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Guns, Drugs, Rope and Love

Chapter Text




The 67 black chevy rode smoothly down one street after the other, taking its two occupants to their destiny. Inside the car, the evening shadows danced over the faces of two young, handsome men, particularly when they stopped at a light or when a light post spilled its shimmering light on them. The two people inside were quiet, but that did not mean there was silence in the vehicle. On the contrary, one noisy rock song played after the other, as if the melody tried to mock the seriousness of the two brothers staring out of the windshield.

The man on the passenger seat let his fingers go inside his suit and stroke the handle of the gun he kept hidden there, close to his heart. He hoped, as he always did, that it wouldn't come down to bullets tonight, but there was only so much he could hope for after so many years in the business. The driver's fingers were also restless as he tapped the steering wheel every now and then to the beat of the song, his fingers drumming absently as his mind sharpened and focused on the mission at hand.

When the song ended and another one began, a hand made as if it might do something about the music.

"Shh!" the fingers got slapped away quickly and an annoyed look was cast towards the owner of that hand. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I just think we should go over it again before we arrive."

Dean stared at the street ahead and slowed down when someone crossed the street hurriedly, probably wanting to escape the drizzling and cold and get home soon.

Eventually, he turned off the music and looked at his younger brother.

"We'll go in, say what dad wants us to, and if they cause any trouble, we'll do what dad would have us do."

Sam's jaw felt tight. He had grown into the family business, but that had never made it easy for him to accept the way things were.

"Let's try to stick to talking this time," he tried.

Dean scoffed.

"Yeah, because that will work with Crowley's bunch."

They exchanged a silent and meaningful look before Dean focused on the road again.

Sam tried to relax and be prepared for the little showdown. The truth was that he couldn't wait to get it over with and be home. Going on these missions their dad sent them to was always a perilous activity that could involve shooting, the police, and even death. Of course they had been perfectly trained to handle this kind of situation after an entire life as the son of a mafia boss, but that was of little comfort, Sam thought as Dean parked the Impala on a deserted street and they got out.

The drizzling soon damped their black suits as they made their way through the dark alley and down some stairs towards a small, rusty door.

Dean nodded silently at Sam and he nodded back, letting his brother know he was ready, gun within reach and all senses alert.

"We talk first," Sam whispered.

"Sammy, Sammy…" Dean whispered back and leaned closer to his brother, smiling crookedly. "Just follow my lead."

Sam swallowed hard when he felt his brother's warm breath so close to his face. He felt that familiar dance happen in his chest, that dance that always ended with his heart falling somewhere deep inside of him and sending sparks of electricity all over his body. He remained perfectly still—heartbeats all over the place—until Dean retreated with one of his signature little winks.

Sam's heart fluttered again and he gritted his teeth a little to push his messy thoughts aside and concentrate on the job.

"You all right there? Looking a little unstable, brother," Dean squinted just a little at Sam's sudden discomfort.

"I'm fine. Let's get this done and go back."

Dean waited until Sam picked up his gun. He then smiled at his brother before picking the lock and walking in silently.


~ * ~ 


Lui Marrone was a low rank criminal who had been in and out of prison more times than he had fingers to count. Each time that happened, he promised his grandma he would straighten up and get a job, and each time the job he got involved the trafficking of drugs. It was not like someone uneducated and with poor social skills as himself had many options, so he just accepted the easy money and did what he was told to, until something went wrong and he was forced to stop.

Like now.

He was in the small basement apartment where he and three buddies had been living for the past couple of months. They were given a place to stay and a considerable amount of drugs to distribute, mostly ecstasy and LSD.

Lui stood in the middle of the room, between the mattresses on the floor and before a stained brown sofa, gesticulating and laughing as he told his story to the two long haired, ugly toothed criminals sitting on said mattresses drinking beers.

"And then I said bitch, you better get on your knees and suck it like it's a lollipop!" he gloated, pretending to hold a head near his crotch and thrusting in the air, to the amusement of the two other guys with him.

"That's no way to treat a lady," Dean spoke as he pointed his gun at the tall, thin man.

"Hey, what the hell?!" Lui jumped back and tried to reach for his gun.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," Sam warned and the man stopped in the middle of the way, realizing there were two guns pointed at him. "Or you," Sam raised his gun and pointed at the two other men who made as if they might reach for a weapon, too. "We're just here to talk."

"Talk? What the hell? Do you have any idea who I work for?"

Dean tilted his head a little and smiled.

"Oh, we certainly do."

"We're here to deliver a message to Crowley," Sam went on.

"And collect something," Dean added before casting Sam a sly look. "Word has it that you scumbags have been dealing near schools."

"Yeah, so what? It's out turf, we can do as we please," he argued.

"No, you can't," Sam shook his head. "There's a code Crowley is supposed to respect. No selling near schools, no selling to underage kids."

Lui and the other men scoffed and chuckled a little.

"You're kidding right? We make a lot of money selling to those teens. So what if they want to party a little and get high? Who the fuck are you to tell me or my boss that he can't sell there?"

"We're John Winchester's sons. And you can't sell there," Dean said calmly, green eyes flashing.

The tall man with shoulder length hair wiped the smile right off his face. Of course Lui knew who John Winchester was. Everybody in this business did. Suddenly, he began to feel dread spreading inside of him and craved even harder the feeling of his gun. It wasn't all hopeless, though. Clark was still outside, and he might come back at any moment. If he wasn't high as a kite, he might be able to surprise the brothers and take them from behind.

Sam studied the three rendered dealers, at the bottom of Crowley's empire hierarchy, and hoped they wouldn't try anything stupid.

"Now as a sign of your good faith and understanding of the rules, we expect you to hand us over all the drugs you have with you," he explained.

"What?" Lui looked at his buddies and they laughed nervously. "You can't seriously expect us to give you all our drugs. Crowley will fucking roast us alive if we lose his product!"

"My brother is very polite, so let me rephrase that," Dean tried again. "We're not asking for the drugs. We're ordering you to hand over everything unless you want us to use these?" He moved his wrist a little, meaning the gun.

"You know who we are. You know we'll kill you," Sam threatened, hoping it wouldn't come to that. He knew his dad was right and he meant well. Drugs were okay for adults, but he had morals and decency enough to protect children from it. Yet, having to kill someone to prove a point was never a good thing.

Lui sighed deeply and his upper lip twitched with the hint of a snarl. Getting caught in a drug war between the Winchesters and Crowley was not in his plans at all. Fuck Crowley if he thought he would die for his drugs. If he didn't do as told, he knew he'd be killed tonight.

"All right, all right. I'll go get it. It's in the other room."

"I'll go with you," Dean announced. "My brother will stay here and keep an eye on your friends, right?"

"Yeah, you go ahead." Sam watched as his brother disappeared into another room with the skinny guy who seemed to be in charge of distribution.  

Dean walked into a poorly lit and unkempt kitchen. He grimaced and tried not to touch anything as he followed Lui around, watching him remove drawers and pull small little colorful bags from a secret place into the wall.

"Yeah, put them all in a bag. I'm sure Crowley will be more likely to hear the message when he realizes we took part of his stash."

"What will you do? Sell it to an asylum? Since kids are off limits…" Lui laughed at his own joke.

"Don't be ridiculous. We wouldn't sell this poor quality shit of his anywhere. We've got a reputation to keep. This shit will get destroyed."

"Well, it is a shame," the man sighed sadly and kept on putting everything into a bag. He knew he'd have to disappear for a while after Crowley learned he had handed part of his stash over to the Winchesters, but if you wanted to survive when you were at the bottom of a drug empire, you had to be smart and admit defeat. And they were defeated. Unless stupid Clark decided to come back and realized what was happening before it was too late.

"How can you live in this shithole?" Dean said as he looked around at the greasy and dirty pans lying here and there. He could also see needles and spoons, and knew those men were most likely addicts. It served Crowley right for trusting an addict to sell his shit, Dean thought.

"Well, not all of us have a rich mafia daddy," Lui teased, looking at the gun pointed directly at his forehead.

"Don't get too cheeky," Dean warned. Not that what he had said was untrue, but there was nothing glamorous about living outside the law, unable to live a normal life, and risking your life every day. People didn't grow old in this business. But then again, neither did addicts for the most part.

Lui was still stashing everything into the bag when they heard the loud noise of shouting and fighting coming from the other room. Where Sam was.

Dean's heart raced and his pupils dilated a little. He could hear laughter and groaning, and it didn't sound like Sam was the one laughing.

"Quick. Move," Dean pointed the gun to Lui's head and rushed with him back to the room they had been in before.

What he saw when he got there took his breath away for a couple of seconds. A fourth man had arrived unexpectedly and taken Sam by surprise, probably after listening to their conversation and bidding his time.

"What the fuck, Clark, it was about damn time!" Lui beamed triumphantly, even though he still had a gun pointed to his head.

"He came out of nowhere," Sam spoke into Dean's eyes apologetically. He was caught off guard as he waited for his brother, keeping an eye on the two criminals before him. He couldn't have seen the man who snuck up on him and now had him at gunpoint. The moment he was rendered helpless, Sam was easily disarmed, and now there were two guns against them.

"Let him go!" Dean barked the order. "Now!"

Sam's eyes were fixed on Dean's green ones, and he wouldn't be able to tell which part of his current situation was the most responsible for the fucked up, crazy rhythm of his heartbeats. The life threatening part, or the one where Dean's attention was completely focused on him.

"No, you let my friends go, or I swear I'll kill him," the newcomer grinned and flashed a toothless smile. He was a tall, hefty and tattooed man. And even though Sam could have taken him easily in a fight—because they were extremely skilled at that, too—the element of surprise had worked completely against him. Now, with a gun pressed to his temple, Sam didn't dare move.

"Yeah, you lose, suit!" the man who had been given Sam's gun also pointed it at Dean and caused Lui to grow hopeful and happy.

Dean realized, to his growing distress, that the man who had his brother at gunpoint was high. Drugs could make anyone incredibly unpredictable. They couldn't take chances.

"He's John Winchester's son!" Lui announced. "We can get good money if we hold him for ransom!"

Dean's heart raced. He kept his gun firmly pointed at the group's leader at the same time his eyes never left Sam's.

"I don't care who he is. Kid's going to bite the dust tonight!" he grinned wildly and brandished his gun. "Drop the gun or I swear I'll shoot."

"You drop the gun!" Dean shot back.

"I mean it, man," the man's eyes were wild with whatever he had taken, and his finger was shaky and sweaty on the trigger. "I'll count to three. One…"

"All right, all right," Dean raised his arm and released Lui. The idea that the drug addict could actually harm his brother made Dean's entire body stiff with tension that crept into him and made him completely alert. Making sure Sam was safe was always his priority in any mission. Watching an unpredictable criminal point a gun to his baby brother's head pushed all sorts of buttons inside him that made it extra hard to focus, but he managed to pull his shit together quickly.


"I'll put it down, just don't shoot okay," he begged.

The man grinned as he celebrated his victory, but he could have never imagined that Dean would move so fast.

Dean would have never surrendered his weapon while he and Sam were in danger. Those weren't some high ranked dealers with whom one could negotiate. Those were low criminals who would kill for a pack of cigarettes if they were high enough or desperate enough. The older Winchester pointed his gun and shot in a split second. The bullet made a small hole in the man's forehead and his body fell heavily on the floor, with a thud followed by screaming from his buddies.

"What the hell, man!"

That was when hell broke loose. As Sam tried to snap out of his shook and step away from the dead body at his feet, the shooting began. Dean's gun against two other guns, but the Winchester was trained hard, and he was able to cover for Sam as he struggled with one of the men until he got his gun back.

When they were both armed, they were able to beat the other assailants into a helpless position, but all the shots being fired drew the attention of the police. When sirens could be heard in the distance, the criminals tried to recover and escape.

"We have to go," Sam urged.

"Wait," Dean rushed into the kitchen again.

"What are you doing? We have to go!"

"The drugs."

"There's no time!"

But Dean wasn't listening. He took one of the open bottles of booze from the table and poured it down on the pile of colorful bags Lui had been setting aside. Then, he lit a match over the stove and set the drugs on fire.

"That should get the message across."

Sam nodded.

"C'mon. Hurry."

The two brothers left quickly, jumping past the body blocking the way out and driving away fast on the Impala before the police arrived.


~ * ~ 


It was Friday evening and Castiel Novak couldn't stop looking at the clock. His shift would be over in another hour, and he had a certain destination tonight that stirred butterflies in his stomach and a tingle of arousal down his sex.

The narcotics detective looked over the pile of papers before him but, to be honest, he hardly paid them any heed by now. Castiel knew he had a lot of bureaucratic stuff to fill in and he would have to bring home some work to do during the weekend—nothing unusual. The thirty-two-year-old law enforcement officer was used to spending all his free time piecing together crime scene evidence and trying to find anything at all that could help him catch either of the drug lords who ruled the town. So far, he had been working for the past five years on the mafia drug business, but all he had been able to get were low rank criminals who'd rather go to prison than rat on their bosses.

The detective didn't lose heart, though. Castiel knew that sooner or later he was going to stumble upon some hard evidence that could lead to a big arrest. However, his coworkers didn't share his enthusiasm. Other officers admired him for his hard work, but they did not think it would be possible catching a drug Lord mastermind such as the Winchesters or Crowley and his men.

Castiel knew that the more he worked, the closer he got to the barons of illegal substances, and the more at risk his life was, but he believed he was careful and discreet, and he believed his duty to society came before his own fears for his safety.

All work no play, was how his coworkers called him behind his back, believing Castiel wasn't aware of it. Of course he was. But tonight there would be play. The moment that clock hit eight pm and set him free, Castiel was going to pack all those endless sheets of paper into his neat black bag and would get into his car, hands barely steady behind the wheel.

As people got ready to dine, relax and sleep, Castiel would make his way to The Club. He would strip his clothes off and put on the leather mask. And then, the detective who enjoyed having everything under his control, whose office was always neatly organized and whose coffee took no sugar, would give up all control, find chaos and beg sweetly for his release.

Castiel shuddered and his heart raced.

The Club was his guilty pleasure, had been from the moment he arrived at the city and got to know about it. Over the past couple of years, though, at the hands of the Headmaster, Castiel found himself increasingly addicted to the high, the adrenaline, the buzzing in your ear rush of submitting to that man and having him push his limits. Somehow, it made Castiel understand the world of an addict, because every Friday night his own addiction called to him, begging for that wicked little moment of total and utter freedom he found when he let go.

Castiel licked at his lips and raised his eyes to the clock once again.

Ten minutes.

He began to gather all the important papers and to turn off his desk computer. His fingers fumbled to open the drawer, but when he did, he organized his stapler, pen and badge neatly inside it.

"Hey chief?" The knock on the door preceded the man who walked in.

"I'm leaving now, Gadreel. Send me an email and I'll take a look tomorrow."

"There's a body downtown, in the old part of the city. A cop has just called it in."

"I'm sure someone can take over."

"It's believed to be a drug related murder."

Damn. Castiel took a deep breath and stopped organizing his things.

"Everybody thinks that what happenes in old downtown is drug related," he sounded unfazed.

"Well, there was a pile of burning ecstasy and LSD in the kitchen when the police arrived."

Okay, Castiel thought. That had his attention.

The Club would have to wait, and so would its delightfully handsome, masked and mysterious young Master.

"If you want, someone else can go check it out, but you always say you want to know first-hand about any drug related death, so—"

"You did right," Castiel reassured him. His pleasure could wait, duty could not. "Let me get my gun and my badge. You can fill me in on the way there." 





Chapter Text



Sam and Dean were still panting heavily when they got into the Impala and Dean began to drive away fast and recklessly. They needed to put as much distance between themselves and that place before the police arrived.

"Dean, what just happened there?" Sam sounded out of breath and disturbed.

"What do you mean what just happened there?"

"I thought we agreed not to shoot anyone."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean cast an indignant look at his brother and was finally able to slow down a little, allowing the black chevy to blend in with night traffic. "He had a gun to your head," he pointed out slowly.

"I could've handled it," Sam rushed in quickly. "He caught me off guard, but he was high. I could've totally overpowered him and gotten my gun back."

"Sure," Dean agreed. "If he didn't accidently blow your head off before you did it. His hand was shaking, Sammy, I saw it!"

"You can't know what he would've done, Dean. We got a dead body now and if that isn't bad enough, the police will obviously investigate it."

"They won't get to us. Dad knows which palms to grease if they get too close," Dean said quickly, making a right and heading to the newest part of the city, where gleaming high-rises seemed to defy gravity. "And you're right about something, there's no way to know what that junkie would've done. He might've shot. I didn't want to take chances."

Sam felt his heart still beating erratically and sighed deeply to try and steady it. He knew Dean was probably right, but that didn't mean he had to accept it easily. There was one more body to their count of many, and that would never sit well with him.

"They were just some poor bastards. We would've gotten the drugs, delivered the message and left. Why did this other dude have to come out of nowhere?" he lamented.

Dean calmed down a little and shrugged. He knew his younger brother had a softer, more forgiving heart. It was part of what Dean admired about him—secretly, of course. But someone had to make the tough calls when things began to go to hell, and Dean had no problem being that someone when it came down to their personal safety. No, he took no pleasure in killing. He wasn't a murderer, and only a sick fuck would enjoy doing it. It was a job, and sometimes killing was part of the job, especially when it meant their lives were on the line.

"I know, man," he tried to smooth things over.

Sam thought of the way it had felt when Dean's eyes locked with his while the criminal was pointing a gun to his head. Perhaps Sam should have been afraid to die, and he was a little. He just didn't think he was afraid enough. One could argue that it wasn't the first time he had had a gun pointed to his head. Or that the way Dean had looked at him with something wild and utterly protective had made Sam forget his dire condition and bask, for a ridiculous moment, in how good it felt.

I'm fucked up.

"What did you say?" Dean asked absently as he slowed down and pulled over.

"What? Nothing," Sam swallowed hard. Had he said something? Were his thoughts that loud?

"We're here. Let's give him a report." Dean parked the car and they got out.

Sam stared at the tall building with mirror-like windows and took a weary, deep breath.

The two young men walked past security after nodding at the guard and got into the elevator. It was late, and by that time they didn't run into anyone else in the building.

John Winchester's penthouse office had a breathtaking view of the city lights at night. As Sam and Dean walked in, they saw their father standing behind a desk, talking to a man who looked just a bit older than him and who was sitting on a comfortable leather chair across from John.

"Hi, Bobby."

"Hey, Bobby."

The boys greeted in unison.

"Didn't know I was going to find you here," Sam closed the distance first, kissed Bobby on the cheek, and then walked over to his father to do the same. "Hi, Dad."

"Hey boys," John greeted.

Dean squeezed Bobby's shoulder and nodded at his father from across the table.

"Hey," he exclaimed with surprise when Bobby took the hand he had laid on his shoulder and took Dean's fingers to his nose. "What the hell—" Dean pulled his hand away quickly and frowned.

"So there was shooting. Can't deliver a message without bullets?" Bobby cast a disapproving glance at the boys after smelling gunpowder residue on Dean's fingers.

John watched the scene with serious and interested curiosity. Inside that building and to anyone who asked, he was the wealthy owner of a series of successful bars spread across the city and the neighboring towns. With Bobby Singer's help, John administered the business successfully, making sure they had a cover up job to laundry all the crazy amount of money they made with the drug selling. The bar business was not only a way to laundry the money, it was often a way to sell the product, contact clients and hell, why not, have some fun. Alcohol, gambling and pool playing were just part of the entertainment.

There had never been any shred of evidence linking the Winchesters to anything dirty, and it would remain that way. Bobby was one of the people who helped John make sure of that, uncovering dirt on cops when they needed an inside man.

John trusted Bobby as much as he did his own kids with the more peculiar aspects of the business, and it wasn't unusual that the two of them would meet up to discuss things.

Now, did the name Winchester pop up every now and then, here and there when it came to drugs and gangs? Sure it did, but it was all gossip meant to tarnish the good name of the family. People were just jealous of the successful businessmen and his two sons.

And why wouldn't they be?

John studied his kids. Sam, now twenty one, had a soft heart, a witty and clever mind, sharp and bright, that was sometimes a source of pride and at other times one of annoyance. Though he was sweeter than Dean,—Sam had always been a more affectionate child, perhaps not having the trauma of having seen his mom die in a shooting helped with that—Sam was harder to give orders to, and more likely to confront John in an argument. Nothing that John couldn't handle with his authority and love. Sam could be stubborn and a handful at times, but there was something tender in him that responded beautifully to John's guiding hand. The older Sam grew, however, the harder it might be to keep him in check, but that was something John didn't worry about at the moment.

Then there was Dean, now twenty five, almost going twenty six. The older brother was the perfect soldier, ready to understand commands and carry out missions, careful to do a good job and cause the minimum amount of damage needed. And, most importantly, Dean knew his most important job was family, and John could trust him to protect his brother at all costs. Unlike Sam, though, Dean wasn't physically affectionate—not unless he had to be. His older son kept to himself and his feelings were usually kept hidden within. The deeper the emotions, the harder it was for them to scratch the surface. Dean also had a good, tender heart, but he was a tough guy and not everyone would see past that. John believed it had a lot to do with what had happened to him—to all of them. Having had his baby brother pushed into his arms and being told to run as fast as he could and hide, all that while bullets were being fired and screaming and blood was everywhere, certainly had an impact on the boy who wasn't even five years old at the time.

John might not say it often, but he was extremely proud of them. He had learned from the very beginning how important family was in this business. The whole concept of Mafia revolved around family, trust and a strong bond. John had raised both his kids with the right amount of affection and authority, teaching them to value and respect family. Therefore, he had always encouraged physical affection such as hugging and kissing because he knew, from everything he had studied and then experienced in this kind of life, how important those things were to build a connection. That didn't mean it always worked, though, and eventually it became clear that brothers raised together could have very different personalities.

Yet, even though they had their differences, one thing his sons had in common. They were both deadly in a fight.

"We were caught off guard. We had three of them overpowered, but a fourth one came up out of nowhere," Dean explained, his eyes focused on his father as he gave his report.

John still didn't say anything. He stood perfectly still in his fancy, overpriced suit, studying his older son's flashing eyes and the way his younger seemed a bit edgy and uncomfortable.

"We were left no other choice," Dean went on, this time looking at Bobby, too.

"Any casualties?" John asked.

"A man, yes," Dean nodded.

"Aw, bollocks. Gonna have to bribe a few dirty cops to sweep this under the rug," Bobby sighed deep and heavily.

"Do you agree?" John suddenly spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through Bobby's voice and hitting Sam like it was something physical.

"With what?" he asked as he met his father's eyes.

"Do you agree that the man who died had to be shot down?" John studied Sam's hazel eyes, cataloguing his every reaction.

Sam felt a little tense. He tried to avoid Dean's eyes and his fingers opened and closed into fists. He appreciated Dean trying to protect him by not saying the entire truth, but Sam needed to say what he thought and how he felt.

"I was the one caught off guard," he said. "Dean was in the kitchen getting the drugs when a fourth man snuck up on me. He pointed a gun at me and took my weapon," he explained.

Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly, a gesture John didn't fail to notice. Why did his brother have to go and say all this? They did what they had to do. If they had to go back to that same situation, Dean would have shot the man all over again before waiting to find out whether or not he would shoot his brother.

"Do you think you could've fought him for your gun back?" John questioned.

"I do," Sam puffed out his chest and ignored Dean's annoyed look.

"He was high," Dean interfered. "The man was high, his hand was shaking and his gun was pressed to Sam's temple. He threatened to pull the trigger unless I put down my gun." Dean looked intently into his father's eyes because he knew John would understand. After all, John had been the one who taught him never to give up his gun in a hopeless situation.

"A high criminal is a dangerous criminal," John said slowly, and Dean relaxed visibly.

"With a little more time I could've gotten away, I could've—"

"You did right, Dean," John cut Sam off. "If he was high and unpredictable, he could've shot without even meaning to. You don't play around when family's on the line, Sam." He held the stare when Sam gave him a flustered and angry look, and did so until his son looked down at his feet and his upper lip twitched a little with defeat.  "When someone you love can die, you kill first." John felt his chest tight at the memory of his dead wife. If only he had known then what he knew now about criminals and about shootings.

John's and Dean's eyes met with silent reassurance and understanding. There was a complicity in the way John nodded at Dean and caused his older son to relax, while his younger looked obviously annoyed and displeased.

"Yeah, whatever. Now we'll have the cops sniffing around, and another corpse to the list," Sam mumbled.

"I'll take care of it, kid," Bobby said kindly as he sensed Sam's dark mood. "Sometimes you can't help getting your hands dirty, you know that."

Sam did, but he didn't want to cave. His father and Dean seemed to have a perfect understanding on that level, and Sam felt left out and bothered.

"Anyway," Dean spoke, sensing his brother's uneasiness. He wished Sam would just let it rest. "We couldn't get the drugs, but I burned them all before leaving. That should give Crowley the message."

"Great. As long as he feels it in his pocket I don't care what happened to the drugs."

"Or the people…" Sam said bitterly and earned himself a steely look from his dad, which he chose to ignore.

"Is there anything you want to say, Sam?" John asked, his voice calm and controlled, but also challenging to those who knew him well.

Please don't. Just drop it, Dean begged into his brother's eyes. He was not in the mood to witness another argument between his dad and his baby brother.

"No. I'm just tired I guess. We should go home."

"That's a good idea. You go and get some rest," John relaxed his shoulders when Sam caved. Once again he wondered for how much longer Sam would remain so pliant to his commanding tone.

"Let's?" Sam looked into his brother's eyes.


"I'm not done with you, Dean," John spoke again. "I have some things to go over with you before you leave." There was something in John's eyes that Dean understood immediately, and he knew he wouldn't be driving his brother back home.

"Yeah, sure."

Sam watched the interaction and his mood grew even more sour. Knowing he would be going home alone was able to take away a small little pleasure he had been looking forward to—the trip back home beside Dean in the Impala. Sure, they drove together all the time. Sam believed he had ridden more miles in that car than he could possibly count, but still, it was always something that tickled his heart. The closeness of the ride. Even if they picked on each other and weren't in the easiest of moods.

"Can I have the keys, then?" he looked at his brother.

"Yeah, you wish," Dean scoffed.

Bobby watched the two of them and could see a storm rising in Sam's hazel eyes, so he interfered before it was too late.

"C'mon. I'll drive you. I was on my way out anyway," he said and got up. "My meeting with your daddy is over." Bobby then looked into John's eyes, who nodded.

Sam looked from Dean to Bobby, and then it looked as if he might say something, but Bobby's hand on his shoulder kept him.

"Let's go, kid. It's getting late."

Sam nodded and let himself be guided out of the office.


~ * ~ 


When they were alone, John sat on his comfortable leather chair and studied his older son quietly for a moment. There was the hint of a pleased smile in his eyes, but his lips were unreadable.

"Yeah? Is this about The Club?"

John nodded.

"Any trouble?" Dean frowned.

"Quite the opposite," John said. He watched his son with approval as he took a couple more steps towards him. He'd had a feeling Dean would not only have a good time, but also thrive at The Club. It felt good being right. "The Headmaster seems to have a flock of admirers."

"Oh." Dean was a little taken aback by that. It was a compliment, wasn't it? "I guess that's good…?" He stratched the back of his neck, feeling a little weird.

"That's great, son." John seemed to study his son attentively, until Dean grew a little uncomfortable under his dad's look. "How do you feel about it? Are you having fun?"

Dean smiled a little and his green eyes glowed. During this past year his life, well, his night life mostly, had definitely taken a turn, and it was without a doubt a fun one.

"Yeah, I've been enjoying myself."

"That's good. Bobby tells me clients keep asking for you, which makes me understand you're not taking it lightly. I assume you're also doing your research in order to perfect your skills and deliver the best."

Dean knew what his father wanted to know. John had a hell of a reputation in The Club he founded. It was only natural he was probing Dean in order to find out if he would indeed make a worthy successor.

"Of course I am, Dad. I went through all the books you gave me and I ordered a few more online."

"That's good. Bondage and discipline can be fun, but it's also a big responsibility. I'm sure you know it by now."

"I do." There was a lot of psychology behind the Dom/sub dynamics and even though reading and studying weren't exactly Dean's favorite part of the whole thing, he could see how it all came together in the dungeons.

"Good. How about Sam?"

