Fanfic - SPN: Eager - Ch. 7 - Focus
Title: Eager [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Seven: Focus
Sam lifted a hand up, loosely fisted, to run his knuckles down one line of needles on Dean's abdomen and Dean shivered, wondering what kind of damage a punch would do to pierced skin. "Don't worry. You did well enough to get a few out. Just grab me the med stuff from the other side of the bed."
Dean nodded slightly before turning to nab the medical kit and biohazard container from beyond Sam's reach, placing it in what he hoped was a comfortable enough range for Sam to begin his work. The first few weren't easy, but he gritted his teeth through burning sensations that mimicked sandpaper slivers being yanked from his skin. As Sam steadily continued to pull more needles out, though, Dean couldn't decide if they actually hurt less or if he was just getting used to how much they did hurt. When Sam had removed ten of the final fifteen, though, he just stopped, staring at the five that were left, his head tilted off-center on the pillow.
The last five had been the worst going in, the two in each nipple and the double-plus piercing through his navel, and Dean couldn't see how they could be any better coming out but he sure as hell didn't want to leave them in. He felt stuck in that moment of waiting, of hoping his brother would finish this twisted game, but part of him knew this couldn't be the end. It would be too easy, too reasonable. It would assume a simple equation of good behavior equals less pain and bad behavior equals more, but the equation was complicated by a judge who found his slightest comment improper and fitting of unpleasant consequences. Dean knew this wouldn't end unless he worked harder, worked to end it.
His breath quickened with the pace of his thoughts.
Five leftover needles meant fifty extra strokes, right? That would only be a repeat of the floggings he'd received earlier in the day, but he didn't want to have to take punishment like that again if he could help it. He was already too bruised and exhausted to make fifty strokes seem anywhere close to easy and who knew how much he might fuck up further tonight if he didn't end it now. It wasn't like he hadn't already gone pretty far today with being what Sam wanted, so … a few more steps wouldn't be too much if they got Sam to take the rest of the needles out, right? His mind was rushing, rationalizing what he had already decided to do, trying to make it feel less dirty, less like he had a choice and more like it was just survival. Survival was okay, wasn't it? It didn't mean he was … changing or … breaking or- … Being good, being eager, just meant survival. Nothing wrong with that.
"I can … do something else for you … if you want … sir." He consciously contained the shudder that threatened to shake his voice and his shoulders, because he couldn't believe that he was doing this but he didn't have a better answer to this fucked up question.
Sam quirked one eyebrow up. "Oh? Like what, whore? You already blew me and rode me, what else do I need?"
"I dunno, sir. … I just- … Whatever you want, okay?" Dean let his hand brush up Sam's body until he could cradle half of Sam's face, his thumb brushing over Sam's lips, a mirror of what Sam had done to him earlier. He shivered with the memory of Sam's power on his skin, then again when he recalled the strength of the whip inching its way to fifty strokes, and his words came out as a desperately rough whisper that he hardly recognized as his own. "Just tell me … and I'll do it." He wanted to be done for the day, wanted to put away the fear and pain for a little while and just sleep.
Sam reached up, his hand sliding over Dean's but not moving it, and he blinked up at him, face framed by a half-smile and a shallowly creased forehead. "You're really starting to get this, aren't you?"
He didn't like it, but … yeah, maybe he was. "Yes, sir."
Sam nodded, seeming pensive but pleased. "I guess we can take these out then, huh?" He brought his hand up to pull at the remaining needles, sliding them out slowly and angling them to grind each point through tender tissue as it worked its way back towards the needle's entrance site.
Taking his time, Sam's gaze flicked back and forth between whichever needle he was tugging and Dean's expression. Dean tried to remain neutral and unfazed, willing to take more pain for his owner's pleasure, if that was required, but he couldn't stay completely quiet. Guttural noises cracked in the back of his throat as Sam twisted and dragged the needles out of their temporary holes, trickles of blood spilling, but Dean made sure that his pleas were locked away.
When all the needles were safely tossed into the box, the bloody threads thrown away, and the latest wounds were stinging and alcohol-cleansed, Sam let his hand settle into a soft stroking pattern up and down Dean's arm. "So … whatever I want, huh?"
Sam's expression revealed nothing, his face a placid lake that could be hiding anything beneath the surface, but Dean could feel his own chest jerk with the sudden breathe-stop-breathe rhythm of his anxious lungs. He let his eyelids do a slow blink for a moment as he willed himself to do this. Anything he didn't agree to give, Sam would take if he wanted it anyway, right? And he'd be punished if he resisted, so- … Just be good.
He nodded, nervous but unwavering. "I mean … I won't hurt anybody and I don't- …" He caught himself before he made a list of conditions and limits that would likely only be turned into a list of things to do. "But … yeah."
"That doesn't stop when the night is over, though, Dean. You're not promising to go above and beyond the call of duty here. 'Whatever I want' is exactly what you're supposed to give me … always and everywhere. You understand that, right?"
Dean nodded again, or maybe he'd never stopped, just like this would never stop. Not, at least, until he'd figured out how to fix things … if he could. The air still puffed out of him quicker than it should, but he was a fast learner. Be good. "Yes, sir."
"I want to hear you say it in full, so you can hear it from your own mouth."
His stomach seemed to jump and his head dropped even further, his eyelids slipping down, half-closed, as his eyes found Sam's abs, jaggedly streaked with pink from brushes with eager needles. Angry but nearly defeated, he said what he thought Sam was looking for, forcing his mouth to form words that felt like needles, prickling as they climbed their way out of his throat. "Me being … good … and giving you whatever you want … isn't just for tonight. This is … how I should be … what I should do … all the time … … … sir."
The 'sir' came after a pause and with more of a struggle than before because it hurt, fuck, it hurt to say it all out loud like that, to make his mind think about this being the way he lived his life from here on out - violence without the right to defend himself, his body on display for anyone who cared to look, a status that meant the last of his family saw him only as an object for play and pain and service. It was true right then, though, all of it, and it didn't seem like he'd be able to make it untrue anytime soon … if ever.
"Exactly."
He wasn't sure if his own continued nodding was actually a response to anything or if it was just his body's way of trying to reinforce a difficult truth.
"So … I want you to take the rest of this mousse and put it back on the table. Then, I want you to close this box and take it to the guards. Tell them it has used needles inside and should be taken to the healing station downstairs for disposal."
Dean acknowledged the instructions with a shift of his head, but he paused just before moving to tend to his tasks, pronouncing the words slowly, unsure of their meaning. "Healing station?"
"Yeah."
"Like a machine or something?" An electronic booth came to mind, like an arcade game but with a menu full of treatments instead of race cars or martial artists to pit against the computer.
Sam chuckled a little, shaking his head. "No."
"Like a … depot for miracle cures?" It might have bottles worth of concoctions for those more mortal than others.
Sam's chuckle became a full laugh with an accompanying boyish grin and it almost made the room fall away for Dean, his heart stumbling. "No … and you're not going to figure it out."
"A … hot nurse lounge, maybe?" He was really thinking of an in-house doctor's office, but this worked even better. The joke didn't come as easily as it once would've, but his lips tilted up some, hopeful despite himself. There was something healing in the way Sam smiled and laughed when it was about things that were just funny and not hurtful or humiliating.
Sam laughed in earnest this time, but offered no real response to the question.
Dean found his eyebrows crinkling with curiosity, quietly glad to be caught up in a much less serious sort of game. "Well what is it?"
"Can't tell you." There was mischief in Sam's eyes like he'd hidden away a present for later.
