my boy builds coffins (spn, sam/dean)
Title: My boy builds coffins
Author: swear_jar.
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Sam/Dean.
Warning: Written for the “genital torture” square of my kink_bingo card, so that. Bloodplay, evil!Sam (kind of).
Notes: Post-S5. 3, 500-ish words. This is as close to PWP as I tend to come. You know how you can tell apiphile betaed something for me? There's proper lines for scene breaks (also, it's not hideously typo ridden). Any remaining mistakes are totally my own stupidity.
Dean shoves the hotdog nearly halfway into his mouth, delicately clamps his teeth and grabs the bag of Doritos between his pinky and thumb. The hotdog bun is stale, but it's better than nothing after a solid four hours in the car and he doesn't want to drop it while his hands are full with all the other food. He wanders slowly to the counter, eyeing the other overpriced snacks the gas station has to offer.
"Sammy, y'wan--" and he stops as he nearly spits half chewed hotdog everywhere. He throws the Doritos on the counter and rips half the hotdog out of his mouth to chew, chipmunk cheeked, until he can swallow and get words out.
When he swallows and looks over, though, Sam isn't paying attention.
At first, Dean half-smiles. Sam is very casually leaning over the counter to talk to the attendant and all her attention is fixed on him, wide-eyed and still like a bunny rabbit caught in headlights. Sam can do that to people, all dimples and eyes. Dean knows from observation and experience.
Dean's smile falters when he takes a step forward, tough, and sees around Sam to the counter top, it falters when he hears:
"It's down the road, not across it," Sam's tone is pleasant and conversational and the tip of Ruby's knife is tapping gently against the thin skin on the inside of the girl's wrist. There are thin white scars there like days marked off on a prison wall, visible but faint, Dean can tell they’re old. Two of Sam's fingers are pressed into the centre of her palm, light enough they can't be holding her there by force, but she isn’t moving.
"Sam," Dean says. It comes out a sigh, which Dean thinks sounds wrong, but it's all he's got. He's feeling more nothing than any particular something: this is what he's been waiting for since Sam came back. Sam's going to turn and face him black eyed and Dean will hand Sam his gun before he'd. He'd hand it to him.
Sam turns to face him, but his eyes are clear, and his smile is perfect and dimpled, though not quite normal.
"Let her go," Dean tries, looking at Sam's eyes and still not feeling much hope.
Sam cocks his head to the side, looking at Dean like a cat considering a bird under its paw, and lets her go without a backward glance.
They drive for a few minutes before Sam says:
"I'm going to do worse, Dean."
"You didn't do anything," Dean says and curses himself for being an idiot and knows there is no way they can just let this go.
"Dean, if you had have taken thirty seconds longer with your hotdog I would have cut her from wrist to elbow. I was debating if I should fuck her after, while she bled cold around my dick." Sam says it in the same tone he might correct Dean about some website or site some obscure lore on a creature he thinks Dean should know.
"Jesus Christ, Sam, you wouldn't have," Dean snaps, fingers tight on the wheel and heart beating itself bruised against his ribs. He doesn't believe the words and Sam snorts but doesn’t bother saying anything else. "Why?" Dean manages, finally.
"Would you believe 'the devil made me do it'?" Sam laughs and Dean feels the hair stand up on his arms.
"Sam, no -- you're not him. You won."
"Yeah," Sam laughs again. "I won, he just left his mark. Inside.” Sam taps his own chest and Dean thinks he should look unhappy, but he doesn’t. “He left me a few presents. Some of them you might even like." Dean watches Sam flex his hands into fists over the moonlit dash. Dean doesn't ask, not sure he wants to know, but thinks of Sam’s fingers pressed gently to the gas station attendant’s palm. "Some of them you won't like. This is me, though, Dean, and next time? You don't want to stop me, because I'll -- I want to hurt you."
"Next time, fucking hurt me then -- leave other people the hell out of it."
There's another long silence that gets thicker as they both let the words sink in until Dean feels like he's trying to breathe with a punctured lung.
"Dean, you don't want that."
“You know I can’t let you hurt people,” Dean says, and before Sam can open his mouth again (he has no idea what he’d say if Sam called him on this, no idea). “Besides, you think anything you got's worse than Hell?"
He's relieved how clear and easy it comes out, like they're teenagers again, pranking each other until one of them ends up bald or Dad orders them, ridiculously, to stop and shake hands like that'll be an end of it, like they're not half-laughing and squeezing their hands aching tight together, trying to break each others fingers as they shake. Like he's just goading Sam on to superglue his bag shut or burn holes in all his socks.
Sam doesn’t answer.
The get a cold grey room in a cold grey town, the walls are the moody slate colour of the sky outside. Dean takes a step into the bathroom for a much needed piss, rolling his tense shoulders painfully; driving doesn't normally knot him up like this, but he hadn't relaxed after their conversation.