"How about him?" Dean felt his heart race with a surge of protectiveness.

"Do you think he knows anything?"

"No way." Dean shuddered at the thought of Sammy being involved in that kind of thing.

"We should keep it that way. I don't think he's cut out for the job the same way we are."

Dean nodded. He couldn't agree more. If it were up to him, Sam would never find out about The Club.

"I tell him I have to run some errands for you or just wait until he's asleep to sneak out."

John nodded.

"Are you going there tonight?"

"It's Friday, isn't it?" Dean then checked his phone. "Yeah, I have a regular that comes on Fridays."

"Regulars are good," John nodded. "They mean you're doing a good job, giving them what they need." His eyes then got lost as he studied a few pages on his desk.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, you can go," John said. "I'll let you know if I need anything. I don't know what time I'll be getting home tonight or if I'll go home at all. Gotta do the math of the last week. You have fun," he eyed his son meaningfully before going back to his papers.

Dean nodded and walked towards the elevator. For a moment, as the doors closed, he let his mind drift to everything that had happened tonight. The sight of Sam with a gun pointed to his head still made him feel shaky and stirred all sorts of feelings inside of him. Part of him wanted to just go home, choose a movie and watch it beside his brother, making sure Sam was fine and being just a normal couple of brothers for the night.

Yet, a different sort of duty called to him, so Dean got into the Impala and drove towards The Club. As he did so, he tried to push all thoughts of Sam off of his mind—not exactly the easiest task—and prepare himself mentally to assume his role for the night.

Dean entered the Impala, but it was the Headmaster who came out.


~ * ~ 


"You shouldn't let it get to you," Bobby said as they drove to John's mansion in the country part of the city.

"Dad's disapproval? Yeah, I try to brush it off."

"It's not really disapproval."

"No, it's just that he'll always side with Dean because they think alike, no matter what I do or say."

"That's not true."

"It is. Dad and Dean just seem to have this mind reading thing going on where they can leave me out with just a look," Sam shook his head a little and frowned as he thought about it.

"John was afraid."

"Afraid? Dad?" Sam scoffed.

"He was. When you guys described the mental picture of a gun pointed to your head, that got to him. He agreed with Dean because he's afraid of losing any of you," Bobby explained. "You should know that by now."

Sam seemed pensive as he considered that.

"Your daddy will kill anyone who threatens you boys."

"Yeah, then maybe he should consider a different lifestyle. Running a drug empire will always threaten our lives, you know?" Sam said matter-of-factly.

Bobby shrugged and ended up nodding.

"It's not up to me to say anything about that, Sam. But I don't think you're wrong. Eventually, one can grow tired of this business and choose a more peaceful life," he paused and drove in silence for a moment. "Would you like that? Having a different life for yourself?"

Sam's heart raced a little. Had he ever thought about it? Certainly yes. He didn't see himself running a drug empire until he was old. He didn't think it was a healthy activity to do when you got older, that was, if you had such a privilege of aging in this business.

However, in the middle of his thoughts there was always Dean. Sam knew his brother enjoyed the risky life, even though he might not immediately admit so. And the idea of parting ways and leaving Dean behind was just something Sam wasn't ready, and didn't even want, to dwell on. His heart wouldn't let him, so Sam dismissed it.

"I don't know, Bobby. Sometimes I do, but then again, this life is all I know. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, they say. Perhaps life outside it isn't as great as it seems."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Here we are." Bobby pulled over and Sam got out.

"Thank you, Bobby."

"You're welcome, kid. Take care and lock the doors."

Sam watched Bobby drive away and turned around. He punched in his password and got in without setting the alarm off.

The younger Winchester went straight up to his room, where he kicked off his shoes and took off his clothes. Sam took a long shower to wash away the night and walked back into his room with a towel wrapped around his waist.

The house was in complete silence, which meant neither Dean nor John were home yet. No surprise there, though it was a little disappointing not having his brother's company.

Oh well, he thought, being alone had its perks. After the way the evening had turned out, he could use a distraction to help him relax and sleep better.

Still, after making sure he was the only one home, Sam locked the door of his room before he sat in bed with his laptop.

His large and trained fingers knew exactly what to type when he accessed the internet, and within seconds Sam was looking at what he wanted. His secret, dirty, guilty pleasure. The go-to fantasy he allowed himself to enjoy in the privacy of his unleashed imagination.

On the screen, Master Dom walked into the dungeon and prepared to punish a slave. Sometimes Sam liked to watch a girl being disciplined, sometimes he enjoyed watching a boy. Both scenarios were extremely arousing, and just like Master Dom, he seemed to appreciate them equally.

As Sam watched the silent, masked man move, his perfect and slightly hairy chest making him look so powerful and so good, he hooked a finger around the towel and exposed himself.  Those videos never focused too much on the Master's face, even though the mask itself would make it impossible to see his identity. On the rare occasions they did, Sam shuddered at the steely authority behind that look, and his sex tingled with arousal at how hot he felt about the whole thing. That video in particular was one of his favorite ones. Master Dom punished a male slave, and the camera actually focused on his dominating eyes a few times.

Watching it build from the punishing and the expectation was almost as hot as the fucking itself. Sam's hand was already working on himself, stroking slowly up and down, hoping he would last throughout the entire video.

As it often happened, though, he barely made it past the first ten minutes before finding his climax and coming all over his fingers. Sam's body tingled and he breathed rapidly after his orgasm. Still, even though his body was sated, Sam skipped to the end of the video. He watched as the Master dished out some aftercare, gently tending to the injuries inflicted upon the slave and showering him with attention.

So. Fucking. Hot.

Sam licked at his lips and sighed deeply. He then cleared his browser history, cleaned himself in the bathroom and unlocked his door. He was still alone in the house.

When he laid his head on the pillow in order to find some sleep, Sam's dreams were an odd and interesting tangle of BDSM dungeons and Dean driving fast in his Impala. At some point there was a gun pointed to his head, but Dean was the one holding the gun, and Sam knew it was not a real weapon. The feeling of being overpowered and handled by his brother, though, that was very real, even in the dream.

When Sam woke up in the middle of the night his heart was racing.

Not that it was a bad dream.

Sam smiled and shut his eyes, hoping he could go back to sleep and fall back into the same dream, where no one knew about his desire and no one, not even himself, could judge him for his pleasure.




Chapter Text



While Sam prepared to sleep peacefully after pleasuring himself, Dean arrived at The Club after a quick drive and ran into Bobby for the second time that night.

"Hey," Dean nodded at him as he walked into the bar.

"Hey," Bobby nodded back.

The younger man walked past several pool tables with groups of people, mostly men, gathered around playing, smoking and drinking. He barely paid them any heed as he made his way to the bar and put his hands flat on the counter.

"Is Sam home?" He asked, even though he knew the answer to that.

"Probably sleeping like a princess now," Bobby replied with the hint of a smile.

"Good," Dean said curtly. He was extremely aware that his baby brother was not a baby anymore, but he found some sweet comfort knowing he was safe at home, unaware of the wicked kind of activity the older Winchesters sometimes engaged in.

"Do you want a drink or are you going straight to The Club?" Bobby asked as he stood behind the bar, drinking a shot himself.

"I'm going straight in. I'm running late, actually. There's a regular on Fridays."

"Then I won't keep you from it." Bobby's voice was calm and unhurried.

Bobby Singer wasn't just someone John turned to when he needed to deal with cops. The sometimes grumpy man with a big heart who had often helped raise John's kids was also the one in charge of administering the bars John owned to laundry money. But more than just taking care of the drinking and pool playing business, Bobby was in charge of running The Club. Now, perhaps one would find it weird that someone so guarded about his private affairs and so unlikely to be seen in the company of a partner would be the one responsible for running a secret sex club, but John had always thought his friend was perfect for the job.

You shouldn't trust an addicted to run a drug empire, and you shouldn't trust a man prone to giving in to his lustful desires to run a sex business. Bobby was rational and smart. He could scare away potential troublemakers and even though his face wasn't exactly warm to new comers, he didn't need to be the one dealing with The Club's clients. His job was to make sure people who knew the code got taken to the back part of the bar to have what they truly sought. He made sure everything ran smoothly and that they weren't bleeding too much money from it. Because no, The Club wasn't part of what made the Winchester's money. On the contrary, sometimes they put more money into the settings, clothing, drinks and service than they got in return.

The Club wasn't a business as much as it was entertainment.

Dean went past the counter and walked towards the red velvet curtains on the wall in the back of the bar. He drew the curtains open and saw the blue neon sign that read The Club. Unlike club clients, Dean wouldn't have to wait for Bobby's permission to go inside, a safety measure to make sure clients and staff wouldn't run into one another and ruin the anonymity most people looked for.

His hand went for the doorknob and he turned it, being immediately swallowed up by a different atmosphere and leaving behind the smokey and chatty one in the bar.

"Headmaster," he was greeted the moment he walked in.

There was no Dean Winchester now. Inside that place of fantasy, he was The Headmaster, and he liked it that way.

"Hey Chief. Everything good here?"

"Perfect. You're going to get changed?"

"Yeah. My nine o'clock sub must be waiting." Dean walked towards a door that read Headmaster and opened it. Inside the dressing room there was a bed, a small fridge, two comfortable armchairs and a large mirror on one of the walls. All sorts of leather clothes and sex toys could be seen on hangers and shelves, neatly organized.

"Oh, the man didn't come in. He had to cancel for some reason."

Dean seemed to consider that for a moment. The client he worked on on Fridays was usually very faithful to their scheduled time. Something must have come up. Something Dean didn't give a rat's ass about.

"Is there another session booked?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's a girl. First timer." The chief gave him a look and a racy smile. "I'll give you her contract so you can take a look."

"Fine." Dean began to take off his suit and then unbutton his shirt as the man left and returned quickly. He was kicking off his shoes and removing his socks when the Chief came back. "Close the door," he instructed.

When they were alone in Dean's dressing room, the older man known as Chief put a folder with some sheets of paper on top of a desk.

"Busy night?" The Headmaster asked absently.

"The usual for a Friday." They worked with a schedule in the club, with swing parties happening on Mondays and private sex parties usually booked on Tuesdays. On Wednesdays, the BDSM practice started, with The Headmaster working alone, and on Thursdays the Chief and the Lady, The Club's only Mistress, were in charge of sessions. On Fridays, The Chief and The Headmaster were scheduled to work, and on Saturdays Master Dom, the club's most famous Master, had sessions booked every now and then. If he didn't, either the Headmaster or the Lady took control of the clients. The club didn't work on Sundays. "You okay there? You look a bit tense."

"Yeah, just had to kill a man who snuck up on Sam."

"Shit…I'm sorry to hear that."

Dean nodded.

"You sure you're good? I can get someone else to step in…"

"Thanks, Benny. I'm fine. It'll be good to get my mind off of it."

The tall and well-built man stared at his friend and nodded. He stood by the door as Dean opened the folder and began to go over the sub's contract.

"You look like you could use a drink, man."

"Yeah, I could. But I'll get through this session first. Drink with me in a couple of hours, will you?" Dean asked.

"Sure. Have fun." Benny opened the door and walked out, becoming once again The Chief.

Benny Lafitte used to be one of John's top drug distributors, and over the years he and Dean had become quite good friends after working on a few missions together. Because eventually Benny had marriage problems and depression struck, he had turned to drugs and made a bit of a mess on the job. Losing his wife to a close friend and then having her sue to take everything he had was hard on the man, and Benny began to use some of the drugs he was being paid to sell. Because John had come to know and like the man, and because of Benny's friendship with Dean—his son had reassured him that Benny had saved his ass more than once—John had gone easy on him, helping Benny get clean instead of punishing him with death or some fate worse than dying.

After getting clean, Benny knew he couldn't be trusted around drugs again, but he still needed a job and he could still be a valuable asset. He was strong, charming, and if you made sure no drugs were directly involved, he could be trusted to help a friend out with his own life if need be. That's why John had relocated Benny to this other job in The Club. Without having to deal with narcotics, Benny learned he was extremely good at dealing with whips and handcuffs. He studied all the books and videos John made him go over and became a fine Master in the house.

He was extremely grateful to the Winchesters for the second chance, even though he knew Dean's younger brother, Sam, hadn't really forgiven him for the slip up. Last time Benny had accidently run into Sam in John's office, the younger brother had voiced his discontentment when he learned Benny was still working for the family. Sam had learned the lesson well—he didn't think an ex addicted could be trusted again. However, Sam didn't know the nature of Benny's new job with the family. How could he, when he didn't know about The Club's existence?

Benny didn't know why John Winchester and Dean kept the Club a secret from the younger man, but he didn't care either. As long as he had a good job and got to work with his good friend, he couldn't care less about the Winchester's private affairs.


~ * ~ 


As Dean adjusted the half mask over his face, his fingers smoothing over the leather against his skin, his green eyes read the contract the girl had signed. He knew by heart everything it said about The Club and its Masters, but every time a first timer came around he paid very careful attention to what they were expecting from him in order to deliver the best session possible. He paid special attention to the girl's hard and soft limits, figuring out how to better push her limits but also respect the trust she would be putting in him. Dean,—no, with the mask on he was no longer Dean—the Headmaster smiled appreciatively as he went over the girl's fetishes. He felt a tingle of arousal in his groin and his blood pumped faster. Then, his eyes fell on the bottom lines of the contract.

Do you wish to have the session filmed? If so, do you allow it to be shared online so long as your identity is preserved?

Both boxes were ticked.

"Interesting," he licked at his lips. First timers were usually shy about being filmed, and particularly reluctant about having the footage shared online. Not this girl, though. Not Francesca—whatever her real name was, the Headmaster didn't know and didn't care. It made sense though, considering her fetish included being verbally humiliated and physically exposed during her pleasure, knowing she would be filmed for sure enhanced the whole experience. "All right, then." The Headmaster closed the folder, picked up a few whips and toys and walked out of his dressing room.


~ * ~ 


In his penthouse office, John Winchester filled a glass of whiskey and took a sip. He sat on his comfortable leather chair and admired the view as he went over his conversation with his son. Speaking about The Club made something stir inside of him and John smiled at the feeling. It had been a while since he had last gone from John Winchester to Master Dom.

Not that he didn't go to the club anymore. He certainly still enjoyed the entertainment. As the years went by, though, John became more focused on the drug business and the long term war he had against those who had taken part in his wife's death. The Club needed some fresh blood, someone young and vigorous to take control and carry on with the training of willing subs.

Since Dean turned sixteen years old, John had watched how the girls were drawn to him. His two sons were good-looking, but Dean had Mary's charm and had a way with girls that just made them swoon over his bad boy attitude and gentle heart. It wasn't until Dean turned twenty-three, though, that John began to probe him about his sexual interests, which at first had been weird, but ended up leading to interesting discoveries. Dean was a gentlemen with girls, but he had a very commanding and rough streak. The combination of kind but firm was what made a good, a great Master.

After an honest conversation in which John told his son everything about The Club and BDSM sex, he knew he had ignited Dean's interest. From that conversation on, it had taken Dean about a year to actually begin experimenting with bondage in the club, learning to read subs' needs and deliver pain and pleasure. When he began to enjoy the physical aspect of it, John began to teach him the psychological implications of healthy, fun Dom/sub dynamics.

As the years went by, John became more fascinated by the paradoxical relations of power play in bondage sex. It became less about pleasure and more about a dive into the human psyche with its needs and desires. John was fascinated by, and made sure Dean understood, how nothing was as simple as it looked. The sub, the one who apparently gave up all control in the session, was actually the one in charge. A safe word, a contract, everything had to be consensual for the fantasy to take over. It had to be as fulfilling to the Dominant as it was to the submissive part of the equation. And oddly enough, John had begun to apply the techniques he had developed after years of perfecting his dominating skills into his own drug business, being an attentive, caring but firm boss who knew exactly how to lead his little empire.

It filled him with pride seeing Dean thrive as a young master in The Club. He had big plans for Dean to take over the business when he got old or simply grew tired of dealing with the ups and downs or being a drug Lord. As for Sam, both John and Dean had agreed, almost silently, that the youngest Winchester should be sheltered from what went on in The Club running behind Bobby's bar.

For John, Sam was just now becoming a man; he had just turned twenty one, and unlike Dean, his youngest son had always been much more reserved about his private life. Sam had never paraded his dates, never bragged about flirting with different girls, and when he did take an interest in someone, he was extremely private about it. It seemed as if Sam was much less inclined to giving in to lust and passion, but of course John could be wrong. He knew one could end up overlooking important personality traits when they were too close to the person in question. But still, there was no denying that Sam and Dean were different. If given a chance, John knew his younger son might leave the family business and aim for a normal life. He couldn't blame him, but he also couldn't share the same level of trust he did with Dean. Sam wasn't as bothered by thoughts of revenge as Dean was. Perhaps the fact that he had grown up sheltered from so much, both by him and then by his big brother, had caused it. But perhaps it just meant that Sam was made of something different, and that was okay.

John didn't want to have Sam judging what Dean and he did in The Club. It was enough being judged by his youngest son when it came to their handling of business and drug affairs. Bondage and discipline were not aspects that appealed to everyone's taste, and both John and Dean assumed Sam was better off not having to deal with the sort of wicked fantasies being unleashed in The Club's dungeons.

He knew that eventually Sam might catch a whiff of The Club, but they had been very careful until now, and John had no reason to believe his younger son would be exposed to Dean's and his alter egos any time soon. He was glad Dean was good at sneaking out and coming up with excuses. With the way his kids had grown close without their mom, John could only imagine how hard it was for Dean to lead this secret night life without his brother growing suspicious. The shady drug activity certainly helped cover up for the nights Dean spent out doing some important work for dad.

Tonight everything was under control. Even though the mission had had a casualty, it would be dealt with as soon as a problem presented itself. Dean was being the Headmaster at the club, and Sam was home, sleeping peacefully and obliviously. Everything in its right place, but John didn't feel like going home and resting, and the desire to go to the club and have fun wasn't that strong.

Instead, John Winchester opened a locked drawer in his desk and pulled out some files.

It had been so many years ago, but he still looked for that one criminal who had fired the deadly shot. In the picture clipped to a document, John studied the pale eyes of one of FBI's most wanted murderers.


That name and that photograph triggered so many feelings that John took a long sip of his whiskey, hoping to numb some of the pain. Mary had paid with her life for the Campbells' messy business, and John wouldn't rest until he got revenge on the man who had turned him from a simple mechanic to a true Mafia boss, running a drug empire, a chain of bars with alcohol and gambling, and a sex club where wild fantasies became a reality on a daily basis.


~ * ~ 


Inside the dungeon where John Winchester, known as Dom in The Club, began to delve into fetish sex and domination techniques fifteen years ago, his son stepped in and took control. The Headmaster looked at the girl tied to a post right in the middle of it. Her hands were tied behind her back and a spreader bar kept her legs lustfully open. She was completely naked except for the pink mask covering most of her face. Still, she looked pretty and vulnerable, and Dean's blood rushed fast with arousal.

As he approached her with careful and controlled footsteps, he could hear the hitching of her breath and see the flush of desire on her cheeks.

"Tell me your safe word," he demanded.

The girl's lips parted and for a moment she just breathed in and out with expectation.

"Purple," she uttered.

Dean let the black riding crop in his hand run over her body, teasing nipples until they stood at attention, and then trailing lower until the small little touch teased her lower belly.

"Good. Now Francesca, I understand you've been a bad girl," he spoke in a low, gritty voice after having carefully studied what the girl expected to hear in the session and what would turn her on the most.

"I have," she said

Dean hit her thighs with the riding crop once and she gasped with surprise at the small pain.

"Yes, Headmaster," he instructed her.

"Yes, I have, Headmaster."

"Well then, I'm here to give you the punishment you deserve." He let the riding crop fall to the place between the legs forcefully spread and began to move it slowly, rubbing it teasingly against her sex until she moaned and writhed a little. Dean smiled lewdly when he saw her thighs shake as the pleasure built. "You'll only come when I allow you to, do you understand it?"

"Yes, Headmaster," her voice sounded broken and needy.

"If you come before I tell you to, I'll be forced to punish you even harder," he threatened.

During the next hour, The Headmaster pushed the limits of the girl both physically and psychologically, and when it was over, he turned off the camera, untied her and checked her wrists for any bruising.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly as he sat next to her and offered her a robe to cover her naked—spent and satisfied body.

"Yes…that was…wow…" she looked into the masked man's emerald eyes and shuddered.

"You were such a good little girl today," he nuzzled her hair and let his breath tickle her cheeks and neck. "I'm so proud of you, Francesca," he gave her the aftercare she deserved after enduring the punishment and release.

"You are, Headmaster?" Her eyes glowed when he nodded.

"There's a warm bath and a massage waiting for you just outside that door," he explained and helped her to her feet. "I have to go now, but I'll see you again the next time you misbehave," his voice was kind but firm.

The girl nodded, still feeling quivery after the intense physical activity, and left through the door the Headmaster had pointed.

Dean sighed deeply and left too, walking towards his dressing room where he took a shower and changed into comfortable clothes.

A few minutes later, Benny knocked on the door and Dean let him in.

"How was it?" the Chief asked as he poured them a dose of whiskey and sat on the armchair across from his friend.

"It was good. School girl fetish."

"Oh, I love those. Mine was a dude who enjoyed being called abusive things. Interesting night."

They both toasted and drank.

"What is it?" Benny looked at a book lying on the table where Dean's mask was. The cover of the book depicted a girl tightly bound by ropes in a beautiful black and white image. "Shibari?"

"Yeah," Dean looked at the book. He had been reading a lot about it, but had only used it with a few clients before. "It's a Japanese bondage art that—"

"Dean, I know what Shibari is. I'm not a virgin," he chuckled.

"Right," Dean laughed a little and shook his head.

"I just didn't know there were books about it."

"Oh, there are many. Dad gave me this one."

"Nothing's as simple as it looks, eh? To think there are actual books written about tying someone up and fucking their brains out," he drank and smiled.

Dean chuckled and nodded, but the truth was, he didn't exactly agree. The more he read about it, the more fascinating the book became—shibari was so much more than tying someone up and fucking them. In fact, sex didn't even need to be part of it. He didn't want to talk about it now, though.

"So, you wanna tell me about that mission you went on this afternoon?"

"Not really," Dean said quickly. "I'd rather just drink and talk about other shit."

"Yeah, we can do that."

The Headmaster and the Chief talked and drank for about two hours, and when Benny left, Dean realized he shouldn't be driving. He was sleepy and a bit drunk, so he chose to crash at The Club for a few hours before he headed home.


~ * ~ 


It was eight a.m. when Sam heard the noise of someone moving and cooking downstairs. Since John always skipped breakfast, Sam knew his brother was the one in the kitchen right now.

The thought made him smile almost inadvertently and he got up faster than he might hadn't he heard anything. Sam put on sweatpants and slippers, and grabbed a white tank top shirt lying over a chair in the corner of the room. He stared at it for a moment before putting it back on the chair. His heart raced when he chose not to wear it. He had been working out and he knew he looked good. And he knew Dean was downstairs, right? The thought tickled him and he bit back a smile.

Feeling irregular heartbeats drumming in his chest, Sam went into the bathroom and put some cologne. He could barely hide from what he saw in the eyes staring back at him in the mirror.

When Sam went down the stairs and walked into the kitchen, shirtless and fresh after his eight hours of sleep, he saw his brother frying bacon and eggs. Dean looked like he could have slept a couple more hours, but he still looked very handsome in his plaid shirt and jeans.

"Morning," Sam said.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Dean watched as Sam moved right past him. He couldn't help his eyes from lingering over the well-defined muscles of his brother's abdomen. "Someone's been working out," he teased in an apparent neutral voice.

Sam felt one or two butterflies flutter around his chest but he hid the feeling quickly—or so he thought. "It's healthy," he said matter-of-factly. Then, he opened a cabinet, picked up a mug and filled it with milk and granola.

Dean's upper lip twitched a little with a grimace when he saw it.

"Really? I'm making bacon and eggs here. You need protein if you want to get strong."

"I said I want to be healthy," Sam pointed out. "You really should be careful about what you eat," he went on teasingly. "Aren't you afraid this is bad for you?"

"This is bacon," Dean stated, unfazed.

"You're young, but if you want to keep your good shape you'll have to start eating healthy, eventually."

Dean smiled wickedly for a moment.

"Eventually." He was glad Sam was apparently in a good mood after the events of the previous night. His brother must have had a good dream.

Dean walked closer and looked right into his eyes.

"I am in good shape, though, aren't I?" he beamed and gave his brother a silly smile.

Sam tried hard not to mirror him. He still hadn't gotten over the previous night.

"C'mon, Sammy, give me a smile," Dean provoked.

"Cut it out," Sam grumbled and grabbed a spoon. He looked annoyed, but it was a half-hearted feeling.

"Can't believe you'll choose bird food over my bacon and eggs," Dean grabbed Sam's spoon off his hands.

"Hey, give it back."

"C'mon, man."

"I mean it, Dean." Sam tried to get the spoon but Dean teased him by hiding it behind his back and out of reach.

"Fine, keep it," Sam sighed with annoyance and opened the drawer to get another one.

"Are you still mad at me for last night?"

"You jumped the gun there."

"I saved your ass."

"Yeah, whatever you want to believe, man…"

"Hey—" Dean closed the small distance between them and grabbed Sam's wrist, causing him to drop the new spoon.

Sam's heart raced erratically and his breath caught. His chest had to work a little extra hard as he processed how close their faces were.

Dean's mood instantly shifted when the closeness allowed him to smell his brother.

"Did you put on cologne to have breakfast?" he asked quizzically and his lips curved with a smile.

Sam felt the ground shift beneath his feet. His heartbeats were all over the place and his pupils were probably blown. Suddenly, the amount of desire he dealt with and repressed on a daily basis spun out of control and Sam licked at his lips, feeling deliciously vulnerable under Dean's knowing eyes.

"It's my aftershave, don't be ridiculous," he lied and pulled his wrist free.

"Are you sure? Because damn, it smells good." When Sam turned around, Dean let his nose graze his brother's neck and enjoyed the scent.

Goosebumps broke all over Sam's skin and the younger man felt a tingle of arousal take him by surprise.

Sam turned around again and looked into his brother's eyes. He didn't know what Dean saw, but he must have seen something because he tilted his head a little with evident interest.

"The only thing I smell is bacon burning," Sam managed to say and then put some distance between them, grabbing his granola and spoon and leaving.

Dean turned off the stove as Sam walked away. It was so fucking weird, but for a moment there, all his dominating instincts had tried to kick in and tell him Sam was hot and bothered. When Dean thought about the sub girl from The Club, there was hardly any difference in the way Sam's body had responded to their sudden closeness. Breath hitching, pupils dilating, goosebumps…

He was going crazy, wasn't he?

Dean shrugged his thoughts off. All those books on the psychology of Dom/sub desire were beginning to cloud his judgement.

Yet, the older brother could not seem to push the thought away, perhaps because it wasn't the first time he had picked up on it.

Over the past months there seemed to be something odd in Sam's behavior, something Dean couldn't quite figure out but that just happened to be there at the most unexpected moments. Like now, with Sam coming into the kitchen shirtless and smelling so fucking good like he was going on a date.

Dean ate his bacon quickly and pondered.

Maybe he wasn't going crazy after all.





Chapter Text



Sam didn't know exactly when it had all begun. His entire life had been so unlike that of other boys that he had by now understood and accepted it was hard to compare his feelings to those of 'normal' people. For a long time Sam had even thought of himself as sort of a freak—being homeschooled most of the time, moving from school to school at other times, always with heavy security to make sure he didn't become a target in the silent war going on in the streets. The result was that he never managed to make many friends. Sometimes he would feel so lonely growing up that he even came up with an imaginary friend—an embarrassing fact about his childhood that he preferred to keep to himself. And in a life in which his father was mostly away taking care of important, mainly illegal business, it was easy to see how Dean became his closest friend. His older brother had been at the same time his hero and a nuisance as he grew up, teasing him but also guiding him, making Sam laugh and comforting him, and sometimes getting on his nerves and annoying him.

Sam loved his father, but it would be fair to say Dean had been more than a brother. He had been a mother and sometimes a father, too. He had provided safety when John was away and young Sam had a nightmare, and he had provided friendly advice when John's authoritative ways had pushed Sam away instead of teaching him.

