“Cheers,” Dean says with about as much enthusiasm as a wet sock. He lifts the shot glass only marginally in Sam’s direction before tossing it back and tapping the bartop for another. He downs two more in quick succession before Sam puts a hand on his thigh in warning.
“Slow down,” he says under his breath.
For a moment Dean looks hopefully at him, like maybe Sam’s been faking the whole soulless thing or something and actually he really does care. Sam rolls his eyes. He’s more worried about how Dean’s on track to ruining a good night out for Sam.
Disappointment is palpable when Dean turns away from him, but Sam keeps a hand on his thigh anyway, and squeezes hard until Dean changes his next order from a shot to a beer.
A year ago his behaviour would have worried Sam, but now it just irks him. He wants to celebrate their successful hunt, not get stuck babysitting a drunk Dean. He spins on the stool to survey the bar, hoping there’s someone more interesting nearby to distract himself with. If Dean’s so set on ruining the night, the least he can do is not ruin Sam’s.
There’s a little blonde thing over by the jukebox, all cowboy-boots-cowboy-hat-cowboy-grin. She fits right in with the bar’s aesthetic, which seems to be hanging somewhere between western hock and gay pride. Somehow, Dean hasn’t noticed, or at least he hasn’t complained. Sam’s own unfiltered sensibilities would’ve been starkly offended by all the accoutrements on the walls—hats, boots, spurs, belt buckles, ropes, whips, tack, giant bull horns, even a battered old tin coffee pot—if not for the presence of so many actual working cowboys blowing their paychecks at the surrounding tables.
There’s an enormous man leaning against the wall near the exit, and Sam sizes him up automatically, though he seems more intent on staring at Dean than anything else. Slowly, the man pulls a phone from his back pocket and begins to text. On second thought, the way he’s holding his phone toward Dean, maybe he’s just sneaking pictures instead.
Rude. Sam should charge him for that.
By the windows, a group of kids loudly egg their friend onto the mechanical bull. Either fake IDs are more common now or 21 is younger than Sam remembers, because not a single one of them looks old enough to hold the drinks they’re clinging to. They’re all wearing cowboy hats like they’ve come to a dress-up party—but not a whole lot of anything else—and he smiles to himself and thinks, Easy pickings.
Except he didn’t come here tonight for twinks; if he’d wanted soft and willing he’d have gone for the blonde by the jukebox. No, tonight he wants… bigger prey.
Still, his damn brother seems to be catching all the attention—doesn’t even want it, what a fucking waste—so he figures he might have to settle. He’s about to sidle over and start a conversation with the twink-in-charge when the texter-slash-photo-sneaker sits on his other side, and without any introduction says, “How much for his mouth?”
From years of practice Sam almost slams the guy’s head into the bar on instinct, but his words make it to Sam’s brain a second later and he spins to look at him.
Dean’s absently peeling the label off his beer and smiling half-heartedly at the cowgirl by the jukebox, and he doesn’t appear to hear the enormous guy when he leans in to say, “How’s one hundred for your boy?” nodding meaningfully in Dean’s direction.
A hundred dollars? For a blowjob? He’s too impressed to be angry, or offended, or disgusted.
In fact, he’s downright intrigued. Could he…?
Fuck. Of course he could. Dean wouldn’t stand a chance. And it’s not like they don’t always need money; motel rooms and bar tabs and silver bullets aren’t exactly free.
Sam flashes a soulless smile (hah) and says, “He’s a biter.”
Dean’s still picking at his beer label. God, how could anyone so completely unaware of their surroundings have survived this job for so long?
Because he has me.
And Sam’s not free either.
“Come on,” he says, tugging at Dean’s elbow. Dean’s drunk enough to lean into the touch like he used to do before, but not quite drunk enough to follow without question.
“What?” he says. “I’m not done.”
“Sure,” Sam agrees, easy, leading Dean anyway. “Just gotta show you this real quick.” Behind him, the enormous guy gets to his feet and follows. Dean still hasn’t noticed. Sam sighs. “We’re going to have to talk about your situational awareness later,” he says, and while Dean’s still trying to decipher that one, Sam pushes him out the emergency exit into the alleyway out back. There’s a few guys having a smoke at one end, and they look up as Dean tumbles out, only barely held up by Sam’s grip on his arm.
“Hey,” Dean complains, straightening.
“He’s mouthy, ain’t he,” says the big guy, and Dean starts, finally noticing they’re not alone.
“Told you he’s a biter,” Sam says at the same time Dean demands, “Who’s Mr. Assless Chaps over here?”
Sam doesn’t answer. Pats Dean’s pockets, pulling out his switchblade and transferring it to his own pocket. Too late, Dean grabs for it back.
“Fellas,” another voice says, almost conversationally. Dean goes still, instinct to remain inconspicuous winning out over his instinct to remain armed. The smokers from the end of the alley are ambling over. One of them slaps the big guy on the back, and Sam frowns. If they’re all friends, he may have misjudged the situation.
“The photo didn’t do ‘im justice,” one of them says, and Sam recalibrates. There are four men here, besides Sam and Dean. Even with Dean drunk, they could take them, easy, but then, so could Dean. Well, maybe not easy—Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s never taken anyone like that before—but, details schmetails. Anyway, Dean’s had way worse and healed up just fine.
“You talkin’ ‘bout me?” Dean blusters, finally catching a damn clue.
Sam pats his shoulder and says, “Nah. They’ve got something I wanna show you. Just. Hang tight.”
Dean’s just drunk enough to trust him like he used to, and all his tense muscles relax beneath Sam’s hand. Which frees Sam’s brain up to do the math quick and dirty. Extra cash is good, but no matter which way he plays it he needs to know that the money’s going to be theirs at the end. And frankly, the more he thinks about dicks being shoved in his brother, the more he realizes just how annoyingly pretty the guy is: Big. Strong. Stupidly beautiful.
And how horny Sam’s getting.
So he needs to show these guys who’s boss, and getting some action at the same time seems like a win-win.
And who the fuck cares if they’re related? People with souls, maybe, but lucky for him he doesn’t have one.
So why not take care of two birds with one stone?
“Money first,” he says. “And then I’ll show you how to do it right.”
“What?” Dean says, all traces of alcohol—and trust—gone from his voice. He grabs Sam’s arm and Sam grabs him right back, throws a handcuff round his wrist and spins him into the wall to get the other side locked in as well. “What?” Dean says again, somehow more shocked than afraid. Sam keeps one hand on his shoulder, and when instinct kicks in and Dean launches away from the wall, Sam drops him with one foot in the back of a knee and a hand in his hair to keep him down.
“Damn it, Sam, get off me!” Dean shouts, but he’s got no leverage and he learns his lesson fast when Sam nearly slams his face into the brick wall, pulling his strike early enough to prevent a broken cheek but not so early that Dean doesn’t feel it.
“What the fuck, Sam?” But this time Dean’s not shouting, and he doesn’t struggle. He sounds… wounded. Confused. A poor stupid rabbit in a den of wolves.
Sam lets go of Dean’s shoulder and holds out his hand. “Trust me, you want his ass. Two-fifty a pop and worth every penny.”
“I’m not for sale, you sick fucks!” Dean shouts, but Sam just mashes his face back into the brick wall, and he takes the hint and shuts up again. Or at least realizes struggling is futile.
