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Sam is hiding in his room. Hiding from whatever Dean, who less than an hour ago told Sam that this is a dictatorship, is turning into.

He didn't lock his door, but he should have.

Lying on his bed, he looks up when Dean comes in and closes the door. There's already a sinking feeling in his gut. This conversation can't possibly end well; Dean's expression is somewhere between blank and raging.

"Dean?" Sam sits up, waiting for a response.

"I told you that we are not a team. I'm in charge here, Sam. You need to do what I say, when I say."

"I got that loud and clear."

"Did you? I'm not sure you did." Dean takes a few steps closer to the bed and Sam tenses. There's some dangerous hint in Dean's voice that Sam has never heard before.

He gets off his bed, on the side farther from Dean.

"Until we beat Metatron, I'm going to follow your lead," he promises.

"That's not good enough, Sam."

Sam starts moving closer to the door, keeping it casual like he just happened to decide to go somewhere—kitchen, maybe.

"Then what's 'good enough'?"

The Mark of Cain has made Dean much stronger and faster than he ought to be. He has no trouble knocking Sam's head against the wall, hard, and getting him in a chokehold. By the time Sam's head recovers from the wall, the lack of air has him subdued. He's about to lose consciousness when Dean relaxes his grip enough to give him half a breath.

"You're going to know that I'm the one with the power here." He pushes Sam onto the bed face-down.

Between desperate gasps of new-found air, Sam hears what sounds like handcuffs. A second later, his wrists are grabbed and encased in metal behind him.

"What the hell are you doing? This isn't funny," he coughs as Dean gets on the bed. He tries to turn his head which only results in an arm wrapped around his neck and Dean's weight on him.

"Making sure you know your place." Dean lets go and the pressure on Sam's body is gone but he's still above Sam, knees on either side of him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sam asks again, fear turning his veins to ice. There's no way this is what it seems like. That's ridiculous. Dean would never do something like that.

He doesn't get the dignity of a response other than Dean reaching under him to undo his belt and jeans. Dean is really doing this. He's really going to make Sam his bitch.

"Dean, stop." He starts struggling which is ultimately useless. Sam's protests are muffled when his face is shoved into the mattress: "Don't do this, Dean. Stop. No! Dean, stop!"

"This is exactly what I was talking about, Sam," Dean growls as he pulls Sam's pants and underwear down in one harsh jerk, exposing his ass. "Shut up and take it like a good bitch."

What's the alternative, Dean killing him? Is he that far off the reservation? Sam might be prepared to die, but not just to get out of this. If he's not there to fix Dean, who will be?

He shuts his eyes tight when he hears Dean unbuckling his own belt. This is going to hurt, but it won't be as bad as Hell. Probably. Dean was never the one hurting him in Hell.

When he feels Dean pressing against him, he loses resolve. This can't be happening.

"Dean, you're about to rape your little brother," he says, voice shaking. "Don't do this. Please don't do this."

"Nuh-uh, you don't get to play that card now. You don't want to be brothers."

Sam can't speak because Dean is pushing inside him and it hurts just as much as he was afraid it would. On every level.

"I want to be brothers," he pleads when he's capable of coherency again. He cries out in pain again when Dean drives himself in farther. Sam grunts out, "Look into my eyes and tell me I don't." He twists his neck, trying to meet Dean's eyes, but a hand tangles in his hair and yanks back.

Dean pulls almost all the way out and then shoves in. Then he does it again. And again.

"Dean, stop!"

There's no acknowledgement or pause of any kind.

"I'm begging, Dean! Stop! Don't do this!"

The pleas deteriorate into whispers as they go ignored. Sam's not a person anymore, not to Dean.

He rests his head on the mattress, limp, stares at the wall as Dean fucks into him with animalistic grunts. The side of his face chafes against the sheet with every thrust. There's stinging, biting, tearing pain; the growing sensation of dampness must be blood. Dean's fingers digging into his hips are going to leave bruises. There's a vague awareness of himself starting to get hard from the friction.

If Sam is unworthy of Dean's attention, who will Dean listen to?

"Castiel! Help!" he shouts, hoping the angel will hear him either literally or spiritually. He came back with Sam and Dean to the bunker but who knows if he's even still here.

"Don't think Cas has his ears on anymore. Now shut up," Dean tells him in a rough staccato, not even slowing down.