Bobby had been there too, being sort of a surrogate parent for both of them in John's absence, but that didn't change the fact that Sam had learned to feel for his brother something he couldn't fully put into words, and that had been shifting into something dangerously close to infatuation for the past months.

Now, Sam had had a few girlfriends. Two, actually. He knew what a relationship felt like, and he knew how hard it was to be in a relationship with the secret life he was forced to live because of the family business. Still, none of those past relationships had caused him to feel the same level of fluttery excitement he did when he thought about his brother.

The curious thing was, Sam couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had begun. He had thought about it many times, but it was always hard to remember when the first unexpected and unwanted erection had happened, or when he realized the jealousy he felt towards Dean's dates was more than just brotherly.

He didn't know when he had begun to love his brother, but he knew exactly the day he understood he was in love with him.

It was a little after his twentieth birthday and Sam had been bummed out about his break up with his girlfriend Jessica. She could not understand why he kept his family a secret from her, and the more she tried to become a part of Sam's life, the more he began to shut her out and push her away, until the inevitable happened. The whole thing made him very sad, though he couldn't exactly say he was broken hearted.


~ * ~ *  ~ * ~

One year ago…


Sam was sitting alone in his bed in the middle of the night, listening to some sad songs and deleting pictures on his phone when Dean showed up to check on him.

"Hey," Dean knocked on the door and walked in. It was past ten and Sam hadn't joined John and him for dinner. His father had mentioned something about Sam looking upset when he arrived. "Dad's got a call and left half an hour ago. I was wondering if you were awake and wanted to watch a movie or something?"

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Sam replied curtly and put his phone away. He hadn't been crying or anything, but he knew he didn't look good at all.

"Why didn't you join us for dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"Yeah, right. You're still growing, no way you ain't hungry," Dean sat on the edge of the bed and studied his younger brother. "Besides, Dad said you looked upset."

Of course he did, Sam thought. He didn't understand why but John Winchester seemed to have a supernatural sixth sense when it came to reading people.

"I broke up with Jess," he ended up saying.

"Oh," Dean arched his eyebrows. He had thought that perhaps Sam had fought with his girl, but hadn't expected a breakup. "Are you sure this isn't some rough patch?"

"Nah. She wants to be part of my life; she wants to get to know my family. It's not going to work, Dean. You told me this before. It's not like we can fit someone into this life we lead."

Dean sighed deeply. He didn't really know what to say. It sucked that Sam had to learn the hard way that their lifestyle was pretty much incompatible with finding love. At least love the way Sam hoped to find.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Maybe it just wasn't meant to be, you know," he offered.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, albeit it without much conviction.

"I'm sure you're yet to find that one person that gives you all those crazy butterflies," Dean went on, trying to sound more confident than he actually felt.

Sam tried to smile, but that was when they heard a loud thud against the glass door of the balcony that put them both, but Dean particularly, immediately alert.

"What was that?" Sam asked, looking through the closed glass doors into the dark garden outside, but not seeing anything. Dean's reply was to get up and grab a pocket pistol he kept hidden by his ankle. "Are you fucking armed?" Sam arched his eyebrows and his heart raced.

"Shh!" Dean shushed his brother and walked carefully towards the glass doors, gun in hand, green eyes focused and lethal.

Sam was completely confused for a split second, torn between the fact that his brother was carrying a gun in the middle of the night and worried about the strange, knocking like sound they had just heard. When you were in the drug business as the son of a Mafia boss, you had every reason to be wary.

Sam opened his first drawer and grabbed his gun as well. He got up and got behind Dean, walking slowly towards the door.

Dean looked outside the glass for a moment into the dark night, then he pushed the door open and stepped onto the balcony, gun raised high.

They saw it at the same time. A racoon was feeding on the high branches of a tree and kept throwing his leftover seeds and nuts at the window.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, relaxed and chuckled.

"Put your gun down, the little fellow is just hungry."

"He should eat in silence unless he wants to become prey," Dean added.

As they walked back into the room, Sam was once again taken aback by Dean's ready response to danger.

"Why do you have a gun with you in the middle of the night?"

"Hello? Do you know who we are?" Dean replied.

"I mean, I keep mine by the nightstand but you were wearing yours."

"Well, Dad's left, which means it's just the two of us. If something happens I need to keep us safe, Sammy. I need to protect you."

Sam couldn't help but think of his brother running away from a shooting with his baby brother in his arms.

"I'm not a baby anymore, Dean," Sam said softly, and this time there was a genuine smile on his lips. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Sure you can. But I'm still here for you. It's my job, Sammy, let me feel important," he winked.

Sam sat back in bed and watched as his brother put the gun away and looked around a bit more, as if to make sure everything was indeed safe.

"Dean, it was just a racoon, you can relax," Sam couldn't take his eyes off of his brother's alert and focused state. It made him smile and it made his chest warm. He couldn't explain what exactly got triggered inside him every time Dean went into this overprotective state, but it was something good.

"I know. You should get some sleep. You and that racoon outside." Dean walked towards the bed and put his knee on the mattress to get closer. "But If you want to cry over Jess I'll grab a box of tissues and listen."

"Shut up," Sam chuckled.

"Night Sammy," Dean kissed his brother's forehead before retreating.

And it was then, after that innocent kiss to his forehead and the warm feeling tingling in his chest, that Sam understood what he had been feeling for a long time now.

I'm sure you're yet to find that one person that gives you all those crazy butterflies.

Sam's heart raced at the fluttering heat piercing his chest and making his blood rush in his veins. It felt like tiny little hot needles were all stabbing his heart at once, tickling it and causing it to burst and burn. Sam knew what it was. The butterflies had just been released and he could barely catch his breath.

"Fuck," he whispered quietly in his dark bedroom, smiling like a fool.


~ * ~ * ~ * ~


Sam was standing in a corner of the pool, drinking lemonade and watching the beautiful blue sky above his head. It had been one week since their last mission with a casualty, and it looked like they would get away. Bobby must be doing a good job, because the police hadn't even come close to sniffing around any of John's closest employees.

That didn't mean they were entirely off the hook, and Sam knew that. He couldn't help but wonder if the guy they killed had a family, if he had kids, if there were people missing him. He knew he was torturing himself with all those questions, but he couldn't seem to help it.

"Hey," Dean walked towards the pool and nodded at him. "Stop daydreaming and suit up. We have a job to do for Dad."

The older brother let his eyes linger on Sam's perfectly built body and the beautiful tanned color of his skin. He liked what he saw—perhaps a bit too much,—so he forced his eyes away and waited.

"What is it?"

"C'mon. Get dry and put some clothes on. I'll tell you on the way." He then looked the at glass Sam was sipping from. "Wait, are you drinking?"

"It's lemonade."

"Of course it is," Dean smiled, shook his head playfully and left. "I'll be waiting in the car."

Sam waited a moment for the unruly butterflies to settle down before he got out of the pool and got ready.


~ * ~ 


"Glove compartment," Dean instructed the moment Sam was in the car with him. For a moment, he couldn't help taking a deep whiff of Sam's cologne. Damn, his brother smelled good. Again. Aftershave? Yeah, Dean doubt it.

"What are these for?" Sam looked at the fake IDs with FBI information, fake names and a picture of Dean and him.

"Someone Dad knows died last night. Dad's granted the family a few favors, and they got close over the years."

"Okay. How did he die?"

"Apparently, he was getting it on with his lover and something got out of hand. Looks like he was into erotic asphyxiation and something went wrong. He had a heart attack," Dean took his eyes off the road and studied his brother for his reaction. He didn't need to tell Sam that their dad had known the deceased through The Club.

"Erotic asphyxiation?" Sam asked and frowned, not disappointing Dean at all with his shock and outrage. "Is that even a thing?"

"You'd be surprised with the sort of thing people need to get off," Dean said absently, eyes back on the road.

"That's fucked up. Why would someone take pleasure from nearly choking to death?" Sam couldn't seem to understand it.

"Not everyone's completely happy with vanilla ice cream, Sammy."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Dean cast a sly look in his brother's direction and just shrugged.

"We'll be questioning the widow," he changed the subject. "Dad's very friends with the man's sons and they just want to make sure there was no foul play between their step mom and dad."

"All right." Sam took a deep breath, studied the fake IDs and kept silent for the rest of the ride.


~ * ~


The job consisted of two parts. First, they met up with the widow and interviewed her. Under the fake IDs, they were allowed into her fancy house and listened to her retell the story of how it had all gone down. Sam cringed a little as she told them details about their wild sex life, but Dean seemed perfectly cool about the whole thing.

The woman seemed extremely upset and shaken up about what had happened.

"We'd done that before, we'd done that a million times before," she explained. "He had a safe word and all…he didn't use it last night, I didn't know, I couldn't have imagined…" she trailed off and picked a tissue from the box.

Dean took a deep breath and nodded.

"It's not your fault ma'am. Unfortunately, a heart attack could be the result of this kind of activity if the person has an underlying heart condition. He must have had one but he didn't know."

Sam looked at his brother with a little surprise. He imagined Dean had done some googling before going on this job. Then, he shrugged his surprise off and looked at the woman. While he didn't think she had killed her husband, she had accepted the risk when they chose to engage into asphyxiation, right? There was only so much sympathy he could find within himself.

"I don't know… all I know is that he's gone now. What am I supposed to do?"

Sam and Dean watched as she sobbed and blew her nose loudly. Sam clicked his tongue and arched his eyebrows a little when he looked at his brother.

"I'm sorry to bother, ma'am, but do you think you could tell us again the name of the cops you talked to?" Sam asked. The other part of the job involved a little further investigation, and he was so ready to leave that house.

"Oh, sure. Let me get it for you."


~ * ~ 


Dean and Sam got into the car again and drove to the police station. With their fake IDs, they were able to get all the information they needed from the cops running the investigation, and they learned that they did not believe in any foul play. The cops even let the fake detectives—why was the FBI interested in that case anyway? Oh sure, it was confidential—take a look at the tox screen they ran on the dead man. It came back negative except for sildenafil, which a quick google search told them was the generic drug for Viagra. The pathologist had found the heart in poor condition with degeneration of the right valve and atherosclerosis in the aorta. In plain English, the man's heart was a ticking bomb. Asphyxiation set it off.

When the brothers were satisfied they had enough, they thanked the cops and began to make their way back to the car.

"Dad will be pleased to know there was no foul play," Dean said.

Sam remained silent and pensive as their shoes echoed on the sidewalk in the quiet street.

"I mean, if you can choose how you'll go, having sex is definitely my top one choice," Dean smirked.

"I don't get it," Sam shook his head and ignored Dean's playful remark. "I mean, the guy pretty much had it coming, don't you think? He allowed someone else to strangle him."

Dean thought about The Club and everything it meant being a dominant in sex play.

"Not really," he said. "He gave her power to do that because he trusted her. And from what it looks like, she didn't break this trust. An accident happened."

"How can someone trust someone else to strangle them gently?" Sam couldn't let it go.

"Maybe he got off on feeling helpless. Maybe he needed the endorphins that your brain releases after the rush of being choked." Dean stopped abruptly, afraid he might be speaking too much. He knew that endorphins got released after being choked, and that combined with all the neurochemicals being released during sex, it could make someone have a powerful orgasm. He didn't want Sam to grow intrigued at his knowledge, though. "So what's the matter if he liked it a bit rough? Some people want to be choked, some want to make love by the fireplace…" he trailed off in a teasing way.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Are you talking about me?"


"I told you about that time Jessica and I spent a weekend in the mountains. I remember I told you about the fireplace."

Dean chuckled a little.

"Whatever, Sammy."

"Hey, I'm not vanilla," he sounded a little outraged again. He had googled the expression at a certain moment during the night. "Just because I wouldn't like to be choked during sex it doesn't make me boring. I can still be kinky."

Dean bit down on his bottom lip and tried really hard to refrain from grinning.

"I'm sure you can", he said condescendingly.

Sam thought about the videos he sometimes liked to watch in the privacy of his room.

"You think you know everything about me, well, you don't," he said defiantly and stopped walking.

Dean stopped too, tried his best to wipe the provocative smile off his face, and looked into his brothers' eyes.

"I'm not saying I do, man. Chill out."

Sam's heart was racing. He thought about the dirty videos he watched and Dean's words about trust. The truth was, he was both fascinated by and terrified of the idea of giving someone control over him like that. Part of what bothered him so much in this case was his own unresolved feelings about the whole thing.

"I just think choking is extreme," he explained himself. "I can understand some handcuffs and a whip…" he let the words linger in the air, and suddenly felt a heated flush color his cheeks and cause him to look away, embarrassed.

Dean's interest grew and he seemed to study his brother with fresh eyes. Sam looked nervous and…excited? A little aroused, maybe? In the light of his awkward revelation Dean's dom side seemed to wake up and his interest flared.

"I mean, I get it why someone could find it exciting," Sam tried to make it better by making it impersonal, but Dean's knowing green eyes were giving him a hard time and he felt himself digging a deeper hole for himself. "I'm not a prude."

"Not saying you are, man…but you did just have two girls. It's okay to feel a bit shocked by this—" Dean began.

"I had lots of sex, though," Sam cut him off. He felt his cheeks burn and he looked away from Dean's keen eyes, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, but also hot.

What was going on? Dean thought. Was he truly getting sub vibes off his brother?

He felt his heart race and his thoughts run wild for a moment. Sam's discomfort under his searching look once again triggered Dean's dom side and he felt a ticklish feeling of arousal dance with his thoughts.

"We should go," Sam finally said, walking towards the Impala.

"We should," Dean agreed. "And I don't think you're a prude, Sammy," Dean smiled. "I'm sorry if it came off that way."

"Yeah, it's okay," Sam accepted the apology readily and got into the car.

Dean watched him, bit back a warm smile at Sam's naive nature, and joined him.


~ * ~ 


"Where the fuck have you been?"

Lui Marrone had been on the run for an entire week. For seven days he had holed up, hoping for the sake of him that he couldn't be found by Crowley's crew.

"Please…" he begged, his eyes drawn to the big butterfly tattoo on the hand of the man holding a gun to his chin. "Don't do this, man…"

"I don't want to do this," Crowley explained. "But you'd better talk, Lui. Hiding from me, disappearing with my drugs….I think I deserve a good explanation."

"It wasn't my fault! Just tell him to step back, please!" Lui looked from the deadly brown eyes of the tattooed man pointing the gun to the calm eyes watching everything from a distance. "Please, Crowley. I can explain."

The short man in an expensive suit seemed to assess the scene for a moment.

The man with the butterfly tattoo didn't even blink. He just waited for Crowley's order to fire or not.

Lui's eyes kept going from Crowley's to the tattoo and he felt his intestines cramp with fear and anxiety.

"It was John Winchester's sons, alright? There was nothing I could do. They even killed one of my buddies."

Crowley watched everything with silent pondering for another moment. Then, he raised his hand and indicated for the henchman to put down his gun.

"Let him go, Bruno. I think Lui and I have a lot to talk."





Chapter Text



"You heard him," Lui said quickly. "Let me go, man." He gave a worried, indignant look at the man with the gun and relaxed considerably when he stepped back.

Crowley watched as Lui tried to recompose himself.

"Where are my drugs?"

"They got burned, I told you. It was John Winchester's sons. They caught us off guard and things got messy. My man Clark was out and walked in on the scene. He snuck up on the tall one and overpowered him. I thought we were going to regain control," he spoke hurriedly. "Then it happened very fast. Clark had a gun to the tall one's head and he threatened to shoot. The one with me said he'd lower his gun but instead he shot. My friend's now dead."

Crowley sighed deeply. So that was why the police had been sniffing around, questioning some of the low ranked dealers who worked for him.

"I disappeared because I thought they were gonna kill me, man," Lui begged into Crowley's eyes. "Then I thought you would because of the drugs."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Crowley spoke softly.

"They had a message for you," Lui pretended he didn't hear that. "From John Winchester."

Crowley seemed to grow more interested and took a step towards the agitated, skinny man.

"Well, I'm all ears."

"They said you were breaking the rules, that you had some sort of agreement about selling near schools."

Crowley looked perfectly peaceful on the outside, but within he could feel his rage boiling and his irritation growing at the bloody Winchesters.

"I didn't know about any of that. You said we could sell anywhere on the turf, so we were selling to some kids…"

Crowley took a deep breath.

"That moralistic piece of shit," he mumbled under his breath. Who did John Winchester think he was? Some sort of saint? He was every bit a drug dealer as well, with plenty of blood on his hands and owner of a range of illegal business. Who was he to determine who Crowley could or couldn't sell to?

"They were going to take the drugs but there was the shooting and the police coming, so the shorter one burned them," Lui explained. "I'm sorry man, okay? I really am. I should've come looking for you sooner, but my friend was just gunned down in front of me. I decided I should hide for a while until I got myself together, you know."

"I understand," Crowley said finally and saw the man breathe with relief. The henchman stood perfectly still watching the conversation, the gun down but still very much within the reach of his fingers. "The Winchesters can be very intimidating."

"Fuck, they can," Lui agreed readily.

"So John wanted to deliver a message…" Crowley began to pace around the dirty hole Lui had been calling home for the past week. His thoughts rushed furiously through his brain and revenge was the only thing he could think about. "He's not the only one who can send messages." He eyed Lui and the criminal smiled crookedly at that.

"Are we going to steal drugs from them?" he seemed excited.

"Of course not," Crowley answered quickly. John Winchester had much more financial power than him. Even if they did steal some drugs from one of his deals, Crowley doubted that would affect him much.

However, there was something else they could do.

Not everyone knew that the Mafia Boss had other pleasures in life than his drug empire. Because Crowley was a member of the city's elite, he ended up knowing a lot about what went on in the night life, particularly if it was something illegal or racy. So of course he had heard about The Club. It wasn't until a couple of years ago, though, that he'd learned John Winchester was the actual mastermind behind it.

It amused him picturing the rough around the edges ex-marine as a BDSM Master with whip in hand, but to each his own. Crowley had even checked out The Club under a fake name and a mask, and he couldn't say he hadn't enjoyed what he saw there. Orgies and fetish were definitely things that pleased him greatly.

Crowley knew how much John loved his club. And now John was about to know he shouldn't mess with Crowley. They had split up the city, and whatever each one decided to do on their turf was none of the other's business. It seemed like John Winchester needed to be reminded of that, though.

"No. We'll hit him where it hurts a bit more," Crowley explained. "Have you heard about a place called The Club?"

Lui shook his head. Well, of course he hadn't. A low key criminal with no finesse certainly wouldn't have heard about the city's hot, fancy sex club.

"Tell me, do you have some friends that can help you cause a little havoc to a place?"

Lui finally smiled. Now Crowley was speaking his language.

"I sure do, boss."


~ * ~ 


Because they didn't have many friends what with being the sons of a famous drug Lord, Dean's birthday was a somewhat private event with a handful of people around. Benny was one of them, to Sam's dislike. He didn't really trust the family's former employee and could not understand why Dean insisted on being friends with him, but he knew they were close, so he tried not to mind his presence.

It was a sunny day and Sam was frying burgers on the grill—his present to Dean. Just because he wasn't into so much meat and greasy hamburgers it didn't mean he couldn't prepare a mean one, and he knew Dean would appreciate it. His brother drank a beer and talked to Bobby and Benny by the pool, while a couple of other highly trusted dealers alternated between basking in the sun and enjoying the water.

When John Winchester arrived at the small celebration, he smiled at the sight of his children and the people having fun with them.

"Hello everyone," he greeted as he walked into the backyard straight from the garage holding a small gift in his hand.

People turned to look and greet him immediately as he walked towards them.

John stopped by the grill first and put a warm hand on the back of Sam's neck, his fingers squeezing a little in an affectionate gesture.

"Those smell fantastic, son," he praised his youngest.

"Thank you," Sam appreciated the honest compliment. His father's presence made him feel a little nervous and guilty but he tried to stand his ground and not let it show. "How was work?"

"Ah, you know. Same old."

"Benny is here, you know."

"I can see that," John could tell by Sam's tone of voice and his entire body language that he wasn't pleased with that fact. He knew his son still held a bit of a grudge at how Benny had failed the family a few years back, and perhaps he didn't understand why John had forgiven him and allowed him to be within the family's circle of friends, but it was not like John could tell him how perfect Benny was for The Club. "They're good friends. Chill out," he squeezed his son's shoulder.

"I'm fine," Sam said quickly, even though John felt the stiffness in his muscles.

"I'll go say hello to the birthday boy."

Sam watched as his dad walked away from him and towards Dean. He looked around, as if looking for someone, but when Sam didn't find what he wanted he focused his attention back on the burgers.

"Happy birthday," John interrupted Dean and Benny's conversation and pulled his son into a hug.

"Thanks, Dad."

John patted Dean's back a few times and then gave him the gift wrapped in bright green wrapping paper.

"Oh. What is that?" Dean smiled and frowned.

"Go ahead, open it. Just be discreet," John advised.

That caused Dean's heart to beat a little faster and him to feel a little uncomfortable. He was certain, before even opening it, that that gift had something to do with The Club. The fact that his own father was his boss and mentor in the realm of BDSM didn't fail to be awkward more often than not.

"Do you like it?"

Dean looked at the fancy box of cigars and was a bit puzzled at first.

"Um, I mean, yes…"

"Take a look inside," John insisted.

When he opened the box, Dean—and Benny too since he was looking over his shoulder—could see the book. The Psychology of Domination and Submission.

Dean scratched the back of his neck and felt his cheeks get a little flushed.

"Thanks…" he licked at his lips and could tell, even without looking back, that Benny had a naughty grin on his lips.

"Oooh, I think I'll borrow that one later," Benny winked at John and chuckled.

"Make sure you keep it in a good place."

Dean nodded. He knew what his father meant—keep it where Sam won't find it—and he would make sure to keep this book in his dressing room at The Club, with the others.

Not five minutes had gone by as John greeted the other people when someone came into the backyard arriving from inside the house. John, who had been drinking and talking, let his words fade and his dark eyes flashed dangerously at the sight.

Samuel Campbell walked back into the backyard after a quick visit to the bathroom inside. He was about to get himself another beer when John Winchester walked up to him with something threatening in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" John's voice was gritty and low.

Sam was in the middle of making himself a hamburger when he heard the small, hostile exchange a few feet from him. He raised his eyes and met Dean's. They exchanged a powerful look from across the backyard and immediately dropped what they were doing in order to intervene.

Samuel Campbell narrowed his eyes at his son-in-law and smiled a little.

"Where are your manners, John? I'm family."

"You're not my family. Get the hell out of my house." John put his hand at his waist in a way his suit opened a little and the handle of a shiny gun could be seen. It was not just a coincidence.

"Dad? Is everything okay?" Dean arrived at the scene and pretended not to see the curious glances in their direction.

"It will be. As soon as he leaves," John spoke through gritted teeth.

"He won't leave," Sam stated firmly, even though he felt a fluttery feeling of uneasiness at confronting his father like that. "I invited him."

Dean could see Sam's strong resolution and he could also see the dangerous glint in his father's eyes, so he rushed in.

"We invited him," he amended, even though it had been Sam's idea.

"He's family, Dad," Sam tried.

"It's my grandson's birthday, John," Samuel added. "Don't you think I have the right to come see him?"

"You know you lost every right to this family when you got the boys' mother killed," John snarled, barely able to keep his vicious words under control. It took him a lot of breathing and the techniques he had learned in The Club to hold him back.

Samuel's face hardened and his smile faded.

"Dad?" Dean tried again. "Can we not do this on my birthday?" he eyed John intently. "Besides, Samuel just wanted to see us and give me a hug. I'm sure he's on his way out now," Dean eyed his grandfather until Samuel caved and sighed.

"Yeah, sure. I was about to leave."

"No, stay," Sam interfered, which earned him a dirty look from his older brother. Sam could tell Dean thought he was making things difficult, but Samuel was the only family they had left, their own blood. It was about time his father and his grandfather let the past rest.

"Nah, kid. I really need to go," Samuel looked at Sam, smiled and patted his shoulder. "Thanks for the beer and the burger."

The older man walked away from the brothers and put a hand on John's shoulder, asking him to walk with him for a moment and making the brothers hold their breaths.

"How's business?" Samuel looked into John's eyes without any fear or hesitation.

John took another deep breath and let his fingers relax a little.

"Better than it ever was when you were handling it."

Samuel Campbell had been a Mafia boss since his father had died. He had raised his family into the business, but as John liked to remind him, he had failed miserably when it came to keeping them safe.

"I heard there was a body."

John's upper lip twitched almost imperceptibly.

"It's being taken care of."

"Good. If you need any help—"

"I don't."

Samuel nodded slowly and looked into John's eyes.

"Have you gotten any leads on Azazel?"

John could feel his heart race and his chest hurt. One moment of vulnerability glowed in his eyes like lightening, and just like that it was quickly gone. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind, as he always did.

"Nothing. I'm still working on it."

Samuel nodded.

"Let me know if I can help."

John made as if he might say something spiteful out of hurting, but Samuel interrupted him.

"She was my daughter, John," he said firmly, and for the first time John put down his walls a little at the pain he saw in the older man's eyes.

"You'll know when I find something," he managed to say.

"Thank you." Samuel appreciated it. He then turned around and waved at the boys. "They look good. I hope you're doing a better job at keeping them safe."

John was tempted to smile sneeringly and arrogantly, but he didn't when he remembered Dean telling him a few days before about a gun pressed to Sam's head.

"Goodbye, Samuel. I'll have someone see you out."

Samuel Campbell had taken over his father's small business and expanded it into one of the most well-articulated and profitable drug operations in North America. He grew up knowing everything about the Mafia families and their rivalries, but that did not stop him from stepping on people's toes in his pursuit for power. Unlike his father, Samuel was ambitious, and he incorporated new drugs and fought for more territory as his business grew.  For a while there, the entire family was involved in the business, even Mary. His precious daughter was in charge of overseeing the international aspect of drug selling, and she was quite good at it. It wasn't until she met John, a simple veteran who worked in a garage, that she had wanted out of the family business and its dangerous life.

Mary fell in love with John and she chose to build a family with him. Despite breaking Samuel's heart, he had accepted his daughter's drifting away from the life he had built her in order to build something else for herself, something safer. He watched from a distance, broken hearted but also happy, as his daughter kept the Campbells as far away as possible from her simple life. It hurt, of course the distance hurt, but Samuel had understood that she was happy with John and with motherhood, and he had made peace with letting her go.

Everything was fine for a while, until Samuel started messing with Lucifer, the strongest competition in the entire country and someone who had recently moved into town. Samuel had heard about Lucifer's unscrupulous personality from his father—he knew the man was evil as there had already been bad blood between the Campbells and the Morningstars. Nevertheless, Samuel thought he was strong enough to take on Lucifer and his dealers. He had met Crowley before, one of Lucifer's trusted employees, and believed he could outsmart him and take over their clients and turf.

In the end, things had backfired terribly. Perhaps Crowley wasn't a brilliant mind, but Lucifer certainly was, and he paid careful attention to what was going on in his business. When he had learned about Samuel's plans and begun to feel the impact of Samuel's pressure on his business, Lucifer hadn't taken it lightly.

After a series of attacks from both sides, with a few casualties that kept the police busy, Lucifer had no more patience to deal with the Campbells. He got his best soldier, Azazel, to dig important information on his rival, and when Mary's name came up, it was only a matter of time before things went to hell.

Lucifer had threatened Samuel by showing he knew about his daughter, but Samuel's mistake was to believe he was strong enough to keep Mary safe and away from that mess. Samuel Campbell hired the best security and put a twenty four hour watch on the Winchester's house, but that wasn't enough. Azazel had outsmarted every one of his guards, gotten inside, and changed a lot of lives for good.

Because Mary hadn't completely forgotten her past, she kept a gun hidden just in case. That night, when everything changed, Mary had heard the noise of someone breaking into the house—years of training didn't just go away after a husband and two kids—and she had readily taken her gun in order to fight back.

Azazel was much better prepared and equipped, though. Soon, as Azazel and his men broke into the house, Samuel's guards arrived at the scene, too few and too late. John was woken up by the sound of guns firing and Sam crying violently in his room.

At that moment, as chaos took over and left him nearly paralyzed, Mary had screamed at him to take the boys and go. John would never forget the moment he opened his mouth to protest and heard the shot. That was when the blood started flowing, and the look in his wife's eyes had told him more than he needed to know.