An arm goes around his throat tight and Dean stops his foot midair before he can kick back automatically; he thinks Sam, it's only Sam, and takes a deep breath. Sam's sweat and his own is all he can smell. He doesn't quite go limp against Sam's arm, but he keeps still.
"You going to let me go?" Dean doesn't bother yelling it, or making it an order, because he's pretty sure that's not what's going to happen here.
"No."
Sam cuffs him to the sink, Dean’s left wrist one chained to the thick metal drainpipe. Dean’s head is bent awkwardly forward if he sits under the basin, or out to one side when he shifts. The tiles are freezing through his jeans.
"No one else, Sam." Dean says. He's doing this for a reason.
Sam cocks his head the way he did at the gas station, cat and canary. "So you said."
Dean's busting to piss. He rattles the cuffs a little, uselessly, knowing enough about the police issue cuffs and the position he’s cuffed, and about Sam, that tugging hard would just pointlessly hurt his wrist.
“Kinky, Sammy,” he says, attempts to keep the stream of words steady flowing from his mouth and Jesus fuck, he needs to piss. Sam stands in front of him and stares down. Sam’s tall all day long and it’s not like Dean hasn’t noticed, but looking up at him from the floor he’s instant vertigo. He stares long enough that Dean’s face heats. “You stand there too long I’m gonna piss on your legs.”
“Hm,” Sam says, shoving one of his boots off, heal to toe. “Not sure you’re that flexible.”
Sam reaches in and turns on the shower. He strips slowly as he waits for the water to heat, until he’s naked in front of Dean and Dean turns his hot face into the freezing tile. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam’s long legs, naked, sees his cock hanging heavy between them.
Dean stops with smart ass remarks and just tells Sam, no. Let me go. Now. Let me up. Let me out.
“No,” Sam says, mocking smile playing on his soft lips. It’s the last time Sam speaks to him for the rest of the night. He steps into the tub and Dean feels his skin go hot and cold like it can’t decide what he should be feeling.
Sometime after Sam leaves the bathroom, Dean pisses himself. He's half defiant, half sickly thankful for the warmth until the hours wear on and it's colder and his jeans rub wrong when he shifts and burn his skin.
Later, he yells out, swears at Sam, calls him every name he can think of. He knows if someone other than Sam had cuffed him here, he wouldn't have, he would have spat in their face, called them an idiot then taken this silently, but it's Sam, even if he's-- it's Sam.
He yells again and hears Sam’s feet padding across the floor under the sound of his own breathing. Sam comes in and smashes his head into the tiles once, then holds Dean’s chin in his hand until Dean’s eye focus enough for him to see Sam’s finger, over his lips. Shh.
Dean spends the rest of the night silently, bleeding and piss stained and cold.
A week later, Sam wakes him up at midnight. They're sleeping in the car on the side of the road, which is never Dean’s first choice, but sometimes it was necessary.
"Dean, I'm going to do so much worse to you." It surprises Dean less now, the way Sam's tone swings from genuine distress to easy, relaxed taunting.
"Well, good... evening, to you too, sunshine." The light outside is more blue than black, dawn coming up slow.
“You should have let me do this to them.”
Them meaning who? Dean thinks. Humanity? "Sam. No."
"Dean. Yes." Sam replies, mocking him like they’re playing stop-copying-me.
“You can't, or--"
"Or what?" Sam says and swings a leg over him. Which is a good question, and a terrible one, because all Dean has is or--.
It's not comfortable and Sam doesn't adjust himself to make it comfortable. Sam is big and heavy and Dean's covered completely and feels as trapped as he is, even before Sam lifts his forearm to shove against Dean’s throat.
Abruptly as he’d started, Sam stops. Dean can breathe and feel his legs as Sam shifts the bar of his forearm off his throat and pushes himself back a little.
"You mean it, don’t you?" Sam asks, watching Dean’s face closely for Dean isn’t sure what.
"Yeah. I'm your brother." If it weren't for Dean, Sam wouldn't be here (maybe wouldn't have been there). This is all Dean’s and he’s going to own it.
Sam reaches over to the doorhandle, gets the door open and moves just enough that he can shove Dean out into the roadside dust. Dean falls onto hands and one knee, scrambling to his feet quickly. Sam unfolds himself out of the car and Dean doesn't take the step back he probably should when Sam steps forward and says, conversationally, "You should run, Dean."
Dean stands there, not sure what to say now.
Sam's hand closes around his upper arm hard, and he leans in and speaks, nose pressed rubbing back and forth against the curve where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck: "Run, Dean."
Dean doesn't. He won't run from Sam and he wants Sam to know it, see it.
(Next time Sam says run, he runs).
They burn the bones of an old man’s brother and get a room in a motel with Christmas coloured walls, green and red, and gold bedspreads.