The big guy raises an eyebrow, but then reaches for his wallet. So do his friends. Seconds later, Sam’s got a fistful of crisp cash.
“He likes that, huh?”
“He does not like that!” Dean shouts and tries to rise, but Sam’s fist is still in his hair and he was screwed (heh) the second he let Sam push him into the alley anyway.
“Oh yeah,” Sam agrees. He shoves Dean’s head down and steps on the backs of his calves, drives him into the dirty pavement. “Likes to make you work for it.”
He pockets the cash. A thousand bucks. For what? An hour’s work? They’ve never made such easy money in their life.
From the back of Dean’s jeans he pulls out the other set of cuffs. Silver works as well on humans as it does on monsters, and this pair is upsized for the massive were they were hunting, so they’ll make for a perfect fit.
As soon as Dean feels the familiar clink going around one ankle he surges upward, animal instinct winning out. “Sam, don’t you fucking—”
Sam rides the wave of his fury easily, and as soon as he sees an opening he loops the silver chain through the chain connecting Dean’s wrists and draws the other end back down to close tight around Dean’s free ankle.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” someone says.
“I will kill you if you fucking touch me!” Dean snarls. “I’m not kidding, Sam, this isn’t funny! Get these the fuck off me or I swear to—”
Sam hates to do any real damage to such a pretty face, but he also needs Dean to shut the fuck up, so this time he slams the side of Dean’s head into the wall hard enough to stun him silent.
Dean wavers, blinks. There’s blood dripping from his eyebrow, but it’s nothing serious. Below it, though… is that… is that a tear leaking from his eye? Why is he crying? He loves sex, he loves money, he can’t help but love Sam, and whether or not he’s willing to admit it, he loves cowboys. He should be happy Sam’s taken charge and led him here. He tries to rise again, almost on autopilot, and Sam raps his head against the wall, gentler this time. Stay down.
“I can help with that,” the enormous guy says and hands Sam an honest to god lasso. Sam can’t help but laugh, because of all the bars they could have picked, they picked the kinky gay cowboy one.
“You owe me,” he stage whispers to Dean, and begins to loop the thick rope around him.
Dean’s given up struggling, but the glare he throws Sam could strip flesh from bones. “Oh, I owe you, all right,” he spits.
Sam keeps looping the rope. He’s doing it more for aesthetics than anything else, but he makes sure to knot it real tight under and around Dean’s arms. He takes the paperclip out of Dean’s hand while he’s there, surprised and a little proud that Dean’s still looking at ways to escape.
“Now, now, Dean,” he mock admonishes. He holds the paperclip up for his customers to see, then dramatically tosses it over his shoulder. “A biter and a houdini.”
One guy—as big as Assless Chaps Man, and halfway bald, so Sam generously decides to call him Receding Hairline—rubs at the bulge of his crotch and says, “Fuck, I love me a brat.”
Sam grins—pretty convincingly if he does say so himself—and holds out Dean’s switchblade. “Who wants to do the honors?”
“Yeah,” Dean drawls, all sarcasm and dripping fury. He doesn’t bother to struggle. Doesn’t have to to downright radiate danger, but Sam knows better—it’s all a bluff now. He’s stuck. Fucked. (Heh.) “Who wants to be the first one I fucking stab in the dick?”
Assless Chaps Man claims the privilege. He was, after all, the one to “find” Dean. “He like bloodplay?” ACM asks Sam.
“He’ll fucking play in your blood,” Dean promises as Sam says right over him, like he’s not even talking, “He likes everything, but we charge extra.” He passes the knife to ACM but doesn’t take his hand off it. Meets ACM’s eyes and holds his gaze, hard. “And I don’t want to be having to stitch him up later, you understand?”
ACM lets go of the knife just long enough to pull another hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet. “You’re the boss,” he agrees and trades the money for the knife.
Sam sees the first real sign of fear in the way Dean’s shoulders go still. “Sam,” he says low, quiet.
Sam pets through his hair and scratches at one temple, soothing, like he would if he were actually Dean’s dom and Dean were actually on board with this. Then he grabs as much of a fistful as he can and he shakes Dean’s head, just once. “Be good,” he warns, dragging Dean’s head backward so his neck arches all pretty and vulnerable, practically begging for a blade.
Or some teeth.
Excellent idea; he bends down and bites, lips pulled back for maximum show, tasting salt and pure raw rage. He clamps down until Dean breaks and makes a quiet little noise, then lets go, soothes the angry mark with his tongue. Dean tries to jerk back, but Sam grabs the other side of his neck and makes him take it, draws it out extra long just to make a point—to Dean and to the four men behind him.
Then he steps to the side and lets ACM take his place. For some reason, his eyes are glued to the stark tooth marks he just left on Dean’s neck, but when ACM starts cutting Dean’s shirt away, he finds his gaze wandering south.
His brother’s not as cut as he is, but he’s undeniably ripped, lean enough to appeal to Sam’s hunger for hardness, and so tense he’s practically vibrating. But he’s smart enough to hold still while that knife is working its way through his clothes.
It doesn’t save him, though. ACM forked over $100 for the right to draw Dean’s blood, and he wastes no time taking what he’s paid for. Dean snarls at the first nick, just once, a sound of anger rather than pain. Sam has no doubt it hurts, but he also has no doubt that Dean won’t let it show. Besides, he knows his brother well enough to know that Dean likes a little pain with his sex.
ACM thumbs over the little wound he’s just made, smearing the tiny droplet of blood over Dean’s left pec. Then he does the same to the cut on Dean’s eyebrow, squeezing flesh together to draw more blood out to drip down his cheek.
The guy breathes hard, and his hand trembles a little when he presses the blade to Dean’s sternum next. He goes a little too deep, which Sam thinks is an accident, and when he aims for Dean’s throat next Sam clears his own throat in warning. With some sort of self-preservation instinct, the guy refrains, instead touching the cuts he’s already made and then jamming his bloodied fingers in Dean’s mouth. He pulls out a second later, just as Dean’s jaw snaps closed, red-tinged teeth bared in outrage.
“Try that again,” Dean snarls, “I fucking dare you.” His own blood is smeared across his lips. The guy groans deep and palms himself with the hand already stained by Dean.
“Christ,” he says, “we need to move this along or I won’t be getting my money’s worth.” He makes a final cut down the side of Dean’s shirt, fast and sloppy enough to leave a long score in the flesh beneath, and then works the ruins of the cloth out from under all the ropes. Dean lurches and grunts as the clothes chafe wickedly beneath the tight ropes.
Fuck, his brother’s beautiful. Sam is hit with an undeniable surge of pride. That’s right. He’s mine.
The other men snigger and shift closer, leaning in like wolves with a scent. ACM spins the knife in his hand, a little inexpertly but with enough control that Sam doesn’t try to stop him from moving to Dean’s jeans next. The belt makes it out unscathed, and one of the other guys shoves a hand down the front of Dean’s jeans to palm roughly at his crotch.
“You’re gonna miss that hand when I cut it off,” Dean says, so deadly calm it’s almost conversational.
The guy must squeeze; a wince betrays Dean, and he jerks his hips back. Clearly regrets it when the blade ACM is working down the seam at the back of his jeans nicks his thigh. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder to steady him, feeling the tremble of him like it’s in his soul. Dean’s caught between a knife and a hand, and can’t escape either, though it’s clear he desperately wants to.