"Why not?"
Sam's laughter faded slowly, but the essence of a smile remained. "Until you get a handle on what you are here and what that means, it's better if you know as little as possible, okay? I don't want you to feel tempted to do anything stupid."
"Stupid like what?"
"Stupid like Hunter shit, Dean. You're not one, but the more information you have, the more likely it is that you'll store it away and try to do something stupid with it."
Dean leaned in a little closer, peering curiously at Sam until Sam's smile was twice as wide. There was something tender in his eyes, something peeking out from the shadow of darkness there.
"What are you looking at?"
"You." Dean let out a huff of near disbelief. "It's almost like you're … protecting me … from something." He looked harder, something in him almost frantic as he tried to decipher what it was that he was seeing, what it meant. "Sam?"
"You know who I am." Sam's smile stayed, but everything in his eyes was swallowed up under green glass, as if they had never revealed either care or violence. Then he sniffed the air and made a face of disgust. "Now, get the fuck off me, whore, and do what I told you to do."
Dean just quirked his head to the side, bold. That was not a phrase of denial; it was one of evasion. "Why don't you just tell me what I'm not supposed to do and I won't do it … Sam." He added verbal weight to his brother's name because maybe- … maybe 'sir' didn't fit there, but … he knew that didn't make any sense.
"A) I've already told you, repeatedly, you just never really listen. And B) if I told you any more explicitly than I already have, then you'd just chew on it until you did it anyway. You always think you know everything, Dean … even when you don't know jack shit." There was a suggestive lift to Sam's eyebrows and Dean lowered his own, trying to read between the lines and wondering for the first time if they were under surveillance.
If his brother was trying to protect him, all Sam had to do was say the word or give a sign or something and he'd behave as much as he had to while they planned their next move. He could playact until they could put up a good fight. He just needed to know that was the plan, that he wasn't losing his mind and seeing a brother who wasn't in there anymore, that the structure of their new relationship wasn't real and didn't mean anything. "What do you mean, though? 'Hunter shit' like … trying to escape or something?"
In a flash, Sam's face was contorted horribly, heat snapping around Dean's body like a six foot lock, as a hand gripped his jaw hard enough to bruise the bone. "There is no escape. You're with me or you're dead. And the choice between those two options will never be up to you. I repeat … No … Escape. … You're with me or you're dead. Period. … Even if I let your body live to serve someone else, your mind would be broken and drugged beyond recognition until Dean Winchester isn't in there anymore. Do you understand, whore?"
Dean's head was dizzy with the feel of Sam's power on his skin and inside him, and his heart felt ready to burst from its overzealous pumping, but he slurred out the words as best he could without moving his jaw. "Yesssir."
"I don't ever want to hear that word come out of your mouth again, whore. Not. Ever. … And I want you to work real hard to think about something reasonable and worthwhile whenever that word comes into your mind, okay? … Think about being a communal whore instead of just mine. I believe the average fuck rate for communals is 2-4 an hour. That's like thirty-forty fucks a day, whore. Would you like that? … Or think about being a pure painslut with no sex at all, just the hurt, the blood, the screams, because it got your new owner off just that much. … Or, even, think about being so deep in the drug that you kill in order to get permission to come, that you show the blood on your hands in order to touch yourself. … You thinking about it?!"
Sam's voice was like a physical force, slamming into Dean like a wrestler intent on a take-down, and Dean was trembling now, his mouth unable to form any words because his brain was concocting too many brutal images.
"You have it easy, whore. So stop acting like your A+plus life deserves a C-minus. I'm awfully good to you, better than I have to be, and I hope you never have to see the other side, but it's only half a misstep away. … This … is not … a game. …. I do what I have to, for me, but I own you and I intend to own you always. So, what's good for me, is good for you. Period. Even if it makes no sense to you and even if it hurts so bad you think you're going to die. What's good for me, will, in the end, always be good for you. Do you understand?"
"Yesssir."
"Good."
When Sam let go of him, it felt more like a throw than a simple release, but Dean made sure to return to where he had been sitting, a mess sloshing quietly between his thighs and over Sam's groin. His breathing was rapid, but he kept his head down and didn't speak, hoping that he hadn't earned himself new punishment after only just finishing the last one. For a minute, he'd thought maybe- …
"I believe I gave you orders, whore. Get to them."
Whatever he thought he saw didn't matter now or … if it did, he didn't know what to do with it. He just nodded and climbed off of Sam and off the bed, reaching for the mousse.
Sam latched onto Dean's arm as it withdrew with the dessert bowl. "And grab me a towel while you're up."
Dean looked at the hand on his arm, wondering who it really belonged to, but his brief glance to his brother's eyes told him nothing. "Yes, sir."
He took the mousse to the table and brought Sam a towel when he went back to get the biohazard box. Then he went to the door and handed the box off to a tall female guard with her straight black hair pulled into a severe ponytail, the proper instructions leaving his mouth in a thankful rush when he realized that Rick was nowhere in sight. He kept his eyes down as much as he could while he spoke to the woman, however, remembering how seriously Sam took the respect issue and refusing to hurt more for fighting something so simple. Fighting wasn't really on his mind much anyway, not with Sam waiting for him, no doubt thinking about his earlier infraction. It felt like almost everyone deserved more respect than he did now, even if some part of him knew that wasn't really true.
When he came back to stand by the bed, Sam had his arms folded up under the back of his head, but his eyes were wide open, watching him. Dean stood for a moment, unsure of what to say but not quite ready to return to the bed yet. "Before we- … umm … Could I- …" He wavered, gaze dropping as he wondered if this was too much to ask, but he could feel the mixture of slick and jizz inside, slipping out to make his thighs sticky and his brain was buzzing with a dozen half-finished thoughts.
"Sure. Go ahead."
Dean nodded swiftly, respectfully, maybe even gratefully, and headed to the bathroom to try to wash away the smell of sex and the feeling of confusion.
* * *
Even alone in the bathroom, the door shut behind him, it took Dean a moment to lift his head, as if he'd look and there would be other eyes in the room. When his tension finally eased somewhat, he went to the second sink to clean himself up, his body tender enough to make his breath hitch. He looked over his wounds, noting that his back was a map of bruises, the lighter newer ones overlapping with the older darker ones. The marks left by the needles were barely noticeable, though, thin raised strips of pink and white with darker dots at each end that would probably be splotched with tiny bruises the next day and he pulled his posture up straighter as he studied himself.
"Hmm." He made a noise in the back of his throat as he turned to look at the seemingly minor damage from another angle. 'Not half bad' was the phrase that came to his mind. He paused, though, as his fingers traced one needle's path and he double-blinked, looking up to catch the reflection of his own eyes as if seeing himself for the first time.
He was preening, checking himself out in the mirror like a teenage him used to do after a weightlifting session, sure that he had an inch more muscle to show off. How did that fit here, though? Being Sam's plaything didn't earn him cool points. This wasn't about pride. Or … was it? Were these so different from battle scars? He'd handled the sharp shove of twenty-five needles into and out of his body as well as all the thread-yanking that had intensified the experience nearly to the point of tears and … he'd made it through, won the game, been … good.
He refocused his attention, not wanting to go there, and continued his survey in the most clinical way he could manage. As he poked gingerly at one nipple, then the other, however, his fingers stirred up sensations. On the one hand, he was glad because it meant that they weren't broken, despite being doubly skewered, but, on the other hand, the twinge of complex sensations reminded him of Sam's fingers and Sam's breath as he tucked words of ownership into Dean's ear alongside the sound of pained groans.
