Fanfic - SPN: Walking (R, Slash: Sam/Dean)
Title: Walking [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "043-Giggly" for 100moods, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1630 words.
Rating: R for mentions of sexuality and violence.
Warnings/Spoilers: Angst! Dark! Future. Apocalypse. Mentions of past m/m sex, manipulation, dubious-con, kink/BDSM, M/s. Wincest. Slash. Plot. AU after "Simon Said". Potential vague spoilers for Season 1 and "In My Time of Dying".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Step 1 of the Initial Breaking Phase: Take everything until anything more than nothing seems good to him.
Beta: traffic_west was my beta fantastico!
Author's Notes: Don't let the prompt word fool you. This is NOT a funny story. This is also NOT a sexy story. // This was originally written as part of the fic set that includes the upcoming "Dreamwalking" and "Walking Nightmares". // For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.
Sierra Trading Coupons
Sam opened the door and in came … two bulky guys that Dean had never seen with their hands full of exercise equipment. Or, rather, with their hands full of a piece of exercise equipment, namely, a treadmill. They set it up on the far side of the room, near the windows that spanned the wall from the table up to his side of the bed.
Did he really have a side of the bed that he called 'his', now? Had he fallen into this little world that deeply?
Maybe he had. He didn't really know anymore. The time before was already starting to feel like it happened a lifetime ago.
He was pushed out of his musings, though, as Sam positioned himself behind and beside him, a hand settling on his shoulder, and Dean bowed his head, a nearly automatic response now, as a shudder slid hot down his back.
"You've been a bit antsy lately and I think some of it is in your head, so I'm going to increase the severity of your daily restraints to help with that."
More chains, or shorter lengths, or more rope, or tighter knots, or maybe just stocks this time, who knew? His shoulders tensed as he struggled to shut down his desire to question, to challenge, to earn himself more pain, and he nodded, a silent 'yes, sir'.
"But … I also think your body might just be missing all the strenuous activity that you're used to. So …" He stretched the word out with a following pause for emphasis, then he brought around his other hand and there was a bag hanging from it, like the ones from department stores, and he handed the bag to Dean. "Take it."
Dean let his fingers wrap around the handles of the bag, but he didn't open it, unsure of what was going on exactly.
"Open it." Sam's voice was lighter then, only slightly tinged with impatience. "Go ahead. They're for you."
As the bag billowed open between his hands and he peered down into it, Dean was surprised … and really confused. "But I thought- …"
"That you weren't allowed to wear clothes? You're not. As a general rule, at least. But I can choose to clothe my property, if I like, whether for protection from the elements or just because I want to see you in something."
He felt a little tremor of 'yes' run through his system and he almost smiled, feeling younger than he should, but he tried to press down the bit of hope that wanted to see light again. "Are you … taking me somewhere?"
Sam's quiet chuckle sank into Dean like a fist in his gut, twisting and burrowing deeper with Sam's words. "Of course not, whore. You can hardly go a few hours without earning yourself punishment. Why would I take you anywhere?"
"I just thought- … you said- … " Dean shook his head and stopped himself from getting worked up because it really didn't matter what Sam had said. He should know better than to think that there would ever be anything good here, that Sam would ever really give him even half a minute that wasn't so tainted and fucked up that sometimes his heart hurt worse than his body.
"When you can consistently be a good whore at home, I'll think about taking you somewhere. But from the way you seem to work, that looks like it might be a long time from now." Sam's voice wasn't cold or agitated, inflections only present in the way they might have been if he'd been reading from a book. "I got you that set of running shorts and the pair of sport sandals so that you won't hurt yourself when you use the treadmill."
Dean nodded slowly, trying to process things in a way that wouldn't make him have some kind of punishable outburst.
"I know you do daily exercises to keep everything in full working order, but it seems like you need to take a walk sometimes, or run off your extra energy. … So, I got you this treadmill and you're welcome to use it whenever you're not restrained or otherwise in use. Just remember to wear your new treadmill uniform and to take it off when you're through."