John would never forget that look, just as he would never forget the huge, frightened green eyes of the little boy who watched everything with little understanding and a lot of fear. 'Mommy? What happened, daddy?' John remembered snapping out of the paralysis when he saw Dean look at Mary's blood and rush to his mom, crying and scared. That was the first time his survival instincts had kicked in after the war, and John learned to put a leash on his pain in order to do what he had to. He had gone with Dean to Sam's room, put the baby in the boy's arms, and rushed with him through the backdoor as the gunfire continued to echo in the house. He had told Dean to run and hide with his baby brother as he went back inside. When he did, though, it was too late. The gun firing was over, and John saw his wife dead and bleeding on the stairs, gun in hand.

That was how John Winchester had learned about Mary's past and that of her family. That was how he got introduced to the world of drugs and rival gangs, of Mafia bosses and big money. That was how the war veteran met death again after believing his nightmarish days were over.

When he learned what had happened, Samuel was forced to tell John everything.

Hurt, bleeding and devastatingly guilty, Samuel had chased his enemy night and day without a moment of rest. It had paid off, sort of. Lucifer had been arrested—unfortunately the police got to him before Samuel could. But Azazel, the one who had pulled the trigger and killed Mary, had gotten away.

Knowing he had been the cause of his daughter's death broke Samuel, and it might have broken his business if it weren't for John's obsession with revenge. The more the Winchester knew about the Mafia secrets, the more he understood he needed to get into the business if he wanted to find the man who had killed his wife. John realized he needed the power, the money and the influence to crush all those who had taken from him what he loved the most.

As he learned about the business, with Samuel slowly stepping back and handing it over—a father's spirt had been crushed and he no longer cared about anything,-- John went on a killing spree, ending every single one who had business with Lucifer's family and clan. He became so deadly that eventually Crowley had come to see him and begged for a truce. They could both live in that city; they could both share the spoils of a successful drug operation.

John would have never agreed to make peace—the whole point of becoming a Mafia boss was to vindicate his wife's death more than anything. But Crowley's deal had become irresistible when he had offered to help find Azazel.

According to him, Lucifer wasn't pleased with the way Azazel's sloppy actions had led to his arrest, and he wouldn't mind sacrificing his soldier to bring peace to his business. Lucifer knew that prison wouldn't hold him for long, and he hoped to find things running smoothly under Crowley the moment he was out of his cage. If Azazel had to go for this to happen, then so be it.

The problem was that, as the years proved, Azazel was a lot harder to find and kill than one would have believed. For the past twenty years John had chased him fruitlessly, with a few hints and a bit of help from his rival every now and then. Yet, the deadly man with weird pale eyes was still missing, and not even the FBI could locate him. John hoped he would get to the man before the law did, because he had dreamed about revenge for way too long.

John took a deep breath as if to clear his head of such dark and depressing thoughts. He poured himself a dose of whiskey and drank it neat, with barely a twitch of his face.

There was something else bothering him, and even though he would wait until the guests were gone to address it, he couldn't just keep it all inside.

John walked towards his youngest son and sounded perfectly calm. Deceivingly calm.


"Yeah?" Sam would be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit nervous. There was something in his father's eyes and the tone of his voice that he recognized and that stirred all sorts of defensive and restless feelings inside him.

Dean watched them from a small distance. His interest had been ignited by the look in his father's eyes. He recognized that look, so he had been watching his father closely. His heart raced a little and he felt all sorts of protective instincts get triggered inside him.

"You shouldn't have invited Samuel without my permission. This is my house," John stated, voice stern and eyes made of steel.

Sam did his best not to lower his head and look weak. His eyes stared deeply into John's, despite how uneasy he felt.

"He's my grandfather, I—"

John raised a hand and silenced him with one look.

"Not now. We'll discuss it later."

And with that John was gone, leaving behind a young man who tried really hard to look strong and in control of his emotions.

I did the right thing. It's my grandfather. I did the right thing. Sam's thoughts rushed with urgency to try and find reassurance. Dad's angry and disappointed, his thoughts would then whisper and cause insecurity to ripple inside of him from his very core.

"Hey…" Dean approached him and touched his arm lightly.

Sam realized how tense he was when the touch made him relax a little.

"Yeah?" he hated how his voice sounded strung tight and broken.

"I'll stay with you," Dean said. "Whatever he has to say, I'll be with you." Dean's eyes looked so green under the sun they seemed to be flashing emeralds.

Sam wanted to tell him that he didn't have to; he wanted to tell his older brother that he could handle their father on his own. He didn't need help. He wasn't afraid.

"Thank you," he ended up saying, feeling his body relax a notch and his heart burn with a comfortable and safe warmth in his chest.





Chapter Text



Clark Miller had an extensive criminal record by the time of his death. When the police found him lying dead in a pool of his own blood while drugs burned up in the kitchen, it was hard to have any sympathy for someone who had spent his life stealing and dealing drugs. The fact that no family member or next of kin showed up to claim the body was just another testimony to Clark's character. His friends, if he had had those, had all disappeared after the shooting, giving the police a hard time tracking anyone down.

Castiel took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. It was cold, which meant he had been staring at his computer screen for far too long without any significant progress.

The detective got up, stretched his legs and put the coffee in the microwave.

Three in the morning, the clock read.

He should get some sleep, but not before he was able to figure something—anything out.

After thirty seconds, Castiel took an approving sip of the dark liquid and went back to his home office, where he sat quietly, lost in thought, in the silence of the night.

Judging by the number of bullets they had been able to retrieve from the scene, they believed that at least four different guns had been fired, which meant that at least three other people were missing. From the looks of it, Clark had been living in that place with at least two other guys, maybe three, and Castiel didn't think that one person alone had attacked the group.

The burned drugs were also an interesting aspect of the crime scene. Usually, drugs were stolen to be sold so that money was made. The fact that someone had set the drugs on fire instead of taking them along made it seem like the whole thing was an attempt at sending some sort of message. Perhaps Clark getting killed was not intentional. It sure looked like at some point things had gotten out of control and messy.

If the drugs were burned instead of being taken, then whoever did that did not need the money. This probably meant that whoever attacked the criminal's hiding place was higher in the scheme of drug dealing hierarchy.

Castiel picked up his coffee and got up once again. He walked towards a board on his wall where several pictures, names and lines, made connections and raised more questions than provided any answers. The more he got into this, the harder it seemed to know who was behind all that.

In the middle of the suspect board, two names stood out.

Winchester. Crowley.

Two rival gangs? Was there a war going on in town, unknown to the authorities?

Castiel had already made a formal request to his superior saying he would like an interview with Lucifer. He had a feeling that the former Mafia boss and drug lord would be able to answer a few of his questions. Permission, however, had always been denied. No one spoke to Lucifer where he was, in a maximum security jail. Only the FBI was allowed to interview him, but according to Castiel, the FBI didn't seem to be doing that good of a job.

Until he got the forensic results for the drugs that could be saved and some of the objects found at the crime scene, Castiel didn't think he would be able to do much.

The detective took a deep breath and looked at the piles of footage from security cameras near the crime scene. He would have to go through all that to make sure nothing important got overlooked. And no, he wasn't looking forward to hours of mostly useless footage, but that was part of the job, and Castiel didn't trust anybody as he trusted himself not to miss any important details.

Not tonight, though. It was late and he was tired, and he thought he deserved a break after all the hard work on a Saturday night.

Castiel opened a new window on his browser and typed a few keywords.

The Club. Young Master. BDSM.

It didn't take him long to find what he wanted; who he wanted to see.

Castiel had skipped two Fridays because of work, but he could feel the dungeon calling to him. He clicked on the video and felt a rush of sexual arousal flood him and make his sex tingle as he stared at the masked Master on the screen. The Headmaster.

'Next Friday,' Castiel promised himself. Work would have to wait.


~ * ~ 


John sat around, drank and made small talk, waiting for the few guests to leave. At some point, Bobby tried to talk to him, but John didn't humor him.

"What's wrong?" Bobby tried.

"Why is there something wrong?" John feigned oblivion.

"You got that look in your eyes."

"What look?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and groaned when he realized the other man wasn't going to open up. Well, fine by him.

"Whatever. Just don't kill anyone tonight. It's your son's birthday," Bobby then said, to which John just chuckled darkly.

"I'm not killing anyone, just reinstating authority."

Bobby made as if he might say something, but John got up in a clear dismissive attitude.

"It's getting late. You should go home."

Bollocks, Bobby muttered under his breath when he was far from John and shrugged off his Winchester-related worries.

When father and sons were alone, John walked towards Sam, drink in hand. He wasn't surprised to find Dean standing right next to him, helping him clean the grill and put away bottles.


The youngest man felt a chill run up and down his spine, but on the outside he looked perfectly calm.


"Can we talk?"

"We are talking," he stated boldly.

"In private." John eyed Dean meaningfully.

"If grandpa's the problem then you might want to include me in this conversation. I invited him, too," Dean said.

"No, you didn't," John retorted knowingly. He knew his sons well enough to know that had been all Sam.

"Even if I didn't, I stand behind Sam's decision, so you might as well talk to me." Dean's tone of voice was respectful but firm. He knew who he was talking to, not only his dad, but someone who was used to and who enjoyed having the upper hand. He also knew how crossed John would be when he felt his authority was being threatened, but he wouldn't step back from that conversation. He knew his brother wanted him there.

John sighed. He felt tempted to use his authority and get Dean to step back, but he was also extremely aware that Dean was being protective of his younger brother. And honestly, after an entire life being told to and taught how to protect his baby brother, John knew it would be ridiculous expecting anything different from him. It made John as annoyed as it made him proud.

"Very well then," he began.

"Samuel's my grandfather. He's my blood. I hadn't seen him in like, five years," Sam stated.

"And there was a reason for that. You know very well he was directly responsible for the death of your mother."

"It was his daughter. Do you think he meant for it to happen? He even gave up all his business because of how guilty he felt," Sam argued.

"As should he," John said. "I don't understand why you feel the need to have the person who took your mother away in your life."

"Azazel took our mother away," Dean intervened.

"He pulled the trigger. Samuel put her in danger in the first place," John retorted.

"Well, you more than anyone should know how dangerous this kind of life can be. I've lost count of how many times I could've died going on missions against the police or criminals," Sam stated. He knew that would get to John, because it was true. And for that same reason, he knew it would anger him.

"You were trained. You keep training every day. You're sharp. You go in prepared. Mary was wearing a nightgown after putting you to sleep," his upper lip twitched a little with anger and pain.

"What Sam means is that we know this business is risky. And if something goes wrong with us I'm sure you'd feel guilty too, Dad, regardless of our training. Am I wrong?" Dean kept his voice calm and controlled.

John sighed deeply.

"This is my house. It's the house I've built over your mother's spilled blood. Every brick in this place carries my desire for revenge, and I will not tolerate having Samuel Campbell here, in the only place I can relax and feel at ease," John puffed out his chest. "You want to see your grandpa? Well, go ahead and meet him in a bar somewhere," he spoke into Sam's defiant eyes. "As long as you live under my roof you'll follow my rules, and I prohibit you from inviting him over."

"It's been over twenty years!" Sam sounded angry, and it was then that Dean knew they would both say things they regretted, John and his brother. "It's about time you talk about it like two adults and get over it."

John felt his blood boil. He stepped towards his youngest son and his dark eyes had sparks on them. He barely noticed Dean straightening up, tense, right beside his brother.

"Are you telling me how to live my life, boy? You have no idea what it feels like for me. It's easy to say this when you didn't even know your mom." John pushed the hurting to the back of his mind. "Samuel Campbell is persona non grata in this house, and so is everyone from your mother's family. They all have blood on their hands."


"It's my decision and if you don't like it you can pack your things and go build your own house, manage your own business and do whatever you like."

"Maybe I will!" Sam's upper lip twitched with an angry snarl.

John had never and would never be physically aggressive with his own children, but he still prided himself on his self-control when he felt his anger bubbling in his blood. They were all lucky he had such great control.

"Hey…let's all take a deep breath here, okay? I think we all had a lot to drink and that can get in the way," Dean pointed out wisely. "Besides, it's my birthday," he tried.

"You only have a business to manage because of grandpa…" Sam muttered under his breath and Dean felt every muscle in his body tense. Damn the kid, why, Sam, why??

John's eyes glinted and his lips crooked a little with a dangerous smile. He looked straight into the defiant spark in Sam's eyes and once again had that eerie feeling that his sweet, affectionate son, had grown into a man who might very soon not need his guidance anymore, let alone his authority.

"You're right," John said slowly.

Dean was still holding his breath at the scene.

"I only have a business because of Samuel. I'm also a widower because of him," John's voice had no anger, but it sounded deeply hurting.

There was a moment of silence in which Sam tried to control his breathing. He felt awful for having said that. He hated seeing that hurt in his father's eyes. But sometimes it was just too difficult to keep quiet.              

When John's eyes looked glassy, as if the pain might take a physical, liquid form, Sam caved and all fight left him.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to—"

"That's alright," John raised a hand. "I don't want to run into your grandfather here again. I don't care who invited him. This is an order and there'll be no discussion," he stated, looked both his kids in the eyes and sighed. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

Sam and Dean exchanged a silent look as John turned around and left.


~ * ~ 


A couple of hours later, Dean left the bathroom and got dressed. He took the gift bag from his bed and put the book John had given him at the very back of one of the drawers in the nightstand. He would take it to The Club on his next appointment, but until then he figured it would be safe. Sam and he hardly ever walked into each other's rooms.

Dean then walked past his father's bedroom in the big fancy house. All lights were off and there was no sound inside. He then walked to the other side of the house and looked out of the window, at the pool in the backyard.

Sam was inside it, his elbows resting on the edge of the pool, his back to him.

Dean's heart skipped a beat as he thought about the little showdown between his dad and Sam. It wasn't the first time, and hell, Dean knew it wouldn't be the last. All things considered, though, the older brother thought things could have been a lot worse.

Then, because really, why not, he put on swimming trunks and went downstairs to join Sam in the pool.

"Hey…." He walked towards the water, threw a fluffy white towel on top of a chaise lounge, and got into the warm pool.

"Hey," Sam wasn't expecting his brother to join him. He felt the fluttery butterflies stir in his stomach and chase away the more somber thoughts almost instantly.

After the argument with his dad, Sam had hung around the backyard, cleaning after the guests and organizing everything. Then, he had taken off his shirt and gotten into the pool. He loved being in the water, it always calmed him and helped him when his thoughts were anguished.

The younger Winchester couldn't, for the sake of him, stop his eyes from lingering on Dean's naked chest as his brother walked into the water and towards him. Sam looked at the blazing sun tattoo on the smooth skin of Dean's hip—something his brother had chosen to get done on his sixteenth birthday, under a fake ID, and probably under the influence of way too many beer—and smiled. It took him more than just a moment to snap out of how good Dean looked.

"Sorry I ruined your birthday," he then apologized with a sad smile.

"Eh, it's okay. Could've been a lot worse," Dean closed his eyes and arched his eyebrows before opening them and smiling a little.

"I knew he wouldn't like it, but I mean, enough time's passed. I didn't think he would be this upset," Sam explained.

"I don't think Dad will ever get over what happened to mom. He just can't stop blaming anyone who might've had a role in it." Dean moved towards the edge of the pool and looked at the drink Sam had been sipping. "This good?" He asked before trying it. "Ew, Sammy, that's too sweet."

"Says the man who eats half a pie in a sitting," Sam provoked and chuckled, but secretly he was looking at the glass, making a mental note to put his lips on the exact same place Dean had touched with his. "Anyway, I guess you're right about Dad."

Dean looked at the night above their heads and the stars in the sky. It had been an unusually warm day for January, but still the night was a bit chilly. The warm water, though, made the pool extremely inviting.

Not just the water.

Dean let his body brush Sam's side just a little, just casually, and pretended not to notice how Sam pushed back against him. Just a little. Just casually, too.

"You did go for the jugular there, man. I mean, telling Dad he only has what he does because of grandpa," Dean widened his eyes and puffed out his breath. "That was very ballsy."

Sam chuckled.

"I didn't mean to say that. Guess my head was just hot. I hope he won't be too mad."

"Nah, give him time. I'm sure you'll both work this out in the morning."

Sam turned his face to his brother, their bodies still extremely close, and his thoughts were violently kidnapped by the fragrant scent that tickled his nose.

"Did you shower to get into the pool?" he asked, slightly amused, highly interested.

Dean was taken aback by the question and it took him a moment to work through it and not let it show.

"You're supposed to, aren't you? You know, wash off the sweat before going in…"

"Putting on cologne, too?" Sam teased.

"It's my aftershave," Dean teased back, alluding to one of their last conversations.

"You haven't shaved," Sam pointed out.

Dean smirked mysteriously before swimming away. He then dove into the water and came to the surface, running his fingers through his short hair.

Sam's chest felt warm and his heart had to deal with the butterflies knocking on the door and trying to get in. Could it possibly mean what he thought it did? Could he actually let himself believe that Dean, too, was dancing that unspoken of, seductive and flirty dance?

Sam dove too and came to the surface close to his brother. When he did it, his jaw-length hair stuck to his eyes and he had to tilt his head back and go under the water again to adjust the brown, wet locks.

"I'm telling you, give me five minutes with some clippers and you won't have this problem anymore," Dean said as he saw Sam struggle to adjust his hair. The truth was, though, he loved it. He wouldn't cut it for the world. Sam looked hot with his silky locks of brown hair falling past his ears, and Dean sometimes thought about how good it would feel touching it. Grabbing it. Pulling it back.

He swallowed hard.

"I like my hair," Sam protested softly.

Yeah, so do I, Dean thought, and maybe his eyes said it.

"Anyway…" Sam cleared his throat. He was extremely aware of how close they were in the pool. Dean had swum away, Sam had followed. Dean hadn't moved an inch since then. "I appreciate you staying with me during the talk with Dad. Although you do know I don't need your protection, right?"

Dean regained control of his feelings and smiled a little, knowing and charmingly. That was familiar territory.

"Oh, so you mean you didn't like having me there, standing by you?"

"That's not what I meant. I'm just saying I can handle myself."

"Like in our last mission."

"Like that," Sam agreed.

Dean thought for a moment, his hands going back and forth and causing ripples in the water.

"So does it mean you didn't like it either? The feeling that I'd do whatever it took to make sure you were safe?"

It was Sam's turn to swallow hard. He could feel his heart racing and his lower belly growing warm with a feeling he did not want to explore—not until he was alone. Right now, it felt as if Dean was seeing into the core of Sam's secret feelings for him. It made Sam think of the night Dean had pulled a gun and tried to protect Sam from the racoon outside his room. It was the night Sam had realized the butterflies were there.

"I…um…" Say something, Sam thought, almost desperately. He looked into his brother's green eyes and there was something so fierce there, so strong, so…safe, that he felt open and vulnerable, and irresistibly drawn to his older brother.

Dean could almost smell Sam's desire. It made his body feel hotter than the water, and made his heart race. He kept perfectly calm, though, staring at Sam through the safe, provocative eyes of a trained seducer.

"It ain't bad…" Sam shrugged, looked into Dean's eyes and then looked away. His cheeks certainly looked flushed, and Sam hoped they didn't look as hot as they felt. He couldn't understand why suddenly he felt bashful and hot, but there was something about Dean's calm and firm attitude and safe but fierce look that had a direct impact on how fast and to what parts Sam's blood rushed to.

There they were, the sub vibes he had felt before, Dean thought.

"It's okay, baby brother. I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Yeah. It's good feeling safe, isn't it?" Dean's voice dropped. Right now he was vaguely aware of some dom techniques slipping into his voice and attitude, and part of his brain chided him for using that sort of power over his brother. The other part, though, seemed to enjoy it too much. Oh well, fuck me if I'm doing it. He's enjoying it. Dean licked at his lips. And so am I.

Sam took a tentative step towards his brother. Just because he felt bold. Just because he felt reckless. Just because he was sure Dean would step back, break that weird spell, and ask what the hell was going on.

Dean didn't.

The closeness started to affect Sam's brain, interfere with his reason and make those butterflies flap their wings faster. Demandingly.

Dean's heart was thudding. He could see Sam's face coming closer. Stop him, part of his brain whispered. He's your brother, you're seducing him. It's not fair

Dean's eyes fell shut when Sam's lips covered his. His heart exploded into tiny burning pieces and leaked into his veins, making everything pulse and vibrate with a feeling Dean had never felt before.

Sam didn't know, but he was experiencing some of the same at the moment. When Dean didn't pull back, disgusted, he let the butterflies take over and parted his lips a little, tentatively slipping his tongue past Dean's soft lips and licking inside his mouth.

Dean didn't shy away. His dick throbbed in response when he felt Sam's tongue rub against his, but he would be damned if he'd just stand there and do nothing. The older Winchester put a hand at the back of Sam's neck and depended the kiss, capturing Sam's lips and tasting his tongue, his saliva, the pool water on his lips, and letting Sam's musky scent fill his nose and make him fall against him in the pool.

Sam's head was spinning. He had never been kissed like that. Maybe because he had only kissed girls, and usually he was the one leading the kiss. The way Dean took control took his breath away, quite literally. His felt a tent form in his swimming trunks at the things did Dean with his tongue into his mouth. And fuck, the taste of his brother was everything Sam had imagined it would be and more. He hoped that would never end. Fuck the fact that they were home, that their dad was sleeping upstairs, that they were brothers for crying out loud. Fuck all that, Sam had never been kissed this good before.

Before Dean pulled away completely, he let his lips and breath ghost at the corner of Sam's mouth. Their eyes met, both sets of pupils slightly blown with arousal, and Dean smiled mischievously before pulling back.

"I've had worse birthdays, you know." He whispered and smiled leeringly.

Fuck! Sam thought. His heart was racing. What did that mean? Did Dean feel the same? Were they going to do this now? What the fuck was going on with the world?

"It's getting late. We should get some sleep." And just like that, Dean's burning gaze was friendly and harmless, and his touch was gone.

Sam didn't want to get some sleep. He wanted to kiss Dean again. He wanted to talk about what it meant. He wanted—he needed—to know if that would be a thing now, if he could have hopes about it.

Yet, as he stood there, lovestruck and speechless, he realized Dean had already gotten off the water and was drying himself.

"C'mon, Sammy. We'll both get sick if we stay too long out here."

Was that a hidden message? Was Dean implying they couldn't do again what they had just done?

Eventually, Sam sighed deeply and relaxed. That had been a wild day. And an amazing night. Sam didn't want to push anything and ruin what had just happened, so he got out of the water and started drying off, too. He knew they were both wearing the towels strategically to hide what was going on within their trunks.

As they walked into the house, moments later, Sam just couldn't help himself. He grabbed Dean's shoulders from behind and approached his lips to his ear.

"Just admit that you like my hair," he teased.

"What?" Dean was a little caught off guard by Sam's touch and then his words.

"You love it, don't you?" Sam didn't know why he felt so bold. Probably because Dean had not only kissed him back but also taken control of the kissing.

Dean gave him a look that was so charged with lust that Sam felt a piercing stab of arousal hit him.

Dean let his fingers tangle in Sam's silky hair and tugged at it, softly but firmly enough for Sam to feel the powerful grip. His lips then found Sam's ear and his voice sounded coarse.

"I'll admit nothing." When Dean pulled back he reveled in the shallow, rapid breathing coming from his younger brother. "This has been a crazy night," he then shook his head and pushed away the dirty thoughts threatening to take control. "Good night, Sammy."

Sam saw his brother walk up the stairs and knew he needed to go to his room and lock the door.

The moment he was able to move and do it, though, Sam didn't go for his notebook. Tonight he wouldn't need a video from The Club to help ignite his imagination.

Tonight he had some much better material to use.






Chapter Text



Castiel's eyes ran over the forensic report on the drugs they had found at the crime scene for the hundredth time. There was a lot of chemical nomenclature he couldn't possibly understand but that, given the nature of his job, he recognized almost instantly. That combination of chemicals had shown up before, and Castiel knew what drug Lord was usually associated with those drugs.

The detective walked into the interrogation room and looked the short, brown haired man in the eyes. His were the only documents found at the crime scene, aside from those of the victim, and after a few days of tracking the man down, police finally found him hiding at a friend's house.

"Kevin G. Murray. I am Castiel Novak, the narcotics detective who is investigating the death of Clark Miller. I believe he was a friend of yours." Castiel sat across from the suspect and put his palms flat on the folders lying on the table separating them.

"Clark who? I don't know who you're talking about, man." Kevin, Lui, Clark and Finn were the people who had been working for Crowley when they got into trouble with the Winchesters. Lui had been smart enough to hide somewhere the police couldn't find him, and Kevin cursed him for it. Clark was dead, and Kevin wondered how much longer before the police got their hands on Finn as well.

"Well, that's odd. From what I'm told you'd been living with him for a while when he got killed."

"You're crazy, man! I have no idea what you're on to! I want my lawyer!" he protested.

Castiel took a deep breath.

"Your documents were found in that shithole apartment, Kevin. Cut the crap. You can do us both a favor and start talking, or I can think of a few things to add to your list of offenses."

The man fell silent and seemed to study the detective across from him with fresh eyes.

"I just want a few answers and I promise I'll do my best so that you leave this place without handcuffs." What Castiel didn't say was that there was no strong evidence linking Kevin to Clark's death, so even though they could hold him for questioning, he would probably end up leaving without handcuffs anyway. "But if you think you need a lawyer I don't know how much I'll be able to help you…"

"What do you want to know?" Kevin asked quickly, his fingers drumming on the table nervously.

Castiel smiled internally. On the outside, he was serious and focused.

"Who do you work for?"

The drumming on the table got faster, and Kevin's eyes strayed.

"Is it Crowley?" Castiel narrowed his blue eyes and assessed the man.

Kevin's brown eyes stared directly into the officer's, and his answer was all over his face.

"They'll kill me if I rat…" he began.

"We can protect you." Castiel felt his heart race at the confirmation that Crowley was indeed the owner of the drugs they had found. It wasn't the first, and unfortunately it wouldn't be the last time these drugs with his signature ended up on their hands. A few kids from a school near the crime scene had been caught with the same kind of pills.

"Nah, man, you don't understand…" Kevin shook his head. "Besides, I don't know a thing about the man, alright? I've never even seen him. All I did was join my friend Lui to make a few easy bucks. Approach some kids, sell the pills, keep part of the money. That's all I can tell you."

The man was so nervous and spoke so hurriedly that he probably didn't even register the fact that he had given Castiel a name. The detective looked down at a notepad he kept near and scribbled the name down. Lui.

"And what happened that evening, Kevin? Who shot Clark?"

"Not us, you can be sure!" The man sounded outraged. "We were minding our own business when the two of them burst in, guns in hand, demanding our drugs."

"Who were the two of them?" Castiel's heart was racing again. He could feel his pulse was fast, in part because of the interrogation, in part because of the session he knew he was going to have tonight.

Kevin shrugged. "Never seen them before. Tall. Good looking."

"Good looking?" Castiel arched his eyebrows as if the information surprised him.

"Yeah, like they had all their teeth and stuff, you know. And the suits they were wearing, they looked expensive."

"Right."  Tall. Suits. Good-looking, Castiel wrote down. "Why do you think they wanted the drugs?"

Kevin thought about it for a moment. As long as he didn't say anything about Crowley and his partners, he couldn't care less about sharing what he knew about the strangers who had showed up and caused the death of one of them.

"I think it was a message. Apparently they were pissed because Crowley was having us sell near schools." Kevin widened his eyes when he realized he had just used Crowley's name. Damnit, what was wrong with him?

Castiel thought that was going well. The criminal was surprisingly more chatty than expected, and he would milk him for all the information he could get.

"You didn't hear it from me," Kevin rushed the words and looked around worriedly, looking for cameras. "I swear it, man, if you try to use it against me I'll say you're deluded, I'll say…You're not recording this, are you?"

"I won't use it against you," Castiel calmed him, but didn't answer his question. "So they wanted the drugs to send a message. It wasn't a robbery, then?"

"Nah, I don't think so."

"And why kill Clark?"

Kevin sighed. He had already spoken so much, might as well finish the report.

"I don't think they meant to. Clark was not there. He walked in on us and overpowered one of them. There were threats shouted and things went to hell quickly."

Castiel had been investigating the drug scenario of the city long enough to know a thing or two and to have his own suspicions.

