Even after having cleaned himself up, Dean can’t rid his mind of the shameful memory of how it felt to kneel there with Sam’s power riding his body while Bobby looked on. Anyway, there’s only so much a washcloth can do, and Dean knows better than to accept Bobby’s offer of a borrowed change of pants. Even more shaming than the knowledge that Bobby witnessed his depravity, though, is the fresh confirmation of just how broken he is.
He cried in front of Bobby, for fuck’s sake. Not just a little, either. He cried like a goddamned little girl while the torn, sharp pain deep inside of him throbbed at each breath and Bobby’s words (lies) twined around Sam’s voice in his head.
::See, baby?:: Sam whispered while Dean did his best to hold still for Bobby’s sketching. ::I told you it would be fine. Bobby knows better than to speak his mind aloud to you. He knows what I’d do to him if he ever tried to hurt you like that.::
Dean had no need to ask Sam for clarification—not when he already knows what Bobby must think of him. He had no reason to doubt—not when the day has been so strained and polite, both Bobby and Deacon on edge to say just the right things so that they’ll avoid upsetting Sam.
Now, as he sits stiffly with one of Bobby’s oversized tomes in his lap and Bobby and Deacon safely on the other side of the table, it’s all Dean can do to keep the tears from coming again. His own weakness turns his stomach, and he wishes desperately that Sam will come for him soon so that he can break down in peace. Or even better, so that Sam can drown Dean’s emotions out with the numbing flood of his power.
Dean was running on a more even keel this morning, with Sam damping the agony in his chest to a manageable roar. He didn’t feel so raw.
A knock on the door brings Dean’s head up hopefully, but he knows almost instantly that it isn’t Sam. Sam’s presence is just as close as ever where Sam is locked inside him, but Dean can sense the miles in his brother’s thoughts, and there are no greeting tendrils of power playing over his skin. Dean ducks his head down again before Bobby can catch his eyes, and stares intently at his book while Bobby calls out, “Yeah?”
The door clicks open and a voice that Dean recognizes as belonging to one of the two guards says, “We were wondering, my prince, what you’d like for lunch.”
Dean stiffens as he senses Bobby and Deacon focus on him. His face heats with a wretched, shamed flush.
‘My prince.’ As though Dean rules here, rather than serves.
Dean won’t answer them. He won’t.
“If these meatsuits are responsible for holding your tongue, we can see it loosened easily enough.”
That’s a threat: Dean’s made enough of his own to recognize one when he hears it. His gut clenches in denial and he forces his mouth open to rasp, “I’m not hungry.”
“Samuel told us to care for you, my prince,” the voice says. “We would be remiss in our duty if you do not eat.”
Like Dean gives a shit.
But Sam’s awareness sharpens inside of him again—Sam keeping watch on him from afar—and Sam’s voice rolls through him, ::I don’t care what, but you’re going to eat. You’ll need your strength when I return.::
Sam’s attention fades again just as swiftly as it came, offering no more than a lingering caress between Dean’s thighs as it goes.
“I—whatever you normally bring is fine,” Dean mumbles, and then squeezes his eyes shut until the demon has bowed its way out again.
Afterward, he has to force his fingers to ease off where they’re gripping the book and is dismayed to see that he’s managed to tear some of the pages. He doesn’t remember clutching it so tightly—more evidence of just how little control he has over himself.
He waits for Bobby to ask about the ‘prince’ comment, but Bobby doesn’t mention it. He also doesn’t raise an eyebrow at the elaborate plates brought in less than twenty minutes later and set up on the table, although from the glances Dean sneaks at Deacon’s expression, this isn’t exactly the norm that he asked for.
Can’t go around serving the royal consort on prisoner’s rations, though. Not if they want to keep their skins intact.
Ellen and Jo stay in their rooms to eat. Deacon brings a plate in to them while Bobby sits with Dean, rambling on about times that Dean doesn’t want to think about anymore. Those days are gone. That man is gone. Even the boy that Bobby occasionally mentions is long dead. And Sam’s absence from Bobby’s stories is painfully obvious, allowing Dean’s mind to fill in the spaces with the ghost in his head. That, of course, attracts Sam’s attention again, and Dean is forced to try to choke down mouthfuls while Sam hums in the back of his mind and strokes sensuous tendrils of power over Dean’s insides.
It’s a wonder he manages to eat anything at all.
Sam comes for Dean in the middle of an awkward game of chess—with a second set that Bobby produced from his room. Even if Dean hadn’t figured out, on closer inspection, that the set by the window has been carved from human bone, he wouldn’t have dared to interrupt his brother’s game.
Chess was Bobby’s idea, and it strikes Dean as a pretty brilliant way to avoid having to keep up the pretense that he isn’t completely disgusted by his visitor. It’s just the two of them in the room now. Deacon left some time ago—supposedly to take a nap, but Dean caught him glancing nervously at the door and he knows that it’s Sam Deacon really wants to avoid. Not that Dean blames him.