Sam ties him to the bed and spends an hour on Dean with his knife's edge and with the edge of his teeth. Dean’s blood is red on gold.
It's then Dean's has to acknowledge it isn't the promise of pain that makes his heart beat scared-rabbit fast in his chest when Sam moves towards him with that look on his face, that particular close lipped smile; when he says something fucked up and Dean knows what’s coming.
Physical pain has been the least of Dean's worries for a long, long time.
He finds himself cold and shaking and sticky-skinned with blood and spit. Sam's running his knife up the inside of the inseam of Dean's jeans, cutting them from ankle to crotch, and the blunted back of the blade dragging against his skin feels like it's cutting deep, though Dean knows it isn't.
It’s then, when Dean opens his eyes, that Sam flicks his gaze up to meet him and draws him down to look at where he's staring intently at the bulge of Dean's jeans around his dick. He's so hard it's uncomfortable.
"That's just beautiful," Sam says, and laughs.
Sam slides the knife up a little further and the very point of it touches gently against Dean's balls, pricking sharp and easy through his underwear.
He goes utterly, perfectly still.
There's a beat and then Sam's distracted, setting his fingers either side of the thin cut he laid down first, the one dividing Dean's chest like a scar from open heart surgery. He pulls Dean's skin taut and Dean winces from the sting, then again at how grateful he is Sam didn't say anything. He feels the blood welling gentle and warm and sliding in thin, rapidly-drying waterfalls just over the sides of his chest.
It's the last time Sam does it for a while, and instead of winding down during a fantastically twilight-zone-normal week of chatter and jobs, saving people and eating at a diner that served pancakes bigger than Dean's head, he finds himself tense enough he's starting to have a constant, low grade headache. His dick twitches and his heart pounds every time Sam touches him.
Sam doesn't acknowledge either reaction in the slightest, and Dean isn't stupid enough to let himself think that's because Sam hasn't noticed.
It's two weeks and a handful of days later and Dean's standing next to Sam at the counter of some backwoods, backwards-ass motel feeling like a side of beef that's been minced. Coincidentally, almost the exact state the chupacabra had been in after they'd dealt with it.
The adrenaline wore off three hours of driving ago and Dean can smell his own pits, which cannot be a good sign.
He leans over and sniffs at Sam, and yeaaaah, they both reek. Sam's also got goat blood drying in the back of his hair. The clerk is staring when Dean starts paying attention again. He’s dark-haired with unfortunately thick eyebrows, looks all of eighteen but stares at them with all the weary disgust of someone who’s been on the job for fifty years.
Dean gives the guy a brighter than sane smile until caterpillar-brows looks away.
The guy looks back to Sam, and Dean almost wants to laugh at him for assuming Sam's the safe one to deal with here. Although it's been long enough now that, if Dean didn't still have the scabs and bruises, he'd wonder if he'd dreamt all the shit Sam's done to him.
Sam takes the key when they're done, but as he does, he slides his fingers up (his hands are huge against the guy at the desks) until he's resting two fingertips against the bone of the guy's wrist.
Dean's muscles go tight and the guy freezes where he is, eyebrows drawn confused and heavy over eyes that are glued to Sam, wide and intense.
"Sam," Dean says.
"The way he just looked at you makes me want to slam his head into the counter until he stops looking at anything," Sam says, voice dipping into the calm tone that means he's gone over to the dark side for the minute, second, hour, night.
The guy behind the counter smiles back at Sam when Sam smiles at him.
"Sam," Dean says again.
Sam lets him go. The guy draws his wrist back to himself slowly, then sits down in a rush.
Dean feels his eyes on them as they go to find their room.
"You shower first," Sam says, and Dean can't tell if he's back to normal or not.
And Dean... his headache's back. He rolls his eyes at Sam, turning with his shoulders up half expecting Sam’s arm around his neck, but Sam doesn’t move and Dean goes and showers.
He's lying across his bed, still damp and too tired to put on underwear, let alone face the colossal task of lifting the covers and getting in, when Sam comes out of the bathroom.
Dean cracks an eyelid and the light in the room, low as it is from only one bedside lamp, does unpleasant things to the inside of his head. Sam's wearing a pair of soft grey flannel pyjamas that used to be Dean's. They're a little too short on him and Dean smiles at his knobbly ankles and huge bare feet.
His smile fades when he looks up into Sam's face.
Sam sits on the other bed, legs in the space between the two doubles, pants riding up to show more ankle. He leans over and grabs something from the bedside table.
When he rests his bare arms against his spread knees, Dean sees what he's holding in the space between them: Dean's zippo and a knife-- one of theirs, but one that rarely gets used. It's too small, with a too thin blade. Not good for much unless someone catches a fish, and they haven’t fished for years.
