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Sam was definitely proud of Dean. He had always been, even if he sometimes largely didn't agree with some decisions he made. But family wasn't there to like your choices, it was to stand by you. That's what Sam had wanted when he went to University, and that's what he gave Dean when he found out about his itch.

They had continued on their once a week schedule, given it was efficient and kept Dean from being too crabby. It was a wonderful change the first few months. Dean woke up with a purpose, smiled more, and Sam even over heard him singing in the shower occasionally.

The boys tried their hardest to keep on track, but sometimes they'd skip around. Their planned arrangement happening more than once that week or even being postponed, against their better judgment.

Slowly, Sam found himself being subjected to Dean being ornery again, ready to subject him to silence or give him a thorough tongue lashing at any moment. It took Sam nearly a month of trial and error to understand what the problem might be.

So here he stood, at the BDSM aisle of a sex shop, completely out of his depth.

He stood there, scanning different types of gear. He would not whip his brother, so those were out. No way in hell was he going to put his dick in a cockring or dick cage either, thank you very much. His face contorted in a mix of extreme displeasure and absolute annoyance at the mere thought of stabbing Dean with needles of any kind. He'd never get the end of it if there was a hunt during the healing time.

“Do you need any help looking around?” a woman asked him.

Sam jumped, then felt his cheeks heat as he looked down at the woman at his side. “Um, yes.”

“Alright. Are you a sub or a dom? Switch?” she asked, clearly she'd been working here a while.

“I'm...not.” Sam said carefully.

“But your friend is? A sub I'm assuming?” she asked, pushing up her glasses.

Sam held in a chuckle, surely Dean would be livid at hearing himself referred to as a sub. “Yeah, sort of.”

“Okay. So, what do they like?” she hummed, perusing the aisle.

“They like bruises. They usually are fine with just me messing with them, but I don't that's enough anymore? What would be a good next step?” Sam avoided any gendered language, for his own comfort.

She nodded. Sam glanced down at her name tag. Clara. She was cute. This was definitely not so bad after he focused on that a bit. He was brought out of the thought when she hummed in understanding before she spoke.

“So, they ever ask you to dig your nails into the bruises?”

“Yeah.”

“Get a positive response?” she grinned.

Sam grinned back, despite how awkward it all was. “Very, for them.”

Clara nodded, motioning him along. “Maybe a pinwheel?” she grabbed one off the rack. “It's almost like nails, but more,” she paused, searching for the proper word.

“Tiny and unpredictable.” she finished, looking almost annoyed with herself.

Sam thought a moment, taking the pinwheel from her. “Alright.”

“We also have clamps that you can adjust for the bruises. They could also help leave them if that's what you two want.” she turned the other direction and grabbed another small package, showing them to him.

Sam nodded easily. He thinks Dean could like these, at least.

“Are you two into penetrative play? We have some good-” she started.

Sam's shock got the better of him as he rushed to say. “No, all of the play we do is nonsexual.”

Clara nodded. “Oh, okay. Is there anything else you think you'd need?”

He considered flirting, but he doesn't think he'd want to get with the girl that helped him pick out toys for Dean. “I think this will work. Thanks.”

This was going to be hell, breaking it to Dean that he'd taken the Impala to buy kink toys because he was crabby and Sam didn't like it. He took a breath and marched in, bag in hand. Dean was on the bed of the hotel room, watching a movie, beer in hand.

He didn't look relaxed as he glanced to Sam, his eyes trailing down to the bag in hand, quizzical look forming.

He put the bottle down. “Little light for your rabbit food.”

“That's because it isn't. You're due.” Sam tossed the bag to Dean.

The elder brother caught it with ease, paling when he saw what was inside.

“Sam-” he started, tone almost accusatory.

“You need this.” Sam spoke over him, arms crossed, mind made up.

Dean scowled for a moment, pursing his lips and working his jaw as he thought about the situation.

“It's this or what?” he looked through his lashes sheepishly but with an air of cheek, trying to make it more comfortable.

Sam didn't budge. “Or longer scenes.”

He watched as Dean weighed the options for a lengthy thirty to forty-five seconds. His patience was rewarded with Dean tossing the bag back at him. Sam almost mistook this for a refusal before he saw Dean take off his shirts and lay on his stomach.

A look of relief passed over him.

“What does this stuff even do?” Dean asked, head turned away as his arms wrapped around the pillows at the head of the hotel bed.

Sam began unboxing the items.“The clamps are big enough to pinch skin and leave bruises if I make them tight enough. And the pinwheel is to run over the bruises and stuff. If you don't like it, we don't have to do it again.”

Dean gave what passed as a grunt of agreement. He was already slipping or he wanted it over with, and Sam wasn't sure of which one it'd be. Either way, he held a few clamps and the pinwheel in hand as he thought about how best to continue. He placed the things on one side of him as he sat near Dean at the best angle for his back without getting on top of him.

“Gonna start out familiar, work our way from there, okay?” he murmured, fingers dancing along the map of bruises that colored his brother's back.

Dean gave another grunt that dissolved into a sigh as Sam dug in deeper. His body was starting to relax as he began to go under. The sounds he made always gave it away of how deep he was. Breathy in the beginning, sometimes even soft catches of breath before it evened out and he was virtually rendered mute.