"You're fucked up."
The words came with a snicker after a long moment of glaring at himself, his mouth shaping into a bitter smile as he cut himself down for responding to bits of what passed for pleasure in this far too twisted situation. There shouldn't be anything here that aroused him enough to come, but, at the same time, it seemed to almost be a self-inflicted punishment to be upset that he could partake in whatever release Sam allowed.
Allowed?
His eyebrows rose in surprise at the invasiveness of Sam's way of thinking and he tipped his head off to the side, trying to slow his thoughts to a pace where they could do more than just grow and die in some Sam-built box. He could see how Sam was molding him, confusing his notions of what 'good' and 'bad' meant, what should please or worry him. Yet, the sensibility of it all was right there, laid out so clearly, even if it only made sense because Sam was the sole creator and controller of the laws and norms in this little world. If Dean was beginning to respond within the boundaries and preferences of this system without direction or necessity, then … he really needed to step back.
He checked the door, wondering how long it had been but not letting himself be anxious about it. He needed this time, even if he had to steal it, because his mind would be the hardest thing to rebuild if- … when- … this ended. The door was only as securely fashioned as it could ever be with Sam somewhere on the other side, but Dean didn't feel the same level of unease as he had the day before. This wasn't hiding - he just needed to get his head straight - and in his brother's rage and just before, Sam had all but said that, from his perspective, he was playing nice. So, while that understanding might be seriously misguided, it did seem to imply that he at least wanted to play nice, not to mention all the careful cleaning, the lack of serious permanent damage, and the reoccurring, though unpredictable, moments when Sam just seemed … different.
Or … something like that.
If he was right, then Sam was protecting him from something, maybe as much as he could … everything but himself … which could make sense in a world this fucked up, couldn't it? Even a warped system of protection would say something about the good still in Sam, wouldn't it? That he even cared that much? Even if his notions of love had morphed into notions of ownership and sex had been twisted up with violence. Maybe he should try to meet Sam on his own terms more, try to not dismiss Sam's efforts so quickly, efforts that maybe weren't 'good' but could be far worse.
The ease of his last thought made him pause and he studied his own eyes in the mirror, wondering why something in them seemed so resigned, so calm about all this. Sam could throw horrors in his face and he'd shake and struggle, but … were those the same eyes he'd seen staring back at him only a day before? How could the nudging in the back of his mind pull him down from silent shouts of rage and despair to thinking maybe whatever this was wasn't so bad? Or maybe it really was that bad, but he just knew there wasn't anything more he could do.
It felt like it had been ages since Sam had all but dragged him from this bathroom and- … A muscle in his neck twitched as his mind ran into the unknown ahead of him. It had only been a week since he'd been free, right? He should still be fighting with all teeth bared, not just resisting for the two heartbeats it took Sam to raise his hand. He should- … He shook his head because a handful of days shouldn't be long enough to turn his mind against him like this, but it was hard to look the other way when the logic of reward and punishment was being written on his body every waking moment and- …
Dean froze as the door swung open and Sam strode past him to take a leak without a word, the splash of streaming piss seeming loud when no attempt at communication or eye contact had been made. When Sam shook off and moved to wash his hands, though, Dean immediately dropped his eyes, head nudging its way downward as the solitary sound of running water and soap-squeaky skin made his heartbeat race. If he could have, he would've become a statue right then, unmoving and unnoticed.
Sam began calmly as he shut the water off and reached for a hand towel, speaking in slow, even tones that were filled with something formal and restrained. "You know … excluding some moments of confusion on your part, you've been fairly obedient and respectful today, which is how you won our little game. … You've made progress."
But …
"But … that's not a get out of jail free card and- …" Sam seemed to bite his own breath, his patience slipping as the temperature began to rise. "What is it about this bathroom, Dean?! You think this is some little sanctuary? That I own you any less in here? Did I not prove my reach enough earlier or- …" He stopped himself with a frustrated sigh.
Dean swallowed, listening, but losing his concentration at points as his violently imaginative mind tried not to determine just how he might have to pay for this.
Sam shifted as he finally released the towel, but he made no move to approach Dean or even to turn away from the mirror. The silence seemed like an off-duty anvil on Dean's shoulders, heavy but cooling as Sam took in several long breaths before speaking calmly again. "I guess I'm just concerned that if you wait until I'm especially angry, then- … Well, I trust you to not repeat the same mistake twice. I really don't like having to repeat myself or strain myself in any way that's not for work or fun, particularly when I've been generous and, say, granted a request for personal time. … You see why that would bother me, don't you, Dean?"
He could hear the disappointment as much as the anger and it twisted up with memories of a rougher voice barking out his faults. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
Sam closed the door softly as he exited, but the sound echoed around Dean anyway. Whatever nagging concerns he had about his mind's rapid adaptation would have to wait. He had to show his owner that he could be appreciative of a situation that could be worse or it might very well become one that couldn't.
* * *
When Dean finally walked out of the bathroom, he was steeled to really try to be good, to help Sam see that he could appreciate the relatively kind little things he did. Sam was lying on his side on the bed, having put up the rumpled clothes and the rest of the supplies, and he patted the space beside him with a nod in Dean's direction. "Come lay down."
Dean went, his brother seeming calm enough as he stretched out next to him, allowing himself to be petted, shoulder to thigh.
"I'm going to let you come again, but I want it to be a lesson too."
"Okay …"
Sam wasn't looking at him, not into his eyes at least. He was following the path of his fingers, over Dean's arm, to the elbow, to the wrist, to the line of his leg, and back up again. Dean struggled not to shake, slowly beginning to feel the darkness huddled just under Sam's calm like the first morning Sam had trained him. Suck my cock. Only your mouth. On your back. Good boy.
Sam's hand cupped his cock, then wrapped around it, slowly stroking. It was all the same, though, wasn't it? Dean kept looking for Sam's eyes, but Sam was watching the hand moving over the gradually hardening flesh of Dean's dick. Knees spread. Make yourself come. Lick it up. Good boy.
Dean let his eyes fall closed, knowing that he would get no more from Sam than his brother intended him to have. He didn't know what the lesson was, but somehow it involved him coming and- … He was tempted to say that was a good thing, but he hadn't wholly forgotten his previous lessons. Tell the truth. Beg for it. Take the pain. Good boy.
Sam's fist sped and Dean found himself leaning closer to his brother, feeling his breath rebound off Sam's body as he inched towards orgasm. He tried not to think about where this was going, tried to focus on the rapid thud of his own pulse, while he fucked through the tight ring of Sam's fingers.
The pain hit him like an invisible train on a track that he didn't remember crossing.
There was a living column of heat in him, flexing and pressing itself out against his muscles, pressing them out against his skin. His organs were churning, confused as to why it was suddenly twice as hot as any human fever ever should be. He might have yelled if his throat didn't feel like he'd been eating fire for hours, so he could only release a creaky groan. He needed cool water, packs of ice. He needed a belt to hold his insides from spilling out through skin that seemed on its way to melting. The pain peaked, though, and began to dip slowly, allowing him to breathe again, despite the hurt. Sweat streamed down his face and his mouth fell open as he looked up at Sam in disbelief. "Sam?"
Sam's eyes were finally in view, but they were empty of good and brimming with malice. "What did I tell you about trying to get me to stop doing things that please me, whore?"
Dean dropped his eyes, struggling to keep his mouth shut as he coped with the ache of extreme overheating and muscle strain.
"I want you to come."