Sam just leans for a second and watches Dean before he flips the zippo alight and holds the knife over the flame, running the lighter up and down the edge a few times before just holding it still.
"Should have just let me bounce the receptionist’s head off the wall a few times," Sam says, and Dean glances between the flame and the blade and Sam's eyes.
Dean thinks finally and wonders, not even close to for the first time, exactly what's wrong with him.
"This is going to hurt."
He wishes he'd put on clothes.
He could get up now and put on underwear.
He doesn’t. Sam probably wouldn't let him get that far, anyway, he reasons.
Dean lies there and can hear his own breathing, heavy and fast. Sam gets up quick enough that Dean flinches; he crosses the space between the beds in one quick step and swings his legs over Dean, splays a hand over Dean's chest, over his not-heart surgery scar that's still pink and occasionally itchy.
Dean chokes on a breath when Sam presses the knife's blade flat and hard against Dean's skin, just below his bellybutton. He jerks like he's been electrocuted and for a second isn’t sure if he’s been stabbed or burnt. Then he can feel it, feel the searing, and he chokes on a noise that dies wetly in his throat.
Sam's hand on his chest thuds him back down to the mattress when his back relaxes from its taut bow. He unclenches his teeth and eyes enough to look up through the stupid blur of water caught in his lashes, and blinks a few times.
"Wow, if I had the hiccoughs that would have scared 'em right out of me," Dean says and it comes out lower, gravellier than he wants.
He's hard and there is nothing but a towel and thin flannel between him and Sam.
Sam doesn't seem to care.
"Why are you still talking?" He smiles down at Dean and reaches above Dean's head for the lighter, holding the knife to the flame again with his knees pressing tight to Dean's sides, sitting heavy on him.
Sam's ass is leaning heavy enough on his dick it's uncomfortable, and Dean shifts, but that's worse, so, so much worse. Because that feels good. Sam smells clean, and Dean's grateful when a second later all he can smell is burnt flesh. It makes it easier to ignore how badly he wants to press his nose to Sam's neck and inhale.
"Guess you just aren't--" and Dean's teeth clench as Sam presses the knife into his skin again, lower on his belly this time, and Dean smells burnt hair along with the sick smell of his own skin searing.
Searing.
"Hrgh," Dean ungrits his teeth purposefully, but Sam runs a thumb over the first burn as he does and laughs as Dean bucks, hips first. "Fucking. Guess. You just aren't heating it up enough - ugh."
His last word melts and warps as Sam sits up and tugs at the knot of Dean's towel. He shifts himself backwards, unconcerned by the slap of Dean's dick against his belly as he throws the towel away, unconcerned except to laugh as it brushes the lower burn and Dean tries to curl in on himself.
Sam presses a hand back against the centre of his chest until he stills.
He heats the knife again. Dean knows what's next, if Sam's working his way down, and Dean holds perfectly still. He can't move at all. Doesn’t.
He makes a noise when Sam moves off his legs and pushes his thighs apart roughly, fingers pressing bruise hard into the skin above Dean's knees.
"Breathe, Dean." And Sam pushes his legs apart further, so far his muscles burn, and quickly presses the burning metal high up on his inner thigh.
It’s so high he can feel the radiant heat against his balls in the beat before the pain really starts, and he can't help it this time, he swears and his hips shove up as he lets out a steady stream of fuckfuckfuck like steam from a boiling kettle.
Sam's hands are abruptly against the backs of his thighs and he shoves, curling Dean over himself slightly, keeping him there with his flannel covered hips and cock pressed against Dean's ass. He leans over and puts the hand with the knife in it over Dean's mouth, clamping his jaw shut.
"Shh," he says, "shhh. You know they say swearing out loud actually helps relieve pain?"
The edge of the knife is warm against Dean's cheek, digging in, but too blunt to cut him despite the pressure of Sam's grip. Half of Dean yells out to bite Sam, but the other half of him, the parts that have acknowledged Sam hasn't tied him to anything, that Sam's hands are on him but it's no kind of hold Dean couldn't break right now -- that part wins out.
Dean opens his mouth against Sam's palm and licks, kisses.
Sam makes a sound as Dean scrapes his teeth lightly over the heel of his hand: a moan. He rolls his hips lazily against Dean's ass, then he lets him go and sits back between Dean’s spread legs as he heats the knife again.
Do it, Dean thinks. Anything, right now, he wants anything Sam will give him.
Sam grabs his dick in one big hand, and Dean feels like he's going to pass out for a second, the sensation is so overwhelming. Sam strokes him once before he presses the knife to the base of his cock, blunt edge to his pubic hair, the flat against his shaft - and Dean knows he's making some noise, but he can't hear anything. His head’s filled with white noise.
Sam bends him near in half, palms the head of Dean’s cock, and strokes lightly over the burn, and swallows all the sounds Dean makes as he comes.
