so." Sam stared into his brother's eyes, darkly satisfied to see the rising fear in them. He was so tired of Dean trying to order him around, acting like older brother and parent and babysitter all combined, always Dean-knows-best. Dean needed to start remembering that the balance of power had changed.
"Sam, please," Dean hissed, trembling with the effort not to fight him in front of the demons. "Don't--I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, Sam, I was an ass, but please don't."
"Good dog," Sam said, alive with the feel of his blood racing through him, no more sluggish and chilled by the world up above. He'd come to understand why free demons always possessed a human host. As much as they might despise mankind, burrowing into hot, living flesh was the perfect home in a world that was so much chillier than Hell's unnatural fires. "Just for that, they're not allowed to bleed you. But you might want to take your jacket off before they tear it."
Dean flinched, visibly. Screwing his eyes closed, Dean lowered his head again, hiding his face from the demons as he slowly, deliberately stripped. He even took off his boots and socks, standing barefoot on ground that burned and cut.
"Good dog," Sam breathed again, his anger ebbing at this clear submission. "Just right, Dean. See, you do know how to behave. Set a good example, and my generals reward you." He inclined his head to the four demons, giving them permission.
They lunged forward, settling rank with a minimum of biting and tearing at each other. Death seized Dean, jerking him forward to his knees, and Dean buried his face away from the smell of blood and decay. War settled in behind, spreading Dean's thighs with wet, red hands, the triumphant winner of the pack's tussle. The two that Dean called Famine and Plague, when he could tell the demons apart, licked at his sides and laughed at his trembling helplessness, but mostly they stood guard as if any other demon would be stupid enough to attack right now, under Sam's watchful eyes.
"Sweet Consort," War crooned, rubbing at Dean's skin, painting him with the blood of souls and reckless demons. "Beautiful child of Adam. Have you seen how you glitter when you fall?"
"Naturally, you picked the crazy ones," Dean muttered, eyes still closed tight. His shoulders flexed, bare skin glistening with sweat, and he made a soft noise low in his throat as the demon slid into him.
"Don't hurt," the demon said, and the one holding Dean forward gave a growl of agreement. "We won't hurt the one who pleases Master, not while Master gives us power. Just obey, tame dog, tame child of Adam. So warm."
Death licked at Dean's throat, slow, and Sam's mouth watered. Watching, he could almost taste Dean's skin, Dean's sweat. He could shrink the distance between them, could slide his tongue up the groove of Dean's spine, lap at the salty skin. He'd be able to smell Dean, then; all he could smell now was brimstone and burning, rotten eggs and ashes.
Death stretched charred, tattered wings and spoke in a low rumble, "You taste like living."
The demon sounded almost envious. Sam folded his arms, smiling darkly, because that was one thing Dean had above all these demons. One thing even Sam still had; a human soul. One thing the demons could never, ever have, no matter how much power they clawed from each other or how tightly they wrapped themselves in human skins.
"Do you want off the ground?" he asked his brother, and Dean barely hesitated before nodding hard.
War glowed feral, triumphant, pulling Dean's hips up hard. Blood dripped from Dean's knees onto the broken bone carpet, hissing and scattering away as tiny, burnt-red spiders. Dean grunted, half in pain but half-hard, bracing his hands against Death's chest.
"Do you even know how many angels fell for you?" War thrust into him with long, savouring strokes, holding Dean away from the burning and sharp edges. "Fell for this, child of Adam? Even Master loves you best." The demon's voice was a mixture of anger and hunger in equal parts as it demanded with a snarl, "What makes you worth it?"
Dean's eyes glinted open briefly, sarcasm writ clear on his face. "My girlish figure?"
Death laughed at that, at Dean getting the better of one of the other generals. It looked at Sam in obedience and question. "I can have his clever mouth? Not to hurt your dog, sir. He speaks with knives; I want to fuck the edges."
"Do it," Sam said, watching Dean's eyes fall closed again, watching his brother's mouth close around the demon's flesh. Dean did have a very clever mouth, full of wit and obscenity and wet heat. He wasn't at all surprised to see the demon bleeding as it pushed in and out of Dean's lips.
One of the watching demons had drifted too close in its greed and fascination. As it crossed some invisible line, one of the other generals -- Famine -- darted from Dean's side to fall on it with a bloodthirsty battle-cry. War howled along, rocking faster against Dean as Famine ripped open the intruding demon's guts. Dean moaned, squirming in the two demons' hold, rising to full hardness.