He could still feel the steady slide of Sam's hand through the pain and Sam was working to keep him hard, to keep him wanting something, needing something, but the bulk of the pleasure was drowned out, like a whisper beside a cranked up stereo. He'd never get there like this. "I- … It hurts … too much. … Please- …"
Sam squeezed on his dick harshly and he whimpered, the pain radiating up, amplifying the strain on the bits of him held by Sam's power. "You will come tonight, whore. Just like this. It's hardly that much pain and your body needs to learn to give me what I want whether it's hurting or not." The up and down glide of Sam's fingers over his cock started again, faster this time. "Focus on the feel of my hand."
Dean didn't verbalize his pleas this time, but he implored Sam for some kind of mercy with his eyes.
Sam's smirk was hard before he leaned closer, pressing his lips to Dean's ear. "If you can't get off like this tonight, then you won't get off at all tomorrow. You'll just feel this, for hours, while I fuck you slow enough to drive you mad. So … try, at least … before your inner masochist signs you up for more than you can handle."
"Yes, sir." Dean ground his teeth together, but eventually he closed his eyes with a shudder and tried to focus on the feel of Sam's hand on him.
He found his way mentally down into his body, to the cock that was straining to be closer to its tormentor, and he could feel the need there, the way the pleasure rapped against the door of his system like it could just wade through the sea of pain … and maybe it could. He stopped struggling, stopped trying to shove the pain down and just let it all wash over and through him until he couldn't tell if the wet on his skin was sweat or tears.
His inner door flung open.
Riding the sensations that were sparking up from his cock, his endorphins kicked in hard, a rush to the back of his head like it was attached to a balloon and beginning to float up and away. The pain seemed more distant now and the sweet throb sliding up from his cock sent his heart and lungs into overdrive as his body fought with itself over the dominance of pleasure or pain. In moments, he was overwhelmed, a sweep of ecstasy rolling through him with the pain only upping the ante, making the pleasure twice as intense, and he gasped and groaned into Sam's shoulder as he flooded the sheets between them with his come.
"Fuck." He moaned against Sam's skin with utter exhaustion, his body feeling like he'd just had his very first orgasm and it might take a few days to refuel.
The heat inside and around him died down as Sam pulled his power back into himself and Dean tried to convince his lungs that it was safe to breathe now. Then Sam wiped his hand clean on Dean's thigh and reached around Dean's back as he shifted backwards, dragging him closer and into the wet spot like his natural place was soaking up filth.
Dean could feel the slick of his pleasure-turned-shame under him and tried not to let it destroy the heady aftershocks. He told himself that it didn't matter how dirty he felt, how insignificant and used. He'd made it, hadn't he? And it had felt good for a minute, right? Really, really good.
"You know you didn't beg to come, right, whore?" Sam's voice, spoken over his hair, wasn't angry, but it wasn't kind either, and Dean shifted, suddenly far more nervous than blissful.
"I- … You said you … wanted me to come."
Sam half-nodded with a 'hmm'. "I did. But that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not you have to beg for it. You know that you're supposed to beg for anything important, especially anything sexual. We went through that yesterday and you showed me that you knew that a number of times today. Remember?"
"I know, but- …"
"No buts, whore. …You came without permission. What did I say was the punishment for that offense?"
Dean stilled, instantly tense from head to foot.
"Dean … what is the punishment for coming without permission?"
His top teeth rolled over the bottom ones, gritty, but they disconnected for a moment to let the words inch out, drenched in disbelief and dread. "You said you'd … take a whip … to my dick."
"And I will." Sam's voice was so smooth and deep that if Dean hadn't known the topic, he would have shuddered with want instead of with fear. "Not tomorrow, though, and not for a little while yet. There's no fear of permanent damage here, but I'm still going to work you up to it. For now, I'll just add twenty-five more strokes to your general whipping tab."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He felt like his voice had drifted away, evaporating into the air with his sweat and the last of his bliss.
"Dean … ?"
He swallowed hard, his voice shaking its way out of him, half bottled anger, half fevered fear. "Yes … sir."
"And no sleeping in tomorrow. You took up way too much of my time this morning and you've got seventy-five lashes coming. Not to mention that I'll probably want a blowjob in the shower. … So, you can nap when I leave for work … after you do some exercises and get the guards to put your chains up."
Of course. Seventy-five lashes. Blowjob in the shower. Exercise. Chains. Nap. Right. Right. Of course.
Dean could feel the pieces of his heart start to crack and separate, but he yanked and shoved them back together, a little worse for wear, a little chipped, but mostly there. Under the necessary obedience, the bowed head and averted eyes, under all of that, he was still mostly there. He hoped so, at least, but it was getting harder to tell.
"Did you hear me, whore?"
He nodded into Sam's shoulder, the words falling out, almost too easy. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Sam exhaled slowly and shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position, one arm continuing to keep Dean close as the other stretched out. "You did okay today. It's still not good enough, but maybe April isn't impossible. We'll just … work our way up from the little stuff, okay?"
There was no option of 'not okay', even though that would have been truer, so Dean whispered "okay" anyway.
"Go ahead and sleep, then."
Dean nodded again, closing his eyes, and he tried to settle into the circle of Sam's arms. Things were different now, though. He could feel it, even if he couldn't quite name why. It didn't comfort him as much to be in Sam's arms like this, like it had even just the day before. No matter how many times he thought he saw … something … in his brother, every minute in this world made it feel like the distance between him and his Sam was growing, widening, and every time that he thought he might be building a bridge to him, it collapsed under his feet.
Moments of kindness or pleasure or what might have once been laughter might not be revelations here, no more than moments of cruelty, moments of pain. Maybe it wasn't a hopeful conclusion to come to, but everything could just be a whim, some twisted up want or need of this Sam and either this Sam didn't care much about him at all or everything was so twisted up until it all came out wrong, which Dean wasn't sure was really better. What did he have to go on? A trick of light in Sam's eyes? A gentle touch from a hand that so easily crushed bruises into him? How did that mean anything?
They weren't the Brothers Winchester anymore, or at least those roles weren't the most important here. They were master and slave, owner and whore, and little more than that. Whether that was the whole story or not didn't change that he had to keep those roles at the forefront of his mind so he could behave in a way that would ensure his survival and keep him clean and well enough to fight when the time came … if such a time ever came. But, saying all that, out loud or in his head, just reminded him that his Sam was … gone ... and he still didn't know how to get him back.
It made him want to tear into something, to pound something big into tiny pieces, but there was nothing he could rage at, not really. The object he felt most compelled to destroy was the body that was supposed to house his brother, even though it didn't seem to do that anymore, and since there was nothing else in his space, the next items on the list were his own body and his own mind. They were steadily betraying him, steadily learning to be good, both too fast and not fast enough. His fingers curled into tense fists, but it didn't matter. They were useless, trapped between two bodies and two opposing sets of ideals. To the victor, the Commander, went the spoils, every day and every night, until Dean could press his eyelids down a little tighter and return to a world that he remembered, a world where being 'good' didn't hurt and where the rewards for his work were always Sammy and dreams of Sammy.
One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven
Further Author's Notes: As always, you're welcome to ask any questions about the story, the 'verse, or the kinks mentioned here. In particular, I'm guessing that the vast majority of you are new to needle play, so if you'd like to brave the world of RL visuals (NSFW!), Google would require you to sift through lots of crap, so here you go: you can find some nice (only a little bloody) art shots here and a serious close-up over here. Too, if you've seen needle play elsewhere in fanfic (in any fandom), I would love to know where. Thanks!