Author: swear_jar.
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Sam/Dean.
Warning: Written for the “genital torture” square of my kink_bingo card, so that. Bloodplay, evil!Sam (kind of).
Notes: Post-S5. 3, 500-ish words. This is as close to PWP as I tend to come. You know how you can tell apiphile betaed something for me? There's proper lines for scene breaks (also, it's not hideously typo ridden). Any remaining mistakes are totally my own stupidity.
Dean shoves the hotdog nearly halfway into his mouth, delicately clamps his teeth and grabs the bag of Doritos between his pinky and thumb. The hotdog bun is stale, but it's better than nothing after a solid four hours in the car and he doesn't want to drop it while his hands are full with all the other food. He wanders slowly to the counter, eyeing the other overpriced snacks the gas station has to offer.
"Sammy, y'wan--" and he stops as he nearly spits half chewed hotdog everywhere. He throws the Doritos on the counter and rips half the hotdog out of his mouth to chew, chipmunk cheeked, until he can swallow and get words out.
When he swallows and looks over, though, Sam isn't paying attention.
At first, Dean half-smiles. Sam is very casually leaning over the counter to talk to the attendant and all her attention is fixed on him, wide-eyed and still like a bunny rabbit caught in headlights. Sam can do that to people, all dimples and eyes. Dean knows from observation and experience.
Dean's smile falters when he takes a step forward, tough, and sees around Sam to the counter top, it falters when he hears:
"It's down the road, not across it," Sam's tone is pleasant and conversational and the tip of Ruby's knife is tapping gently against the thin skin on the inside of the girl's wrist. There are thin white scars there like days marked off on a prison wall, visible but faint, Dean can tell they’re old. Two of Sam's fingers are pressed into the centre of her palm, light enough they can't be holding her there by force, but she isn’t moving.
"Sam," Dean says. It comes out a sigh, which Dean thinks sounds wrong, but it's all he's got. He's feeling more nothing than any particular something: this is what he's been waiting for since Sam came back. Sam's going to turn and face him black eyed and Dean will hand Sam his gun before he'd. He'd hand it to him.
Sam turns to face him, but his eyes are clear, and his smile is perfect and dimpled, though not quite normal.
"Let her go," Dean tries, looking at Sam's eyes and still not feeling much hope.
Sam cocks his head to the side, looking at Dean like a cat considering a bird under its paw, and lets her go without a backward glance.
They drive for a few minutes before Sam says:
"I'm going to do worse, Dean."
"You didn't do anything," Dean says and curses himself for being an idiot and knows there is no way they can just let this go.
"Dean, if you had have taken thirty seconds longer with your hotdog I would have cut her from wrist to elbow. I was debating if I should fuck her after, while she bled cold around my dick." Sam says it in the same tone he might correct Dean about some website or site some obscure lore on a creature he thinks Dean should know.
"Jesus Christ, Sam, you wouldn't have," Dean snaps, fingers tight on the wheel and heart beating itself bruised against his ribs. He doesn't believe the words and Sam snorts but doesn’t bother saying anything else. "Why?" Dean manages, finally.
"Would you believe 'the devil made me do it'?" Sam laughs and Dean feels the hair stand up on his arms.
"Sam, no -- you're not him. You won."
"Yeah," Sam laughs again. "I won, he just left his mark. Inside.” Sam taps his own chest and Dean thinks he should look unhappy, but he doesn’t. “He left me a few presents. Some of them you might even like." Dean watches Sam flex his hands into fists over the moonlit dash. Dean doesn't ask, not sure he wants to know, but thinks of Sam’s fingers pressed gently to the gas station attendant’s palm. "Some of them you won't like. This is me, though, Dean, and next time? You don't want to stop me, because I'll -- I want to hurt you."
"Next time, fucking hurt me then -- leave other people the hell out of it."
There's another long silence that gets thicker as they both let the words sink in until Dean feels like he's trying to breathe with a punctured lung.
"Dean, you don't want that."
“You know I can’t let you hurt people,” Dean says, and before Sam can open his mouth again (he has no idea what he’d say if Sam called him on this, no idea). “Besides, you think anything you got's worse than Hell?"
He's relieved how clear and easy it comes out, like they're teenagers again, pranking each other until one of them ends up bald or Dad orders them, ridiculously, to stop and shake hands like that'll be an end of it, like they're not half-laughing and squeezing their hands aching tight together, trying to break each others fingers as they shake. Like he's just goading Sam on to superglue his bag shut or burn holes in all his socks.
Sam doesn’t answer.
The get a cold grey room in a cold grey town, the walls are the moody slate colour of the sky outside. Dean takes a step into the bathroom for a much needed piss, rolling his tense shoulders painfully; driving doesn't normally knot him up like this, but he hadn't relaxed after their conversation.