Handsy Guy squeezes Dean’s dick again—now that Sam’s watching, he can see the movement through Dean’s half-cut jeans. “Not excited yet, boy? What’s the matter? We not hurting you hard enough?”
The next squeeze is so vicious a half-smothered yelp makes its way out of Dean’s throat, and Sam barks, “Hey. If you’re gonna make him useless to me for the next week, that’s gonna cost you extra.”
Handsy Guy laughs, moves his hand, squeezes again. “Worth it,” he says. “Never seen a slut hurt so pretty.” He squeezes again, but Dean’s more determined than ever to stay quiet. “Wonder what it’d take to make him scream.”
Sam checks his watch. The night’s still early enough. “Five hundred and you can explore that all you want for the next two hours.”
“Sam.” The men wouldn’t hear the fear in Dean’s voice, but Sam does. Weak. “Sam.”
Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You’re right. A thousand.”
“Hey!” Handsy Guy complains, but Sam already knows he’ll pay double.
“Don’t worry, Dean. You know I won’t let them really hurt you.”
Handsy attempts a glare at Sam. “For a thousand,” he says, hand still down Dean’s pants, squeezing hard, “I’m gonna hurt him however I want.”
Sam lashes out snake-quick, grabs Handsy’s wrist and squeezes—not hard enough to hurt, but unmistakably dominant. “Nothing I can’t patch up at home, you understand?”
Handsy meets Sam’s eyes, then Receding Hairline’s, then ACM’s, then Cowboy #4’s. They all nod, and he nods back, then turns and nods to Sam. “You’re the boss,” he says, and they all pull out their share of the cash and hand it over.
Then ACM turns his attention back to Dean’s jeans, and he must reach the end of the seam because suddenly the tension in them gives out and they pool around Dean’s knees.
Dean twitches, hard, and his knuckles go stark white where they’re clenched into fists beneath the unforgiving cut of the cuffs. The men make approving sounds, and Handsy kneads Dean’s newly exposed thighs, gripping roughly and digging nails into flesh. Sam sees the back of Dean’s shoulders tense and he grabs for his neck a fraction of a second before Dean tries to slam his forehead into Handsy’s nose. Handsy flinches anyway, then backhands Dean so hard Sam loses his grip and Dean ricochets off the wall and onto the filthy blacktop, where he gasps like he’s fighting for air.
“Nice,” is all Sam says, approving. Dean looks good down there—quiet, submissive, not trying to boss Sam around. When Dean wriggles in an attempt to find purchase beneath him, Handsy presses the sole of his boot against the quickly-forming bruise on Dean’s cheekbone and grinds down.
“Behave like a bitch and we’ll treat you like a bitch,” Handsy tells him, leaning more weight against Dean’s face. He spits, too, and Sam watches the cold-cut humiliation of that rock through Dean as he yanks in earnest against the rope and cuffs. He’s twisted at an awful angle, hands pulled down near his ass and legs bent up to meet them.
ACM uses the opportunity to slice through more denim, yanking hard to get the tattered edges out from under Dean’s body. He leaves little cuts all the way down Dean’s legs, thumbing each one to bring more blood to the surface while Receding Hairline and Cowboy #4 watch with rapt interest. One of the cuts scores a horizontal line over the back of Dean’s calf, and blood drips around Dean’s ankle to form a ring, almost like a second cuff. ACM breathes hard through his nose and hastily rips Dean’s boxers off, not even bothering with Dean’s boots before dropping the blade to the side and digging fingers into the wound, practically peeling it apart.
Sam nudges the blade a few feet to the left, where Dean’s scrabbling fingers won’t be able to reach it. The look Dean throws him is pure disgust, but his eyes squeeze closed a second later and Sam glances down to see ACM with his thumbs digging even harder into the cut. Hard enough that the upper edges are folding like fabric. Dean grunts beneath the boot on his face and Sam should stop the guy before he does real damage, but he’s just as curious as ACM is about what it’ll take to pull a scream out of Dean.
The skin splits underneath ACM’s thumbs, and almost like he was waiting for it to happen, he grabs the red-soaked skin, grins at his friends, then begins to pull.
Dean’s back bends in the most rigid arch Sam’s ever seen. Not even Handsy’s boot keeps him down. Sam’s certain he’s about to scream, but when his mouth falls open, the sound that comes out is closer to a wheeze. Too much air and not enough room to get it out. He can’t help but put a hand on Dean’s throat just to feel the self-inflicted constriction.
ACM tugs again, and Sam feels it via the hand he’s got on Dean’s windpipe.
“You’re gonna wreck him before you even get a dick in there,” Sam notes, thumb hovering over Dean’s adam’s apple. The imprint of his teeth is still there, too.
Handsy is right: Dean does suffer pretty. How had Sam never noticed before? It’s not like suffering isn’t basically Dean’s default state.
ACM grunts but dutifully pulls his hands away. Dean takes a minute to go limp again, pressed like a doll into the hand Sam keeps around his throat. This time, when ACM stuffs his bloodied fingers in Dean’s mouth, it takes long seconds for Dean to blink awake and try to bite them.
“Hey,” Sam coos, gentle. “Welcome back. You feel better now?” He squeezes soft, soft, like Dean’s in subspace right now and not wherever the hell else he just went. Actual Hell, most likely.
“Sam… please,” Dean croaks. He blinks up at Sam like he thinks Sam’s still capable of sympathy. Like the unshed tears in his eyes are doing anything more than turning Sam on harder.
“Yeah,” he says anyway. “I’ll give you what you need, baby.”
The baby rolls right off his tongue, and it’s instinct more than anything to follow it up with a kiss that’s more teeth than lips, on the other side of Dean’s neck to match the first.
“The crates,” Cowboy #4 says urgently. “Get him on the, yeah, get the—”
Sam looks up to see old crates being stacked against the wall, forming a convenient platform at waist height. He lets Handsy and #4 pick Dean up by the torso and haul him over to the makeshift table, throwing him face first over the top. Sam tosses them the keys to the cuffs. They get one leg free before survival instinct kicks in again; Dean’s barely down before he’s rearing back up, struggling to roll off the side and away. Even with his hands tied and one ankle cuffed, he’s dangerous; he lands a two-footed kick to Cowboy #4’s chest, hard enough to knock over the cowboy and the crates behind Dean.
Dean lands in the mess with a grunt, but if there’s one nice thing Sam can say about him, it’s that he knows how to take his licks and keep on ticking. He rolls instantly to his feet, makes a dash down the alley as if he can somehow outrun Sam in his current condition.
Still, Sam figures he’d best take control of the situation now. He spares a glance for his customers—Cowboy #4 is back on his feet, rubbing his chest and wearing a look somewhere between pissed and impressed—and then runs Dean down.
Dean’s fucking fast under normal circumstances, faster eventhan Sam, but tonight? They left normal behind a long time ago. Sam tackles him around the waist and doesn’t bother to slow his momentum, throwing Dean sideways into a dumpster that rocks on its wheels with the force of it. Dean stumbles but turns side on like years of fighting’s taught him to: making himself a smaller target, keeping his shoulder as much in front of his face as he can. Dad would have been proud, Sam thinks. His little soldier never knowing when to quit.