Sam announces his presence with a twisting clench of power around Dean’s thighs beneath the table. Before Dean can do more than gasp, the door opens and Sam is in the room. Sam doesn’t give Dean a chance to adjust, either. He comes forward with ground-devouring strides to grip Dean’s chin, turns his face up and kisses him.
Dean is fiercely aware of Bobby sitting just across the table, but he doesn’t quite dare try to pull away. Anyway, he’s already proved to Bobby just how much of a slut he is for Sam. There’s no point in trying to dissemble now. And he missed Sam.
Fuck, he missed him.
“Been wanting to do that all day,” Sam murmurs when he finally breaks the kiss. He nuzzles against Dean’s cheek for a moment, then straightens and settles a hand on Dean’s nape. His power sinks more deeply into Dean at the contact, soothing places that have been chaffing and raw since Sam left. Sam maintains the contact as he strolls around to stand behind Dean, then bends low again and sets his lips to the side of Dean’s throat.
Dean finds himself relaxing despite the shame that accompanies the contact—and then tenses back up again when Sam’s other hand pushes down into his pants.
“Sam,” Dean pants, grabbing his brother’s wrist in a weak protest.
Across the table, there’s a squeal of Bobby’s chair pushing back and then a clatter as it falls to the floor.
“Get your goddamned hands off him,” Bobby spits—like Dean isn’t hard, like there isn’t a large, panting part of him that’s desperate for more, that would do anything if only Sam doesn’t stop touching him. Like Dean isn’t already damaged goods a thousand times over.
Sam’s questing hand freezes. Dean squirms once more before stilling himself, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow pants. The sudden quiet in the room seems deafening.
Slowly, Sam’s head lifts from Dean’s throat.
“What was that?”
“You heard me. He doesn’t want you touching him.”
“Doesn’t he?” Sam’s nose nudges Dean’s jaw meaningfully. His hand shifts inside of Dean’s pants, gripping Dean’s cock and rubbing the head. “Go on, Dean. Tell Bobby what you want.”
::Unless you want me to start removing body parts.::
The threat echoes relentlessly in Dean’s mind, and Bobby hasn’t even begun swearing before Dean gasps out, “I want you. Sam. I want you to t-touch me.” And, silently, he thinks as loudly as he can, not here, please. In the suite. Please. Please take me home.
A feather-light brush of power tells Dean his plea has been heard, but Sam’s hand doesn’t move as he says. “See, Bobby? He wants this. He wants me. His own brother.”
“You sick son of a bitch,” Bobby growls in a choked, disgusted voice.
Dean doesn’t have to meet Bobby’s eyes to know that that tone—those words—are directed at him, and he twists his face away, resting his forehead against Sam’s cheek in a silent plea for protection. Sam’s hand slides from Dean’s nape to grasp the front of his throat, thumb sliding up and down along his jugular.
“I’m going to take you home and fuck you now,” Sam purrs. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Dean breathes fervently. That’s an offer he can get behind with his entire being—even his cringing, shamed side is eager for that defilement, eager to lose himself in Sam’s touch… just as long as it happens behind closed doors instead of here.
Dean is careful not to look at Bobby as Sam slips his hand from Dean’s pants and then helps him up, and Bobby doesn’t speak as Sam guides Dean back out the door. As far as Dean’s concerned, he doesn’t need to speak.
He’s said more than enough already.
Sam falls on Dean as soon as the elevator doors close behind them, cutting them off from view of the two demonic guards (changed from this morning) on Bobby’s door. Sam shoves Dean against the elevator wall, gripping Dean’s right thigh and hauling it high around his waist and rutting forward. There are layers of fabric between them, but they seem paper-thin as Sam rubs against him.
Dizzied by the flames’ renewed attentions, Dean clings to his brother and tries to maintain a grip on his fraying emotions. It’s been such a long day, though, and despite the new, soothing wash of Sam’s power over those torn, ripped places deep inside of Dean, Dean just doesn’t have the strength to even attempt to regulate himself any longer.
He knocks his head back against the mirrored elevator wall and shudders. He knows he’s crying even if he can’t feel his tears through the flames. His mind wants to be here with Sam—here where it’s safe, where he’s loved—but Bobby’s parting words are still rattling around inside his head. Bobby and Deacon’s disgusted glances burn beacon-bright in his memory.
“Shh,” Sam pants, his hands at work opening Dean’s shirt as he drives his hips forward in a sudden, sharp thrust. “I’m here. I love you, Dean. I need you.”