An arm goes around his throat tight and Dean stops his foot midair before he can kick back automatically; he thinks Sam, it's only Sam, and takes a deep breath. Sam's sweat and his own is all he can smell. He doesn't quite go limp against Sam's arm, but he keeps still.
"You going to let me go?" Dean doesn't bother yelling it, or making it an order, because he's pretty sure that's not what's going to happen here.
"No."
Sam cuffs him to the sink, Dean’s left wrist one chained to the thick metal drainpipe. Dean’s head is bent awkwardly forward if he sits under the basin, or out to one side when he shifts. The tiles are freezing through his jeans.
"No one else, Sam." Dean says. He's doing this for a reason.
Sam cocks his head the way he did at the gas station, cat and canary. "So you said."
Dean's busting to piss. He rattles the cuffs a little, uselessly, knowing enough about the police issue cuffs and the position he’s cuffed, and about Sam, that tugging hard would just pointlessly hurt his wrist.
“Kinky, Sammy,” he says, attempts to keep the stream of words steady flowing from his mouth and Jesus fuck, he needs to piss. Sam stands in front of him and stares down. Sam’s tall all day long and it’s not like Dean hasn’t noticed, but looking up at him from the floor he’s instant vertigo. He stares long enough that Dean’s face heats. “You stand there too long I’m gonna piss on your legs.”
“Hm,” Sam says, shoving one of his boots off, heal to toe. “Not sure you’re that flexible.”
Sam reaches in and turns on the shower. He strips slowly as he waits for the water to heat, until he’s naked in front of Dean and Dean turns his hot face into the freezing tile. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam’s long legs, naked, sees his cock hanging heavy between them.
Dean stops with smart ass remarks and just tells Sam, no. Let me go. Now. Let me up. Let me out.
“No,” Sam says, mocking smile playing on his soft lips. It’s the last time Sam speaks to him for the rest of the night. He steps into the tub and Dean feels his skin go hot and cold like it can’t decide what he should be feeling.
Sometime after Sam leaves the bathroom, Dean pisses himself. He's half defiant, half sickly thankful for the warmth until the hours wear on and it's colder and his jeans rub wrong when he shifts and burn his skin.
Later, he yells out, swears at Sam, calls him every name he can think of. He knows if someone other than Sam had cuffed him here, he wouldn't have, he would have spat in their face, called them an idiot then taken this silently, but it's Sam, even if he's-- it's Sam.
He yells again and hears Sam’s feet padding across the floor under the sound of his own breathing. Sam comes in and smashes his head into the tiles once, then holds Dean’s chin in his hand until Dean’s eye focus enough for him to see Sam’s finger, over his lips. Shh.
Dean spends the rest of the night silently, bleeding and piss stained and cold.
A week later, Sam wakes him up at midnight. They're sleeping in the car on the side of the road, which is never Dean’s first choice, but sometimes it was necessary.
"Dean, I'm going to do so much worse to you." It surprises Dean less now, the way Sam's tone swings from genuine distress to easy, relaxed taunting.
"Well, good... evening, to you too, sunshine." The light outside is more blue than black, dawn coming up slow.
“You should have let me do this to them.”
Them meaning who? Dean thinks. Humanity? "Sam. No."
"Dean. Yes." Sam replies, mocking him like they’re playing stop-copying-me.
“You can't, or--"
"Or what?" Sam says and swings a leg over him. Which is a good question, and a terrible one, because all Dean has is or--.
It's not comfortable and Sam doesn't adjust himself to make it comfortable. Sam is big and heavy and Dean's covered completely and feels as trapped as he is, even before Sam lifts his forearm to shove against Dean’s throat.
Abruptly as he’d started, Sam stops. Dean can breathe and feel his legs as Sam shifts the bar of his forearm off his throat and pushes himself back a little.
"You mean it, don’t you?" Sam asks, watching Dean’s face closely for Dean isn’t sure what.
"Yeah. I'm your brother." If it weren't for Dean, Sam wouldn't be here (maybe wouldn't have been there). This is all Dean’s and he’s going to own it.
Sam reaches over to the doorhandle, gets the door open and moves just enough that he can shove Dean out into the roadside dust. Dean falls onto hands and one knee, scrambling to his feet quickly. Sam unfolds himself out of the car and Dean doesn't take the step back he probably should when Sam steps forward and says, conversationally, "You should run, Dean."
Dean stands there, not sure what to say now.
Sam's hand closes around his upper arm hard, and he leans in and speaks, nose pressed rubbing back and forth against the curve where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck: "Run, Dean."
Dean doesn't. He won't run from Sam and he wants Sam to know it, see it.
(Next time Sam says run, he runs).
They burn the bones of an old man’s brother and get a room in a motel with Christmas coloured walls, green and red, and gold bedspreads.