“Sam. Come on. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Yeah,” Sam drawls, stepping closer, backing Dean into the dumpster. “Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”
Dean lashes out with a foot, but he’s bleeding and bruised and very likely concussed, and also, of course, tied up like a trussed hog, so Sam sees it coming from a mile away. He catches Dean’s ankle and yanks, knocking him on his ass. And like clockwork, there comes the other foot, but Sam dances easily out of the way, twists Dean’s leg in warning.
Dean balks. “You’re not gonna break my leg, Sam. You still need me to watch your back.” The way he says it, like he doesn’t really know for sure, would be enough to break a lesser man’s heart.
“I need you for something, anyway,” Sam says, patting the wad of cash in his pocket, then rubbing at his aching cock through his jeans.
Dean stills, then launches backward so hard it takes all of Sam’s strength to keep a grip. For a moment he really does consider breaking the leg, but he figures that’d probably be too much of a giveaway for the guys waiting not-so-patiently on the other side of the alley. Conveniently, they’ve already re-stacked the crates.
“Don’t pretend like this wasn’t coming,” Sam says, and his cock twitches like it knows exactly where it’s about to go. “But if you wanna act like a bitch about it, fine by me.” He begins to walk backward toward the group, pulling Dean’s leg as he goes. Dean scrabbles desperately for the side of the dumpster but it’s the wrong angle and his fingers slip. Sam drags him, butt naked and spewing rage, right over the filthy pavement down the alley. He avoids the broken glass but gives Dean no other consideration; whatever germs scrape into his flesh here, Cas can always heal tomorrow.
Ten seconds later, he deposits Dean at the feet of the four guys.
“Ready to behave?” he asks, but doesn’t give Dean a chance to reply. One ankle still has a cuff around it, the other end dangling free. This time when Dean gets thrown over the crates, Handsy quickly reattaches the other end to the corner of the pile. Not a very secure hold, but enough to keep Dean’s leg out wide. The back of his thighs are peppered with road rash and tiny cuts and streaks of miscellaneous filth.
Filthy, Sam thinks, and in the next second, Mine.
ACM pulls rope from god knows where and yanks Dean’s other leg out wide, ignoring his weak attempts at kicking him in the face.
Perhaps Dean finally runs out of steam, or maybe he’s just realized the futility of wasting any more valuable energy fighting an impossible battle, but once his legs are tied, he stops struggling completely. Sam circles him to crouch by his head. Dean’s turned toward the wall, face tucked in against his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch when Sam touches his shoulder.
“Dean,” he calls. Dean doesn’t turn to look. His shoulders hitch gently. Sam moves his hold to the back of Dean’s neck and tries to force him to turn around, but stubbornly he refuses. “Dean,” he says again, this time a warning. He grips hard, harder, and draws Dean’s face up to meet his own. “Oh,” he says, awed. Dean averts his eyes but can’t hide the streaks on his cheeks where the tears have cleared paths through the dirt. “You’re crying.” He catches the next tear with his thumb and smears it sideways. Beautiful.
Dean doesn’t bother to jerk his head away this time. He doesn’t even snarl at Sam. Just whispers, thick with tears and despair, “You do this to me, you go through with this? And I’m gone.”
Sam strokes his hair. Thinks he maybe feels a flare of an echo of a memory of love. “No,” Sam says, soft, gentle. “You won’t. You can’t. I’m everything to you.”
Dean’s lips quiver and his eyes close, and fresh tears leak free. It’s as close to an admission as he’ll ever make, but it’s enough.
The old him—the weak him—would’ve been moved by the display. Might even have let his brother go. But the new and improved him? Is about to get his rocks off in the finest ass this side of the Mississippi. And is also two-thousand dollars richer.
Dean’ll come around and see the benefit of that later. Sam’s sure of it.
Over Dean’s back, he watches ACM get up in between Dean’s thighs, dick in hand.
“Wait,” Sam says, and the flare of hope in Dean’s eyes is delicious in an entirely different way. “Wait,” he says again. “Don’t you remember the deal? I go first.”
ACM looks like he’s about to put up an argument, but Sam casually flips the knife in his hand—ten times more dexterous than ACM earlier—and then Dean’s stretched out all for himself.
Dean’s shaking gently, still suppressing tears, and Sam crowds up behind him and lays flat over his back. Dean’s cuffed hands twitch feebly against Sam’s belly. Sam kisses him on the back of his neck, then again on the topmost vertebrae. It’s not that he’s trying to calm Dean (although that couldn’t hurt, frankly) so much as that he needs to keep up the charade that everyone’s here of their own free will, that Dean is Sam’s happy little masochistic sub and when the night is over he’ll be exhausted but floating on the best kind of high.
“Dean,” he murmurs against the sweat-damp skin of Dean’s neck. When Dean fails to acknowledge his existence, he exists louder—his kiss turns into a bite mean enough to make Dean twitch. “Dean,” he tries again.
“Don’t,” Dean begs, and for a second Sam thinks he’s playing the same damn worn-out card all over again and he’ll have to punish Dean for it. But then Dean adds, “Don’t talk, Sammy. Please. Just. Be quiet.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Sam coos. “But then how will I ask you what you want?”
“I want out,” Dean says, but his voice is wooden, dead, like he knows there’s no point in bothering to say it.
“You haven’t safeworded,” Sam tells him, loud enough for the other men to hear. He grins into the back of Dean’s neck, and before Dean can bitch about not having a safeword, he adds, “Now are you gonna tell me how you want it?” He puts another kiss on the back of Dean’s shoulder, which must be beyond sore at the prolonged strain of the cuffs. He kisses the other shoulder too, then goes back up to lick at the shell of his ear and stage-whisper, “We can do it the easy way…” He takes Dean’s hips in both hands and squeezes, digging thumbs into his kidneys until he gets a groan of discomfort. “Or we can do it the hard way.”
Dean doesn’t respond. Which is kind of funny to Sam, frankly—the one time he actually has a choice is the one time he finally decides to shut his fucking mouth?
“You want me to open you up all nice with my fingers?” Sam pushes. “Or we can skip the foreplay and I’ll ram up inside you so hard you’ll choke on my dick from the inside. I know how you like that.” When Dean continues to say nothing, Sam shrugs. “I’ll take your silence to mean you want it rough, baby.”
Slowly he makes to get up, and almost misses Dean turning his forehead into the crate and whispering, “Easy.”
Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek. Why had he waited so long for this?
“Uh uh,” he gently tsks. “Can’t hear you.”
Dean’s shoulders hunch up. “Easy,” he says again, louder, but garbled like it’s cutting his throat up. Someone—maybe Handsy—snickers.
“Easy what?” Sam teases. It’s cruel, he knows that even if he doesn’t feel it, but he can’t quite seem to help himself. Without a soul to lie to him, he can freely admit that he’s always loved power. And this? Forcing his big brother—the righteous man, the Michael Sword, the one who tore up the script and brought Heaven and Hell to heel—to beg for his own violation? Well, it doesn’t get any better than this. “Good boys use their words.” He runs thumbs up the sides of Dean’s spine, then digs into the divots of muscle at the top. “Easy what?” he says again.
“I want it easy,” Dean says, mumbled. Sam imagines him gritting his teeth. He touches Dean’s cheek: the only part he can see from this angle. How far can he push him? Just how weak has his big brother gotten?
Well, only one way to find out. And this is exactly the sort of thing he needs to know, after all, if they’re going to keep hunting together. Right? Science.
He cups a hand to Dean’s ass and squeezes. The muscle clenches hard beneath his fingers. “And what does ‘easy’ mean?”