Huh.
Dean hadn't been out of this room at all in- … he didn't know how long exactly. Sam went out of his way to throw off his internal clock and make sure that he never mentioned any dates or even day names. From his memory of the days he'd experienced here, the days he'd been awake for, at least, he guessed it had been at least two weeks, but not quite a month. So, yeah, he was antsy as, well, ants. He didn't really take well to confinement and this wasn't even just confinement. The fact that he couldn't get permission to even just walk up and down the hallway outside the door of their suite was only part of the whole slave package. He wished he could get out of this room, even if just for an hour, see his car, drive it somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. But he wished for a lot of things that he'd never get here. That hand always held him down, whether it was on his shoulder or on his hip or not even on him at all but implied in the strength of chains, of leather, of rope. It always kept him lower, lesser, controlled. So it shouldn't have been a surprise that instead of being let out, even on some kind of leash, Sam's gift to him was a way to walk to his heart's content inside the little room that he couldn't leave. It was so bizarre and extreme as to seem comical, really.
He was like a hamster in a cage and he'd just been given his very own little hamster wheel.
He laughed. God, this was insane. He laughed, arms wrapped around his abs because his stomach was shaking. This whole world and this whole fucking life were just nuts. He laughed long and loud, bending in the middle, Sam's hand falling away. All he needed was a little coffee drip and a giant jar that would dispense Doritos when he hit a button. He laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes, dropping into a crouch on the floor and then falling over. This shit was so fucking insane and he was going insane trying to live in it. He laughed until there was no air in his lungs and he was starting to hurt, but he just couldn't stop laughing. It was all so fucking horrific and so intensely fucking serious that if he let himself have some reasonable reaction he'd probably sob until he shattered.
So … he laughed.
Sam, of course, didn't think it was all that funny, thought Dean had gone into hysterics, thought he was breaking. Maybe he was. Even so, Sam tried to calm him, sinking down to the floor and pulling Dean into his arms, petting him. His hands stayed in supposed safe places, but they were still the hands of an owner on a slave and not the hands of a brother or a lover or even just someone who Dean could imagine actually cared about him somehow. Sam rubbed slow circles at the small of his back and Dean knew it was meant to help ground him, pacify him, but Sam's hands never solved anything for him anymore. Sam's hands were part of the problem.
Dean didn't want to be under those hands anymore, didn't want them to try to placate and silence him. He didn't care if he was coming unhinged and behaving wildly. He should have the right to- … but no, he didn't have the right to anything anymore. He'd been used so often and so harshly, even in his short time here, that all he wanted to do now was scream "don't touch me" at the top of his lungs and lash out, fists and feet crushing everything and everyone keeping him here. But he couldn't even run to some corner and huddle into himself as if this body still belonged to him. Sam owned him now, so Dean could do nothing, but Sam could do anything with him, everything, wherever he wanted and whenever he liked.
He tried not to rock back and forth. It had become a bad habit, something he did when the strain of all this became too heavy. He just nodded a little to himself and took a deep breath, pulling up some piece of strength from the small reserve he still had, and his breathing slid back to something rhythmic and reasonable.
This wasn't that bad. A treadmill would be nice to have around. He might even be able to consider it kind of thoughtful as gifts went around here.
"Thank you … sir."
"You're welcome."
Sam's arms pulled him deeper into the embrace, the brush of his hands slowing until everything but their breaths were still and silent. It wasn't all that unexpected, though, when Sam shifted after a while, his hand curling around Dean's hip and his voice flowing out, deep and laden with intimate interest.
"Don't you want to thank me properly, whore?"
Dean swallowed down the spike of panic and despair until his mouth and throat felt ripped as if he'd been chewing on knives. But then he just tried to feel and not think, to give of his body and lock his mind away elsewhere. It wasn't easy and he was still learning, but the distance he needed seemed to snap into place one drop faster every time that he said what good boys, good slaves, good whores, always said to their owners, their masters.