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Seven: Focus
Sam lifted a hand up, loosely fisted, to run his knuckles down one line of needles on Dean's abdomen and Dean shivered, wondering what kind of damage a punch would do to pierced skin. "Don't worry. You did well enough to get a few out. Just grab me the med stuff from the other side of the bed."
Dean nodded slightly before turning to nab the medical kit and biohazard container from beyond Sam's reach, placing it in what he hoped was a comfortable enough range for Sam to begin his work. The first few weren't easy, but he gritted his teeth through burning sensations that mimicked sandpaper slivers being yanked from his skin. As Sam steadily continued to pull more needles out, though, Dean couldn't decide if they actually hurt less or if he was just getting used to how much they did hurt. When Sam had removed ten of the final fifteen, though, he just stopped, staring at the five that were left, his head tilted off-center on the pillow.
The last five had been the worst going in, the two in each nipple and the double-plus piercing through his navel, and Dean couldn't see how they could be any better coming out but he sure as hell didn't want to leave them in. He felt stuck in that moment of waiting, of hoping his brother would finish this twisted game, but part of him knew this couldn't be the end. It would be too easy, too reasonable. It would assume a simple equation of good behavior equals less pain and bad behavior equals more, but the equation was complicated by a judge who found his slightest comment improper and fitting of unpleasant consequences. Dean knew this wouldn't end unless he worked harder, worked to end it.
His breath quickened with the pace of his thoughts.
Five leftover needles meant fifty extra strokes, right? That would only be a repeat of the floggings he'd received earlier in the day, but he didn't want to have to take punishment like that again if he could help it. He was already too bruised and exhausted to make fifty strokes seem anywhere close to easy and who knew how much he might fuck up further tonight if he didn't end it now. It wasn't like he hadn't already gone pretty far today with being what Sam wanted, so … a few more steps wouldn't be too much if they got Sam to take the rest of the needles out, right? His mind was rushing, rationalizing what he had already decided to do, trying to make it feel less dirty, less like he had a choice and more like it was just survival. Survival was okay, wasn't it? It didn't mean he was … changing or … breaking or- … Being good, being eager, just meant survival. Nothing wrong with that.
"I can … do something else for you … if you want … sir." He consciously contained the shudder that threatened to shake his voice and his shoulders, because he couldn't believe that he was doing this but he didn't have a better answer to this fucked up question.
Sam quirked one eyebrow up. "Oh? Like what, whore? You already blew me and rode me, what else do I need?"
"I dunno, sir. … I just- … Whatever you want, okay?" Dean let his hand brush up Sam's body until he could cradle half of Sam's face, his thumb brushing over Sam's lips, a mirror of what Sam had done to him earlier. He shivered with the memory of Sam's power on his skin, then again when he recalled the strength of the whip inching its way to fifty strokes, and his words came out as a desperately rough whisper that he hardly recognized as his own. "Just tell me … and I'll do it." He wanted to be done for the day, wanted to put away the fear and pain for a little while and just sleep.
Sam reached up, his hand sliding over Dean's but not moving it, and he blinked up at him, face framed by a half-smile and a shallowly creased forehead. "You're really starting to get this, aren't you?"
He didn't like it, but … yeah, maybe he was. "Yes, sir."
Sam nodded, seeming pensive but pleased. "I guess we can take these out then, huh?" He brought his hand up to pull at the remaining needles, sliding them out slowly and angling them to grind each point through tender tissue as it worked its way back towards the needle's entrance site.
Taking his time, Sam's gaze flicked back and forth between whichever needle he was tugging and Dean's expression. Dean tried to remain neutral and unfazed, willing to take more pain for his owner's pleasure, if that was required, but he couldn't stay completely quiet. Guttural noises cracked in the back of his throat as Sam twisted and dragged the needles out of their temporary holes, trickles of blood spilling, but Dean made sure that his pleas were locked away.
When all the needles were safely tossed into the box, the bloody threads thrown away, and the latest wounds were stinging and alcohol-cleansed, Sam let his hand settle into a soft stroking pattern up and down Dean's arm. "So … whatever I want, huh?"
Sam's expression revealed nothing, his face a placid lake that could be hiding anything beneath the surface, but Dean could feel his own chest jerk with the sudden breathe-stop-breathe rhythm of his anxious lungs. He let his eyelids do a slow blink for a moment as he willed himself to do this. Anything he didn't agree to give, Sam would take if he wanted it anyway, right? And he'd be punished if he resisted, so- … Just be good.
He nodded, nervous but unwavering. "I mean … I won't hurt anybody and I don't- …" He caught himself before he made a list of conditions and limits that would likely only be turned into a list of things to do. "But … yeah."
"That doesn't stop when the night is over, though, Dean. You're not promising to go above and beyond the call of duty here. 'Whatever I want' is exactly what you're supposed to give me … always and everywhere. You understand that, right?"
Dean nodded again, or maybe he'd never stopped, just like this would never stop. Not, at least, until he'd figured out how to fix things … if he could. The air still puffed out of him quicker than it should, but he was a fast learner. Be good. "Yes, sir."
"I want to hear you say it in full, so you can hear it from your own mouth."
His stomach seemed to jump and his head dropped even further, his eyelids slipping down, half-closed, as his eyes found Sam's abs, jaggedly streaked with pink from brushes with eager needles. Angry but nearly defeated, he said what he thought Sam was looking for, forcing his mouth to form words that felt like needles, prickling as they climbed their way out of his throat. "Me being … good … and giving you whatever you want … isn't just for tonight. This is … how I should be … what I should do … all the time … … … sir."
The 'sir' came after a pause and with more of a struggle than before because it hurt, fuck, it hurt to say it all out loud like that, to make his mind think about this being the way he lived his life from here on out - violence without the right to defend himself, his body on display for anyone who cared to look, a status that meant the last of his family saw him only as an object for play and pain and service. It was true right then, though, all of it, and it didn't seem like he'd be able to make it untrue anytime soon … if ever.
"Exactly."
He wasn't sure if his own continued nodding was actually a response to anything or if it was just his body's way of trying to reinforce a difficult truth.
"So … I want you to take the rest of this mousse and put it back on the table. Then, I want you to close this box and take it to the guards. Tell them it has used needles inside and should be taken to the healing station downstairs for disposal."
Dean acknowledged the instructions with a shift of his head, but he paused just before moving to tend to his tasks, pronouncing the words slowly, unsure of their meaning. "Healing station?"
"Yeah."
"Like a machine or something?" An electronic booth came to mind, like an arcade game but with a menu full of treatments instead of race cars or martial artists to pit against the computer.
Sam chuckled a little, shaking his head. "No."
"Like a … depot for miracle cures?" It might have bottles worth of concoctions for those more mortal than others.
Sam's chuckle became a full laugh with an accompanying boyish grin and it almost made the room fall away for Dean, his heart stumbling. "No … and you're not going to figure it out."
"A … hot nurse lounge, maybe?" He was really thinking of an in-house doctor's office, but this worked even better. The joke didn't come as easily as it once would've, but his lips tilted up some, hopeful despite himself. There was something healing in the way Sam smiled and laughed when it was about things that were just funny and not hurtful or humiliating.
Sam laughed in earnest this time, but offered no real response to the question.
Dean found his eyebrows crinkling with curiosity, quietly glad to be caught up in a much less serious sort of game. "Well what is it?"
"Can't tell you." There was mischief in Sam's eyes like he'd hidden away a present for later.
"Why not?"