He never talked much to begin with, but this took some adjusting to in the beginning. How Dean would seem to lose any ability to talk, sometimes for hours after the session had ended if it went particularly well. Or when he did communicate, it was mostly through actions- pointing, grunts in different tones, occasionally even almost drunkenly manhandling Sam into what he wanted. Sometimes he'd thought he was drunk with how he slurred. Now he knows and understands.

Sam looked at the toys again. He couldn't use the clamps on Dean's back. The skin is too taut. But he could on his arms, meaty enough with muscle and fat to take it. He took the moment of inspiration to begin pinching and scratching along Dean's left arm first, the other hand still at his back.

Dean let out a low hum, an eye peeking open in curiosity but not quite alert. He's still aware enough to know what's going on and not just trust Sam's judgment. Fair enough, from their stand on things.

Sam readied the first clamp, “Dean?”

A grunt.

“What's your safe movement in this position?” he began to bring it to Dean's arm.

The muscles in Dean's face twitched momentarily in the effort to recall before he moved his right arm from under him to thump the headboard twice.

“Great,” Sam nodded. “You ready for a clamp?”

Dean nodded minutely. “Bri’n ‘t”

Sam held back a roll of the eyes as he attached the first clamp, careful but firm to the underside of his arm.

Dean didn't seem to have a negative reaction in the few seconds Sam waited for him to object. He attached another, just to make sure. Dean gave a soft hitch of breath, but all was well on that front.

“You good?” Sam was nothing if cautious, he supposes.

Dean blindly groped for his hand before locating it and shoving it at the clamps.

Sam smiled. “Alright, alright.”

Soon all the clamps were used, spreading over the underside of Dean's arms.

“Pinwheel now.” Sam informed his brother, waiting for a response.

“Mm.” he hummed, eyelids fluttering a bit but otherwise completely placid.

Sam rolled the device over the bruised back, gently at first, eyes never leaving Deans face.

He got shivers, the hairs all over him standing on edge as the small roller with sharp points roamed over him with no particular pattern. He twitched and shuddered, and even gave a light groan at the first pass of a bruise. Part of him felt like there was something wrong, that the things Sam bought were too out of place to work, but any thought was squished as soon as Sam changed directions on the wheel or wiggled one of the clamps to make sure it hadn't gone numb.

Sam was pleased to see it going swimmingly. He thought it would've been absolutely horrible, if he was honest with himself. There was more fighting in the version of this he'd built up on the drive back. Yelling, Dean throwing the bag back in his face and ignoring him. Or if he had agreed, him not going under at all because he hated it so much and safewording out. But it was practically perfect, for once, everything was practically peachy.

He placed a bit more pressure on the pinwheel when it hit a bruise, an experiment. Dean gave a little pant and arched up into the sensation as he practically vibrated, almost lazy in his administration but clearly enjoying it. Sam obliged him, treading lightly over the expanses of unmarked skin but bearing down a bit on the raised and colored bits of flesh.

Dean wouldn't admit it, but it was better than he could've even began to have hoped for. It was a sting, then almost an itch, before finally settling into a tingle. Then Sam would do it all over again. He found himself arching into the sensation if Sam held out on him, shuddering at least a bit each time.

Sam seemed to be pleased, if not amused by the cat-like behavior as he practically teased his brother.

“looks like you like the pinwheel. What about the clamps?” Dean could hear the smirk dripping off his brother's tone.

Dean twitched and grunted at the sudden movement of the leftmost clamp on his arm. He nodded his agreement that they should stay when he calmed.

Sam chuckled. “We gotta try these when you get a good sized bruise on your arms, huh?”

Dean gave what seemed to be a happy sigh at the idea, nodding again once he'd fully processed the words. This was great.

By the time Sam felt he'd had enough Dean was nearly asleep. Or maybe he'd dropped really low, Sam would have to check. He patted Dean's cheek, waiting for a reaction. He seemed to drift a bit instead of waking, his face blissed out even as he we being hit instead of a face of confusion or annoyance. Drop it was.

“I'm calling it, De. Alright?” he said, pressing a hand to his brother's neck to ground him.

Dean gave a grunt in understanding, or was supposed to have been anyway. It came out more of a petulant hum. He was pouting as Sam took off the clamps, even if he did wince at them being taken away. It was far away, but he knew what was happening. The pain of blood coming back to his arms was almost annoying, but helped bring him up a bit. He's sure Sam would be happy about that.

Sam saw the pout but didn't back down. He ruffled Dean's hair a bit, before returning to his neck. The heat of his hand was enough to alert Dean that playtime was really over, but not drag him back so quickly that he dropped and crashed. Typically Sam liked to get Dean to a “safe” zone of subspace and let him sleep on it. He woke bright eyed and bushy tailed ninety five percent of the time. He wasn't reckless though, he always stayed near in case Dean actually crashed, which rarely happened anymore but always a possibility.

Sam woke to music, loud and about as jovial as Dean allowed rock get. Said brother was dancing around the room as he pulled on his final shirt. Sam tried to commit the scene to memory. This was how his brother was supposed to be.

“Someone’s ready to seize the day, huh?” Sam teased.

“Somebody's gotta, little brother!” Dean grinned.

“Well, can't argue that.” Sam smirked, his head cocking per usual.

Dean sat at the table with a newspaper in hand, scanning the obituaries for a case.

‘Yeah.’ Sam thought, ‘This is how it should be.’