Dean doesn’t reply.
“Tell me you want my fingers first, or you don’t get them at all.”
In an unequal and invisible standoff, he waits. He can almost see the hamster wheel spinning in Dean’s brain: how much pain is his pride worth to him right now?
Dean’s shoulders go slack, his head tips to the side.
“Your fingers,” Dean whispers, eyes closed and breath coming in hitches through his slack mouth. “I want your fingers first.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say?” Sam smiles again, gives the back of Dean’s neck one last kiss, and then jams a finger home.
Dean’s mouth is still open, so there’s nothing stopping the yelp of hurt surprise that follows. He arches off the crates even with Sam plastered over the top of him, and Sam thinks he hears a camera shutter going off nearby. Nice.
“Shh,” he hushes, “shh, I’ll go easy, I’ll make it good.” He digs his finger in a little further because, God, he can’t help it. Even when he had a soul his weakness had always been Dean, and he feels just as weak right now. The grip on his finger is like nothing he’s experienced before, and he wonders if Dean’s ever had anything up here. In Hell for sure. But that doesn’t really count; he didn’t actually have a body then. Which means Sam is going to be the first thing Dean ever feels here. Christ. “You’re going to wreck me,” he laughs into Dean’s hair. He pulls out with far more care than he went in, and rubs his finger over Dean’s face. Dean flinches away, and Sam grabs him by the hair and fishhooks his finger into Dean’s mouth, stretching his cheek out roughly. He can feel the jolt of disgust that goes down Dean’s spine. His poor germaphobe brother can barely stand to touch a public payphone; this must be killing him.
Dean tries to thrash his head, and his teeth clench closed a hairsbreadth away from Sam’s finger, but Sam knows even before Dean does that Dean won’t follow through. He can’t hurt Sam. Not like that. Besides, at Sam’s mercy, stretched out, with Sam’s hands holding him in place… he has no hope of stopping it one way or the other.
Sam pushes another finger in beside the first. “Get them wet,” he orders. Dean tries to rear back again, and Sam rides the movement with ease. He jabs insistently at Dean’s cheek from the inside. “Wet,” he says again. “You know where they’re going.”
Dean makes an indignant sound and thrashes. The fool. Even when he’s trying to give in, he ends up fighting. Sam slips his fingers out and looks knowingly at the other men. “Seems like he did want it rough, after all.”
They laugh, and #4 pulls a little packet from his back pocket, offering it to Sam.
Sam sighs. Dean’s spit easing the way would have been hotter but, well. He takes the lube.
“Not nice it is, then,” he says.
Dean huffs against the crates, shakes his head. He sounds downright panicked when he says, “Wait.”
Sam doesn’t wait. He flicks the zipper of his jeans down and pulls himself out with a sigh of relief, lays his dick along the curve of Dean’s ass just so he can see how he looks against Dean’s skin. Huge. I look huge against that tight ass. Just so he can feel the way Dean goes rigid beneath him.
“Wait,” Dean says again. “Sam… Sammy, please, wait—”
Sam relents, gives him two lubed fingers, in and out, because he’s nice like that and because when he sees the size of himself against the size of the thing he’s about to squeeze into, he thinks there’s no way either of them would survive it. He pushes back in again and tries for a third finger, but Dean’s so tight it’s a wonder he managed with two, so he settles for scissoring roughly and then he pulls out one last time, wiping the rest of the lube over his cock and gripping Dean’s hip.
“Dean,” he says, low. The muscles in Dean’s thighs are trembling. He’s… Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’ll be even more so when he gets Sam’s dick in him.
Sam uses his thumb to line his cock up. He ignores the sounds of the other men talking, laughing, the way they elbow each other to get a better view. Focuses instead on Dean’s panicked breathing, on the way he’s given up begging and now is just steeling himself for the worst—Daddy’s little soldier about to take one (well, five) for the team.
Sam presses against the small furl of Dean’s ass and is certain in equal measures that a) there’s no way he’s going to get in there, and b) there’s nothing in the world that could stop him from doing it anyway.
“Condom,” Dean chokes, “Wait, wait, Sam, wait, I—”
“Nothing between us,” Sam tells him, which sounds a bit like a promise and a reminder. He licks his suddenly dry lips and presses hard, using his thumb to push the slippery head of his cock against the place he most wants to be.
Dean’s fingers fist hard against the small of his back. He rocks his head, forehead thumping against the crates, growling low through clenched teeth. Sam keeps pushing, and his chest hurts from how hard he’s breathing. Dean’s all spread out beneath him and he’s not even in yet, not really, but he already knows he’s never giving this up.
He digs a finger in ahead of his cock to try to make room, stretching up the same as how he fishhooked Dean’s mouth, ignoring the sound Dean makes behind his clenched teeth.
“God, he’s tight,” someone says.
Sam huffs a laugh. “You wanted to hear him scream, right?” And he shoves again.
“Yeah,” Handsy groans.
“Keep him tight for the rest of us, won’t you?”
Sam can’t even muster up the attention to answer. The tip of his dick feels like it’s in a vice. Dean’s clenching down on him so hard that there’s a very real chance he’s not going to last to enjoy what he’s made here.
But the moment passes and he breathes deep and his dick is still in Dean’s ass and Dean is making these aborted sounds like the scream didn’t totally make it all the way out the first time. Like his lungs are all full of it. Like he’s full of Sam.
“Dean,” he says again, reverent, and then he adjusts his hold, pressing Dean’s hips into the sharp jut of the crate edge so he’s got something solid to push against. Dean winces and squeezes hard, and Sam can’t help but twitch his hips forward a little bit more. He looks down to see the huge size of him disappearing into Dean’s body, the place where they’re joined stretched wider than Sam ever imagined possible. It looks unnatural, almost, but god… the high is bigger than even that first hit of demon blood after too many days without.
Not that he’ll ever need that shit again with this ass on tap whenever he wants it.
He rocks forward, just a little, just to punch fresh little noises out of Dean. Just to watch himself disappear inside his brother a little more. Another rock and he and Dean gasp in unison. The moment’s so perfect that Sam pulls his phone from his pocket, zooms in on that impossible stretch of Dean’s ass, and snaps a keepsake.
Or blackmail material. Whichever.
“Don’t,” Dean tries to say, but that ship sailed the second he let Sam push him into the alleyway, and Sam rubs a hand up his back and thrusts in a little more. Pulls out the last inch just so he can push back in. Dean makes a choking sound and his hands pull at the metal of the cuffs. There’s blood there from his struggles, and Sam laughs, shocked and ecstatic and so, so hard. He’s barely halfway in and Dean’s already losing it.
There’s a tiny bit more lube left in the packet and he dribbles it over the base of his dick, then presses it against the stretch of Dean’s ass, thinking about trying to fit a finger in there alongside his cock.
Dean breathes in shocky starts, like a wounded animal, and Sam leaves off. For now. He stabs in a little harder and thinks that there’s always next time, and next time, and next time, and…
“S-Stop,” Dean finally begs. “Stop, stop, Sam, please, this isn’t—” Sam almost comes just from that, just from the sound of Dean finally giving up, but he shoves in a little further and clenches his jaw and leaves scratch marks down Dean’s sides.