Sam's laughter faded slowly, but the essence of a smile remained. "Until you get a handle on what you are here and what that means, it's better if you know as little as possible, okay? I don't want you to feel tempted to do anything stupid."
"Stupid like what?"
"Stupid like Hunter shit, Dean. You're not one, but the more information you have, the more likely it is that you'll store it away and try to do something stupid with it."
Dean leaned in a little closer, peering curiously at Sam until Sam's smile was twice as wide. There was something tender in his eyes, something peeking out from the shadow of darkness there.
"What are you looking at?"
"You." Dean let out a huff of near disbelief. "It's almost like you're … protecting me … from something." He looked harder, something in him almost frantic as he tried to decipher what it was that he was seeing, what it meant. "Sam?"
"You know who I am." Sam's smile stayed, but everything in his eyes was swallowed up under green glass, as if they had never revealed either care or violence. Then he sniffed the air and made a face of disgust. "Now, get the fuck off me, whore, and do what I told you to do."
Dean just quirked his head to the side, bold. That was not a phrase of denial; it was one of evasion. "Why don't you just tell me what I'm not supposed to do and I won't do it … Sam." He added verbal weight to his brother's name because maybe- … maybe 'sir' didn't fit there, but … he knew that didn't make any sense.
"A) I've already told you, repeatedly, you just never really listen. And B) if I told you any more explicitly than I already have, then you'd just chew on it until you did it anyway. You always think you know everything, Dean … even when you don't know jack shit." There was a suggestive lift to Sam's eyebrows and Dean lowered his own, trying to read between the lines and wondering for the first time if they were under surveillance.
If his brother was trying to protect him, all Sam had to do was say the word or give a sign or something and he'd behave as much as he had to while they planned their next move. He could playact until they could put up a good fight. He just needed to know that was the plan, that he wasn't losing his mind and seeing a brother who wasn't in there anymore, that the structure of their new relationship wasn't real and didn't mean anything. "What do you mean, though? 'Hunter shit' like … trying to escape or something?"
In a flash, Sam's face was contorted horribly, heat snapping around Dean's body like a six foot lock, as a hand gripped his jaw hard enough to bruise the bone. "There is no escape. You're with me or you're dead. And the choice between those two options will never be up to you. I repeat … No … Escape. … You're with me or you're dead. Period. … Even if I let your body live to serve someone else, your mind would be broken and drugged beyond recognition until Dean Winchester isn't in there anymore. Do you understand, whore?"
Dean's head was dizzy with the feel of Sam's power on his skin and inside him, and his heart felt ready to burst from its overzealous pumping, but he slurred out the words as best he could without moving his jaw. "Yesssir."
"I don't ever want to hear that word come out of your mouth again, whore. Not. Ever. … And I want you to work real hard to think about something reasonable and worthwhile whenever that word comes into your mind, okay? … Think about being a communal whore instead of just mine. I believe the average fuck rate for communals is 2-4 an hour. That's like thirty-forty fucks a day, whore. Would you like that? … Or think about being a pure painslut with no sex at all, just the hurt, the blood, the screams, because it got your new owner off just that much. … Or, even, think about being so deep in the drug that you kill in order to get permission to come, that you show the blood on your hands in order to touch yourself. … You thinking about it?!"
Sam's voice was like a physical force, slamming into Dean like a wrestler intent on a take-down, and Dean was trembling now, his mouth unable to form any words because his brain was concocting too many brutal images.
"You have it easy, whore. So stop acting like your A+plus life deserves a C-minus. I'm awfully good to you, better than I have to be, and I hope you never have to see the other side, but it's only half a misstep away. … This … is not … a game. …. I do what I have to, for me, but I own you and I intend to own you always. So, what's good for me, is good for you. Period. Even if it makes no sense to you and even if it hurts so bad you think you're going to die. What's good for me, will, in the end, always be good for you. Do you understand?"
"Yesssir."
"Good."
When Sam let go of him, it felt more like a throw than a simple release, but Dean made sure to return to where he had been sitting, a mess sloshing quietly between his thighs and over Sam's groin. His breathing was rapid, but he kept his head down and didn't speak, hoping that he hadn't earned himself new punishment after only just finishing the last one. For a minute, he'd thought maybe- …
"I believe I gave you orders, whore. Get to them."
Whatever he thought he saw didn't matter now or … if it did, he didn't know what to do with it. He just nodded and climbed off of Sam and off the bed, reaching for the mousse.
Sam latched onto Dean's arm as it withdrew with the dessert bowl. "And grab me a towel while you're up."
Dean looked at the hand on his arm, wondering who it really belonged to, but his brief glance to his brother's eyes told him nothing. "Yes, sir."
He took the mousse to the table and brought Sam a towel when he went back to get the biohazard box. Then he went to the door and handed the box off to a tall female guard with her straight black hair pulled into a severe ponytail, the proper instructions leaving his mouth in a thankful rush when he realized that Rick was nowhere in sight. He kept his eyes down as much as he could while he spoke to the woman, however, remembering how seriously Sam took the respect issue and refusing to hurt more for fighting something so simple. Fighting wasn't really on his mind much anyway, not with Sam waiting for him, no doubt thinking about his earlier infraction. It felt like almost everyone deserved more respect than he did now, even if some part of him knew that wasn't really true.
When he came back to stand by the bed, Sam had his arms folded up under the back of his head, but his eyes were wide open, watching him. Dean stood for a moment, unsure of what to say but not quite ready to return to the bed yet. "Before we- … umm … Could I- …" He wavered, gaze dropping as he wondered if this was too much to ask, but he could feel the mixture of slick and jizz inside, slipping out to make his thighs sticky and his brain was buzzing with a dozen half-finished thoughts.
"Sure. Go ahead."
Dean nodded swiftly, respectfully, maybe even gratefully, and headed to the bathroom to try to wash away the smell of sex and the feeling of confusion.
* * *
Even alone in the bathroom, the door shut behind him, it took Dean a moment to lift his head, as if he'd look and there would be other eyes in the room. When his tension finally eased somewhat, he went to the second sink to clean himself up, his body tender enough to make his breath hitch. He looked over his wounds, noting that his back was a map of bruises, the lighter newer ones overlapping with the older darker ones. The marks left by the needles were barely noticeable, though, thin raised strips of pink and white with darker dots at each end that would probably be splotched with tiny bruises the next day and he pulled his posture up straighter as he studied himself.
"Hmm." He made a noise in the back of his throat as he turned to look at the seemingly minor damage from another angle. 'Not half bad' was the phrase that came to his mind. He paused, though, as his fingers traced one needle's path and he double-blinked, looking up to catch the reflection of his own eyes as if seeing himself for the first time.
He was preening, checking himself out in the mirror like a teenage him used to do after a weightlifting session, sure that he had an inch more muscle to show off. How did that fit here, though? Being Sam's plaything didn't earn him cool points. This wasn't about pride. Or … was it? Were these so different from battle scars? He'd handled the sharp shove of twenty-five needles into and out of his body as well as all the thread-yanking that had intensified the experience nearly to the point of tears and … he'd made it through, won the game, been … good.
He refocused his attention, not wanting to go there, and continued his survey in the most clinical way he could manage. As he poked gingerly at one nipple, then the other, however, his fingers stirred up sensations. On the one hand, he was glad because it meant that they weren't broken, despite being doubly skewered, but, on the other hand, the twinge of complex sensations reminded him of Sam's fingers and Sam's breath as he tucked words of ownership into Dean's ear alongside the sound of pained groans.