"Would you say that Clark got shot because he was threatening one of these men who walked in on you?"

"Yeah, I guess it went down this way."

Castiel knew about the Winchesters and Crowley, as much gossip as he could hear and as little evidence as one could expect. Even though both rival gangs were equally criminals and deserved to be punished for their offenses, it was oddly interesting that the Winchesters seemed to follow some sort of code of ethics. A drug Lord who did not sell to kids? Endearing, to say the least.

"Do you know these two men's names? Did they happen to speak it at any moment?"

"No, man," Kevin shook his head. "But someone said they were brothers, I don't remember who."

Castiel's heart reacted accordingly. The infamous Winchester brothers seemed to have struck again. This time Castiel had been really close. He had arrived at the scene moments after the shooting. If only he'd been there a little faster…

"Is that all? Can I go?" Kevin asked, visibly anxious.

"One more thing," Castiel thought about the video footage he had spent entire nights watching. "Did you happen to see a black Impala near the place when you were running?" It was the only suspicious car Castiel had spotted near the crime scene at the time things went down, but unfortunately the occupants had been too blurry for the technicians to give him a decent image, and the camera hadn't caught the license plate.

"No, I don't think so. I was running for my life, didn't see any cars."

Castiel sighed with dismay.

"You wait here a moment. A friend of mine will bring some paperwork. You did good, Kevin. I'll help you as much as I can."

Castiel walked out of the interrogation room and looked down at his notes.

Lui. Tall. Suits. Good-looking. Drug ethics? Winchester brothers.

It wasn't much, but it was more than he had this morning. Slow progress was still progress, and Castiel knew just how he wanted to celebrate it.


~ * ~ 


Sam woke up as the sun rose. The moment his brain was back from obliviousness, his heart began to dance to every adrenaline discharge it got as memories from the previous night came back to his mind.

Dean and he had kissed. His brother and he had fucking kissed.

The younger Winchester looked at the ceiling and smiled foolishly.

Could it be that his crazy, forbidden feelings of love weren't so unrequited as Sam thought they were? Yes, there had been moments, and Sam was pretty sure they'd been flirting, but now something had really happened. What did it mean?

He couldn't wait to see Dean. The thought of seeing his brother made his legs feel shaky and his chest feel fluttery due to the butterfly party going on inside. At the same time Sam was sort of anxious about their conversation, the hopeful thought that it might end up with more kissing made him get out of bed and get dressed.

Now, he knew his dad was home—or so he thought— which meant he couldn't go around half naked and with cologne on. John had a very keen eye and sharp senses; he was bound to pick something up and maybe start asking questions about Sam's private life.

Sam shuddered at the thought of John Winchester catching whiff of what had happened last night between his two sons. Whatever happened between Dean and he had to be a secret, and this thrilling aspect just made his heart pump faster with adrenaline.

It was only half past nine, but Sam didn't find Dean in the kitchen, and as he casually walked around a house that was way too big for just the three of them, he didn't find his brother anywhere either. Not even in his room. Yeah, he poked his head inside and took a look, but Dean wasn't there.

When he turned around he ran into his father, and his heart raced for a different reason. Sam remembered their arguing from the previous night and felt really bad about it.

"Oh, hi," he swallowed the little lump in his throat when he met John's eyes. "I was looking for Dean."

"He's left," John said curtly.

"Left? This early?"

"He had to do something for me," was all the explanation John gave.

"Oh." Sam hoped his dismay wasn't too obvious. Then, he took a deep breath and forced himself to keep looking at his dad. "Look, Dad, about last night…"

"Let it go," John waved a hand.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad about mom or anything," Sam apologized. He knew he had hurt his father, even if John wouldn't admit it.

The older Winchester softened and his eyes seemed kinder when he looked at his son. Of course he wanted to reinstate his authority over his kids, but did he appreciate the spunk of Sam standing up to him to defend his opinion? Yeah, he did. Not that he would ever say it.

"It's okay, boy. We all had a bit too much to drink. I know you meant well, but you know how I feel," he said in a firm voice. "I don't want to talk about it, though," he added quickly, to smooth it over.

"I don't either," Sam chose to just go along with it. He didn't want to start another argument.

"Come here." John pulled his son into a hug and Sam let himself go. John then kissed his son's temple and pushed him away gently. "You know, it's much harder kissing the top of your head than it used to be," he chuckled.

Sam did the same, glad that weight was off his chest.

"Now come here, I want to show you something."

Sam followed his dad into his office and watched as John took a painting off the wall. Under it there was a safe whose code John now shared with him. He made Sam open it and then they stood side by side, looking at the safe's contents.

"In case something happens to me, you and your brother need to know about this. I already told Dean and he's out now talking to some potential clients."

Sam took a step closer and studied the fine white powder in shiny crystal containers.

"What is it?"

"The purest coke you'll ever find. We're charging two hundred and fifty dollars a gram."

"Holy shit."

"It's the best stuff out there, and I don't trust any dealer with this product. I'll be the one in charge of dealing this, mostly, but you and your brother will help when I need."

"How did you get it?"

John smiled with the corner of his lips. It was a smile that didn't need words.

"I have my ways. The important thing is, with this kind of money I'll be able to expand our reach internationally. I need to get control of more people in other countries. From all we know, Azazel could be anywhere in this world. Fuck, he could be all the way down to Brazil."

Sam thought it was kind of sad that the family's entire drug empire was built on the blood of a broken heart, but he didn't say anything.

"Anyway, I need to leave now. I have a meeting with a family in the east side of town. I'll listen to them and decide whether or not I'll grant them any favors and protection. If all goes well, I might stay with them for a couple of days to celebrate. I'll let you and your brother know."


"If anything happens, you give me a call."

"I will."

"You two take care."

Sam watched his father leave and couldn't help the small little exciting feeling going through his veins. A couple of days with the house all for themselves? He couldn't have asked for more. Thank you, Dad. 


~ * ~ 


Sam waited all morning and afternoon to see his brother. He paced around the empty house like a caged animal, trying to find something to keep him busy. Lupita, the maid, had already cleaned the place, something that happened weekly, but still Sam found one or two things to clean and organize to make time pass faster.

When Dean did arrive, though, Sam had showered and looked as calm as he could while his heart rattled in his chest.

Certainly, Dean had no need to leave the house so early in the morning. What John had asked him to do was nothing pressing and didn't even need to get done today. He had left the house to deliberately avoid seeing his brother in the morning. After the previous night, Dean needed time to do some thinking.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed the kiss, for fuck's sake, he'd be damned but he had. The thought that Sam and he had crossed a line, though, worried him. Of course it did. They were brothers, they lived with their father—who would probably kill them if he found out—but what worried Dean the most was how much he had been—inadvertently—seducing his baby brother with the domination techniques he had been working on. Dean knew, for a fact, that being a BDSM dom boosted confidence and certainly made someone charming. He wondered if he was unconsciously using these skills to draw Sam in. Because the truth was that Dean wasn't too proud to admit he had feelings for his younger brother. He didn't know exactly when all those protective instincts had turned into something more, but this something more had been there for a while now. Even before the flirting started.

Dean had suppressed it and pushed it to the back of his mind, telling himself he was losing his mind, confusing his feeling of brotherly love with something else. Something heated and sexual. But when Sam had begun that silent, flirtatious dance, it had become pretty difficult to hide it.

The problem, Dean thought, was that even if Sam wanted this too—and he did seem to want it—Dean had to be rational about it. Even if Dean's heart still skipped a beat when he thought about the taste of his brother's tongue and the feel of his wet hair against his fingers as he pressed Sam into the kiss, Dean had to maintain control. That was why he was not looking forward to whatever kind of conversation they would have when they met again. In fact, he was hoping for no conversation at all.

"Hey," Sam greeted him when Dean walked into the living room.

His brother was sitting on the comfortable white sofa, watching TV.


"Dad's not home," Sam said quickly, his eyes lingering on Dean for a while longer than they would normally have. "He had business somewhere in the east side. If it goes well," and fuck, I hope it does, Sam thought, "he won't return for another couple of days or so." There was a glint in his eyes, a promising edge in his voice. He hoped, he knew, Dean would pick up on it.

"Fine. I'll go take a shower."

Sam could not believe his ears. Would Dean just turn around as if nothing had happened last night? Oh, no, he wouldn't.

"Wait," Sam got up and walked towards his brother.

Fuck no. Dean thought, his heart rate increasing, his thoughts rushing to come up with all sorts of excuses. On the outside, though, he looked perfectly calm. Thank goodness for BDSM techniques. Actually, thank John. His father. Their father. Because they were brothers—Fuck. Stop it, he chided himself.


"Aren't we going to talk about last night?" Sam narrowed his glowing hazel eyes a little and let his fingers stroke across Dean's wrist lightly.

Dean breathed in and out for a few seconds. A helpful technique to control anxiety.

"We kissed…." Dean knew he had to acknowledge it but try not to make a big deal out of it.

"Yes, we did." Sam arched his eyebrows and chuckled a little. Dean could tell he was nervous.

"I don't think this needs to be weird, man. I mean, yeah, I get that it was weird, but come to think of it, we both had a few drinks, it was late…I guess the alcohol, the pool and the whole argument thing messed a little with our heads."

Oh no, Sam thought. Don't give me the whole alcohol thing.

"You think so? It seemed like we were both thinking very clearly," Sam teased.

Damn it, Sammy, Dean thought the moment he realized where that was going. Of course the flirting had been real. Of course Sam wasn't feeling weirded out or disgusted. Dean knew the vibes he had been getting from his brother, though he had been reluctant to acknowledge them.

Dean smiled a little, his bottom lip looking incredibly inviting as he bit down on it rather seductively. Some things were beyond his help.

"Sammy…I don't think we should make a big deal out of that. I mean, our lives are pretty fucking complicated as they are, don't you think? Imagine adding something like that to the equation…"

Sam felt a little tense at where Dean was going with his words.

"Yeah, we have a pretty unusual life. Maybe that's the reason it happened in the first place." Sam studied his brother. He could smell Dean's musky scent and damn, he just wanted to kiss him again, but he had a bad feeling Dean would hold back this time.

"Maybe," Dean conceded. "That doesn't mean we need to make it harder, does it? We're brothers," he stressed.

"Think I don't know that?" Sam stepped back, a bit wary.

Dean smiled, sensing the shift in Sam's mood.

For a moment, Dean was so caught up in how handsome, how adorable his brother was, that he almost forgot what he was going to say.

Then, as he remembered it, he took a step towards his brother and let his lips come very close to Sam's ear.

"You know what? Incest sounds pretty kinky for someone who cringed at erotic asphyxiation," he teased, let the tip of his nose graze Sam's cheek ever so lightly, and pulled away with an intoxicating smirk on his face.

Sam felt his heart race like he was a school girl seeing her crush.

"Is that what it's all about? Do you think I'm too vanilla for this?" Sam licked at his lips and felt his chest strung tight with all sorts of tingly, exciting feelings.

Dean's response was to shrug. He didn’t want to completely shut that door, but he didn't want to let Sam indulge either.

"We'll see," he said enigmatically. "Now I really just need a shower. I'm going out again tonight."

"Out again?" Sam sounded visibly disappointed. Not to mention annoyed.

"Can't help it. Dad's left me a list of to do things."

"Well, can I at least go with you?"

Dean thought of the kind of appointment he had.

"Sorry, kid. Not this time. I'll be back late, but we can do something tomorrow. I got nothing important."

"Fine," Sam ended up caving.

Dean was glad to end that conversation. He then went upstairs and hurried into the shower. He couldn't get late. Not on a Friday.


~ * ~ 


The Pet was all tied up when the Headmaster walked in. His heart began to pound in his chest as the booted footsteps echoed in the dungeon.

The moment the Headmaster was standing right before him, in all his masked glory, Castiel, who always wore a mask to preserve his identity—god forbid him run into someone from work in that place—stared at him with blown out pupils filled with desire.

The Headmaster studied the deep blue eyes fixed on him. He could not see the man's full face, but he could tell he was handsome. Even though he preferred having sessions with girls, that man, who he called Pet, was very attractive and his submission triggered Dean's desire to work him. He couldn't say he didn't enjoy Fridays, even though tonight his mind was particularly difficult to control. His thoughts kept drifting to Sam, their kiss and their conversation, and forced Dean to work extra hard to push them to the back of his mind.

He let his fingers stroke the man's chin and studied the tight ropes keeping his arms locked behind his back. Pet was on his knees, completely naked and already hard.

"You didn't show up the last couple of Fridays."

"I'm sorry, Headmaster. I was busy with work and—"

"Shush," The Headmaster flogged the sub's back with just the right amount of strength. "You weren't a good pet for your teacher, disappearing like that."

The Pet felt his heart race. He knew the Headmaster would be particularly rough today after he had missed two sessions, and he was looking forward to it—it meant his orgasm would be that much stronger, too.

"I don't think you appreciate me as you should," The Headmaster's voice got low and gritty, sending shivers down the Pet's spine.

"I do. I swear I do. I worship you," The Pet spoke hurriedly, letting the fantasy take over and relinquishing all control to the alluring masked man before him.

"I don't know. I think you'll have to work extra hard to show me you love me," The Headmaster then unzipped his black leather pants and let his hard on spring free.

He could feel the hitching in the Pet's breath as he did that.

"Do you want this?" The Headmaster stroked himself right before the Pet's face.

The sub felt his mouth go dry with desire. His heart was pounding in his ears and his sex throbbed.

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Beg me."

"Please, feed me your cock, Headmaster."

"That's a good pet." He pushed the tip against the Pet's lips and shuddered when the mouth opened to take him in hungrily. "Fuck yeah…" he cursed and relaxed when a tongue immediately wrapped around his dick and obedient lips began to do their job. "Such a good little pet." He stroked the man's dark hair and enjoyed the feeling.

The Pet sucked diligently, feeling his own arousal build and take everything inside him by storm. He knew how the session would go—exactly as he wanted and agreed to in his contract—but that didn't make it any less exciting.

He would suck the Headmaster into his mouth for a moment, and then a good old spanking would take place. Castiel would be bent over the Headmaster's lap and would take it until his butt cheeks were red and burning—just perfect. Then, when he had been properly punished with precise slaps and harsh words, he would be freed from the bounds to find release.

Castiel wasn't into anal sex. On the rare occasions when he did date, he always chose women and enjoyed having sex with them. For some reason, though, sucking another man off—sucking The Headmaster off—was a wild fantasy that always gave him the most powerful release.

It would always end the same, with Castiel on his knees, taking the Headmaster's cock in his mouth and stroking himself desperately to the feeling of being submissive to him. And it never failed to make him come like he would fucking shatter, leaving him panting on all fours inside the dungeon.

"You did such a good job," The Headmaster praised him, his body still tingling after his release.

"Thank you, Headmaster."

"Come here." The Headmaster sat on the cold floor, legs crossed, and let the Pet crawl onto his lap. That was his aftercare.

The Pet enjoyed lying on the Master's legs, cheek pressed against his muscular thigh, and feeling the now gentle stroking of his hair. It went on for about half an hour until Castiel felt completely relaxed.

The Headmaster then got up slowly and stretched.

"You know how it goes. Warm bath, food and massage waiting out of the door. See you soon."

"Yes, Headmaster," The Pet nodded obediently and walked through the door, where he went into the water and let Castiel take control again, little by little.

The detective sighed blissfully. Today had been a good day.


~ * ~ 


Sam stared at the time on the bottom right corner of his laptop. A quarter to eleven. He wondered what his brother was doing. The day had certainly not gone as planned, but he tried to entertain himself playing an online game and then watching some videos.

So Dean thought he was too vanilla to handle intimacy between them?

Well, he would have something else coming.

Except for the fact that…to be honest, Sam was on the vanilla side of sex, wasn't he?

Not completely, he thought with a wicked smile and opened a new tab on the browser. He then got up and locked the door—just in case—before going back to bed.

"Would a vanilla guy be looking at this?" he thought lustfully as he unbuttoned his jeans and typed a few words.

Soon, Sam was in The Club, browsing through the BDSM kinky videos available.

He ended up choosing one he hadn't seen before, and that had been uploaded quite recently.

As he relaxed against the headboard and slipped his hand inside his underwear, Sam saw the Master, the Headmaster, walk into the dungeon where a tied up girl was waiting for him. The two people were masked, is it always happened in these videos. Sam could understand why people would want their identity preserved.

When the Headmaster came into full view, all hairs stood up on the back of Sam's neck and his hand went completely still. There was a blazing sun tattoo on the man's hip.

"What…" Sam's heart raced and his mouth hung open. That couldn't be a coincidence, it couldn't-

"I understand you've been a bad girl."

The voice. The tattoo.

"Well, fuck me!"

Sam paused the video and grabbed his laptop with both hands to look into the emerald green eyes of the masked man.

Then, he watched it for a few more seconds. No mask in this planet could have prevented Sam from recognizing the owner of that voice. Of that tattoo. Of those eyes.

The younger Winchester didn't know if he felt like laughing or screaming when he realized The Headmaster was actually his big brother.





Chapter Text



Sam's eyes were still glued to the paused video on screen, his heart hammering in his chest as every brain cell seemed to be overwhelmed by the discovery. Dean was a Master in The Club, whose porn videos Sam more often than not enjoyed watching to get off on.

He wasn't quite sure whether to laugh, to curse, or simply watch the video out of unstoppable curiosity, so he did all three. Sam Winchester scoffed with disbelief as he thought back on his conversation with his brother about vanilla sex, and everything made much more sense now. Then, he began to think about Dean's nightly missions, and wondered how many of those were excuses to sneak out and go to that place. Was he paying to be there? Was he paid to do it?

Oh fuck, was he there right now?

Suddenly, a spark of jealousy ignited Sam's feelings and made him feel insecure and somewhat stupid. If that was what Dean was truly into—spanking, dominating, punishing—then what could Sam possibly offer him? How kinky was Sam, really? I mean, he had tried to have anal sex with Jessica once, but gave it up after she looked visibly uncomfortable as if she was only doing it to please him. And then there was Dean, doing God only knew what kind of things to every hole in a person's body.

Sam shuddered.

There were so many hectic thoughts inside of him, so many restless feelings, but for the moment Sam kept them on a leash, because his lust and curiosity needed him to push play and see the rest of that video. He couldn't wait to see the climax.

Sam sucked in his breath when he clicked forward on the video.

Yes, that was Dean. Even though Sam hadn't seen his brother naked in years, and even though he had certainly never seen him naked and hard, he could tell that was Dean, and he could tell that his body really liked what he saw.

"Fuck it," Sam was so confused. So torn between jealous and horny, angry at the secret and madly interested. He had trouble focusing on one conflicting emotion at a time.

He realized it would be much easier to think if he could get at least a few of those emotions dealt with and out of his system. That was why, even though he wanted to shut down the screen, call his brother and start demanding answers, Sam was able to focus on the scene of Dean—no, the Headmaster—having sex with a submissive girl, and he was able to feel himself throb as he looked at how fucking gorgeous Dean was when he was all hard and hot, and all commanding. Fuck it, Sam wouldn't last. He stroked himself swiftly, imagining, for a wild moment, that it was him, and not the girl, that Dean rammed into. He pictured his hair being pulled, his hipbone being squeezed, his body thrashing under Dean's demanding thrusts.

"Fuck…fuck me…" he groaned and spilled all over his fingers, keeping the ministrations for a while longer, milking his orgasm to the sight of Dean coming undone on the screen.

Good, he thought once he was able to catch his breath. He had been able to deal with arousal and was no longer horny. That should help clear his thoughts a little.

And indeed, it did.

But when it happened it also made his feelings of frustration and anger scratch the surface and threaten to grow.

For an entire minute Sam just sat there, physically pleased, mentally wrecked, trying to piece together that absurd revelation. He didn't even know what to do with that information.

Dean was a BDSM Master. Holy fuck!

Did John knew about that? Sam wondered what their father would say if he found out.

"Okay," Sam took a deep breath. "Get a grip." What should he do in a messy, highly emotional situation? John had always taught them to take deep breaths and try to be rational. Gather as much information as you can. Trace a plan of action. Have a plan A and a plan B. "Be rational," Sam whispered to himself.

The first thing he did was go into the shower quickly to clean up. Then, he unlocked the door and listened for a while, but he was still alone.

Sam Winchester then sat in bed, cross-legged with his laptop resting on his knees, and began to do his research.

The Club. BDSM. Address.

It had to work in town, right? No way Dean would've been able to travel so far for something like that. Unless that had happened once, years ago, in a distant city. Which Sam didn't think was the case. Suddenly, Dean's night missions and showing up early in the morning did not seem so casual anymore.

For an entire hour, Sam googled everything he could about The Club, which surprisingly, wasn't much. The place seemed to be pretty shady and exclusive, and Sam needed to use some of the hacking skills he had developed over the years in order to uncover more information about the place.

The location made his heart skip a beat. He knew that address. It was one of their dad's bars. The one Bobby was legally in charge of. Sam wondered if Dean ran some sort of secret dungeon right under everyone's noses. It seemed so unlikely that it forced Sam to open his mind to the possibility that someone else was in it with Dean.


No. Sam couldn't, for the sake of him, imagine Bobby helping Dean run a shady BDSM business.

Still…it could be, couldn't it?

Because the night seriously couldn't get any weirder, Sam used his hacking skills to get into a closed BDSM forum online, and through that he was able to obtain a phone number and a password.

Get information, he thought. Think of a plan.

What sort of plan? He didn't have a plan because he didn't know what all that meant. It was all so crazy, exciting, but also fucked up…

Sam looked at the clock on the wall. Half past ten. He was still alone, so he took his cell phone and dialed the number. He almost hung up three times before someone picked up on the other side.


Even though the number wasn't a familiar one, it was definitely Bobby Singer's voice that Sam heard on the other side. He thought his breathing would burn his icy hot lungs. That had got to be a dream, or a nightmare, he couldn't decide.

Sam tried to control his heartbeats and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I'd like information about The Club?" Sam's voice was so coarse and low he knew he didn't sound like himself, but still he feared recognition.

The voice on the other side did not surprise Bobby at all. Most people who called looking for The Club did that, seeking anonymity.


Son of a fucking bitch, Bobby knew about it!

Sam ended the call quickly, his heart drumming in his chest.

For another minute or so he was back at square one, breathing with difficulty and being overwhelmed by the discovery. Dean was into bondage sex. Bobby knew about it. Well, did their father?

Sam began to think it increasingly difficult to believe that John Winchester did not know about his son's extracurricular activities, especially an activity that Bobby Singer seemed to know all about and that apparently took place in one of the bars he owed.

"Shit…" Sam put down the laptop and got to his feet. His fingers raked through his brown hair and locked at the top of his head as he let everything sink in. "If Dad does know…"

Sam's heart raced all over again and his fingers grew shaky with a discharge of adrenaline.

"No. No, please. It can't be, no…" he rushed back to bed and opened the laptop again, typing frantically until he got what he wanted.

Dom's video.

Sam had trouble breathing as he watched the silent Master on the screen about to punish a slave. There weren't ever any words in Dom's videos—nothing but groaning and moaning—but knowing what Sam did now, it didn't take him long to realize that the daddy on screen was actually his daddy.

"Oh, God, please no…" Sam thought of the many times he had jerked off to that video not knowing it was actually his father he was watching.

The thought made him feel queasy and for a moment he thought his dinner might revisit him.

"Fuck!" he cursed loudly and pushed the laptop away, as if it had burned him. Of course Dom was John. Why hadn't Sam realized it before? The same height, the same built, the eyes…shit, of course there was something familiar in those eyes—those were eyes Sam had known all his life!

The youngest Winchester shuddered and felt his stomach grow heavy with disgust and regret.

How could I know?! His brain began to fight the nauseating realization.

And indeed, there was no way in hell he could have known. Without a voice and with the camera always focusing much more on the slave than on the Master, it would've been hard to recognize someone. Even if Dom was a perfect fit for John Winchester, Sam had never had any reason whatsoever to associate his father with BDSM sex. Until then.

"Thanks for ruining it for me, Dad," he shook his head and mumbled.

Except…things weren't entirely ruined, were they? Because sure, there was the stomach cramping discovery that he had been aroused by his daddy having sex, but there was also the realization that Dean was a Master. And…fuck, even though Sam felt betrayed and angry and flustered….that was so fucking hot.

Sam stood perfectly still for a moment. It felt like his heart was the only thing breathing and kicking inside of him. His brain still had trouble processing the discovery.

How come he had never suspected anything?, a part of Sam wondered urgently. But how could he have?, the other part fought back. His brother and father had never ever mentioned anything, nothing about a sex club had ever slipped in any conversation, and Sam had never found anything suspicious anywhere in the house.

The thought caused him to snap out of his reverie and start focusing on more practical things again.

Sam walked out of his room and looked around the house. No one. He looked outside the window and didn't see the Impala parked outside. Dean still hadn't come back. Was he having a BDSM session with someone? A girl? A guy?

Don't go there, Sam begged his brain. He still couldn't decide whether he was jealous or horny, so he chose not to think about it.

For the first time in years, Sam Winchester walked into his brother's room when Dean wasn't there. Sam couldn't even remember the last time he had done that, probably when he was about twelve or thirteen and wanted to grab a hold of a few skin magazines. Yet, even though a lot of time had passed, Sam could still feel that rush of trespass as he walked into Dean's bedroom.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The bed was made, the floor was clean. Which, come to think about it, was a bit odd. Dean had never been too tidy about his things, but a few years ago that had begun to change. The maid cleaned his room weekly and Dean was actually able to keep it clean and neat.

What Sam didn't know was that John Winchester had had everything to do with Dean's change.



A few months after Dean had begun as Master in the Club, John had walked into his son's messy room, stared at a plate with a half-eaten burger on the nightstand and nearly tripped over a beer bottle on the floor.

John Winchester had then walked towards the TV and turned it off, in order to have the full attention of the young man sitting cross-legged in bed.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Look around. Your room's a fucking mess."

Dean did as told and tried to shrug it off.

"Lupita will come tomorrow —"

"This is not just about cleaning, it's about discipline, don't you see?"

Dean could feel his muscles growing a bit stiff. He knew he was talking to John, but also to Dom. He could recognize his father's BDSM persona right there in his eyes.

"You've been studying about Mastership, haven't you?" John lowered his voice just a little not to draw Sam's attention.

"Yes, sir …"

"Then act like it," John ordered in a commanding voice. "If you can't even take control of your own life, how are you supposed to control someone else's?"

Dean swallowed hard and stared at the bedspread for a moment. Then, because he knew it was important and because he had understood the message, he met his father's eyes and nodded.

"Right. I get it."

John nodded too, pleased with the response.

"In order to teach discipline, you need to be discipline."

"I will." Dean then reached for the control again. "As soon as the movie's over I'll get started on it."

"No," John shook his head. "It starts now." He walked towards the bed and lowered his voice so only Dean could hear him. "That's what the Headmaster would say, wouldn't he?"

Dean nodded once again and felt a bit of stiffness in his neck.

"Yes, sir."





Sam sat down on his brother's bed and looked around. He had already gone through Dean's wardrobe and found nothing weird. Suits and plaid seemed to struggle fiercely in his brother's closet, but other than that everything was boring. Socks, shoes, ties…

The Headmaster… Sam's thoughts kept going back to it. At the same time he felt like laughing, he also felt the piercing tingle of arousal when he remembered how the Headmaster had handled the slave.

Sam thought about his brother being all goofy and fun, and tried to come to terms with the serious, commanding tone of his BDSM persona. When Sam thought about it, from Dean to Headmaster, it had been quite creative, frankly. It also made sense, as he thought about it, that John's videos were silent whereas Dean allowed himself to speak.

People knew who John Winchester was. The police knew who he was. Most of them suspected he was a Mafia Drug Lord, few of them knew he was and that there was hardly any way to prove it and get him in jail. Even though John was pretty safe because of his connections and the money he had going in the police, he had to be careful when exposing himself. Sam and Dean had it a bit easier. Although it was known John Winchester had two sons who were probably as deep in the drug business as their daddy was, Sam and Dean's names were not publicly known. John had been careful not to show their faces around, raising them in a beautiful and isolated mansion to make sure curious eyes wouldn't be around to remember those faces. That gave Sam and Dean much needed anonymity to move around and execute missions. And carry out BDSM sessions, apparently.