“Not yet,” he says through his teeth. He keeps pushing, keeps pushing, knows that he needs to pull out and give Dean’s body time to adjust but he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Dean adjusting to this, doesn’t want a body that knows him. He wants Dean just like this, just like this: all hurt sounds and shaking limbs and slack jaw. All of him zeroed in on the place where he’s Sam’s. Where he’ll never feel anything else except the huge splitting pressure of Sam’s cock.
“Stop,” Dean whimpers one last time, and Sam forces his body forward the final inch until there’s nothing separating them, he’s flush against Dean’s ass and they’re both panting. He falls forward over Dean’s back to exhale hot on Dean’s shoulder, feeling the rushed rise of Dean’s body as he tries to draw breath with all the weight atop him.
“Mine,” Sam says, dazedly, and he presses his nose to Dean’s back, then his lips to the same spot. Not a kiss, really. A promise.
Dean tries to turn and bite him, but Sam’s faster: He sinks his teeth in there, too. And then uses the hold to hunch further into Dean’s body, though there’s nowhere left for him to go. Dean gets shoved harder into the crates. Sam imagines his hipbones splitting. Imagines his thighs bruising. Imagines him soft and purpled and all Sam’s, all Sam’s.
He puts both hands on Dean’s back, right over his lungs, and pushes down. The air leaves Dean in a woosh and his ass clenches, hard, then clenches again when Sam lets up so Dean can breathe deep. The next time he presses down he uses the leverage to pull out, just an inch, but he’s sinking back in almost as soon as he’s gone, loath to leave the cradle of Dean’s body. He stays where he is, rocking as much as he can without letting any of him slip free. He wants Dean to know the shape of him from the inside. He wants to carve a space that’s all his and never leave.
Absently, he presses his face against Dean’s skin. He’s overheated, they both are. His hips keep pressing up, begging to get further in, begging to get up into the back of Dean’s throat and never come out. Every now and then Dean lurches against him and chokes off a grunt like Sam actually is hitting his throat.
He’s not going to last long.
He puts a hand beneath Dean’s hips and knuckles at his belly, trying to feel himself under the skin. Dean whines and shakes and tries to inch away, and that marks the end of the tattered remains of Sam’s control. No more playing; he grabs Dean’s hip in one hand and the chain between Dean’s handcuffs in the other, and uses both for maximum leverage to drive himself home, keeping them flush together while he snarls through what feels like a lifetime of orgasms: all the times he could have had Dean and didn’t. Dean makes a pitiful sound beneath him when Sam keeps his arms wrenched back, and then the same sound again when Sam lets him go, lets him flop back down onto the top of the crates, boneless and used and filthy and claimed, stained with Sam’s hands and dick.
Sam heaves air in and revels in the way his dick softens inside Dean. He could stay here forever, he thinks. Wait ‘til he’s hard again and start all over.
It’s almost a shame that he has to turn Dean over to a group of strangers instead.
“Fellas,” he says, panting. He pulls out slowly just to watch Dean close up after him, somehow still tight. White residue leaks out after, and Sam thumbs it back in. “Who’s next?”
He thinks there might have been some elbowing while he was otherwise occupied because they don’t even bicker among themselves. ACM is practically vibrating as he steps to Sam’s side. Doesn’t shove Sam out of the way, though Sam can tell he wants to.
Sam rubs the head of his dick between Dean’s cheeks one last time, like a goodbye. If Dean feels it, he doesn’t react. He might be a little checked out, like how he gets after a hard fight. Sam thumbs the base of his spine, then steps away.
“All yours,” he says.
ACM holds up a beer bottle, uncapped but still full. “Not that that isn’t hot,” he says, indicating the jizz leaking out of Dean’s hole. “But mind if I clean him out first?”
Sam eyes the bottle and can’t help his grin. He feels like he should be charging extra for this, but honestly, he wants to see it too. “Be my guest, pal.”
ACM doesn’t waste any time. He presses the head of the beer bottle against Dean’s ass, and the muscles in Dean’s thighs twitch. Sam wonders what that must feel like: cold glass pressed against his sore, used hole. Soothing, maybe. But he knows damn well that what’s about to happen next will be anything but.
ACM starts to push, using only whatever Sam left in there to ease the way, and Dean comes back to reality with a lurch, finally seeming to realize he’s being penetrated with something that isn’t a dick.
“What,” he rasps, voice so dry he sounds like he’s already had something down there. Which, well… Doesn’t that give Sam ideas.
He circles Dean to stand at his head again. He trails fingers over his arms, his back, the knots of rope that are digging bruises into his skin. He re-tightens a knot near Dean’s waist that he assumes Dean has been trying to undo.
“Naughty,” he whispers and pulls the knot as tight as he can.
“Piss off,” Dean replies, but there’s no venom in it. You need hope to get angry like that. Dean’ll come around later, Sam’s sure of it, but for now? Sam broke him with his cock. Part of him hates to see Dean that way—no fire, no fury, no spark. But the rest of him, well… Dean’s even more beautiful now that he’s finally shut his fucking pie-hole.
ACM must have gotten the whole neck in and started working on the body of the bottle, because Dean suddenly goes stiff and tries to turn around.
“Hey,” Sam says, gentle. “Hey now, come on.” He takes Dean’s chin in his fingers and pulls Dean round to face him. With Dean on the crates, it puts his head at crotch height, his eyes level with Sam’s open fly and the evidence of what Sam had just done. “Need a distraction?” Sam asks, because he can be nice too, sometimes. He uses his other hand to hold his cock out and drags the head over Dean’s lips. Dean must be paying too much attention to what’s going on behind him because it takes him a full second to grunt and rear back, trying to pull his head free of Sam’s hand.
“Easy,” ACM says, still trying to get the widest part of the bottle into Dean. Sam thinks about the first sloshes of alcohol inside him. How that must sting against all the places where Sam wasn’t careful enough. Dean must feel it because he’s wincing and shifting like he can’t stop himself.
“Fuck,” Dean spits, and whatever else he’s about to say gets lost when Sam jams his thumb in between his teeth, bending it and shoving it right up the back so Dean’s jaw is wide open and when he bites down there’s only enough force to bruise, not break skin. Sam’s had plenty of bruises from Dean before. He slips his limp cock between Dean’s lips, then between his teeth, and wraps his free fingers under Dean’s jaw to hold him in place when Dean bucks and shakes his head.
“Come on,” he says. “I know you need a distraction. Clean me up.” He presses in further until the head of his cock touches where Dean’s tongue is curled at the back of his mouth. He’s only really an inch in and already Dean’s drooling around him, breathing heavy through his open mouth and clamping down hard on Sam’s thumb.
Receding Hairline sidles over, looking at Dean’s face like he’s thinking of all the ways he’s going to use it. He’s fondling a bullwhip Sam’s pretty sure he pulled right off the Wall of Cowboy Kitsch inside the bar. Sam sees Dean’s eyes dart to it, widen slightly.
“Kinky,” Sam tells him.
“You weren’t lying about the biting,” Receding Hairline says, indicating where Dean’s jaw is working against the intrusion.
“He wouldn’t really hurt me,” Sam tells him, but he points at the bullwhip anyway. “May I?” Receding Hairline offers it with glee and Sam jams the end of the handle between Dean’s teeth on the other side, wedging it even further back until Dean makes a pained sound and his jaw opens impossibly wider, freeing Sam’s thumb. Sam pushes his cock a little bit further in and Dean chokes. “Barely two inches,” Sam tsks. “Don’t worry, we’ll work on that later.”
