The dark whisper is getting louder, the farther away he manages to get from his brother. His keeper. The one who made him stop, made him lose the Blade to that lying bastard Crowley. The city streets shimmer in the late evening’s summer heat, people and cars indistinct and blurred as he rushes down the last block towards the park. The crowds seem to part around him, shying away instinctively from his barely contained intensity. His potential for violence, for satisfaction, for payoff shimmers just out of reach, like the thick dark thunderheads hovering over the edge of the tall buildings surrounding the park.
He finds his increasingly hurried steps bringing him closer and closer to The Rambles, the wildest part of this urban wilderness known as Central Park. The walking trails get confusing under the trees in the darkening twilight. He continues up the small hills, farther and farther away from the tether of Sam, the responsibility of choosing the right thing instead of what he wants. What he wants right now is The Blade back in his hand where it belongs. But that’s not possible, only a release of the tension that’s been building up since he’d sliced off Magnus’ head is possible. That’s all he wants, all he needs.
“That asshole Magnus wanted to keep you, like a pet, like something to control and use,” The voice whispers darkly, “And that’s what Crowley wants too. Once you kill Abaddon, he’ll try to keep you under his thumb so you don’t kill him.”
He shakes his head, trying to get the voice to be quiet, not wanting to go there in thinking that all is lost, that there aren’t any other options than being owned by someone.
The voice goes above a whisper now, demanding his attention, “The only one you want to have that control over you doesn’t even want it anymore. Maybe he never did. Maybe it was all a lie. That’s what brothers do, right? Especially yours. Brothers lie.”
Breathing hard from running away in such a hurry from his life, his responsibilities, his brother who is no longer his brother, he stops at one of the pathway’s crossroads, leans up against the trunk of an enormous sycamore tree. He looks up into the spreading branches at the green leaves stretching to catch the very last of the long summer day. He doesn’t want to hear what the voice is saying, because he knows it’s all true, every bit of it. But wallowing in remorse or introspective self-pity is not why he’s here. Ever since he saw the First Blade, he’s barely been controlling the pulses of power emanating from the Mark. It’s always there, throbbing slightly beneath his skin, irritating insistently for
Oh who even knows? It’s probably the source of that whispering voice that won’t shut up. But that’s why he’s here, in this place, to shut it all off for just a bit. Maybe feeding the beast a little violence will take the edge off so that he can still pass as himself, as Dean Winchester, hunter, non-brother, failed Man of Letters. Feeling this surge of self-loathing he launches himself off of his resting spot up the last of the small hill.
He remembers this place, has been here before, just once, and found a tall floppy-haired man that took care of what he needed then. That hadn’t worked for too long, but it had been enough to be able to finish the case and move onto the next one. And that’s what he needs, just a little bit of something, someone to get him onto the next case. Distraction in sex and/or violence has long been his coping mechanism, no wonder Cain said he was made perfect for the Mark. Pushing all thoughts of Sam, Cain, Magnus, Crowley, Abaddon and the damn Mark and lost Blade out of his mind he starts looking for someone, anyone will do at this point. Supposedly there’s always someone out here who needs it, a guy that can take it hard or give it back harder.
He passes a few pairs of people who’ve already started taking advantage of how dark it is in here under the dense trees, away from most of the park’s safety lamps and distant from the glow of the city lights. The twos and in some cases threes are already thrashing with summer’s heat and fire, taking and giving what’s needed anonymously but not at all quietly. The noises of other people finding their pleasure or pain wash over him as he keeps moving, searching for the one he’s looking for. The one who needs it to be like he does, to take over, be rough without apology, cause fear without remorse. Finally there’s one, alone, sitting at the edge of one of the boulders, nearly hidden by a tangle of bushes.