The elevator doors ding their arrival in some distant, far plane, but Sam doesn’t move. His mouth finds Dean’s throat and bites down, sucking greedy bruises into his skin. He loses patience with Dean’s shirt and rips it open with no finesse whatsoever, sending an explosion of buttons through the elevator in plastic shrapnel. Dean has time to suck in a breath and then Sam’s hands are on his sides… his back… moving restlessly over the tattoo while Dean’s awareness of his brother’s presence intensifies and drowns his self-hatred in a sea of need.
::Couldn’t stand his eyes on you,:: Sam confesses as his teeth scrape over Dean’s pulse. He thrusts forward again and again—sharp, staccato motions that feel like fucking, even though Dean is almost positive even Sam can’t manage that when both of their pants are still on.
::I didn’t want to send you down. Didn’t want to leave you there. But you had to know. You had to see what they think of you, baby. They don’t understand. They don’t deserve you.::
Dean’s pretty sure that Sam has that the wrong way around, but the arguments get caught in green and gold lines of fire that seem to have sunk right through his skin and into his soul. He doesn’t resist as he’s hauled through the open doors and down the hall toward the suite.
As Dean staggers along with Sam’s hands wandering everywhere they can and Sam’s power licking over the places Sam can’t currently reach, it occurs to him that he’s been acting like even more of a pathetic asshole than usual today. Crying at every little thing. Unable to summon up even the ghost of his former armor to help in facing Bobby and Deacon.
It’s not my fault, a cringing voice whimpers. How am I supposed to be strong when it hurts so much?
And it does hurt—even Sam’s presence hasn’t done more than dim the agony to an ear-splitting shriek. The pain was bad enough this morning when he first woke up, but it’s worsened steadily throughout the course of the day. As though some sort of natural anesthetic was finally wearing off. Or maybe like Dean was coming out of a prolonged state of shock.
Toward the end there, with Sam still gone and Bobby and Deacon’s scornful revulsion beating at him in the confines of their rooms, it felt like someone poured acid over his insides—like some corrosive, poisonous liquid was eating deeper into him all day.
Now that he’s thinking about it, Dean can feel the acid at work even now, and he whimpers aloud as Sam jars his upper body in tearing the remnants of Dean’s torn shirt free.
“It’s okay,” Sam murmurs, already starting in on Dean’s pants. “It’ll be good. It’ll be so good, just like you want, all right?”
No. No, it’s not all right. None of this is right, and won’t ever be again.
But it’s all Dean is allowed, and it seems a little late to try shutting the barn door. He doesn’t protest as Sam finishes stripping him and puts him on the bed. When he watches Sam hurriedly shed his own clothes before following, there’s even a raw, sharp-edged flutter of desire in his stomach. As Sam’s body covers his again, Dean’s cock is hard and flushed despite his nerves and that lingering, not-quite-smothered shock of pain.
Sam’s mouth descends and cuts off Dean’s air for a moment—Sam’s tongue plunging in deep, taking what Sam wants, taking everything Dean’s offering and reaching for more—and then Sam’s weight lifts long enough for Sam to better position himself between Dean’s legs. Sam’s cock is a heavy, huge weight against Dean’s entrance, where Sam’s power is lapping him open and slick. Dean’s body jerks helplessly against the bed and he groans feverishly.
“So beautiful,” Sam says, soothing a hand down Dean’s chest. “Perfect for me. Mine. All mine.”
He sinks deeper inside of Dean’s soul as he enters Dean’s body—setting off echoes of the first time. Dean can almost feel the cleavers and hooks sharpening, forming themselves from Sam’s power and boundless, grasping need and seeking out those deep, already wounded places inside of him. Hungry for new mutilations.
Dean turns his head to the side, tensing, and Sam’s big hand cups his cheek.
“Not now,” Sam says hoarsely as he seats himself more deeply inside of Dean’s body. “Not yet. I won’t—just this.” His other hand grips Dean’s thigh and jerks his leg up higher, slotting their bodies more perfectly together and driving a choked noise from Dean’s throat. “Just give me this.”
Reassured, Dean relaxes into the moment. He gives himself up to Sam, to his brother’s hunger, and lies as passively as he can while Sam drives both of their bodies into a frenzy. Just like he’s always done, he gives his brother what he needs. And it’s good, just like Sam promised it would be. It’s better than good, actually. It’s damned near ecstasy.
But afterward, when Sam rolls to one side and drags Dean close in his arms, Dean stares wakeful and resigned out at the room. Sam didn’t say ‘not again’; he said ‘not yet.’ The hooks, like the collar, haven’t been destroyed. They’ve just been laid aside for the present in preparation of… of what, exactly? Some mystical, unknown tipping point Dean has somehow managed to keep from falling over? The next time Dean accidentally pisses Sam off? The next full moon? Later tonight?
No, Dean senses as he hides a slight shiver. Not so soon as that. But not so far off, either. Not the way Sam keeps absently sending tendrils of power in that direction and stroking the edges of those sore, raw places with loving caresses that burn with the flames of a thousand suns.
Not yet, but soon.