Dean chokes again and Sam tilts his head back in pleasure, then glances down the squirming length of Dean’s back to see ACM spreading Dean’s asscheeks with one hand and pushing against the bottom of the bottle with the other. Dean’s stretched so wide, even wider than he’d been around Sam’s considerable girth, but he’s not done taking it yet. ACM twists the bottle, shoves hard, twists again, and Sam knows when it breaches Dean fully just as much from Dean’s pained shout—vibrating deliciously against his dick—as from the blazingly-hot visual. If he looked through the bottom of the bottle, could he see inside Dean?
He pulls out and frees the whip handle, to better hear the sounds Dean’s making.
“Take it out!” Dean demands, but it’s more of a whine, really. His body’s so tense, every muscle and vein popping, he could model for an anatomy class. He’ll calm down soon enough, though; ACM vigorously jiggles the end of the bottle, and though Sam can’t see it, he knows that the beer is foaming, that the pressure inside the bottle is forcing its contents up into Dean’s guts, where the alcohol will be absorbed so fast it might go to even Dean Winchester’s head.
Dean groans and the tension in his body reverses: inasmuch as he can in his current predicament, he goes from arching to curling, and it occurs to Sam how painful all that trapped CO2 must be in Dean’s belly. Dean groans again, pants hard, eyes and teeth clenching in a way that makes Sam glad he pulled his dick free.
“Take it out!” Dean demands again, his voice as tight and strained as his ass around that bottle. Despite having come only a few minutes prior, Sam feels his dick give a twitch of interest. He wipes it against Dean’s panting mouth; lets him feel what this whole situation is doing to Sam.
Handsy must want in on the action because he shoulders ACM out of the way to run hands over Dean’s ass and lower back. He switches to using his nails, leaving long scratches over Dean’s skin. Dean clenches his eyes shut again, then wrenches them back open when Handsy pulls away only to slap back down over his ass. Dean lets out a shout that’s more surprise than anything else, though Sam’s sure it must have hurt. Any pressure down there would be agony with everything stuffed inside him like that. Handsy smacks again, and again, being careful not to break the bottle, which Sam thinks is pretty decent of him. Dean doesn’t look like he appreciates the gesture, though. He jolts with each hit, making sharp gunshot-grunts each time. Occasionally ACM leans over to press on the end of the bottle where it threatens to pop out.
Receding Hairline takes the bullwhip from next to Dean’s head. The handle is wet from where it had been in Dean’s mouth, and he wipes it on Dean’s back. Dean doesn’t appear to notice, and Sam leans forward to hold his head still while Receding Hairline swings his arm back.
“You better know how to aim,” Sam warns.
Dean blinks a little like maybe that sentence managed to permeate whatever fog of pain his brain is in right now, but he’s still woefully unprepared for the crack when the whip flings down against his ass. His body moves before his mouth does, throwing him forward into Sam’s hands before he lets out a guttural scream.
For the first time, Sam looks toward the door to the bar and wonders how they’ll explain this if someone comes out to check on the screaming. With any luck, they’ll pay for the privilege of being involved.
Belatedly, Sam turns back to see what kind of damage the whip did. Dean’s bleeding, and it’s more than just a little scrape or a beading welt. Less than a knife wound, though—it won’t even need stitches—so what’s Dean screaming about anyway?
“Don’t hit the same spot twice,” Sam says; he can’t assume that any of these men would a) know better, or b) care enough. And they’re not the ones who’d have to sew up the mess.
“Sam!” Dean writhes and flops on his stack of crates like a hooked fish. “Damn it, Sammy, stop this!”
Huh. Dean doesn’t sound drunk at all. He’s also lost his bottle—probably shot right out when ACM stepped out of the way of the whip. Which, Sam notes, leaves his ass clear for the next taker. Well, part clear, part dribbling with beer foam. Close enough.
Receding Hairline gets a few more cracks in, and Sam has to hand it to gay cowboys because his aim is impeccable. Dean’s ass—already red from Handsy’s hands—is now littered with near-surgical, half-thickness slashes, each an inch apart and perfectly parallel to the next.
Dean’s panting, and he’s not the only one. ACM practically shoves Receding Hairline out of the way. “My turn,” he manages, and he lines up against Dean’s ass, so excited that he can’t even get in.
Dean’s already learned the feel of cock because he shakes his head, pants, “Condom, condom, damn it, for fuck’s sake!”
ACM looks at Sam guiltily, practically vibrating with tension. Sam shrugs. “He’s the boss.”
ACM is clearly disappointed, but it was just as clearly the right answer because he nods like he understands, like Dean actually is Sam’s sub and therefore the one who ultimately makes the calls. Doesn’t stop ACM from pushing, though: “I’ll throw in another hundred?”
Sam leans down, puts his lips to Dean’s ear and a hand on Dean’s shoulder like he’s really checking in with him, when in fact his hand is on a pressure point and gripping hard, and his lips are forming threats: Be quiet or I’ll make you regret it. After all, Cas can clean up anything Dean catches.
He’s not at all surprised that Dean doesn’t argue when he straightens up and says, “One-fifty. Each.”
ACM’s expression is a mix of relief and irritation. Of course he passes over the money. Of course they all do.
Sam is surprised though when ACM has to force his way inside Dean. Between Sam’s dick and that bottle, Dean should be all stretched out by now, but instead he’s grunting and baring teeth and making ACM work for his pleasure.
“Christ, he’s still so tight,” ACM groans. “Where’d you find a thing like this?”
“He’s my brother,” Sam says, casual as could be.
ACM freezes halfway inside Dean, and for a solid five seconds, all four men stare uncomfortably at Sam like they’re waiting for him to break and laugh. When he doesn’t, they do it for him—first one nervous chuckle, then a second one, then louder and louder and someone bro-slaps Sam on the arm and ACM goes back to wedging his way up the steel trap of Dean’s ass.
He blows his load almost before he’s seated fully inside. Lucky Dean.
Well, they paid for two hours; Sam checks his watch and notes only half their time has passed. He supposes ACM might get a second shot before the clock runs out.
Meanwhile, Receding Hairline steps up for his turn. He’s still holding the whip, and once he’s lined up and pushed in, he uses it like a garotte, looping it around Dean’s throat and forcing Dean’s head and chest back. He fucks him like that, half-suspended and choking—which, holy shit, how is that so hot?—until Dean’s body goes lax from oxygen deprivation and Receding Hairline relaxes his hold. Dean gets in three gasping breaths before the whip tightens around his throat again. Receding Hairline has much more control than ACM because he keeps going like this for a good ten minutes before Sam puts one hand on the whip and shakes his head—Dean’s almost insensate from the treatment, and Sam’s realized he doesn’t like it when anyone but him actually tortures Dean.
Receding Hairline drops one end of the whip without complaint, takes the handle end and thumps it against Dean’s ass, against all those sluggishly bleeding lash marks. Dean’s still too out of it to react, flopped boneless and gasping against the crates, but he sure does notice when the whip handle goes from on his ass to in it, right alongside Receding Hairline’s dick.
And he keeps right on making noise as Receding Hairline wedges the whip handle all the way up Dean’s ass, then starts pistoning in and out beside it, fucking Dean with the same speed and animal force as a dog in heat.