Sam shook his head. Dean probably never thought he would be recognized by his voice since his face was pretty well hidden under the half mask. But then again, he probably never thought his 'vanilla' baby brother would google that sort of kinky porn.

"Vanilla my ass," Sam muttered good-humoredly and reached over to open the drawers in the nightstand. He had given up hope of finding anything remotely interesting when he saw the book right there, in the second drawer, without any attempt at being hidden. The picture of handcuffed wrists on the cover certainly caught Sam's eye, so he took it and studied the title.

The Psychology of Domination and Submission.

"Really? You read books about it?" he didn't know whether he was truly impressed or just highly amused. He had begun to leaf through the book and read a few bits when the sound of someone disarming the alarm and walking in brought him back to reality.

Sam put the book back and left Dean's room carefully. He checked the phone in his pocket—a little past eleven--and took a deep breath to control his heartbeats.

"Sam? Are you up?"

He could hear Dean's voice from downstairs.

When Dean had left their house about three hours ago, Sam had been unknowing and naïve. In the short time that had gone by, Sam knew more about his brother and father than they did about him. That had got to be a nice advantage for a change, right?

"Yeah, I'm here."

Damn it, Dean thought. He had hoped to find his brother already asleep so he wouldn't have to deal with that crazy hot tension between them.

"Wanna watch a movie?" Sam went down the stairs and met his brother in the living room.

Dean widened his eyes a little and checked his watch again.

"Really? Have you seen what time it is?" he retorted.

"It's Friday. We have nothing to do tomorrow morning. Whatever dad's put on your to do list can wait until after midday, can't it?" Sam studied Dean carefully.

The older brother shrugged a little and caved.

"Yeah, all right."

"Great. I'll microwave some popcorn."

Dean watched Sam's glowing eyes and small hint of smile and for a moment he felt a bit uncomfortable under his brother's gaze. What was going on? The way Sam was looking at him was a little…what? Dean couldn't really name it, so he just thought he was going crazy what with being tired and dealing with the sexually charged mood between them.

If they were about to sit beside each other on the sofa for a couple of hours, then Dean was actually glad he'd just had release. It would make it a lot easier to think straight and not do anything stupid. Like kissing his brother.

Sam bit back a sly grin as he waited for the popcorn. The fact that Dean had no idea he knew about The Club was as thrilling as it was maddening. Part of him wanted to just walk up to his brother, put a finger to his face and yell at him for keeping him out of something so big about the family business. Who did John and Dean think he was? A fucking child? Did they believe he couldn't handle that? That Sam would break if he found out his dad and older brother were into whips and handcuffs?

For a moment, the younger Winchester had to swallow down his annoyance. That was a very real feeling that could easily escalate and take control. Right now, though, Sam wanted to focus on a different feeling. The fact that he knew his dad and brother's secret gave him, at least for once, the upper hand. And if Sam couldn't do anything about it, at least he would try and have some fun before he confronted either of them about their secret.

Sam walked into the living room holding a bowl of popcorn and sat beside his brother on the sofa.

"What do you want to watch?" Dean asked as Sam adjusted himself comfortably beside him. Of course their legs were brushing casually, as they often did. And of course Dean—and he was certain Sam, too—were much more aware of the contact now.

Sam hadn't really thought about what to watch, really. He'd just wanted to spend time with his brother. The movie was irrelevant.

"You can pick," he ended up saying.

"You sure?" Dean frowned. "You say I have crappy taste in movies."

"You do," Sam smiled faintly but also enigmatically before filling his mouth with popcorn.

Dean stared at him for a moment before grabbing a fistful of popcorn and shrugging.

"All right." He ended up picking whatever action movie popped up first on the screen. It was late, and he wasn't sure he could watch much of anything after The Club and the good warm bath he had taken there.

Sam wasn't feeling much different. Even though his heart had been racing and his blood had been bubbling with adrenaline ever since he'd found out about Dean, his plans of teasing his brother about it or trying to get some information were soon melting into a puddle of drowsiness that caused his eyelids to feel heavy and his eyes to lose interest in the movie.

After his orgasm and the intense adrenaline discharge of the past hour, being beside Dean was so familiar, so soothing, that Sam began to relax. The dim light and the movie on TV certainly weren't helping keep his mind sharp. Whatever plans he'd had to try to make some sort of move began to drift into the tempting arms of sleep.

Sam let his head fall against Dean's shoulder, his heartrate increasing just a little at the closeness.

"You smell fresh," he murmured. It was hard not to think about the sex club and the BDSM sex in the dungeons. Dean smelled of soap, like he'd taken a bath or showered recently.

"Of course I do. I showered before I left, remember?"

Sam tried to fight off the sleepiness for a moment.

"So the mission was easy? Didn't break a sweat?"

Dean thought about feeding his dick to Pet and was so damn happy Sam couldn't read his mind.

"Nah. It was fine."

Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother, but Dean was eating popcorn and looking at the screen.

"Wanna tell me about it?" he tried, feeling his chest grow a little warm with expectation. If only Dean knew that Sam knew!

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head, to Sam's disappointment and relief.

"Not really. I thought you wanted to watch the movie?"

"Sure," it was Sam's turn to shrug and focus back on the TV. He didn't move much, though, and after a while it was Dean who poked him and looked a little uncomfortable.

"Your hair is tickling me, man," he ended up saying. And it was, not that it was a bad feeling, but being able to smell Sam's shampoo so close was doing things to Dean's brain he'd rather not deal with at the moment.

"Sorry," Sam let himself slide until his head was lying on his brother's lap. "That better?"

That better? Your head on my fucking lap? Dean sucked in his breath and did his best to calm down. Sammy, Sammy… he thought disapprovingly, but not without some amusement. What are you trying to do, man? You'll get us in trouble.

"That's fine." Dean was going to make some silly joke about Sam drooling on his jeans but thought it would be safer not to.

It was like Sam could almost feel Dean's discomfort, and it delighted him. He deserved much more for keeping such a secret from him. A secret Sam still didn't quite know how to deal with or what to do about, but he was going to figure it out. Perhaps not tonight, though.

Sam closed his eyes and an entire dream sequence just happened. He tried to keep them open but another blink caused him to drift into unconsciousness again. He felt all his cheeky plans to tease his brother begin to fade as sleep took over.

About half an hour later, after finishing the popcorn by himself and trying to talk to Sam with no response, Dean looked down at his lap and found his brother fast asleep. He smiled with relief—whatever Sam had planned for tonight, it would have to wait.

Then, trying his best to move as little as possible, he slid out from under his brother and put a pillow under Sam's head. Dean turned off the TV and looked at his brother's sleeping frame with a tenderness he couldn't help feeling.

"Sorry I can no longer carry you to bed, sleeping beauty. Those days are gone," he whispered at the tall man out like a light on the sofa.

He couldn't carry Sam up, but he could do something else.

Dean went up the stairs and came back with a blanket, which he adjusted on top of his brother. He then smiled at the scene and let his fingers rake through a lock of that beautiful and soft brown hair.

"Night, Sammy."

Dean then went up to his room and got into bed. He looked at his phone and saw a few audio messages from Benny. Because he didn't want to play them aloud, he opened the second drawer of the nightstand where his headphones were.

"Shit, gotta take it to The Club," he said when he saw the book his father had given him. It was not safe letting it hang around the house where Sam could stumble upon it. Not that Dean thought his brother would go through his things, but he'd rather play it safe.

The older Winchester then put the headphones on and pushed play.


~ * ~ 


Lui opened a bag filled with cash and tiny bags with white power. He looked the three other men in the eyes and smiled crookedly.

"What's that for?" Ronald asked.

"Cocaine?" Marcus asked.

"Sweet Jesus, is this Christmas?" Finn chuckled.

"Yeah, it's Christmas. And this is only half the pay," Lui explained. "Crowley needs us to do a job for him. I was thinking about next week, so we have time to plan in case you're on board with it."

"A job? What kind of job? The last one got us in some deep shit. Almost got caught, man," Finn said as he picked up one of the tiny bags, opened and sniffed its contents, letting out a delightful whistle in exclamation.

"Let's just say that he and the Winchester have a little thing going on. They're not seeing eye to eye at the moment since what happened to us," Lui looked at Finn and explained to the others.

"When do they ever?"

"Right. So Crowley needs us to send John a little message. Something that will make him feel pissed and cause his pocket and his reputation some damage." He eyed the other guys with eyes full of mischief.

"If he's got more of this shit for us, I'm in," Marcus said as he sniffed some of the drug.

"Do we have to kill anyone?" Ronald asked, voice calm and practical.

"No, we don't. Just cause a little chaos and destruction," Lui explained. "But we'll be armed, of course. Getting in won't be so easy, so we'll need to plan and have the element of surprise on our side."

"This sounds all so mysterious," Ronald pinched his chin and scratched his beard with his thumb. "What is this place we're going to be wrecking up?"

Lui grinned and looked all three men in the eyes.

"It's a Sex Club."





Chapter Text



A spoon lay cast aside on top of a table along with a couple of syringes and needles. The fickle light of a candle burned over the objects, and two of the four people in the room were lying on the floor in the sheer ecstasy of a heroin high.

"Tell me more about the plan," Ronald, a short and bearded man, the strongest and also the meanest of them all, asked.

"We should wait until they're back so I don't have to repeat everything," Lui nodded towards the two guys whose minds were far away.

Ronald shook his head slowly. There was a scar on his left eyebrow that almost went down to his eyelid—a reminder of a bar fight gone wrong; wrong for the other guy, who didn't make it alive, of course. Ronald wasn't afraid to kill and when there was money to be made in a scheme he did not hesitate neither did he show any mercy. He had been in the drug business for a while, mostly as a hitman sent to collect debts or scare anyone who owed money or favors to the big boss. Crowley used him from time to time, making sure he got heftily paid to ensure his loyalty. Not that Crowley thought Ronald could possibly start working for the Winchesters—he was too ruthless to fit the profile of John's employees—but Crowley knew that it was important keeping such members of his crew strategically pleased and eager to keep working for more.

"I don't care about those fucking junkies and I don't care about the cocaine. I'm in for the money, and you know it. Those two dickheads will probably get an overdose when we get paid, and we'll be lucky if they don't get in the way."

Lui knew Ronald was right. They were going to be the brains behind the operation. Well, Lui was, Ronald was going to be the brutal force.

"Crowley gave me the password and I called this Club place pretending to be a potential client to get information on their schedule. It was quite easy considering the shit they do makes pretty much everyone want anonymity when they call or go there."

"So, when do we strike?"

"I think during the week we have better chances. Weekends tend to be crowded. The Club seems to be at the end of a bar, and the less people we find drinking and hanging around, the easier it'll be to take over."

"Right," Ronald agreed with appreciation.

"So on Wednesdays there's only one 'Master' scheduled to work," he quoted the word Master and mocked it. "We can forget Mondays and Tuesdays, there are too many people in the club partying. On Thursdays there are two Masters. I don't know who they are, but from the BDSM videos I googled these guys are usually well-built and they might know how to fight. I think it's safer if we go on Wednesday."

"I agree. The less people the better. How about security? How does that work?"

"It doesn't seem to be a heavily guarded place. Crowley's been there before, anonymously, of course, and he said there's an older man who allows people in at the back of the bar. He said he shouldn't be underestimated, though. After we handle him and evacuate the bar, inside The Club there are the Masters and clients in the dungeons. There seems to be two dungeons, but on Wednesdays only one will be used. We need to get there after sessions start to make it easier to catch them off guard. And then…" Lui smiled. "Then we break down as much shit as we can. The goal is to cause as much damage as possible."

Ronald smiled, too. Do as much damage as possible. He could do that. He was good at that.

"I say we split the money and let those two potheads have the cocaine," he said.

"They might accept it, who knows," Lui shrugged, even though he did want part of that cocaine for himself. It was good shit, and if Ronald was willing to pass on it, well, it was his loss.

"Let me see the guns again," Ronald asked.

Lui got up, walked towards a briefcase and picked it up. He put it on the table and opened it.

Ronald smiled and let his fingers stroke over the shining guns and many bullets.

"Crowley said not to kill or harm anyone," Lui said when he saw the malicious glow in Ronald's eyes.

"Really? I thought you said these people killed one of your buddies," he looked right into Lui's eyes and caused the tall, skinny man to shrug uncomfortably.

"Yeah, but—" Lui knew Carl sort of had it coming when he started making threats while he was high as a kite, but he didn't want to say it.

"So we'll do what we have to do, just like they did it."

"Crowley will get pissed if we don't follow his rules…"

"Oh, we will follow his rules," Ronald smiled crookedly. "But who knows what could happen when we break into a sex club? Things not always go the way we plan. We might have to…improvise."


~ * ~ 


Dean had been avoiding Sam. Particularly now, that he knew John was away and his baby brother might feel a little bolder, Dean tried to keep his distance. That was why he came up with errands to run and people to visit from the moment the sun came up and only got back home late at night. On one side, it kind of hurt him because he truly basked in the sort of sexual tension he could feel going on between them. However, he was the older brother, he was aware of how the dom techniques he studied could influence him, and he knew he had to be the one to control things. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his brother. If Sam was drawn to whatever Dean had been channeling through The Club, then it was his job not to let it go any further. Sam needed to be protected from that sort of wicked thing.

Yet, the crazy thought that Sam might feel something for him, even if nothing but a wicked sort of lustful curiosity, set fire to everything inside of Dean, and it actually cracked his strong-willed mind right open with a sort of vulnerability he shied away from.

It was scary, really.

Dean didn't want to think about what it meant, because he was wise enough to focus on the consequences of them playing around with fire. And kissing around in the pool, right under their dad's nose, that was playing with fire.

He tried to push those thoughts away as he rang the bell and waited.

"Hey. Come in," Benny opened the door and invited Dean in.

The Winchester walked into his friend's house and drowned out the remaining thoughts of his brother and the deliciously flirty vibe that had been going on between them.

"Hey. So what is it that you need to talk to me about?"

Benny had sent Dean a few audio messages that basically asked for a meeting. He would've called, but he had been told not to discuss anything Club related over the phone since he couldn't know whether or not Dean would be able to do it without calling attention. In other words, Sam could be around. Even messages had to be avoided, unless they were extremely important, and this was, at least for him.

"It's Andrea."

Not Club related, but depending on how it unfolded, this could involve The Club's schedule.

Dean rolled his eyes the moment that name came out of his friend's mouth. He knew how much that woman had hurt his friend and he'd hoped he had heard the last of her. He really wasn't looking forward to anything related to that name.

"Benny, man, how many times have we gone through this? You need to let it go—"

"That asshole she's left me for has been beating her up."

Dean fell silent and studied the agitated, edgy look in his friend's eyes. He could tell Benny was badly shaken by that, and it was something very grave if it was true.

"How do you know?"

"She called asking for help."

Dean took a deep breath. He knew Benny believed his ex-wife, but he couldn't help feeling wary. What if that was just another plan to get something more from Benny? More money? Another car?

"Are you sure? I mean, forgive me for taking her word with a grain of salt, but after what happened…"

"Here," Benny interrupted Dean by showing a picture on his phone. It was Andrea's face. She had a black, puffy eye and a split lip. She looked awful, and her makeup was smeared, probably from ugly crying.

Dean couldn't not be empathetic when he saw it. He understood how much that must have affected his friend.

"What are you going to do about it?" Dean simply asked, because he knew Benny must have thought of something already. "And what do you need me for?"

Benny felt so happy for Dean's friendship he might have hugged the man, but that was not the time for that kind of display, he thought.

"I want to scare the shit out of that fucking asshole. Andrea said he's left on business and will come back in four days. I want you and I to go have a talk with him."

"Just a talk?" Dean cocked an eyebrow with disbelief.

"A serious talk," Benny nodded. "If he promises to stay away from her and never to touch her again, he gets to walk. If he doesn't, it might become more than a talk," Benny admitted.

"Is she okay with this? Does she know you'll talk to him?"

"She is. Andrea and I…" Benny trailed off as if it was painful to talk about it. He looked around his house as if he could remember what it felt like when she was there with him. "We're not good for each other anymore. We've changed, she's changed too much. I know this now. I don't wanna go down that rabbit hole again, Dean," Benny said, referring to the depression and drug use that ensued when he divorced Andrea some years ago. "But I need to know she'll be fine."

"All right," Dean agreed.

Benny sighed deeply with relief and gratitude.

"She told me his flight number. I want to see him the moment he arrives at the airport, you know. Before he can go home and do more of the same."

Dean nodded.

"Yeah. So when will it be?"

"Wednesday. Late afternoon."

Dean thought for a moment.

"The airport is across the river. If the talk turns into something else or if the bridge goes up and interrupts traffic, I might be late for The Club." Dean knew how anal John was about never being late and never skipping scheduled sessions. Discipline was everything, he would say. The Winchester looked into his friend's expectant, almost pleading eyes and shrugged. "We'll make it in time. And if we don't, I'll tell Bobby to cancel and give any clients a refund."

"Thank you." This time Benny didn't refrain from pulling his friend into a hug.

"Don't thank me yet," Dean felt a bit awkward and broke the embrace. "Wait until we talk to this wife beating shit."


~ * ~


Sam knew Dean was avoiding him. It shouldn't surprise him, really. Every time something came up it was usually Sam wanting to talk it out and Dean running from it at every opportunity. Having kissed each other in the pool was definitely something Sam believed they should talk about—or act on—but for some reason that Sam couldn't quite understand Dean was holding back.

Knowing what he did now about his brother it certainly couldn't be because Dean was a prude and had a serious problem with the nature of their connection. No, the kinky Master of BDSM sex couldn't be shying away from intimacy with his brother. After all the things Dean must have seen and experienced, he had to have an open mind. So what was it? Didn't he want it? Sam could feel he did…then why was he holding back? The whole talk about not wanting to complicate things had sounded a little like bullshit to Sam, and he wondered what was really going on.

Did Dean think that he was protecting Sam by pretending nothing was going on? Because yeah, that was something Sam could see his brother doing—believing Sam needed protection against everything, including himself.

"I'm not a fucking child," Sam muttered under his breath as he watched John get back from his trip and begin unpacking. The privacy he had looked forward to having was gone now. And no surprise there, Dean came back home the moment their dad was back.

Sam watched his brother fill their dad in on business activities with little interest and growing frustration.

"The Johnsons case will no longer be a problem. I visited them yesterday and I was able to settle the dispute they had with our man," Dean was saying.

"Good." John made himself some coffee and sat on his favorite armchair as Dean stood before him and went on with his report.

"The distributor from Canada got in touch. He said that…"

Sam wasn't really listening. His eyes went from his father's to Dean's, and not for the first time he felt a little left out. Except that now he knew why he felt this way. For sure the Club didn't explain and justify everything he felt, but it definitely made Sam understand a great part of why he felt his father and older brother had this intuitive connection that just didn't seem to include him.

Sam wanted to scream at them. I know your dirty little secret! Part of him wanted to walk up to Dom and the Headmaster and expose them for their lies. The other part was still mortified at finding out he had been getting off to videos of his own dad.

No. Shit. Don't fucking go there, Sam urged himself.

"You okay there, son?"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard his father's voice. He realized Dean and he were staring at him. Had he said anything out loud? Sam didn't think so, but he was sure his face probably looked all sorts of weird.

"No. I'm okay," he took a deep breath and pushed his angry and shameful thoughts away.

"I talked to Bobby," John went on while he seemed to have both his kids attention. "It seems that some cops have been asking around about the Winchester brothers," he said, and saw the way both of his kids looked at him with tense expectation. "Apparently, they got their hands on one of the men who escaped from the Crowley mission and they talked."

"Will it be a problem?" Dean asked.

John shook his head slowly.

"They have nothing on us, do they? They would've come knocking already if they had any shred of evidence," John said.

"We should be careful, though. Lie low for a while," Sam was suddenly completely focused and rational.

"You should," John agreed. "I'll try to be the one carrying out most of the business, or have someone else whenever possible for the next couple of months or so. The last thing we need is the police growing curious about my sons."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and nodded gravelly.

"Anyway, I'm still tired as fuck from the trip. I think I'll call to have a massage or something done. My neck's killing me."

Sam had to immediately push away the memories he had of slaves giving Master Dom all sorts of massages. Fuck it! It would probably be a while before he was able to mentally delete all those memories. He wished really badly he could just unsee everything.

"We can have dinner together later." John said and then walked up the stairs, where he disappeared with his coffee.

Sam waited until they were alone and until his thoughts could come back to how annoying Dean's absence in the last days had been. His lips parted and he was about to say something but Dean was faster.

"Go change and get your gun. We got a mission," the older brother said.

Sam was taken off guard. He'd been sure Dean was about to come up with some sort of excuse to take off and avoid talking. A mission was the last thing Sam expected to be asked to join right now.

"Dad's just told us to lie low." He frowned, his bewilderment obvious.

"This will be okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Would you rather I go alone? I can do that, I guess," Dean began.

"No, no," Sam said quickly. "I'll go with you. Give me ten minutes," he said before disappearing up the same stairs his father had just used.


~ * ~ 


It was a short drive in the Impala to the place where they would meet one of John's associates who also happened to be friends with Bobby. Because Sam was checking the GPS and knew they wouldn't have much time in the car, he didn't even think about bringing up any sort of subject that wasn't the mission ahead.

The house was also in the country side, surrounded by trees and a few streams, away from the busy city life. Dean pulled over and parked the Impala on the driveway of a beautiful two story house with huge glass windows. The first thing they noticed were the security cameras on almost every corner of the house.

"Someone's a little paranoid," Sam whispered, feeling at the gun on his hip.

"You would be too if you were owing money to people like Crowley. C'mon, get the briefcase and let's go. Dad said he will be expecting us."

Dean and Sam walked in and rang the bell. Even though there was a window open upstairs and a car parked in the garage, no one answered it.

The brothers looked at each other and Dean tried the door. It was unlocked.

"What the fuck?" he frowned. Someone with that many security cameras wouldn't have just forgotten to lock the front door, now would they?

"Be careful," Sam whispered when Dean walked in first, gun in hand.

Sam covered for his brother as they took a few steps into the house.

"Rufus?" Dean called. "Are you there?" He looked around, gun in hand.

Sam was right behind him as they walked past a cozy white sofa and a fireplace and made their way to the kitchen, where a messy kitchen island looked as if it'd been abandoned hurriedly in the middle of cooking.

"Do you think he's left?" Sam shrugged, still looking around and trying to sharpen his ears to any noise.

"If he did he forgot the best part of dinner," Dean looked at the lemon pie on the counter and stuck his finger in the icing.

Sam had to roll his eyes when he saw his brother suck on his finger with evident pleasure.

"Seriously?" he mouthed.

Dean turned to face his brother.

"It's pie. Pie's good," he stated matter-of-factly.

Sam might have said something, but that was when he saw the man coming quickly down the stairs, gun in hand, about to start shooting. The briefcase fell off his hand and he acted fast.

"Duck!" He yelled and surged toward Dean, pushing them both to the floor and landing on top of his brother when the bullets started flying.

For a moment, the two Winchesters locked eyes on the kitchen floor, both panting and fully alert now, but Sam was the one with his gun more readily at hand, so he got up faster and started shooting back.

"Stop shooting! We're here to talk!" He yelled at the man when he stopped for a moment. He aimed at things near the man but not directly at him. Regardless of who that person was, Sam did not want to kill anyone he didn't absolutely have to.

"Yeah, talk!" The man yelled back. "I know what kind of talk!" He fired a few more times. "You can talk to my gun, assholes!"

Dean, now gun in hand and body fully pumped with adrenaline, ready for combat, heard that voice and stopped before firing his weapon.

"Rufus? Rufus! What the fuck, man! Stop shooting! It's us! John's kids!" he yelled.

Sam never put his gun down. He had a clean shot if the man chose to continue firing at them, but Dean's words seemed to have gotten to him.

"Sam? Dean?" Rufus asked and for the first time lowered his gun.

"It's us! John sent us here," Sam said.

Rufus narrowed his eyes and assessed the two suited young men in his kitchen. When he was convinced they were who they said they were, he opened a huge smile and went down the remaining stairs to greet them.

"Holy fuck! It's really you! You two little shits have grown, you know that?!" He walked closer and squeezed both brothers' shoulders as they all relaxed and took deep breaths. "Last time I saw you guys you were taller than him!" Rufus looked at Dean and teased him.

"Well, yeah. Not my fault the kid won't stop growing," Dean mumbled playfully and put his gun away.

"Why were you shooting at us? Didn't you see us through the cameras?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah, but as I said it's been a while since I last saw you, and you look different wearing those suits. Besides, I know Crowley's after me because of the money I caused him to lose. There's a target on my back on the streets. So excuse me but I'll fire first and ask questions later."

"Dad said you were expecting us. Imagine if you weren't, man." Dean shook his head. "Anyway, I don't know what you did to Crowley but Dad says you unintentionally screwed him up pretty good," Dean said. "So whatever happened, of course Dad wants to help."

Dean nodded at the briefcase and Sam picked it up. The younger brother opened it to show Rufus a lot of brand new dollar bills inside.

"There's eight hundred thousand dollars here," Sam explained. "Dad said it should be enough to get Crowley and his hitmen off your ass."

Rufus looked from one brother to the other as if he couldn't truly believe it.

"Is that for me? Are you sure?"

"You're a friend of Bobby's and you screwed Crowley over. Of course that's for you," Dean said, feeling warm inside at Rufus' evident joy and relief. He knew that money was pretty much buying the man's life.

Sam closed the briefcase and handed it to Rufus, relived that they were able to get through to him before any casualties. Working for a Mafia boss was definitely not a safe job.

"Well, thank you. And thank your daddy on my behalf." Rufus took the briefcase and put it on a counter behind him. "And you two, you should stay for dinner. It's the least I could do after nearly shooting you dead," he smiled widely.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look and shrugged.

"Well, there is pie," Dean seemed to consider.

"We'll stay," Sam chuckled, knowing Rufus had already convinced his brother. "Just let me send Dad a message to let him know that everything's alright and we won't be home for dinner."


~ * ~ 


The two of them ate dinner with Rufus and left the man's house when the night was falling and the stars were shinning. They'd both drunk wine with the man, Dean not as much since he would be driving, but Sam had let himself indulge a little. After the last few days coated with discoveries and frustration, he certainly felt like he could use a drink to take the edge off a little.

Perhaps it was the alcohol that caused him to relax, perhaps it was just the intoxicating closeness to Dean playing with his thoughts and feelings as it always did. But the thing was that Sam cast a playful, deep look at his brother and his lips curved a little with a smile.

"I saved your ass back there," he spoke.

Dean looked at him briefly before focusing on the road again.

"If I hadn't pushed you down Rufus would've shot you."

"Well, yeah…" Dean agreed. "A moment of distraction can do that. You know it's a risky business."

"Yeah, and you know I'm not a child, right?" Sam breathed in deeply, his heart racing. They were approaching their house so he knew they didn't have much time before they were home.

Dean frowned a little. He could tell that question wasn't as simple and innocent as it seemed to be.

"Never said you were, Sammy…"

"But you are always trying to protect me from shit," Sam accused, his heart beating passionately fast. At the same time it bothered his rational mind, Dean's overprotectiveness set fire to his desire and made him burn for his brother.

"I thought that's what big brother's do, isn't it?" Dean defended himself.

Sam was silent for a moment as Dean slid past the gates and towards the garage.

"I'm just saying that I can handle things, Dean. I'm not some vanilla boy."

Dean sighed and tried to keep cool as he opened the garage door and parked inside.

"Is that what it's all about? The whole asphyxiation thing and me hinting at you being vanilla?"

Sam licked at his lips and waited.

"Because I've apologized. I don't think you're a prude or anything—"

Sam closed the small distance between them in the parked Impala and pressed their lips together.

Fuck. Holy fucking fuck what the fuck am I doing?! Sam's heart rattled in his chest and his legs grew shaky. He had been wondering what it would feel like to taste another kiss, but he never expected he would've been so bold to just go for it. He guessed he'd had more wine than he'd at first thought.

But hey, Dean wasn't pushing him back, was he?

Dean was definitely taken by surprise, but he didn't immediately react. He felt the pressure of Sam's lips on his and didn't fight it when Sam licked his lips open. Dean complied, letting his tongue touch his brother's and feeling his dick throb at the wet little rubbing that followed.

What the hell was going on there?