Sam ties him to the bed and spends an hour on Dean with his knife's edge and with the edge of his teeth. Dean’s blood is red on gold.
It's then Dean's has to acknowledge it isn't the promise of pain that makes his heart beat scared-rabbit fast in his chest when Sam moves towards him with that look on his face, that particular close lipped smile; when he says something fucked up and Dean knows what’s coming.
Physical pain has been the least of Dean's worries for a long, long time.
He finds himself cold and shaking and sticky-skinned with blood and spit. Sam's running his knife up the inside of the inseam of Dean's jeans, cutting them from ankle to crotch, and the blunted back of the blade dragging against his skin feels like it's cutting deep, though Dean knows it isn't.
It’s then, when Dean opens his eyes, that Sam flicks his gaze up to meet him and draws him down to look at where he's staring intently at the bulge of Dean's jeans around his dick. He's so hard it's uncomfortable.
"That's just beautiful," Sam says, and laughs.
Sam slides the knife up a little further and the very point of it touches gently against Dean's balls, pricking sharp and easy through his underwear.
He goes utterly, perfectly still.
There's a beat and then Sam's distracted, setting his fingers either side of the thin cut he laid down first, the one dividing Dean's chest like a scar from open heart surgery. He pulls Dean's skin taut and Dean winces from the sting, then again at how grateful he is Sam didn't say anything. He feels the blood welling gentle and warm and sliding in thin, rapidly-drying waterfalls just over the sides of his chest.
It's the last time Sam does it for a while, and instead of winding down during a fantastically twilight-zone-normal week of chatter and jobs, saving people and eating at a diner that served pancakes bigger than Dean's head, he finds himself tense enough he's starting to have a constant, low grade headache. His dick twitches and his heart pounds every time Sam touches him.
Sam doesn't acknowledge either reaction in the slightest, and Dean isn't stupid enough to let himself think that's because Sam hasn't noticed.
It's two weeks and a handful of days later and Dean's standing next to Sam at the counter of some backwoods, backwards-ass motel feeling like a side of beef that's been minced. Coincidentally, almost the exact state the chupacabra had been in after they'd dealt with it.
The adrenaline wore off three hours of driving ago and Dean can smell his own pits, which cannot be a good sign.
He leans over and sniffs at Sam, and yeaaaah, they both reek. Sam's also got goat blood drying in the back of his hair. The clerk is staring when Dean starts paying attention again. He’s dark-haired with unfortunately thick eyebrows, looks all of eighteen but stares at them with all the weary disgust of someone who’s been on the job for fifty years.
Dean gives the guy a brighter than sane smile until caterpillar-brows looks away.
The guy looks back to Sam, and Dean almost wants to laugh at him for assuming Sam's the safe one to deal with here. Although it's been long enough now that, if Dean didn't still have the scabs and bruises, he'd wonder if he'd dreamt all the shit Sam's done to him.
Sam takes the key when they're done, but as he does, he slides his fingers up (his hands are huge against the guy at the desks) until he's resting two fingertips against the bone of the guy's wrist.
Dean's muscles go tight and the guy freezes where he is, eyebrows drawn confused and heavy over eyes that are glued to Sam, wide and intense.
"Sam," Dean says.
"The way he just looked at you makes me want to slam his head into the counter until he stops looking at anything," Sam says, voice dipping into the calm tone that means he's gone over to the dark side for the minute, second, hour, night.
The guy behind the counter smiles back at Sam when Sam smiles at him.
"Sam," Dean says again.
Sam lets him go. The guy draws his wrist back to himself slowly, then sits down in a rush.
Dean feels his eyes on them as they go to find their room.
"You shower first," Sam says, and Dean can't tell if he's back to normal or not.
And Dean... his headache's back. He rolls his eyes at Sam, turning with his shoulders up half expecting Sam’s arm around his neck, but Sam doesn’t move and Dean goes and showers.
He's lying across his bed, still damp and too tired to put on underwear, let alone face the colossal task of lifting the covers and getting in, when Sam comes out of the bathroom.
Dean cracks an eyelid and the light in the room, low as it is from only one bedside lamp, does unpleasant things to the inside of his head. Sam's wearing a pair of soft grey flannel pyjamas that used to be Dean's. They're a little too short on him and Dean smiles at his knobbly ankles and huge bare feet.
His smile fades when he looks up into Sam's face.
Sam sits on the other bed, legs in the space between the two doubles, pants riding up to show more ankle. He leans over and grabs something from the bedside table.
When he rests his bare arms against his spread knees, Dean sees what he's holding in the space between them: Dean's zippo and a knife-- one of theirs, but one that rarely gets used. It's too small, with a too thin blade. Not good for much unless someone catches a fish, and they haven’t fished for years.