Without a warning word or noise, Dean approaches the man with silent footsteps. He’s big, but not too big to wrap his arms around from behind, pinning him in place against the boulder so that he can be bitten hard on the back of the neck. No questions, no waiting for consent. Just being here in this place, at this time of night is consent enough. The man startles in his arms, soundlessly fights as Dean’s teeth sink further into the soft skin of his neck beneath his shoulder length hair. He tries to kick back at Dean, but there’s nowhere for him to go, Dean pressing him down into the rugged face of the boulder, the weight of his body holding him down until he gives up.
When his face scrapes against the rock for the third or fourth time, the man’s hips push back into Dean sharply, either a sign to get on with it or to stop. And Dean doesn’t care which it is, the dark thrum has taken over, he’s given himself up to it. Dean holds the man’s chest down with the weight of his own and reaches a hand to undo his belt buckle. The clink of the buckle and the metallic hiss of the zipper make the man squirm a little more beneath Dean. But he stops because it only grinds his face harder against the boulder.
Dean lets up a little to undo the man’s pants, pulling them down without unfastening or loosening anything first, tugging them quickly past the man’s hard cock and that’s when he finally makes a noise. One clearly of pain. It doesn’t stop Dean though, it makes him move even more quickly, like the sound has taken off the final restraint on his bloodlust. He stands up, keeping one hand on the man’s lower back, nails scratching deep into the pale skin and lifts the other one back up above his head bringing it down fast and sharp against the man’s ass. The man yelps in pain and surprise, just once, then calms as Dean continues bringing down full force slaps to both cheeks, even presses his ass up higher as if he needs it faster or wants it harder. Dean finally stops when the throb of his hand outraces the throb of his own cock. He spits down onto the man’s upturned ass between his cheeks and jams two fingers in his hole, it’s not at all tight, and it’s already slick. The man came prepared, he did know what he wanted tonight.
“Here,” the man says in a low, breathless voice, and hands him a condom package not turning to look at Dean. Dean takes it without a word, opens it by ripping it with his teeth, rolls it on and rubs his cock all over the man’s ass. The hot skin seems to glow red in the dark, pulsing with the result of all the violent blows Dean has dealt out. It feels good on his cock, makes him even harder knowing the heat came from the pain and violence he caused. Dean gives the man one final slap right over his wet hole.
Hearing the overwhelming thrum of
time for Dean speeds up, needing to be done now. Needing to be gone in the pleasure. The feeding of the compulsion to be done and the Mark silenced.
Then he hears it, Sam’s quiet pleading voice, the same one he used in Magnus’s hideaway, “Dean, you gotta stop. Dean please.” It’s the hardest thing to stop, he can’t, he’s too weak, he doesn’t want to stop, needs to feed it, to give it this so he’ll be done for a while. He growls and continues hitting the man writhing between his hips and the rock.
He feels Sam’s hand on his shoulder now, squeezing him tight, stopping his arm from moving anymore. “Dean, it’s me Sam, you don’t want to do this Dean. I know you. I know you wouldn’t do something like this. You gotta stop, please Dean.”
Slowly he turns his head to look at Sam looming next to him in the darkness. Sam’s eyes glitter and gleam, searching his face, as if he’s trying to see if it’s still even him or not.
“Dean please, if you need this. Take it from me instead,” Sam says with a resigned sigh that carries its own neediness.
The offer of himself. Himself as sacrifice, again. That’s what brings Dean out of the pulsing redness, the cloudy haze of violence and compulsion. The man whimpers below him, wanting it to continue, or finish, or start, or something. Dean hits his bare ass one last time and says, “Go.”
The man stands up, without looking at either of them, pulls up his pants and stumbles away, down the hill as quickly as he can after such a beating.
“You gonna take his place Sammy?” Dean asks with a surly growl.
“If it’s what you need, yeah,” Sam answers quietly, still not removing his hand from Dean’s shoulder.
Dean pushes Sam’s hand off, turns away to look up at the night sky. “I do. I need it. That’s why I’m out here.”
Sam wraps his arms around Dean from behind, and whispers in his ear, “Tell me.”
Stepping away from Sam and out of the comfortable, safe and easy circle of his arms, Dean answers firmly, “No.”