"You're fucked up."
The words came with a snicker after a long moment of glaring at himself, his mouth shaping into a bitter smile as he cut himself down for responding to bits of what passed for pleasure in this far too twisted situation. There shouldn't be anything here that aroused him enough to come, but, at the same time, it seemed to almost be a self-inflicted punishment to be upset that he could partake in whatever release Sam allowed.
Allowed?
His eyebrows rose in surprise at the invasiveness of Sam's way of thinking and he tipped his head off to the side, trying to slow his thoughts to a pace where they could do more than just grow and die in some Sam-built box. He could see how Sam was molding him, confusing his notions of what 'good' and 'bad' meant, what should please or worry him. Yet, the sensibility of it all was right there, laid out so clearly, even if it only made sense because Sam was the sole creator and controller of the laws and norms in this little world. If Dean was beginning to respond within the boundaries and preferences of this system without direction or necessity, then … he really needed to step back.
He checked the door, wondering how long it had been but not letting himself be anxious about it. He needed this time, even if he had to steal it, because his mind would be the hardest thing to rebuild if- … when- … this ended. The door was only as securely fashioned as it could ever be with Sam somewhere on the other side, but Dean didn't feel the same level of unease as he had the day before. This wasn't hiding - he just needed to get his head straight - and in his brother's rage and just before, Sam had all but said that, from his perspective, he was playing nice. So, while that understanding might be seriously misguided, it did seem to imply that he at least wanted to play nice, not to mention all the careful cleaning, the lack of serious permanent damage, and the reoccurring, though unpredictable, moments when Sam just seemed … different.
Or … something like that.
If he was right, then Sam was protecting him from something, maybe as much as he could … everything but himself … which could make sense in a world this fucked up, couldn't it? Even a warped system of protection would say something about the good still in Sam, wouldn't it? That he even cared that much? Even if his notions of love had morphed into notions of ownership and sex had been twisted up with violence. Maybe he should try to meet Sam on his own terms more, try to not dismiss Sam's efforts so quickly, efforts that maybe weren't 'good' but could be far worse.
The ease of his last thought made him pause and he studied his own eyes in the mirror, wondering why something in them seemed so resigned, so calm about all this. Sam could throw horrors in his face and he'd shake and struggle, but … were those the same eyes he'd seen staring back at him only a day before? How could the nudging in the back of his mind pull him down from silent shouts of rage and despair to thinking maybe whatever this was wasn't so bad? Or maybe it really was that bad, but he just knew there wasn't anything more he could do.
It felt like it had been ages since Sam had all but dragged him from this bathroom and- … A muscle in his neck twitched as his mind ran into the unknown ahead of him. It had only been a week since he'd been free, right? He should still be fighting with all teeth bared, not just resisting for the two heartbeats it took Sam to raise his hand. He should- … He shook his head because a handful of days shouldn't be long enough to turn his mind against him like this, but it was hard to look the other way when the logic of reward and punishment was being written on his body every waking moment and- …
Dean froze as the door swung open and Sam strode past him to take a leak without a word, the splash of streaming piss seeming loud when no attempt at communication or eye contact had been made. When Sam shook off and moved to wash his hands, though, Dean immediately dropped his eyes, head nudging its way downward as the solitary sound of running water and soap-squeaky skin made his heartbeat race. If he could have, he would've become a statue right then, unmoving and unnoticed.
Sam began calmly as he shut the water off and reached for a hand towel, speaking in slow, even tones that were filled with something formal and restrained. "You know … excluding some moments of confusion on your part, you've been fairly obedient and respectful today, which is how you won our little game. … You've made progress."
But …
"But … that's not a get out of jail free card and- …" Sam seemed to bite his own breath, his patience slipping as the temperature began to rise. "What is it about this bathroom, Dean?! You think this is some little sanctuary? That I own you any less in here? Did I not prove my reach enough earlier or- …" He stopped himself with a frustrated sigh.
Dean swallowed, listening, but losing his concentration at points as his violently imaginative mind tried not to determine just how he might have to pay for this.
Sam shifted as he finally released the towel, but he made no move to approach Dean or even to turn away from the mirror. The silence seemed like an off-duty anvil on Dean's shoulders, heavy but cooling as Sam took in several long breaths before speaking calmly again. "I guess I'm just concerned that if you wait until I'm especially angry, then- … Well, I trust you to not repeat the same mistake twice. I really don't like having to repeat myself or strain myself in any way that's not for work or fun, particularly when I've been generous and, say, granted a request for personal time. … You see why that would bother me, don't you, Dean?"
He could hear the disappointment as much as the anger and it twisted up with memories of a rougher voice barking out his faults. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
Sam closed the door softly as he exited, but the sound echoed around Dean anyway. Whatever nagging concerns he had about his mind's rapid adaptation would have to wait. He had to show his owner that he could be appreciative of a situation that could be worse or it might very well become one that couldn't.
* * *
When Dean finally walked out of the bathroom, he was steeled to really try to be good, to help Sam see that he could appreciate the relatively kind little things he did. Sam was lying on his side on the bed, having put up the rumpled clothes and the rest of the supplies, and he patted the space beside him with a nod in Dean's direction. "Come lay down."
Dean went, his brother seeming calm enough as he stretched out next to him, allowing himself to be petted, shoulder to thigh.
"I'm going to let you come again, but I want it to be a lesson too."
"Okay …"
Sam wasn't looking at him, not into his eyes at least. He was following the path of his fingers, over Dean's arm, to the elbow, to the wrist, to the line of his leg, and back up again. Dean struggled not to shake, slowly beginning to feel the darkness huddled just under Sam's calm like the first morning Sam had trained him. Suck my cock. Only your mouth. On your back. Good boy.
Sam's hand cupped his cock, then wrapped around it, slowly stroking. It was all the same, though, wasn't it? Dean kept looking for Sam's eyes, but Sam was watching the hand moving over the gradually hardening flesh of Dean's dick. Knees spread. Make yourself come. Lick it up. Good boy.
Dean let his eyes fall closed, knowing that he would get no more from Sam than his brother intended him to have. He didn't know what the lesson was, but somehow it involved him coming and- … He was tempted to say that was a good thing, but he hadn't wholly forgotten his previous lessons. Tell the truth. Beg for it. Take the pain. Good boy.
Sam's fist sped and Dean found himself leaning closer to his brother, feeling his breath rebound off Sam's body as he inched towards orgasm. He tried not to think about where this was going, tried to focus on the rapid thud of his own pulse, while he fucked through the tight ring of Sam's fingers.
The pain hit him like an invisible train on a track that he didn't remember crossing.
There was a living column of heat in him, flexing and pressing itself out against his muscles, pressing them out against his skin. His organs were churning, confused as to why it was suddenly twice as hot as any human fever ever should be. He might have yelled if his throat didn't feel like he'd been eating fire for hours, so he could only release a creaky groan. He needed cool water, packs of ice. He needed a belt to hold his insides from spilling out through skin that seemed on its way to melting. The pain peaked, though, and began to dip slowly, allowing him to breathe again, despite the hurt. Sweat streamed down his face and his mouth fell open as he looked up at Sam in disbelief. "Sam?"
Sam's eyes were finally in view, but they were empty of good and brimming with malice. "What did I tell you about trying to get me to stop doing things that please me, whore?"
Dean dropped his eyes, struggling to keep his mouth shut as he coped with the ache of extreme overheating and muscle strain.
"I want you to come."