"Sammy?" Dean whispered in between nibbling and tasting.

"No…no," Sam shook his head and tried to keep kissing.

Dean wanted to just shut his fucking brain and ravish Sam. If that was what he wanted, and Jesus Christ it certainly felt like it was, then Dean would give it to him. He would give everything to him.

The problem was, of course Dean couldn't just shut down his brain and enjoy.

He held Sam's wrist tightly and stopped kissing back.

"What the hell, man?" he whispered softly against Sam's still parted and now glistening lips.

For a moment they didn't say anything. Sam became painfully aware of Dean's fingers tightly wrapped around his wrist, as if telling him to hold back. Dean's breath, though, kept trying to lure Sam in, and it took him all he had to clear his thoughts a little and look into Dean's green eyes.

"Is it bad?" Sam asked mischievously.

Dean shook his head.

"No, but it's messy," he whispered back. "You know we don't do messy, Sammy," he tried to speak to his brother's more rational brain.

Sam felt his heart race, but this time there was a twinge of annoyance dancing with the passionate butterflies. That was the Headmaster, the goddamn BDSM sex Master telling him to hold back because things could get 'messy'. How hypocritical.

Sam could see the lust in Dean's eyes, but more than that, he would have to be blind not to see the fucking tent in his brother's pants. One pretty much as big as the one Sam had between his legs at the moment.

But fine, if Dean was going to play hard to get, Sam wouldn't push it.

"I think I had too much wine," he ended up caving and drawing back.

"Yeah, I think you did. Come, let's get inside and get some sleep. We both need it."

Sam got out of the Impala and the two of them walked out of the garage and into the mansion.

They exchanged a few awkward good night words before heading each to their room, but Sam wasn't going to sleep right now. He had already made up his mind.

Inside his room, Sam locked the door and picked up his phone.

He dialed the number he'd memorized and his heart seemed to throb in his throat as he waited for it.

"The Club."

"Hi," he lowered his voice to try and disguise it, but this time it wasn't Bobby who picked up. "I'd like to schedule a session with the Headmaster." Sam felt his blood pumping adrenaline through his veins as he listened to the person inform him about the Club's schedule.

"We have other Masters and a Mistress, too."

"No," Sam cut the person off. "I want a session with the Headmaster. It has to be him."

"The sooner I have is in a couple of days, at eight o'clock. Does that work for you?"

Sam thought about it. He felt shaky, his head was spinning, his heartrate was manic. He smiled against the phone and felt his knees buckle a little.

"Yeah," he answered. "Wednesday's perfect."





Chapter Text



If Dean thought he could push him away and pretend he didn't feel the same, he was in for a surprise. At the moment, Sam had no idea what exactly he was doing and how far he was willing to do it for, but the idea of catching Dean off guard and showing him that innocent little vanilla Sammy had outsmarted him seemed like something exciting. The thought that he could go in and allow himself to experience some hot making out session before revealing his true identity to his brother tickled all his senses and made his heart race. Of course he wasn't going there to have sex with Dean—not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Sam had sometimes flirted with the idea of going all the way with the object of his affection and desire, but he still shied away from how intense the whole thing seemed. So he obviously wasn't looking for sexual intercourse when he scheduled that appointment. Going undercover, indulging in some hot kissing and perhaps heavy petting with his brother and then revealing himself would be Sam's way of letting Dean know he wasn't a baby, he wasn't vanilla, and he was willing to have a taste of messy.

Sam knew, however, that he had a few problems to work through. The first one was getting through Bobby without being recognized. The second was to continue inside The Club with a cover that allowed him not to be identified as John Winchester's—Dom's—son. He supposed he could put on a full face mask, but he wondered how he would manage to walk into the bar with it. Perhaps some loose clothes, a hoodie and a half mask would do the trick. Sam knew there had to be a way to do this. He didn't think Bobby or anyone inside that place would scrutinize him for his true identity. It seemed like masks and anonymity were a big thing inside the BDSM practice.

Sam looked at his phone and felt his lips tingle at the memory of their kiss. Oh, why did it have to feel so fucking good? Why were Dean's lips so soft and his scent so intoxicating? Why did it feel like a single touch of their tongues set fire to his lower belly and made him throb?

The younger Winchester sat heavily on his bed and kicked off his shoes. With his back against the headboard, he closed his eyes and thought about what he was about to do. On one hand, he kind of enjoyed knowing Dean and John's dirty secret. It gave him some sort of upper hand. On the other, he was still pissed at them for keeping secrets, and felt he was more than entitled to use his alleged oblivion to his own favor.

Sam imagined the look on Dean's face—the Headmaster's face—when Sam took off his mask after they kissed long and hard. That's right, Headmaster. It's me. Your baby brother. Not so innocent now, am I? Sam smiled mischievously at the thought and his eyes glowed. He kept wondering how far he would let things go before he allowed Dean to know he was touching his brother. The thought of how far their touching would go and how much he would let Dean take sent his thoughts spiraling down an exciting and arousing path, and Sam found hardly any sleep at all that night.


~ * ~


Castiel walked into his superior's office and closed the door.


"Hello, Castiel."

Zachariah watched the younger man walk in and stand before his desk. He indicated for Castiel to take a seat, but the detective refused, which didn't surprise Zachariah. If there was someone who seemed to be always in a rush, tense and on his way to do something extremely important, that was Castiel.

"Coffee?" Zachariah offered.

"No, thank you," Castiel was standing before the balding man in a grey, worn out overcoat. He tried to keep his personal feelings under control and his voice steady when he spoke. "I have reason to believe you did not get my request to access John Winchester's medical records." Castiel was positively certain his boss had gotten his request and chosen to ignore it. The thought made him have to take a deep breath to keep his indignation under control.

Zachariah's eyes went from Castiel to his own cooling coffee, which he drank long and unhurriedly as he seemed to ponder. The man before him was a fine employee, a great detective and an honest officer. Sometimes those things could get you into trouble if you didn't know when to stop.

"As a matter of fact, I did get the request. The judge hasn't authorized it," he lied.

Castiel frowned. He felt something hot stir in his chest but he kept his voice calm and controlled. "Why not? I have strong reasons to believe this will help with the investigation. Everyone knows John Winchester's sons are implicated in the drug business, and this might be our chance to finally go after them."

"Because what, you have the word of a junkie?" Zachariah referred to the testimony Castiel had obtained from a drug addicted.

"He said the two men who shot his friend were John Winchester's sons. We all know the Winchester keeps everything about his family top secret. The only way for me to figure out their names and question them is if I get access to their birth certificates or medical records."

"A man like John Winchester probably has his own hospital with his own doctors working for him and no way to get a hand on his medical records, let alone those of his sons, who we know he's extremely private about."

"Still, those records exist, and we're the police. We've been trying to prove John Winchester is a Mafia mastermind, running a drug empire, and now we have a testimony implicating his sons in a crime scene."

You've been trying, my friend. Zachariah thought with a bit of sympathy. Not that he didn't do his job, but he knew very well where the lines were drawn.

"Seriously, Castiel? Are you really planning to go after a Mafia boss based on a junkie's words? Did you even see the size of his criminal record?" Zachariah narrowed his eyes and shook his head a little.

"It's doesn't matter—"

"Of course it does. Let's say we do get a judge to sign and we get access to all the information we can get on the Winchester's sons. What are you going to do with it? Go after them? Question them? Do you think they'll just tell you that yeah, they run a drug empire, and yeah, they killed a random junkie?"

Castiel frowned. Zachariah wasn't making any sense.

"Well, isn't that part of everyday police work? Question suspects, make progress?"

Zachariah had a condescending, irritating smile plastered on his face.

"That's everyday police work, right, but the war between the Winchester and Crowley is not your everyday investigation. We need to tread carefully, Castiel. You don't want to raise their suspicions and get them to lawyer up before we have some sort of substantial proof. In other words, we can't go after them with nothing but the words of a junkie who perhaps was high at the moment of the crime."

Castiel knew he had lost. For whatever reason, Zachariah wouldn't help his investigation. And Castiel had a feeling he knew the reason why. Dirty cops were a reality in every branch of the police force, and unfortunately they were often the ones who managed to climb really high in the corporate ladder. Castiel wondered if Zachariah was being paid to hinder the investigation on the town's—no, the country's—biggest drug Lords.

The young detective sighed and stared at his superior for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Castiel. Come back with something better and I'll see what I can do to help you."

"Yes, sir," Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat and left before he felt too tempted to say something he might regret.

When he was alone, Zachariah got up and locked the door. He then picked up his phone and made a call.

"Yes? Mr. Singer?"

"It's him."

"I have a detective asking questions about John Winchester's kids," Zachariah said and there was a pause on the other side of the line. "I did what you told me to," he went on.

"Good. Your payment will be in your account tonight."

"Right. Thank you. I will let you know how it unfolds."

"You do that."

Zachariah was about to end the call when the man on the other side spoke again.

"Who's asking questions? I want the detective's name."

Zachariah hesitated, but only briefly. He was in too deep to back away now. They wouldn't let him back away now.

"Novak. Castiel Novak."


~ * ~ 


On Wednesday, Sam's heart started racing the very moment he woke up. At first he didn't move, lying awake in bed and staring at the ceiling. Am I really going to do this? He could feel his breathing hitch and his thoughts run wild as his expectations grew. Of course I am. Just relax. It's Dean. If you change your mind, remember it's Dean. Just tell him it's a prank and it'll be fine. And really, when he thought about it, there was no reason to be so anxious. First off, because he was aware BDSM was a fantasy and in the vast majority of cases the fantasy only played out with the absolute consent of everyone involved. Secondly, if Sam felt uncomfortable with anything or just decided the whole thing was a mistake, he could use his safe word and get out anonymously, or he could show his true identity and have an honest, but probably full of bickering, conversation with his brother about the family's side business.

Sam thought that if he ended up feeling too insecure about his feelings he could tell Dean it was all a plan to see his reaction to Sam finding out and then go from there. However, that was not what Sam was hoping would happen, at least not at first.

Sam thought about the video of The Headmaster in The Club and his blood rushed faster, pumped by adrenaline and arousal. Sam wanted to experience being helpless, even if just for a moment, and he wanted to know what it would feel like being at someone's mercy, because he knew this someone was Dean—and Dean was safe. The thought stirred all his deepest fantasies and it was hard convincing himself not to do anything about it and instead wait until evening.

He wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by Dean in his dominant role. To be touched by him, teased by him.

"Fuck," Sam was so excited he knew he would have trouble getting through the day normally.

Eventually, he forced himself to get out of bed and splashed some water on his face. It was extremely difficult, but he pushed the thoughts of the upcoming event to the back of his mind and went downstairs where he could already hear some noise.

John was dressed in a black suit and he checked his phone while sipping coffee. Dean was also focused on his phone while a plate of bacon and eggs lied untouched before him.

"Hey." He said, and was greeted by two people who barely took their eyes off their phones.

John moved first. He put the cell phone in his pants pocket and finished his coffee.

"I'm heading out. I got important business downtown and I'll be out all day. I'll get home late, you should have dinner without me," he announced. "You two take care and let me know if something comes up."

"Yes, Dad," Sam replied and leaned in a little when John walked past him and kissed the top of his head.

"See you, Dad."

Sam watched from a small distance while John walked up to Dean and squeezed his shoulder before leaving. Sam had never paid these little differences too much attention—he always supposed that his father was a little more affectionate with him since he was the youngest, but now that he knew the truth about The Club he wondered if the lack of warmer physical intimacy between Dean and he had something to do with the fact that both his dad and older brother enjoyed playing dominant roles when they went undercover.

Funny how stumbling upon the online video could change the way he saw his dad and brother.

The moment John left, Dean looked at his phone and answered it, casting Sam a quick glance before walking away to talk.

As he pretended to fix himself breakfast, Sam heard small chunks of conversation.

"Yeah, I haven't forgotten. I'll be there."

There was a pause and Dean frowned.

"I know. I agree. Just make sure you aren't late. You know I have an appointment later."

Sam's heart felt the fluttering tickle of butterflies when he wondered if said appointment was the one Dean—the Headmaster—unknowingly had with him tonight.

"Yeah. The sooner we go the sooner we leave. See you. Bye."

Sam started to make himself some blueberry pancakes—it was going to be a different, memorable day and he wanted a good start—when Dean came closer and sat before his bacon and eggs again.

"So," Sam began, fully aware of what he was doing. "Dad won't be coming for dinner. What do you want to eat? I could make that homemade pizza again," he feigned a casualness he obviously didn't feel, because he knew what Dean's answer would be.

"Actually, I'll have to pass. I have a thing later tonight and I don't know what time I'll be back."

"Oh," Sam looked quickly in Dean's direction before looking at the food he was preparing. There hadn't been any teasing closeness or flirty moment since the kiss in the Impala. Sam had been biding his time and waiting for tonight, and Dean had been feeling relieved—slightly disappointed, that was true—that Sam had apparently understood they could not play with fire, it didn't matter how great it felt being near all that heat. "I hope you have fun, then." Sam chewed on his bottom lip and bit back a smile.

"Yeah, I'm not sure fun is the right word for it," Dean's thoughts were drifting to Benny and his ex-girl problems. He hoped they wouldn't have to get physical with the wife beating shit. Dean knew his father wouldn't approve of him doing anything unrelated to their business that could get him exposed to the law. John worked really hard to keep his sons under the radar, and he would be extremely pissed if Dean picking up a fight for his friend ended up with the police getting involved.

The older brother sighed. Besides, there was The Club. Dean had called in and knew he had a session booked for eight o'clock, a first timer. This meant he needed to get in a bit earlier to read the sub's contract before going into the dungeon. But oh well, first things first. It was going to be a busy day.

"We can do lunch."

"Um?" Sam had been lost in thought when Dean's voice pulled him back.

"We can do lunch if you like," Dean offered. He didn't want Sam to feel like he was shutting him down. Just because Dean felt it was important to maintain a safe distance between them and the crazy desire pulsing under their skin it didn't mean he didn't want his brother's company.

"I'm going downtown in the afternoon. I got to pick up some stuff, but yeah, we can have lunch together." Sam had a small list of things he wanted to get his hands on before he went into The Club.

"Great. Make the pizza and I'll go get some ice cream. What do you want?"

"Not vanilla," Sam smiled provocatively and looked into his brother's eyes.

Dean hesitated for a brief moment, caught off guard by the witty remark, then chuckled, the sound pleased and low in his throat.

"Got ya," he winked playfully and left.


~ * ~ 


Lui, Ronald and the two other criminals in the room stared at the guns, drugs and phones on the table before them. It was still early afternoon and they still had plenty of time to prepare everything, but the expectation in the room was great.

"Look at this…"

"This is good stuff…"

"Get your hands off of it," Lui warned. "Crowley needs the service done well. No drugs before we break into the Bar and The Club behind."

Ronald nodded appreciatively at him. The last thing they needed was to drag along a couple of junkies into a risky mission. Despite what Lui thought about the Winchesters' little sex club, Ronald had a feeling that nothing that belonged to a Mafia boss would be weakly guarded, and that he was sure to stumble upon a few guns when they took the place over.

"Lui's right. Hold your horses. We'll begin a little past eight, cause as much damage as we can after we take control, and leave," Ronald said.

"Can we set the place on fire?" Marcus asked with a maniac look in his eyes.

"Maybe," Lui smiled. "When we're inside remember not to hurt any of the people in the bar. We'll gather all of them and throw them into one of the dungeons where they won't be able to fight back or tell anyone."

"What if they call the police?" Finn asked, without being able to take his eyes off the heroin on the table.

"We'll get their phones the moment we walk in and announce our intentions. Leave no phone behind. We need time to do what Crowley wants us to and we don't want the police coming in the middle of it," Ronald said.

"And remember what Crowley said, we don't kill anyone unless our lives are on the line, okay? We'll fuck the place up and have fun, but no one dies unless we absolutely have no choice," Lui reminded everyone. Deaths always brought in the police and made things all the more difficult for those in charge. After what had happened with him losing the drugs, Lui wanted to do a good job for Crowley.

Ronald stared right into Lui's eyes. The tall, skinny criminal wondered if the hitman was more of an asset or a burden—there was something evil and determined in his eyes that gave him chills.

"What time do we leave?" Marcus asked.

Lui and Ronald studied each other.

"You and Finn will go in first," he explained. "You'll arrive as soon as the club opens and pretend to shoot pool and drink. Make sure you don't actually drink too much. I've got no use for you if you're both shitfaced," he warned.

"Lui and I will arrive a little after eight o'clock. Sessions begin at eight inside the dungeons. The more people we can catch off guard with their pants off, the better," Ronald smiled wickedly.

"When we arrive, that's your cue to stay close and alert. We'll go for whoever is in charge of security. I want the two of you to start taking care of clients," Lui said. "Is everything understood? Do you have any questions?"

They shook their heads, then the four of them looked at each other, got closer to the table and picked up a gun.


~ * ~ 


Dean met Benny in the early afternoon and they rode together to the airport. It was a one hour drive if traffic was good, which made Dean hopeful about getting back on time. Yet, he knew that rush hour and traffic on the bridge might give him a headache on the way back to The Club.

"Thanks for doing this, man," Benny said for like, the tenth time.

"You know I'm here for you. And you know how I feel about a man who hits a woman."

Benny nodded.

"Part of me just wanted to say, that serves you right for leaving me, you know?" he admitted with honesty. "But that part's a jerk and I'm aware of that. So what if she thought he was Mr. Nice. I liked the guy, too. Never thought he was such an asshole. People can make mistakes when they trust others. I just…" Benny pursed his lips. "I wish I hadn't seen her bruised face. It was fucking hard, Dean…" he confessed.

"I can imagine what it feels like seeing someone you care about so much all hurting, physically and mentally," Dean closed his eyes for a split second. "But she'll get over it. That guy won't ever hurt her again."

And indeed, he wouldn't. Few people would have stood up to two men like Benny Lafitte and Dean Winchester, and Andrea's husband certainly wasn't one of these people. The moment he saw the two strong and mean looking guys corner him, he had tried to run believing he was about to be robbed or kidnapped. When he recognized Benny, who used to be his friend, he tried to be chatty and charming, but one look at Andrea's black eye in the picture Benny showed him on his phone told the man that was not going to be a friendly meeting.

After pushing the guy into the Impala and driving around with him for an hour, it hadn't taken Benny or Dean much persuading to get the guy to promise he would leave Andrea alone and disappear. Because Benny's self-control wasn't exactly a very sharp skill—the drug use could attest to that,—he had roughed the guy up before he was satisfied he meant his every word about never going near Andrea again. Benny explained to the man who Dean was, without revealing any compromising details about his identify, of course, and promised the man he would be watched twenty four hours a day, everyday, until he'd left the state. No, leaving the city wouldn't be good enough. Benny wanted him out of the state.

During the ride, Dean had done his part, supporting Benny with a mean look on his face, the shining gun by the windshield where the man could easily see it, and the deadly promise to have him disappear for good if he ever came close to Andrea again.

In the end, the whole thing had run smoother than both Benny and Dean had been expecting it to, and they were able to start their way back as the sun began to set at about six.

Dean knew Benny was relieved—still sad, but definitely relieved—about the whole thing, and listened to him call Andrea and give her the good news. He was also relieved because the police wouldn't be involved, John wouldn't even know about it, and because there was plenty of time to get back to The Club even if they faced rush hour traffic.

Of course it all changed when they came across a car accident on the bridge.

Dean brought the Impala to a full stop, checked his wrist clock and sighed.

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," Benny offered, to which Dean replied with a long, meaningful look.


~ * ~ 


Sam took a thorough and delicious bath before leaving the house that evening. Since it would be his first time at The Club, he was told to arrive at least an hour earlier in order to read the contract and make sure he had no questions about the experience.

Just the fact that there was a contract made Sam want to smile with a mix of amusement and thrilling anxiety.

He got into the car and gave the driver the address, confirming what he already knew—The Club was at the same address where one of his dad's bars, the one ran by Bobby, was located.

Sam took a deep, calming breath and looked at himself in the rearview mirror before paying the driver and getting out.

Before he walked towards the entrance, though, he adjusted the blond wig he had bought over his hair and pulled the hoodie over his face. Then, he put on black sunglasses and pulled the turtle neck collar of his sweater up to his mouth. It was chilly, but it was pretty obvious that the clothes were there to disguise him. Sam hoped it wouldn't be a problem. He doubted most people who wanted to go to The Club walked in with a clean face.

Sam got out of the car and walked in. The sun had begun to set a few minutes ago, and it wasn't completely dark when he entered the smokey, chatty atmosphere of the bar. He immediately spotted Bobby at the back of the place, behind a counter. Son of a bitch, he thought as he remembered Bobby was in on the secret.

He pulled the hoodie over his forehead one more time and walked past pool tables with a few people playing and drinking. Five or six, he counted in a glance.  The bar had just opened, so there weren't many people inside. Besides, it was a Wednesday, so Sam knew he wouldn't find a crowded place.

Sam could feel his blood pumping with adrenaline as he walked towards Bobby. His fingers felt sweaty as he fiddled with the slip of paper in his pocket. He stood before the counter and waited until Bobby walked towards him.

Please don't recognize me. Please don't ruin this, he thought feverishly.

Bobby singer glanced at the man and knew he was a client for The Club. The extra work put into trying to disguise his looks was certainly something Bobby was used to seeing. Still, he had to go by the rules.


Sam picked up the slip of paper and pushed it over the counter, towards Bobby's hand. He knew that if he spoke the code there was a good chance Bobby would recognize his voice. That was how he had realized Dean was the masked man in the video, so Sam didn't want to take chances.

Bobby looked at the slip of paper. It read Discipline. That was a first, he thought and bit back a smile. The man before him must be someone important to make sure not even his voice could be recognized. It actually made Bobby lay eyes on him again, with a twinge of interest he couldn't repress.

The older man narrowed his eyes and seemed to think for a moment. A moment in which it felt like Sam's heart would burst. In the end, though, Bobby shrugged the weird impression of familiarity off and nodded.

"All right. Wait here. Someone will walk you in."

Bobby picked up the phone and made a call. Five excruciatingly long minutes later, a girl Sam had never seen before opened the door. She was wearing a half mask and leather clothes, and she greeted him politely before walking in with him.

"It's your first time, right sweetie?"

Sam nodded.

"What should I call you?"

Sam thought for a split second before answering.


"I'll take you to the room where you can store your things and get changed."

Sam followed her into a dressing room. Inside, there were different kinds of leather clothes and accessories, and his eyes were immediately drawn to them.

"There's a lot to choose from, right?" The young woman said, as if reading his thoughts. "You should read the contract first, though. I can help you make a choice later. If you have any questions, I'll be just outside the door."

"Thanks," Sam heard himself say.

When she closed the door and he found himself alone, he looked at the sheets of paper stapled together, lying on a desk before him. Sam sat down, turned the first page and read the title.

The Headmaster – Contract. Please read and choose your answers carefully. It's very important for The Club that you and your Master have a positive, fulfilling experience. Be as honest as you can be to make sure we will cater to your needs accordingly.

Sam took a deep breath and felt shaky with excitement. He was really doing this, wasn't he? Tonight he would set fire to the little flirty spark going on between his brother and him. Tonight, regardless of how far things went, Sam knew his relationship with Dean would change.

The first paragraph was entirely dedicated to a safe word. What it was, why it was important, how to use it and when. So before reading further, Sam was asked to write down the one word that would stop everything in case he changed his mind.

The young Winchester felt tempted to use Vanilla. Given the current circumstances, though, he feared it would be a dead giveaway, so he went with the more traditional Redyes, he had googled safe words. Not that Sam thought he would be needing it.

"I'm ready for some chocolate chip ice cream, Headmaster."





Chapter Text



Bobby waited until The Club's client disappeared inside, and went back to what he was doing.

There was a small black notepad where he kept the names of all the cops he had already bribed or on whom they had dirt on. Castiel Novak wasn't on that list. It wasn't the first time Bobby heard that name, but it was the first time that name seemed to be sniffing around, getting too close to John and the boys.

Just because he wasn't on the list though, it didn't mean Castiel Novak wasn't corrupt.

It just meant Bobby would have to do a little research and try to figure out what made the narcotics detective tick.

Money? Women? Men?

Those were the usual motivations behind everyone's actions, but drugs could be involved as well. Unlikely with a narcotics detective, but Bobby would wait and see. He would have to call a few numbers, call in a few favors and see what he could dig up on this Castiel guy.

One could never be too safe—at any given moment this detective might get too close and present an actual threat, and when that happened, Bobby wanted to be ready.

He was so focused on the list of names and phone numbers before him that he didn't really see the two young men playing pool near the counter, casting suspicious glances in his direction every now and then.

No one seemed to pay much heed to the fact that Bobby Singer cared way too much about his boss. More often than not, the affairs he had with the Winchesters were more on the side of family and less on the side of business.

Perhaps a lot of it had to do with the way he and John had met, many years ago when the boys were still children. Bobby didn't know of any other employee who had taken a bullet for John and ultimately saved his life.

Back in the beginning, when John Winchester was still learning his way around the Mafia world and the drug empire he set his mind on building, he walked into a few traps for not knowing any better. Before John learned to outsmart Crowley and build a strong enough business to defy him, he was a lot more vulnerable to his rival's dirty ways of street fighting.

 On the day when Bobby had providentially saved his ass, John had been lured by some false information on Azazel's whereabouts. When Crowley had learned what made Winchester tick, he used that against him, having his men spread rumors about Azazel being nearby.

That had drawn John to a certain place, in the middle of the deserted woods, where Crowley had hoped to end the drug war once and for all and become sole king of the operation, what with one of his bosses in jail and the other missing.

Bobby had wrecked his plans though when he showed up out of nowhere, guns blazing and putting himself between John and the bullet aimed at his back, which drew John's attention as he joined in on the shooting in a heartbeat. Together, they'd wiped out all the killers Crowley had sent after John.

Later, as they sat down and talked over booze, Bobby explained why he was in the middle of the woods at night wearing a bullet proof vest and packing. Turns out his wife, Karen, had died after being caught in the crossfire between the police and Crowley's gang.

She had left to go shopping, but never came back.

In the end, neither the police nor the criminals had been held accountable for the stray bullet that had taken his wife from him, and that explained why Bobby had no lost love for Crowley or the cops. To him, they could all go screw themselves. When an innocent life was taken, there had been no justice, just a bunch of criminals hiding in the shadows and officers trying to cover their asses.

Since Karen was taken away, Bobby sometimes hunted down Crowley's criminals and fucked up their plans, just for the sake of it. It was not like he could go after cops, and not like it would bring Karen back, but knowing he was becoming a pain in the ass to Crowley's business gave him a bit of joy—and sort of spoke to a death wish he pretended not to be aware of.

The two of them had bonded that night, John's gratitude and the pain they both felt kept drawing them to each other. Nevertheless, Bobby Singer was a loner, and shied away when John made him an offer to start working for him.

On two separate occasions John Winchester had tried to get Bobby to work for him, without any success. It wasn't until a couple of years later, when John came to Bobby asking for a favor, that things changed.

Bobby had been ready to politely decline John's offer—again—when he realized John needed something different. He really needed to go out of town for a few days and couldn't trust anyone to stay with his kids. Kids.

The aspiring Mafia boss had two kids, and he didn't trust a sitter to stay with them in his absence. With the war going on between Crowley and John, he needed to know his sons would be with someone trustworthy, someone who could use a gun.

Bobby had been so taken aback by the request that he hadn't had time to deny it.

Then he met Sam and Dean.

And that was when his life changed again, for better this time.

Bobby had built a strong wall around himself and pushed everyone away—there was no way he was going to experience that much hurt again; he'd learned his lesson with Karen.

But John's kids had inadvertently made that wall tumble down and easily found their way into the older man's heart. After staying with them a few times, Bobby knew he couldn't just walk away.

Sam and Dean breathed life into him; they woke feelings inside of Bobby that he didn't even know he had, or that he was even capable of feeling. Taking up John's offer and working for him was only a natural consequence of his affection for the boys. Bobby had always wondered whether John Winchester knew what he was doing when he pushed Sam and Dean into his life, or whether his friend had been truly clueless about how much his two kids would grow to mean to Bobby.

In the end, it didn't matter, because Bobby watched those boys grow into fine young men, and he loved those two idjits like they were his own. That was why Bobby went over the list of corrupt cops with scrutiny—he needed to make sure that whatever this Castiel was investigating, it wouldn't be a problem for his boys.