Sam knew he was envious, but he wasn't sure where he'd rather be; tearing at the hapless demon, fucking a helpless and submissive Dean, or being the captive toy himself. He knew though that he would never dare trust a demon enough to let it have that much control. His brother was the only one he could trust enough to surrender to.
War reared up with a shout, wings unfurling with a cloud of soot and ash. They trembled, stretched out to full span as the demon twitched and came. With barely a pause War pulled free and loped towards the broken demon nearby; with a cuff over Famine's head, it seized the kill, gnawing at the bones before the creature got around to reviving.
Sam tactfully decided not to comment on the resemblance to Dean's own post-coital snack missions, partly because Plague had seized the opportunity to take its turn. This demon caressed Dean's skin, one hand holding him up while the other smoothed at the small of his back, at his spine, rubbed at the knots behind his shoulders. Sam could almost feel it, sense-memory of Dean's hands on him, Dean touching him, teasing him, while he writhed restrained and helpless.
"You liking this?" Plague asked Death, using its real name, a name Sam still had trouble wrapping his mouth around. "Is he cutting you up, making you bleed and sting? Is his mouth as sharp as you'd hoped?"
"Sharper," Death breathed happily, leaning forward.
The demons kissed, Dean between them, while Famine slunk around the edges and complained, "My turn, my turn."
Death was rumbling low and pleased; Dean was giving soft, stifled moans. Plague squeezed the back of Dean's neck, slid its hand up to cup Death's darkly beautiful face, blood smeared over the three of them. Sam bit his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth as he watched the kiss, watched Dean being cradled and fucked, watched all of them revel in primal sins.
Death came first, half-choking Dean. Plague followed not long after, pulling back with bloodied, torn lips and a look of bliss. They still had enough sense left in them to keep Dean away from the ground, laying him over them as they sprawled contentedly. Famine darted foward gleefully, rolling Dean belly-up and holding his thighs to bury deep inside him.
"Fuck," Dean whispered, head falling back against the demons that served as his mattress. He was flushed all over, sweat trickling through the smears of blood the demons had painted him with. "Sam, we gotta move. I. Fuck."
Sam recognised the broken heat in his brother's voice; his guts tightened hotly and he bit down before he could stop himself, tearing his lip with a splash of blood on his tongue. "Gonna come, Dean?"
"Yeah." Dean gave a shuddering gasp, jerking helplessly against the demon fucking him. He moaned, starting to reach for his hard-on before forcing his hand back to his side, stilled in a fist. "Sam, oh God. Not here."
"That's it, Dean." Sam leaned forward, not surprised to realise his own hands were balled tightly. "Spread your legs. I want to see how deep you can take it. I want to see your whole body beg."
"Sam!" Dean's eyes opened, dark and wild, unfocused. "Please, please not here. Not in front of them. Please, Sam, I'm begging!"
"Love it when you beg me," Sam said, his voice almost as hoarse and tight as Dean's. "I love it when you let everything go. Beg me, Dean, come on, come for me--"
"Not here," Dean pleaded, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, "please, not like this, please Sam, please--"
He almost couldn't stand it, watching Dean beg, honest and unguarded; watching Dean sob and twist against the demon fucking wetly into him; watching Dean shake and gasp and come in white, ropy strands over his own stomach. Some fell on the ground and slithered away as milky serpents, hiding in the bones. Sam flushed hard and deep, throbbing with a hunger that set his teeth on edge.
"Please," Dean was still sobbing, still weeping, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"My turn, my turn," Famine was chanting quietly, taking its pleasure, and Sam had just about had enough.
"Mine," he said firmly, pulling Dean to him; ignoring his general's disappointment, he tore open the air again and took both Dean and himself back out of Hell.
Breathing hard, he reached for his brother physically, with his hands; "Dean, you--you have no idea how damn hot you--"
"Are they watching?" Dean asked breathlessly. Sweat-soaked and flushed and wearing blood like warpaint -- scorched and torn and right now Sam wanted so hard he could barely breathe.
"No," he promised, pressing his palms to Dean's chest, feeling the heat and Dean's pounding heartbeat. "Just us. I wanna--"
"I need a shower," Dean choked out; stumbled backwards and locked the bathroom door behind him.
Aw...fuck.
"Dean." Sam went to the closed door, touched it carefully. "Dean?"
No answer, just sounds of water and a human body climbing into the spray while it was still cold. Fine for Dean; Sam could feel his own teeth wanting to start chattering again. He sat on his bed and wrapped himself in blankets, waiting.