Before Sam can argue or protest, Dean’s got him spun around and up against the rock in the same place the anonymous man was before. Sam’s pants are pulled down just as quickly, without warning or unfastening. Sam yelps once and then quiets. Dean puts his hand that’s still warm and red from the beating of the other man’s ass on Sam’s lower back and sinks all his weight into it so that Sam knows not to move. He brings his other hand, the one on the arm with the Mark up high above his head, then whistling down fast and sharp through the air to crack a hard slap against Sam’s ass. The only sound or reaction from Sam is one sharp exhale, either pain or surprise or both. Again, Dean does not care.
He rains the blows down on Sam, even faster than he did on the other man. All the anger from their recent fighting spirals together with the dark impulses of the Mark. His cock still throbs, hard and hot in the condom, bouncing up against his stomach as he twists to smack Sam one last time. He shoves his first two fingers into Sam’s mouth, and Sam automatically sucks them, licks between them, gets them as wet as he can. Then they’re in Sam’s ass, pumping in and out, scissoring a few times. Dean lines himself up, from some far away part of his rational mind he briefly flashes that he’s glad that at least the condom is lubricated, and plunges into the familiar heat of his brother.
Sam cries out and then goes silent, only moaning quietly when Dean happens to hit him deep inside in the right spot. Dean’s conscious mind goes away when he’s sheathed inside of Sam, driving into him, holding nothing back. Only the heat of Sam’s ass, inside and out keeps him tethered to this world even if it seems like he’s in a red cloud by himself. The dark whisper returns, “This is the only way you can ever have him now.”
Dean stops and pulls out of Sam abruptly. Shakes his head at the voice in his head, “No, not true, that’s not true,” he says in a pained whisper.
“Dean?” Sam asks in confusion, standing up and turning to look at his brother.
Dean yanks the condom off and violently pulls at his own cock with closed eyes, he can’t look at Sam, not now, he needs to finish, the heat and pain throb in his arm until he can’t think of anything else.
“Let me,” Sam says, kneeling down before him. Dean’s hands both find their way to tangle in Sam’s hair. Sam runs his hands up Dean’s thighs and around to his ass to pull Dean towards his open mouth. Sam swallows him down, takes him inside deep and true, opening to his brother’s frantic thrusts.
Dean’s eyes are open, searching Sam’s upturned hopeful ones, but the red cloud comes between them again. Dean leans back, thrusting deep into Sam’s throat and lets loose a terrible broken howl of rage and despair, coming in a crashing wave. Sam holds him steady, takes everything in, letting none of Dean’s release escape. He abruptly stands, takes Dean in his arms, and kisses him deeply, letting all of the hot bitter slipperiness pass between them. Dean groans deeply, somehow sounding more like himself even though the Mark burns and throbs in time with his still accelerated heartbeat.
Sam jacks himself quickly, using his strength against Dean’s post-orgasm fatigue to hold Dean’s forearm down in place, soon releasing all over the Mark. The redness dims quickly and fades back into Dean’s skin as Sam rubs his come into it with soothing fingertips. Dean’s eyes never leave the sight of his brother replacing one mark with his own.
“That’s the mark you really needed,” Sam says, sounding a little too pleased with himself.
Dean steps away from him and busies himself with fastening up his jeans, “No comment.”
“I wish you’d just said something. Told me what was going on,” Sam says, pulling up his own jeans, brushing the dirt off.
Dean shrugs, not able to meet Sam’s eyes, “Couldn’t.”
Normally he’d be apologizing, or at least making sure that Sam was okay, that he didn’t hurt Sam with all the rough stuff, but those thoughts come and go quickly. The Mark, even though it’s quiet and fed at the moment prevents him from dwelling on all the strangeness.
“It’s worse than we thought isn’t it?” Sam asks, sounding as hopeless as Dean knows he should also feel.
Dean doesn’t answer, just walks quickly down the path, retracing his steps back into the heat of the city at night.