Sam just leans for a second and watches Dean before he flips the zippo alight and holds the knife over the flame, running the lighter up and down the edge a few times before just holding it still.
"Should have just let me bounce the receptionist’s head off the wall a few times," Sam says, and Dean glances between the flame and the blade and Sam's eyes.
Dean thinks finally and wonders, not even close to for the first time, exactly what's wrong with him.
"This is going to hurt."
He wishes he'd put on clothes.
He could get up now and put on underwear.
He doesn’t. Sam probably wouldn't let him get that far, anyway, he reasons.
Dean lies there and can hear his own breathing, heavy and fast. Sam gets up quick enough that Dean flinches; he crosses the space between the beds in one quick step and swings his legs over Dean, splays a hand over Dean's chest, over his not-heart surgery scar that's still pink and occasionally itchy.
Dean chokes on a breath when Sam presses the knife's blade flat and hard against Dean's skin, just below his bellybutton. He jerks like he's been electrocuted and for a second isn’t sure if he’s been stabbed or burnt. Then he can feel it, feel the searing, and he chokes on a noise that dies wetly in his throat.
Sam's hand on his chest thuds him back down to the mattress when his back relaxes from its taut bow. He unclenches his teeth and eyes enough to look up through the stupid blur of water caught in his lashes, and blinks a few times.
"Wow, if I had the hiccoughs that would have scared 'em right out of me," Dean says and it comes out lower, gravellier than he wants.
He's hard and there is nothing but a towel and thin flannel between him and Sam.
Sam doesn't seem to care.
"Why are you still talking?" He smiles down at Dean and reaches above Dean's head for the lighter, holding the knife to the flame again with his knees pressing tight to Dean's sides, sitting heavy on him.
Sam's ass is leaning heavy enough on his dick it's uncomfortable, and Dean shifts, but that's worse, so, so much worse. Because that feels good. Sam smells clean, and Dean's grateful when a second later all he can smell is burnt flesh. It makes it easier to ignore how badly he wants to press his nose to Sam's neck and inhale.
"Guess you just aren't--" and Dean's teeth clench as Sam presses the knife into his skin again, lower on his belly this time, and Dean smells burnt hair along with the sick smell of his own skin searing.
Searing.
"Hrgh," Dean ungrits his teeth purposefully, but Sam runs a thumb over the first burn as he does and laughs as Dean bucks, hips first. "Fucking. Guess. You just aren't heating it up enough - ugh."
His last word melts and warps as Sam sits up and tugs at the knot of Dean's towel. He shifts himself backwards, unconcerned by the slap of Dean's dick against his belly as he throws the towel away, unconcerned except to laugh as it brushes the lower burn and Dean tries to curl in on himself.
Sam presses a hand back against the centre of his chest until he stills.
He heats the knife again. Dean knows what's next, if Sam's working his way down, and Dean holds perfectly still. He can't move at all. Doesn’t.
He makes a noise when Sam moves off his legs and pushes his thighs apart roughly, fingers pressing bruise hard into the skin above Dean's knees.
"Breathe, Dean." And Sam pushes his legs apart further, so far his muscles burn, and quickly presses the burning metal high up on his inner thigh.
It’s so high he can feel the radiant heat against his balls in the beat before the pain really starts, and he can't help it this time, he swears and his hips shove up as he lets out a steady stream of fuckfuckfuck like steam from a boiling kettle.
Sam's hands are abruptly against the backs of his thighs and he shoves, curling Dean over himself slightly, keeping him there with his flannel covered hips and cock pressed against Dean's ass. He leans over and puts the hand with the knife in it over Dean's mouth, clamping his jaw shut.
"Shh," he says, "shhh. You know they say swearing out loud actually helps relieve pain?"
The edge of the knife is warm against Dean's cheek, digging in, but too blunt to cut him despite the pressure of Sam's grip. Half of Dean yells out to bite Sam, but the other half of him, the parts that have acknowledged Sam hasn't tied him to anything, that Sam's hands are on him but it's no kind of hold Dean couldn't break right now -- that part wins out.
Dean opens his mouth against Sam's palm and licks, kisses.
Sam makes a sound as Dean scrapes his teeth lightly over the heel of his hand: a moan. He rolls his hips lazily against Dean's ass, then he lets him go and sits back between Dean’s spread legs as he heats the knife again.
Do it, Dean thinks. Anything, right now, he wants anything Sam will give him.
Sam grabs his dick in one big hand, and Dean feels like he's going to pass out for a second, the sensation is so overwhelming. Sam strokes him once before he presses the knife to the base of his cock, blunt edge to his pubic hair, the flat against his shaft - and Dean knows he's making some noise, but he can't hear anything. His head’s filled with white noise.
Sam bends him near in half, palms the head of Dean’s cock, and strokes lightly over the burn, and swallows all the sounds Dean makes as he comes.