"Yes, sir."
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Prompt: "043-Giggly" for 100moods, challenge table here.
Word Count: ~1630 words.
Rating: R for mentions of sexuality and violence.
Warnings/Spoilers: Angst! Dark! Future. Apocalypse. Mentions of past m/m sex, manipulation, dubious-con, kink/BDSM, M/s. Wincest. Slash. Plot. AU after "Simon Said". Potential vague spoilers for Season 1 and "In My Time of Dying".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Step 1 of the Initial Breaking Phase: Take everything until anything more than nothing seems good to him.
Beta: traffic_west was my beta fantastico!
Author's Notes: Don't let the prompt word fool you. This is NOT a funny story. This is also NOT a sexy story. // This was originally written as part of the fic set that includes the upcoming "Dreamwalking" and "Walking Nightmares". // For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.
Sierra Trading Coupons
Sam opened the door and in came … two bulky guys that Dean had never seen with their hands full of exercise equipment. Or, rather, with their hands full of a piece of exercise equipment, namely, a treadmill. They set it up on the far side of the room, near the windows that spanned the wall from the table up to his side of the bed.
Did he really have a side of the bed that he called 'his', now? Had he fallen into this little world that deeply?
Maybe he had. He didn't really know anymore. The time before was already starting to feel like it happened a lifetime ago.
He was pushed out of his musings, though, as Sam positioned himself behind and beside him, a hand settling on his shoulder, and Dean bowed his head, a nearly automatic response now, as a shudder slid hot down his back.
"You've been a bit antsy lately and I think some of it is in your head, so I'm going to increase the severity of your daily restraints to help with that."
More chains, or shorter lengths, or more rope, or tighter knots, or maybe just stocks this time, who knew? His shoulders tensed as he struggled to shut down his desire to question, to challenge, to earn himself more pain, and he nodded, a silent 'yes, sir'.
"But … I also think your body might just be missing all the strenuous activity that you're used to. So …" He stretched the word out with a following pause for emphasis, then he brought around his other hand and there was a bag hanging from it, like the ones from department stores, and he handed the bag to Dean. "Take it."
Dean let his fingers wrap around the handles of the bag, but he didn't open it, unsure of what was going on exactly.
"Open it." Sam's voice was lighter then, only slightly tinged with impatience. "Go ahead. They're for you."
As the bag billowed open between his hands and he peered down into it, Dean was surprised … and really confused. "But I thought- …"
"That you weren't allowed to wear clothes? You're not. As a general rule, at least. But I can choose to clothe my property, if I like, whether for protection from the elements or just because I want to see you in something."
He felt a little tremor of 'yes' run through his system and he almost smiled, feeling younger than he should, but he tried to press down the bit of hope that wanted to see light again. "Are you … taking me somewhere?"
Sam's quiet chuckle sank into Dean like a fist in his gut, twisting and burrowing deeper with Sam's words. "Of course not, whore. You can hardly go a few hours without earning yourself punishment. Why would I take you anywhere?"
"I just thought- … you said- … " Dean shook his head and stopped himself from getting worked up because it really didn't matter what Sam had said. He should know better than to think that there would ever be anything good here, that Sam would ever really give him even half a minute that wasn't so tainted and fucked up that sometimes his heart hurt worse than his body.
"When you can consistently be a good whore at home, I'll think about taking you somewhere. But from the way you seem to work, that looks like it might be a long time from now." Sam's voice wasn't cold or agitated, inflections only present in the way they might have been if he'd been reading from a book. "I got you that set of running shorts and the pair of sport sandals so that you won't hurt yourself when you use the treadmill."
Dean nodded slowly, trying to process things in a way that wouldn't make him have some kind of punishable outburst.
"I know you do daily exercises to keep everything in full working order, but it seems like you need to take a walk sometimes, or run off your extra energy. … So, I got you this treadmill and you're welcome to use it whenever you're not restrained or otherwise in use. Just remember to wear your new treadmill uniform and to take it off when you're through."