In fact, Dean is increasing speed. He'll be done soon. Sam repeats it in his head—this will end and Dean will go away.

Correction: the person doing this to him will go away. Dean isn't here. He's already gone, buried under whatever the Mark of Cain is doing. It's like he's possessed. In fact that seems likely even if his tattoo was intact last Sam knew. He almost starts to say an exorcism before the premonition sinks in. He'll say the words and they'll have no effect on Dean because he isn't possessed. Sam will live with the knowledge that his brother did this.

If he doesn't say it, maybe this isn't Dean; Sam can cling to that.

If this isn't Dean and Sam lets it keep hurting him, his brother will have this horrible memory whenever the demon does leave.

The thrusting stops before Sam can force himself to start saying the words. Dean pulls out for the last time and comes on Sam's ass. There's a tiny whimper of relief from Sam when the heat lands on his skin. He can tell himself it wasn't Dean and never have to know for sure. He closes his eyes. It's over now.

But then it's not.

"Roll over."

Sam can't, at first. He's trembling, nauseated, aching. He can't break the surface of the dread and terror he's drowning in.

"I told you to roll over!"

Sam grits his teeth as he turns over onto his back.

"Look at me."

Sam opens his eyes and looks up at Dean. He's tucking himself back into his pants. The palm and fingers of his right hand have fresh rusty smears of blood. Sam stares at Dean's face last. There's no trace of his big brother left; all he can see is danger and domination.

"I'm going to uncuff you and you will make yourself come." He's not done with the power play then. "Don't try anything," he says as he reaches under Sam to where his hands and the metal are digging into his back. "I can put these back on if I have to."

The sooner he does it the sooner it will be over. Sam palms himself as the second the cuffs are off. It doesn't feel good in the least, especially with Dean over him.

"Keep your eyes on my face."

Sam obeys. It makes the job more difficult. He can't fucking do this looking at Dean, Dean looking at him. He has to try the exorcism, just in case his brother is watching it all happen and begging this demon to stop.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus... spiritus..." he begins, faltering as he sees it's having no effect. Just like he knew would happen.

"It's all me in here."

Sam blinks tears away, the first to make an appearance.

Far too many minutes later, he is nowhere near coming and losing hope he ever will. It's worse than Dean fucking him, hurting him—that had the promise of completion. This could be the beginning of eternity, lying there underneath Dean, whose stare is having the same effect as a cold shower. There's nothing but Dean's face and Sam's ass burning and his dick that's struggling to stay hard.

"Dean, I can't," Sam says. Let Dean taunt and tease him about not being able to keep it up. Just as long as he leaves so Sam can stew alone in his despair and fear and sense of nonexistence.

"You got hard. You're going to come. Keep going," Dean orders.

More minutes pass and somehow Dean has the patience to gaze at Sam's face all this time. Maybe because he's triumphing in having made it Sam's responsibility to get this over with.

Even more time passes and at last there's some promise of orgasm, which Dean somehow detects.

"Say my name."

"Dean," Sam gasps out immediately.

"Say it again."










"Say it again!"

"Dean... Dean... Dean... dean... dean... dean..." Sam repeats. It's easier to just say it until the sound loses meaning, erasing the fact that he is saying his brother's name as he jerks off. He's almost there.

"When you come, you yell my name." At the edge of Sam's vision, Dean's right arm is moving.

There's no way to acknowledge that other than to keep repeating the syllable.

It's like vomiting his favorite food when Sam climaxes, shouting "Dean!" at the top of his lungs just as he was told. As his breathing returns to normal, tears begin to heat his eyes again. Dean is just there. There is nothing in the world but the all-powerful Dean.

"You took too long. Do you want to suck me off?"

"I will if you want me to," is the meek answer.

Dean regards Sam for a couple seconds, all emotion absent, and without another word he begins stroking himself. He closes his eyes, actually pleasuring himself, and soon he comes, leaving streaks of white on Sam's shirt. Then he's gone, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Sam lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, a couple tears on his face and many more refusing to leave his eyes, pants still shoved down to his knees, come on his shirt and skin, ass raw and sore and sticky with blood.

What is he supposed to do now, that's the question. Sleep? Put his sheets in the laundry? Take a shower? He's lost; he'd do the first thing anybody suggested. Hell, if Dean came back long enough to tell him what to do next, Sam would be grateful. He'd obey him without a thought.

Which was Dean's endgame all along.