Finally, Dean came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist and one wrapped around his hair. There was no steam; the water had never gotten hot.
Sam was suddenly, unjustifiably angry. Dean had started this, dammit, had pushed him beyond the point he could be safely pushed. "You could have said," he snarled, pulling his blankets tight as he stood up. "You know you could have said. I would have stopped it, Dean."
"I know that, shithead," Dean snapped back, rummaging in the drawers for a clean teeshirt and shorts. "That's why I couldn't say it. They would have ripped us both apart, and I don't know about you anymore but I'm pretty sure I can't survive having my intestines spread across fifty yards of brimstone."
"You--" Sam swallowed around the thick lump that mental image made. "But you like--"
"No, Sam, you gigantic moron, you like being helpless." Dean had his back turned, wasn't looking at him. "You love being able to turn off the responsibility now and then. Your sex issues are not my sex issues."
"What, so you just, you've been faking it when you bottom?" Sam could hear his voice rising, could feel himself spiralling out of control again, but what the hell was this bullshit now?
"Did I say that?" Dean dumped the towel off his head, pulled a grey teeshirt on, still not turning around.
Sam ground his teeth, frustrated. He didn't understand what Dean was trying to say, couldn't understand why Dean had started it in the first place. It was taking all his restraint not to stride forward, get up in Dean's face. "Fuck's sake, if you could just shut up when--"
Dean rounded on him, eyes wet and blazing. "I thought you'd just have them beat the crap out of me!"
Sam blinked at him for a moment. "What?"
"I thought--" Dean turned half away again, pulling his shorts on under the towel before he removed it. His knees weren't bleeding anymore, were just red and raw. "I just figured you'd have me beaten 'til I grovelled, you know, the King's Dog, all that bullshit."
Sam sat down, hard, gaping at his brother. "You did it on purpose? Dean, what the hell?"
Dean gave him a strange, quiet look that was at odds with the anger simmering under his surface. "You just gave the Unholy Consort over to four of your best generals. You stood and watched while he begged. There is not a demon down there that doubts you, now."
For a moment, Sam could only stare. He felt a little sick. While he'd been worrying how to keep the demons in line, snapping at his brother, Dean had come up with an entire plan and carried it out. Dean had been willing to kneel in Hell and be tortured to secure Sam's throne, Sam's safety. Dean had won the whole war while Sam had only been thinking about how to stop his brother being such a damned smartass all the time.
It was times like this he was really, really convinced the demons had picked the wrong Winchester brother for their King.
"I couldn't have let them hurt you," he said weakly.
"You just let them fuck me," Dean said, full of shame and disgust. "Demons, Sam."
"I--"
"Dude, I so don't want to talk about this. I'm going to sleep." Dean climbed into the other bed, raising a hand when Sam started to protest. "Don't even start. You're on the metaphorical couch, asshole."
Sam switched off the light and climbed into his own bed. He knew he should just shut up, but he turned his head and blurted, "If you don't like being helpless, what is it you like?"
"You are so fucking stupid," Dean muttered, in a broken, angry voice.
Sam closed his mouth and decided not to dig his hole any deeper.
When he woke up in the morning, Dean had already gone out and there was a devil's trap painted around the bed. The message was obvious: Sam's turn to be the helpless one. He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a slow breath.
His first instinct was to pull at the bedside table for his cellphone, but it wasn't there; nothing flew into his hand. He stopped and looked around; saw both his cellphone and the laptop sitting outside the painted sigils, beyond his reach. Fuck. Jerk.
At least he knew the answer to one question. All night, he'd dreamed of smoky blue sulphur fires, of Dean twisting and begging. His dreams had mingled with memories, of Dean begging under him, of laughing into his brother's skin, of happier times. And he knew exactly what had made Dean come to pieces under him, those times, why Dean liked to bottom just as much as he liked to manhandle Sam and drive him insane with pleasure.
Dean didn't want to be helpless; Dean just wanted to be wanted.
And giving him to the demons, Sam hadn't laid a hand on him. Hadn't so much as brushed against him, hadn't even jerked off in front of him. That was probably the worst part of it, in Dean's mind.
Sam sprawled out on the bed, alone in his invisible cage, and stared at the ceiling. He really needed to not think about his brother naked and begging, right now, because he had a feeling he could be sleeping on Dean's metaphorical couch for quite some time.
Definitely time to run away and join the circus.