Huh.
Dean hadn't been out of this room at all in- … he didn't know how long exactly. Sam went out of his way to throw off his internal clock and make sure that he never mentioned any dates or even day names. From his memory of the days he'd experienced here, the days he'd been awake for, at least, he guessed it had been at least two weeks, but not quite a month. So, yeah, he was antsy as, well, ants. He didn't really take well to confinement and this wasn't even just confinement. The fact that he couldn't get permission to even just walk up and down the hallway outside the door of their suite was only part of the whole slave package. He wished he could get out of this room, even if just for an hour, see his car, drive it somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. But he wished for a lot of things that he'd never get here. That hand always held him down, whether it was on his shoulder or on his hip or not even on him at all but implied in the strength of chains, of leather, of rope. It always kept him lower, lesser, controlled. So it shouldn't have been a surprise that instead of being let out, even on some kind of leash, Sam's gift to him was a way to walk to his heart's content inside the little room that he couldn't leave. It was so bizarre and extreme as to seem comical, really.
He was like a hamster in a cage and he'd just been given his very own little hamster wheel.
He laughed. God, this was insane. He laughed, arms wrapped around his abs because his stomach was shaking. This whole world and this whole fucking life were just nuts. He laughed long and loud, bending in the middle, Sam's hand falling away. All he needed was a little coffee drip and a giant jar that would dispense Doritos when he hit a button. He laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes, dropping into a crouch on the floor and then falling over. This shit was so fucking insane and he was going insane trying to live in it. He laughed until there was no air in his lungs and he was starting to hurt, but he just couldn't stop laughing. It was all so fucking horrific and so intensely fucking serious that if he let himself have some reasonable reaction he'd probably sob until he shattered.
So … he laughed.
Sam, of course, didn't think it was all that funny, thought Dean had gone into hysterics, thought he was breaking. Maybe he was. Even so, Sam tried to calm him, sinking down to the floor and pulling Dean into his arms, petting him. His hands stayed in supposed safe places, but they were still the hands of an owner on a slave and not the hands of a brother or a lover or even just someone who Dean could imagine actually cared about him somehow. Sam rubbed slow circles at the small of his back and Dean knew it was meant to help ground him, pacify him, but Sam's hands never solved anything for him anymore. Sam's hands were part of the problem.
Dean didn't want to be under those hands anymore, didn't want them to try to placate and silence him. He didn't care if he was coming unhinged and behaving wildly. He should have the right to- … but no, he didn't have the right to anything anymore. He'd been used so often and so harshly, even in his short time here, that all he wanted to do now was scream "don't touch me" at the top of his lungs and lash out, fists and feet crushing everything and everyone keeping him here. But he couldn't even run to some corner and huddle into himself as if this body still belonged to him. Sam owned him now, so Dean could do nothing, but Sam could do anything with him, everything, wherever he wanted and whenever he liked.
He tried not to rock back and forth. It had become a bad habit, something he did when the strain of all this became too heavy. He just nodded a little to himself and took a deep breath, pulling up some piece of strength from the small reserve he still had, and his breathing slid back to something rhythmic and reasonable.
This wasn't that bad. A treadmill would be nice to have around. He might even be able to consider it kind of thoughtful as gifts went around here.
"Thank you … sir."
"You're welcome."
Sam's arms pulled him deeper into the embrace, the brush of his hands slowing until everything but their breaths were still and silent. It wasn't all that unexpected, though, when Sam shifted after a while, his hand curling around Dean's hip and his voice flowing out, deep and laden with intimate interest.
"Don't you want to thank me properly, whore?"
Dean swallowed down the spike of panic and despair until his mouth and throat felt ripped as if he'd been chewing on knives. But then he just tried to feel and not think, to give of his body and lock his mind away elsewhere. It wasn't easy and he was still learning, but the distance he needed seemed to snap into place one drop faster every time that he said what good boys, good slaves, good whores, always said to their owners, their masters.
"Yes, sir."