When he comes, he takes a long pause to ride his orgasm, then pulls himself out but leaves the whip handle in. He fucks Dean with it slowly, absently, as he strokes and squeezes the last of his pleasure from himself. Dean’s audibly wheezing and Sam feels a twinge of something that could be guilt but is likely only annoyance. He’s the one who’s going to have to listen to that.
Handsy and Cowboy #4 must have reached some kind of agreement because they both approach with manic grins. Handsy palms all the marks on Dean’s ass before spreading him wide and shoving in. Dean barely twitches. #4 scratches down Dean’s leg to his ankle, the one that’s attached by rope, and he starts undoing the knots.
Sam puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck in warning, but when his leg is free Dean barely even manages an exhausted kick before Handsy is pulling out and grabbing him bodily, hauling him up and forcing him into position until Handsy’s sitting on the crates and Dean’s straddling his lap, head lolling forward onto Handsy’s shoulder and eyes blinking closed every few seconds; beyond exhaustion. One leg is still cuffed down low, but Handsy yanks the other one up until Dean’s knee is on the crates too. Gives Handsy a good angle to shove back into Dean’s body.
“Hold his head up,” Handsy says to Cowboy #4. “I wanna see his face while we fuck him.”
Sam’s still standing at the head of the crates, eyes on Dean’s face, so he can see the moment Handsy’s “we” sinks in.
ACM makes a strangled groan that sounds very much like he just lost the chance to have a second go at Dean’s ass.
Dean can’t even talk anymore—he’s only rasping out vowels—but when Cowboy #4 grabs his hair and hauls him up, his eyes find Sam’s and he mouths Sammy. Sam waves a little and then reaches down to cup himself. Dean follows the movement and shuts his eyes, a final tear leaking down his face.
Cowboy #4 huffs like a windstorm, getting into Dean with his mouth open and Dean’s head wrenched back so they can all see Dean’s face twisting in pain as he tries to accommodate this last humiliation.
“Take it,” Handsy grunts, one hand on Dean’s thigh and the other roaming Dean’s body: his chest, his abs, his nipples. Dean isn’t even holding himself up anymore. He’s suspended between their hands and dicks, trembling and hauling painful breaths, lips twitching every time Cowboy #4 gets another inch in.
By the time both Handsy and #4 are fully seated, Sam thinks Dean might actually be unconscious. #4 wraps an arm around his chest and Dean lolls into it, jerking only with the movement of #4’s thrusts when he finally pulls out only to shove back in again, then again. Then #4 pushes Dean into Handsy’s chest, grabs Dean’s hips, and goes to town. It must be heaven on Handsy’s cock because he stutters and groans and grips Dean down against him like he’s going to come any second.
Sam’s not even sure how long it takes, but eventually, Cowboy #4 starts whining instead of grunting and his thrusts go shallow and harsh, and he’s shoving in with his face scrunched up while Handsy follows him over.
Dean wasn’t unconscious, Sam discovers, because as soon as Cowboy #4 pulls out, he opens his eyes again, searching almost blindly for Sam. Sam steps up to him, touches the side of his face, then puts a finger in his mouth just to feel the lack of resistance. Sam’s hard as nails, but they can wait ‘til they get to a motel for Dean to fix that for him. He pets through Dean’s hair.
Dean’s muscle memory betrays him and he leans into Sam’s touch, soulless or not.
“Time’s up,” Sam tells the men, even though it isn’t—they have seventeen minutes left, though he doubts they know it—and he takes Dean’s weight while Handsy pulls free, tucking himself back in as he goes. He tosses a key to ACM, who obligingly kneels to free Dean’s other leg. Dean is wrecked and goes where Sam puts him. Someone claps, and when Sam looks up he notices for the first time that they’ve gathered a small audience: some of the pub members have wandered outside to see the show.
He grins at them, at ease. “No more tonight,” he says, trying to sound apologetic. Dean could probably take it, but he needs to protect his golden goose, not gut it. He strokes the side of Dean’s face, tries to radiate gentleness and care. “My boy needs his rest. But we’ll be back over the weekend, won’t we, Dean?”
Dean doesn’t even seem to hear him. There’s a catcall from the back, and Sam acknowledges it with a laugh, then drapes his flannel over Dean’s shoulders and scoops him up in a bridal carry, not even bothering to undo the knots around his torso and arms first.
He puts his lips to Dean’s temple. Dean doesn’t pull away.
The car is parked close, at least. He props Dean against the bumper while he fumbles for the keys, digs in the trunk for a spare set of clothes. He grabs their sharpest knife and moves to cut the lasso away, then changes his mind and unties it instead. He’ll keep it—a gift for Dean to remind him of how well Sam’s taking care of them both now that he’s in charge.
Like now, when he rubs gently at the perfect imprint of the rope weave in Dean’s skin alongside deep red welts where the lasso had dug in hardest. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just flops along with Sam’s motions, lets Sam ease his pain. Then Sam undoes the cuffs around Dean’s wrists, and Dean’s silence breaks as his arms fall to his sides and he hunches deep, shoulders and elbows and wrists no doubt spiking with nerve pain like fire. Once again Sam rubs, gently, gently, loosening stiff muscles and tendons, bringing blood flow back to Dean’s hands.
When Dean’s able to stand on his own again, Sam dresses him. “I know, I know, silly to put clean clothes on while you’re still so dirty. But we’ll get you showered and patched up at the motel, okay? And this way you won’t get Baby dirty.”
Dean says nothing. Doesn’t even meet Sam’s eyes. He’s half-dead on his feet, would probably fall over if Sam let him go. But Dean’s done enough for them tonight, so Sam doesn’t test the theory. Instead, he walks Dean to the passenger door, opens it and helps him into the car. It’s a little troubling that Dean just… lets him. But he’ll be fine, right? He’s had way worse and he always bounces back.
With Dean settled, Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, shuts the door, and walks around to the driver’s side. Gets in, gets the key into the ignition. Turns to check on Dean one last time before pulling away and—
Dean’s turned to face him, arms up, both hands firm on the grip of his Colt 1911 like he hadn’t just spent the last two hours tied and abused and fucked to within an inch of his life. Finger on the trigger. Barrel pointed right at Sam’s head.
Well. That’s unexpected.
Sam can’t help it. He snorts. “Dean,” he says, and can only shake his head. He turns the ignition on. He hears the safety go off, and maybe a year ago that would have caused some alarm, but now he’s conscienceless and unconscionable. He puts the car in drive. “You’re not going to hurt me,” he says. He feels this as truth in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones. It’s as much a part of him as it is a part of Dean.
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna let you hurt me, either.”
“You didn’t let me do anything,” Sam points out. “And you’re going to keep not-letting me, or I’ll leave you. Besides,” he adds, “we made $2,700 tonight. And you got to indulge your cowboy fetish. You should be happy.”
No answer. Just a long, silent beat. Another one. Another. He can hear Dean breathing, rough and wet.
And then, just like he knew it would…
He feels more than sees the weapon lower.
Of course. He nods once as he takes his foot off the break, pulls out into the empty street. They drive a good two or three minutes in silence--fuming for Dean, satisfied for Sam--before Dean manages to gather enough of the tatters of his confidence to say, “This conversation ain’t over, Sam.”
This time it’s Sam who doesn’t answer. The conversation is over. Dean just doesn’t know it yet.
But that’s okay. Sam’s a patient teacher, and Dean always was an obedient little soldier.