He could still feel the steady slide of Sam's hand through the pain and Sam was working to keep him hard, to keep him wanting something, needing something, but the bulk of the pleasure was drowned out, like a whisper beside a cranked up stereo. He'd never get there like this. "I- … It hurts … too much. … Please- …"
Sam squeezed on his dick harshly and he whimpered, the pain radiating up, amplifying the strain on the bits of him held by Sam's power. "You will come tonight, whore. Just like this. It's hardly that much pain and your body needs to learn to give me what I want whether it's hurting or not." The up and down glide of Sam's fingers over his cock started again, faster this time. "Focus on the feel of my hand."
Dean didn't verbalize his pleas this time, but he implored Sam for some kind of mercy with his eyes.
Sam's smirk was hard before he leaned closer, pressing his lips to Dean's ear. "If you can't get off like this tonight, then you won't get off at all tomorrow. You'll just feel this, for hours, while I fuck you slow enough to drive you mad. So … try, at least … before your inner masochist signs you up for more than you can handle."
"Yes, sir." Dean ground his teeth together, but eventually he closed his eyes with a shudder and tried to focus on the feel of Sam's hand on him.
He found his way mentally down into his body, to the cock that was straining to be closer to its tormentor, and he could feel the need there, the way the pleasure rapped against the door of his system like it could just wade through the sea of pain … and maybe it could. He stopped struggling, stopped trying to shove the pain down and just let it all wash over and through him until he couldn't tell if the wet on his skin was sweat or tears.
His inner door flung open.
Riding the sensations that were sparking up from his cock, his endorphins kicked in hard, a rush to the back of his head like it was attached to a balloon and beginning to float up and away. The pain seemed more distant now and the sweet throb sliding up from his cock sent his heart and lungs into overdrive as his body fought with itself over the dominance of pleasure or pain. In moments, he was overwhelmed, a sweep of ecstasy rolling through him with the pain only upping the ante, making the pleasure twice as intense, and he gasped and groaned into Sam's shoulder as he flooded the sheets between them with his come.
"Fuck." He moaned against Sam's skin with utter exhaustion, his body feeling like he'd just had his very first orgasm and it might take a few days to refuel.
The heat inside and around him died down as Sam pulled his power back into himself and Dean tried to convince his lungs that it was safe to breathe now. Then Sam wiped his hand clean on Dean's thigh and reached around Dean's back as he shifted backwards, dragging him closer and into the wet spot like his natural place was soaking up filth.
Dean could feel the slick of his pleasure-turned-shame under him and tried not to let it destroy the heady aftershocks. He told himself that it didn't matter how dirty he felt, how insignificant and used. He'd made it, hadn't he? And it had felt good for a minute, right? Really, really good.
"You know you didn't beg to come, right, whore?" Sam's voice, spoken over his hair, wasn't angry, but it wasn't kind either, and Dean shifted, suddenly far more nervous than blissful.
"I- … You said you … wanted me to come."
Sam half-nodded with a 'hmm'. "I did. But that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not you have to beg for it. You know that you're supposed to beg for anything important, especially anything sexual. We went through that yesterday and you showed me that you knew that a number of times today. Remember?"
"I know, but- …"
"No buts, whore. …You came without permission. What did I say was the punishment for that offense?"
Dean stilled, instantly tense from head to foot.
"Dean … what is the punishment for coming without permission?"
His top teeth rolled over the bottom ones, gritty, but they disconnected for a moment to let the words inch out, drenched in disbelief and dread. "You said you'd … take a whip … to my dick."
"And I will." Sam's voice was so smooth and deep that if Dean hadn't known the topic, he would have shuddered with want instead of with fear. "Not tomorrow, though, and not for a little while yet. There's no fear of permanent damage here, but I'm still going to work you up to it. For now, I'll just add twenty-five more strokes to your general whipping tab."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He felt like his voice had drifted away, evaporating into the air with his sweat and the last of his bliss.
"Dean … ?"
He swallowed hard, his voice shaking its way out of him, half bottled anger, half fevered fear. "Yes … sir."
"And no sleeping in tomorrow. You took up way too much of my time this morning and you've got seventy-five lashes coming. Not to mention that I'll probably want a blowjob in the shower. … So, you can nap when I leave for work … after you do some exercises and get the guards to put your chains up."
Of course. Seventy-five lashes. Blowjob in the shower. Exercise. Chains. Nap. Right. Right. Of course.
Dean could feel the pieces of his heart start to crack and separate, but he yanked and shoved them back together, a little worse for wear, a little chipped, but mostly there. Under the necessary obedience, the bowed head and averted eyes, under all of that, he was still mostly there. He hoped so, at least, but it was getting harder to tell.
"Did you hear me, whore?"
He nodded into Sam's shoulder, the words falling out, almost too easy. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Sam exhaled slowly and shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position, one arm continuing to keep Dean close as the other stretched out. "You did okay today. It's still not good enough, but maybe April isn't impossible. We'll just … work our way up from the little stuff, okay?"
There was no option of 'not okay', even though that would have been truer, so Dean whispered "okay" anyway.
"Go ahead and sleep, then."
Dean nodded again, closing his eyes, and he tried to settle into the circle of Sam's arms. Things were different now, though. He could feel it, even if he couldn't quite name why. It didn't comfort him as much to be in Sam's arms like this, like it had even just the day before. No matter how many times he thought he saw … something … in his brother, every minute in this world made it feel like the distance between him and his Sam was growing, widening, and every time that he thought he might be building a bridge to him, it collapsed under his feet.
Moments of kindness or pleasure or what might have once been laughter might not be revelations here, no more than moments of cruelty, moments of pain. Maybe it wasn't a hopeful conclusion to come to, but everything could just be a whim, some twisted up want or need of this Sam and either this Sam didn't care much about him at all or everything was so twisted up until it all came out wrong, which Dean wasn't sure was really better. What did he have to go on? A trick of light in Sam's eyes? A gentle touch from a hand that so easily crushed bruises into him? How did that mean anything?
They weren't the Brothers Winchester anymore, or at least those roles weren't the most important here. They were master and slave, owner and whore, and little more than that. Whether that was the whole story or not didn't change that he had to keep those roles at the forefront of his mind so he could behave in a way that would ensure his survival and keep him clean and well enough to fight when the time came … if such a time ever came. But, saying all that, out loud or in his head, just reminded him that his Sam was … gone ... and he still didn't know how to get him back.
It made him want to tear into something, to pound something big into tiny pieces, but there was nothing he could rage at, not really. The object he felt most compelled to destroy was the body that was supposed to house his brother, even though it didn't seem to do that anymore, and since there was nothing else in his space, the next items on the list were his own body and his own mind. They were steadily betraying him, steadily learning to be good, both too fast and not fast enough. His fingers curled into tense fists, but it didn't matter. They were useless, trapped between two bodies and two opposing sets of ideals. To the victor, the Commander, went the spoils, every day and every night, until Dean could press his eyelids down a little tighter and return to a world that he remembered, a world where being 'good' didn't hurt and where the rewards for his work were always Sammy and dreams of Sammy.
One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven
Further Author's Notes: As always, you're welcome to ask any questions about the story, the 'verse, or the kinks mentioned here. In particular, I'm guessing that the vast majority of you are new to needle play, so if you'd like to brave the world of RL visuals (NSFW!), Google would require you to sift through lots of crap, so here you go: you can find some nice (only a little bloody) art shots here and a serious close-up over here. Too, if you've seen needle play elsewhere in fanfic (in any fandom), I would love to know where. Thanks!