He knew Sam and Dean, and knew that even though they were on the other side of the law, they were good boys. They had good hearts and they followed a code. If they killed someone, their lives or the lives of their family were on the line, and who could blame them for that?

No one ever paid for Karen's death, so Bobby knew firsthand just how flawed the justice system was.

At a quarter to eight, Bobby was still focused on the notepad before him, texting a few contacts hoping to uncover something important.

Thus he failed to notice the two guys playing pool nearby check the clock nervously, growing bolder and edgier as every minute went by.


~ * ~


Sam let his eyes read everything with curiosity and anxiety.

He learned about hard and soft limits and what they meant in BDSM.

The Master was someone who would push his limits, and Sam needed to determine how far he was willing to go. What was he hesitant but curious to maybe explore a little—soft limits? And what were the things that were definitely off the table and he did not want to experience—hard limits?

His heart never stopped racing as he was forced to make small decisions and think about things he hadn't really given any thought about before.

For example, did he want to be blindfolded? Gagged?

No, and… maybe?

Was he allergic to latex? Not that he knew of.

Sam went over a series of questions about his health condition—no, he didn't have anything noteworthy, as far as he knew—and then about his desires.

He read things on the list he didn't even know existed, and his thoughts were certainly racing when he found himself halfway through the contract.

"Urethra play?" Sam frowned and shuddered. It was a bad shudder.

"Is that even a thing?" he whispered and cringed at the thought.

"No. No and no. Hard limit," he checked the box and shook his head, trying to do away with the mental image that had just formed there. Maybe he was more vanilla than he thought.

At least that was how he felt after going through an extensive list of kinky practices to which he swiftly marked: hard limits.

"Kissing?" His heart drummed and he ticked the box. Yes, please. Lots of that.

He turned the page and found more questions that made him blush and caused his thoughts to crash and burn. Did his brother seriously do all that to people? Did his Dad?

No. Don't go there, Sam pushed the thought away quickly and tried to finish the page without being—too—judgmental.

Anal sex? No.

Anal toys? If so, check the boxes you'd be interested in. No, and no, thanks.

Sam knew that being in love with a man would cause him to confront some issues about his own sexuality that he might not be ready to face. This, for instance.

On one hand, he was very attracted to his brother, and he felt physically aroused by him without a doubt. On the other hand, Sam didn't really see himself going all the way at the moment. Maybe someday, eventually? Yeah, he would be lying if he said he'd never fantasized about it. But he knew he was not ready for that part yet, especially not in this place and not with that version of his brother.

Even though part of him felt a bit silly for all the restrictions he marked on the contract, there was just so much there that wasn't exactly about sex— like if he was interested in verbal abuse, how much pain he wanted to experiment with—that he ended up relaxing a little. It seemed plausible to assume that not everyone interested in BDSM was there to have sex, even if they were seeking some sort of release that was, very sexual.

Sam sighed and checked the clock on the wall.

It was a quarter to eight when he finished going over the contract.

Now he understood why he was asked to be there one hour earlier as a first timer. Indeed, there was a lot to go over before stepping into the dungeon.

When he was done and feeling confident about his specifications—at least as confident as his racing heart would allow him to feel—Sam opened the door and looked for the girl who had shown him inside.

"I signed it."

"Good," she smiled and approached him.

"Now let me help you choose a proper outfit, Sully."


~ * ~


Instead of the usual rock song echoing inside the Impala, the driver and the passenger listened to the news about a tractor trailer that jackknifed on the bridge, interrupting traffic both ways.

They had been stopped in the same spot for almost an hour now, and Dean's mood was going from sour to pissed, very fast.

"Unless we start moving in the next fifteen minutes, there's no way I'll be at The Club in time for the first session," Dean shook his head.

Benny looked at him out of the corner of his eye, feeling guilty and a little tense.

"It's been one fucking hour. I'm sure they're about to unblock the bridge."

"Thing is, even if they do, how fast will we be able to go until we're out of this damn bridge and actually able to accelerate?" It was a rhetorical question, so Benny didn't answer.

The older man sighed and felt all his relief and joy at a successful job well done fade into worry.

"I'm sorry I asked you to come, man."

Dean stared at his friend as if he'd said something stupid. Which he had, actually.

"What? No. This ain't your fault," Dean said quickly. "I'm glad I came with you and I'm happy that bastard’s gonna be gone. This is just some fucking bad luck," he cursed.

"Well so what if you’re late? It's just a session. You'll make it up to this client later. Give him a couple of free, thorough sessions. I'm sure it'll be okay."

Dean scoffed. "It's not the client I'm worried about. It's like you don't even work for the same boss," he eyed Benny and shook his head a little.


"Once he learns I was late, he'll give me a long ass lecture about how important it is to have discipline, to be organized, to be on time… to be reliable."

"Yeah, but shit happens, and a tractor trailer jackknifing on the bridge was not your fault," Benny argued.

"You try telling that to my father," Dean shook his head. "I mean, he'll understand and all, at least he'll say so. But the look in his eyes… he'll be disappointed, I know that. As a Master, I should anticipate any potential problems and have a plan B."

Benny thought it was unhealthy how Dean spent a great part of his life trying to do exactly what John Winchester wanted him to. Just the thought of disappointing his father visibly weighed down on his friend, and Benny wished he could just tell Dean to let it go. He didn't think it would work so easily though.

"It's his job to be like that. I mean, he's your boss and father. You shouldn't worry too much about it. I'll talk to him if you want," he offered.

"No, man," Dean shook his head quickly. "If this goddamn traffic doesn't move and I’m late, it's no one's fault but mine. I won't drag you into this. I made the decision to come."

The two of them locked eyes and it looked like Benny was going to say something important.

It was just a sex club, John took it too seriously. Dean shouldn't let his father get under his skin so much.

Yet, whatever it was that Benny was about to say got interrupted by the sound of a noisy horn honking behind them.

Both young men looked over their shoulders and then out of the windshield. They smiled slowly and with evident relief.

"We're moving," Dean beamed.


"We're late as hell but at least we're moving." Dean checked his clock.

A quarter to eight.

The sub was probably on his way to the dungeon. Right now Dean would be in his dressing room going over their contract and getting ready to step into the Headmaster's shoes.

He hoped that the person waiting for him had a fetish for anticipation.


~ * ~


The girl accompanied Sam as he moved towards the BDSM clothes and paraphernalia.

"I'm going to help you get ready for the session, is that okay, sir?" she asked politely.

Sam nodded. He couldn't really speak; his voice went hiding as his eyes took in all the leather before him.

"How do you feel about the Master seeing your face? Would you like to wear a mask?"

"Yes," Sam found his voice; it scratched a little as it came out. "A mask would be good. Do you have one that covers all of your face?"

 He looked at the girl and felt a little awkward and shy, but she seemed to deal with that sort of thing on a daily basis, because she paid absolutely no heed to Sam's hesitation and nervousness.

"Sure. One or three holes?"

"Um?" Sam frowned.

"Would you like to be blindfolded, as well? There are masks that cover everything, masks that will leave your mouth open, and those with holes for the eyes and mouth," she explained, unfazed by his lack of knowledge.

Sam thought for a short moment.

Mouth, yes, definitely. He was looking forward to doing some kissing.

"Three holes. I want to be able to see."

He wanted to look into Dean's eyes, but more than just that, even though he was okay with feeling a little helpless—it was thrilling and he was willing to try it—without his eyesight Sam knew he'd feel too helpless. It didn't matter that The Headmaster was his brother and was, thus, safe. Sam wasn't comfortable with being deprived of his sight.

"How about this?"

The girl looked at Sam's head and picked up a black leather mask. It would cover everything, except for Sam's eyes and mouth. There were tiny holes on the nose to help regulate air flow.

"It's much more comfortable than it looks, I promise," the girl smiled kindly, as if reading his thoughts.

"Okay. I'll try it on."

"Would you like to go in naked? Are you thinking about wearing pants, underwear…?"

"Pants," Sam said quickly. "How about some leather pants? And then… no shirt, maybe?"

"You decide, sir," she smiled and looked away when she sensed his shyness.

"Right," C'mon, you want this. Stop sounding like a blushing virgin and take control, Sam chided himself. "I'll take some leather pants and the mask," he was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

"Perfect," she said absently, going over the contract to check the man's size and bring him the right pair of pants.

As she did that, Sam checked his watch. Eight o'clock. He was going to get dressed and go in. His heart thudded.

"Sir, there's a locker and key. I recommend you keep all your valuables there and retrieve them after the session," she looked at his Patek Philippe watch when she said that.

"Thanks," Sam realized she probably recognized the item as something expensive, but again she didn't seem surprised at all. Sam wondered if The Club had many high profile clients.


Sam could fucking feel the adrenaline levels escalating and making his blood buzz in his ears. He wondered if Dean was already in The Club, getting dressed and ready to work on him.

"Sir? Would you like me to handcuff you in the dungeon?"

Why not? When in Rome… Sam thought about The Headmaster walking towards him while he stood there, bound and helpless, waiting for his touch.

"Y-yes," he shut his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

"How about a ball gag?"

She showed him a ball gag and Sam considered it for a moment. He wanted his mouth free so he could kiss Dean, but he couldn't deny he was curious to try it on, too. Sam Winchester, completely helpless for his big brother to do as he pleased. So fucking hot.

"You can start the session with the gag and I'll add to the contract to have the Master remove it about ten minutes into the session," she had been doing that for a while, so she knew how to make it easier and satisfying for first timers. "If, however, you decide to have it on but want it removed as soon the Master gets in, you can blink twice, as it says in the contract."

Sam nodded. Right, he had read it. There was just so much information that his head seemed to still be spinning. It said if you're unable to talk or move, blink twice and the Master will know there's something bothering you, something he will fix.

"Okay, that will work. I'll take it."

"Fine," she smiled. "I'll be outside the door as you change into the pants, then I'll come back to help you with the handcuffs and gag and to show you to the dungeon."

Sam nodded. His voice once again seemed to be too shy to form words.

When she was gone, he changed into the leather pants, took off the stupid blond wig, his shirt, socks and shoes and put all his personal belongings into the locker, as instructed. He put the mask over his head, glad it would cover his hair—he knew Dean would recognize him quickly if he could see it.

Sam looked at himself in the mirror, watching his chest rise and fall at the command of his quickened heart rate.

"I'm ready," he opened the door.

"Perfect. Come with me."

Sam walked behind the girl down a corridor until they stopped before a black door. She used a key to open it and let them both in.

"Do you have your key with you? From the locker?" she asked.

Sam handed it to her.

"I'll place it here," she indicated a small nail on the wall in a corner of the dungeon. "Don't forget it when it's over."

"I won't," Sam whispered. He was too busy looking around. Suddenly, it felt as though he'd walked into one of the YouTube videos he watched in the privacy of his room. It felt so strangely familiar that the feeling bordered on something eerie. No, he had never been there before, but it certainly felt like he had. The many sex toys, the whips, the cement floor and scarce wooden furniture inside. The temperature was slightly colder than outside, and it caused Sam's skin to break into goosebumps.

"Sitting or standing?"

The girl's voice pulled Sam out of his reverie.

"Sitting," he answered, because he didn't know if his knees were strong enough at the moment.

"Here," the girl pointed towards a wooden chair that faced the door and Sam sat down.

As she handcuffed his hands behind his back and buckled the ball gag on the back of his head, Sam curled his toes against the cement floor.

Without his hands and ability to speak, he could begin to feel the exciting and terrifying helplessness creep into his mind and play with his thoughts.

Once she was done, the girl looked into his eyes.

"Blink once if you're comfortable with this. Blink twice if you want me to change something."

Sam blinked once.

The girl nodded.

"It's a little past eight. The Headmaster will need to go over your contract and then he'll walk into the dungeon to start your session. I believe you'll have to wait a few more minutes. Is that okay?"

Sam nodded.

"If you change your mind or freak out in the meantime, there are cameras in the dungeon. They will be turned off during the session as you requested in your contract, but until the Headmaster is here they will be on, for safety. Just get on your feet and look into the camera, I'll come here and release you."

Sam looked at the camera and made a grunting sound, then nodded.

"And if you change your mind after the Headmaster is here; just use your safe word, okay?"

After another nod, Sam was left alone.

Inside one of the dungeons that lived in Sam's wildest fantasies, he waited for his brother, tonight the Headmaster. But more than having his limits pushed, Sam was looking forward to the lines they would cross together.


~ * ~


'Dean's late,' Bobby thought and looked in the mirror on the bar's wall above his head, behind the counter. The client was already there, and it was almost eight thirty. That was odd, John's son was usually extremely punctual.

Bobby lowered his head to check his phone. There was a message from Dean there.

Stuck in traffic. Be there as soon as possible.

Bobby sighed and felt relieved.

Not that it was good for business, John was usually very anal about making sure everyone was on time and everything ran smoothly, but shit sometimes happened, and Bobby was glad everything was fine and Dean was on his way.

When he raised his head again though, the feeling of relief was instantly replaced by one of dread.

The two men who had been playing pool earlier were walking towards him, and Bobby's eyes were immediately drawn to the door, where a couple more men were walking into the bar, with trouble written all over their faces.

"What the hell," he murmured under his breath and his hand went for the gun he kept under the counter, within quick reach.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," Lui warned, walking faster towards the counter and raising his gun high.

At that moment, a lot seemed to happen at exactly the same time.

There were surprised, rising voices in the bar as the last man to walk in closed the door behind him and began to push a pool table towards it, blocking the entrance.

Bobby's fingers curled around the Remington 870 at about the same time three men circled him from across the balcony and drew their guns, pointing them directly at his head.

"Now listen up everybody," Lui went on as Ronald secured the door closed. "We're not here to harm anyone, but you have to do as we say."

"Is it money?" Bobby asked, perfectly calm. He kept thinking about Dean and The Club. He wondered if those criminals knew where they were and who that place belonged to. He also knew he had to find a way to communicate with Dean and warn him before he got here.

The two criminals who had been playing pool laughed wickedly with excitement.

"This is about so much more, old man," one of them grinned and licked at his grimy ugly teeth.

Bobby had a bad feeling about the whole thing. It did not feel like a robbery.

"Forget the money," Lui said. "Guys, get their phones," he nodded at the five men who'd been drinking and playing earlier and were now cornered against a wall, watching everything wide eyed.


"Where's the entrance to The Club?" Ronald asked to Bobby's face.

Bobby felt his blood run cold in his veins. He didn't know what was going on, but he could bet it had everything to do with Crowley's gang. This was going to get ugly.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but you need to book a session. You can't just go in," he smiled crookedly.

Ronald and Lui chuckled humorlessly before Lui pressed the gun to Bobby's temple.

"Never mind, found it," Ronald announced as he went over the counter and drew a red, velvet curtain.

The two criminals read the blue neon sign and smiled triumphantly.

"I guess we won't need you anymore, old man," Lui shrugged.

"Wait, I—" Bobby couldn't finish his sentence. The unexpected pistol whip at the side of his head made him black out instantly.

"It's locked," Ronald said after trying the door.

"That won't be a problem," Lui said.

"Of course not," Ronald agreed before pointing the gun at the lock and firing.

With its strongest defense lying on the floor unconscious, John Winchester's club had no choice but to open its doors to its assailants.






Chapter Text



Sam didn't know how much time had already gone by.

Alone in the silence of the dungeon however, it certainly felt like forever.

At one point he almost got up and looked at the camera, but he shook his head and told himself to just be patient and wait.

The Headmaster was on his way.

As he tried to busy his mind with whatever distracting thoughts drifted through his brain, Sam snapped back to reality when he thought he heard gunfire. Within the thick walls meant to drown out noise though, he couldn't be sure.

I'm losing it, he thought, and smiled at himself.

He must have heard some sort of sound coming from the bar, he told himself. Funny how his senses were that much more alert in the dim lit dungeon where he couldn't use his hands or voice.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and thought about the kiss he and Dean had shared in the pool.

He felt his chest grow warm at the feeling, as the butterflies flapped their frail but swift wings with a desire that was thick and heated.

Regardless of being vanilla or kinky, Sam had fallen in love with his brother, which made tonight mean so much more than a teasing, flirty little game.

At some point, when the feeling of being helpless threatened his peace of mind, Sam reminded himself that nothing, in his entire life, had felt as safe as Dean.

He would be all right, because if there was one person Sam would be comfortable being vulnerable with, that would be Dean, even if he was hiding under the Headmaster's persona.

The young man handcuffed and gagged hung on to this thought as he heard footsteps coming in his direction.

Oh my God, it's him.

Sam's heart raced and he couldn't take his eyes off the door.

He knew Dean wouldn't be able to recognize him—not at first—but the fact that he would see his brother soon made Sam’s heart calm slightly, only to begin to anticipate the beginning of the session with thrilling joy.

The moment the door burst open however, Sam experienced a horrible feeling of dread for the first, but certainly not the last time, that night.

Instead of the Headmaster, a skinny and tall guy walked in holding a gun.

"Oh my, look what we have here!"

Sam's first instinct was to reach for his gun. Of course that was the moment he became painfully aware of being handcuffed. Who the hell was that?

As the skinny man walked further towards him, Sam knew he had seen that face before and tried really hard to remember when and where.

"I'm sorry, I know you were hoping to have some fun tonight, but apparently there's been a change of plans, man." Lui circled the masked, bound man on the chair, and the moment he tried to stand up, Lui put a hand on his shoulder and forced him down with a little push.

"I don't think so. There's no way this scenario could favor you, my friend," he grinned.

And that was when it hit Sam—this was the man who had been selling Crowley's drugs and who Dean and he had confronted a couple of weeks back.

Sam's heart began an erratic rhythm once he understood there was no way that this was part of the fantasy. The fact that a rival criminal was suddenly inside his father's club could only mean trouble.

Sam wondered where Dean was, and if the man before him was the reason for him being late.

Oh fuck, no, please… the thought that they might have done something to his brother nearly took his breath away. Then Sam also thought of Bobby, standing just outside, and that only confirmed that something terrible was taking place if that man had gotten past Bobby Singer.

Sam tried to say something, but it sounded muffled and unintelligible, which only caused the skinny man to widen his grin.

"Is there no one else here?" Lui asked, looking around and keeping his gun raised and ready.

Sam shook his head.

"Are you alone?"

Sam nodded.

That was odd, Lui thought. There were supposed to be two people there, probably having sex already. But he would take just one bound hostage gladly.

"C'mon, then. Let's go."

Sam felt the man tug at his elbow, which caused him to stand.

For a wild moment he thought about charging at the skinny man, pressing his heavier body on top of his to try and take control, but Sam thought of the handcuffs and felt increasingly distraught.

What the hell would he do after dropping them both to the floor? How would he get his hands on the gun?

Besides, Bobby certainly hadn't been overpowered by just one man alone. How many others were outside, taking over the bar?

Shit. Sam felt a bitter taste in his mouth when the helplessness of his fantasy began to feel more like a nightmare, except real and in the flesh.

Sam was pushed outside by the skinny man following close behind him, and he found himself once again walking the club corridors, except this time his heart was racing for an entirely different reason.

"Move it! Just keep moving!" There was another man walking behind a group of five men and the girl who had helped him when he arrived, all with their hands bound and mouths closed with duct tape.

Sam recognized the bar's clients, and recognized the glint of panic in their eyes.

"Oh, what do you have there?" A bearded man smiled appreciatively and mockingly at the sight of the masked, handcuffed man his partner was escorting.

"Found him in the dungeon," Lui explained.

"What about the Master guy?" Ronald asked.

"He was alone. There's nobody else here aside from the girl and this man."

Ronald studied the masked and bound man once again and smiled with something that caused Sam's skin to crawl.

"Are you sure? We were told there are two people inside these dungeons, a Master and a slave," he said the words and then looked at Sam again. "This one is obviously the slave," he chuckled.

"Fuck, man, there's no one else here. Do you think I'm stupid? The Master hasn't arrived yet, I guess," Lui shrugged.

It gave Sam some sort of relief knowing Dean hadn't been harmed, and hope knowing that his brother would arrive at any moment.

"Well, fine then. Let's ask one of the guys to keep watch on the door, just in case," Ronald said.

Other guys? Sam shuddered. How many were there?

"I'll put these people in the dungeon and lock the door."

"Good idea. Take this one with you," Lui pushed Sam forward.

Ronald once again turned and looked at the masked man in front of him. He seemed to assess him carefully, and Sam couldn't help the chill that grabbed at his heart from the calculating look in that man's dark brown eyes.

"Alright," Ronald ended up saying. "I'll take them to the dungeon; go see if the guys need help."

Sam let out all of the air he had been holding in a small sigh of relief.

Being handcuffed and gagged put him completely at the mercy of whoever was taking over The Club and for whatever reason he didn't know. So long as he was able to remain with the other hostages, he hoped he would be fine.


~ * ~


Dean checked his watch.

He was so fucking late he couldn't even look at the time anymore.

It was almost half past eight and the traffic was shit. Around this time, he would have already changed into The Headmaster's clothes and read the client's contract. He should be inside the dungeon starting the session, but instead he was sitting in the Impala beside a worried, guilty-looking Benny.

"Will you stop?"

"Stop what?" Benny asked innocently.

"Feeling guilty about it. None of it is your fault."

"I asked you to come on a Wednesday…"

"And the stupid tractor trailer that caused the accident, was that your fault too?”

Benny didn't answer. Instead, he looked out of the windshield at the endless traffic jam in front of them. Rush hour and the bridge accident certainly fucked up their plans.

"There's no way I'll be there before nine. I'm lucky if I make it there at nine. Good thing is, there was only this one client tonight. I guess I'll call Bobby and ask him whether the person minds waiting. I'll give them extra special care in the nine o'clock session."

"Keep driving, I'll make the call," Benny offered.

Dean nodded and watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Benny made the call and waited.

As the seconds went by and Benny remained silent, Dean frowned and looked at him.

"Bobby isn't answering," Benny said.

"Shit. Maybe he's busy with some client or whatever." Dean shook his head and groaned low in his throat with frustration. Could anything else go wrong tonight?

"Leave him a voicemail, and keep trying to get through. The longer it takes for us to talk to him, the angrier of a client I'll have to deal with, and it won’t end with a good deal I’ll bet.”

"Yeah, I'm on it."


~ * ~


When everything began, a pool table had been pushed towards the door in order to make entrance extremely unlikely. On top of this particular table, a pile of phones lay among the billiard balls. Marcus and Finn looked very accomplished as they studied the phones.

Lui came back from the dungeon and looked at the two eager men who immediately walked towards him.

"Can we get started?" Finn asked, eyes glowing. He looked high, probably because he was, even against Lui and Ronald's better advice.

"Let's wait for Ronald. He's locking up the hostages." He then looked at the older man lying behind the counter with his hands tied together and duct tape on his mouth. "Take him back with the others. He'll wake up at any moment."

The two nodded and helped each other pick up the unconscious man off the floor.

When Sam saw two more criminals walking into the dungeon his heart sank at first—four of them, at least—but then he was able to find some joy.

They were bringing Bobby! He was alive!

If the mask wasn't making it a bit harder to breathe, what with the adrenaline and everything, Sam might have exhaled a big sigh of relief.

Dean wasn't among the hostages, Bobby was alive. He was there with the rest of the bar clients. Maybe they had come here looking for drugs? Maybe they were going to steal something, trash the place? It was possible, considering the same tall skinny man from their past confrontation with Crowley's gang was there.

This could very well be retaliation.

Man, what a night to try and explore BDSM, Sam thought.

"What are you still doing here?" Finn asked. "Lui won't let us start until you join us. C'mon."

"Yeah, time's pressing, man."

"I'm coming," Ronald said. "Tell him I'll be right there." He then let his eyes fall on the masked slave, drawn to the kinkiness of it, unable to fight the alluring temptation it represented.

Finn and Marcus went back to the bar, but before Lui could complain about Ronald's whereabouts, he saw the other man coming back.

Except he wasn't alone.

Ronald was pushing the tall, masked man right before him.

"What the fuck man?" Lui frowned. "Why did you bring him here? You were supposed to keep him there with all the others."

"Easy, man," Ronald smiled. "The boss wants us to cause some damage, right? He wants us to drag The Club's reputation through the mud…"

Lui and the other three exchanged glances before looking at Ronald again.

"I believe an unhappy client will go a long way to destroying The Club's reputation of being a safe place," he looked at the others and his fingers tightened around the slave's strong biceps. The fact that the man was so tall and strong and was completely bound and helpless triggered all sorts of things inside of him.

Lui looked at the way Ronald's fingers sprawled over the masked man's naked chest and stroked, and he was caught by surprise by the tingle of arousal that rushed through him.

"I guess…" he began, albeit a bit uncertain.

"C'mon, we're supposed to trash the place, not play around with a boy toy!" Finn pointed out, and when he spoke Sam also recognized him from their previous altercation.

"You can go. You and Marcus go ahead and begin the work. Go inside and start tearing the place down, steal any valuables you can find. Lui and I will begin to damage the club's reputation, won't we?" he grinned and pinched a nipple.

Sam recoiled and his breathing hitched. He became very aware of how difficult it was to breathe with the mask on. The handcuffs were becoming painfully tight and his level of distress was rising. He didn't like where this was going.

He was torn between letting those men know who he was—John Winchester's son—or feeling glad for the anonymity.

God only knew what they would do to him if they knew his identity, especially Lui after Sam had taken part in his friend's death.

However, with the gag on, it was not like Sam had a choice, so he had to stand there, helpless, and see how things were going to unfold.

Sam was painfully aware of two things; the bruising reminder of the handcuffs around his wrists telling him how helpless he truly was, and the fact that his father's club was going down tonight.

As the bearded man who had pulled him out of the dungeon watched him with a look that was as nasty as it was worrisome, Sam watched as Finn and the other guy began to follow orders. Probably Crowley's orders. Retaliation for the drugs burned and the trouble caused, Sam supposed.

Finn went straight back into The Club to begin causing mayhem, meanwhile Marcus found a fire extinguisher on the wall of The Club and picked it up, using it to hammer against the pool tables, breaking wood and causing billiard balls to roll all over the floor.

"What are you thinking?" Lui asked.

He was curious at the look on Ronald's eyes. Usually, he was not attracted to guys, but having a sex slave delivered on a plate like that did trigger his curiosity, and perhaps something else.

"I'm thinking that this dude here has probably paid good money to have his brains fucked tonight. It would be so unfair of us to deny him that," Ronald grinned.

Sam shook his head violently and grunted, a clear protest to those words.

He could feel his chest heaving up and down, and every fiber of every muscle in his body was stiff with tension. His wrists once again rattled within the confines of the handcuffs, breaking skin, and he gave up once the burning feeling was no longer worth the desperate escape attempt.

"Come here a moment," Lui tugged at Ronald's arm and pulled him to the side in order to speak privately.

Sam couldn't hear their conversation, especially over the sound of bottles breaking as the other criminal took a billiard cue and began to smash the expensive bottles of drinks behind Bobby's counter.

Each guy had a gun, and the entrance door was blocked. Sam began to think of his escape chances and he didn't like what he saw.

Lui lowered his voice when he spoke.

"I don't know man… rape? That's not what Crowley wants." The mere suggestion of it made him feel tense but he'd be lying if it didn't arouse some sort of predatory delight in him.

"He signed a contract to be fucked tonight. If he's into BDSM, this means he likes being treated roughly. It's not really rape, you know? It's like going out with a girl on a date and she drinks herself stupid and begins flirting. She's asking for it. Same thing here," Ronald said.

Lui still seemed uncertain.

"Look, I'm not saying we'll fuck the guy," Ronald began. "I'm just saying we'll play with him a little. Manhandle him a bit, so he can go out and badmouth The Club. What do you say?"

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe," Lui shrugged.

"Guys! Look what I found!" Finn came back from The Club and began to throw different sizes and colors of dildos at his friends' feet, laughing almost uncontrollably at their reactions.

"What the fuck?" Lui stepped back when a particularly well-endowed one hit him right in the face and fell by his feet. "Aren't you supposed to be trashing the place and looking for valuables?"

Ronald's eyes lit up when he picked up the large rubber dildo that had hit Lui.

"Well, this might come in handy," he looked at Lui and smiled lewdly, then hinted at the bound man.

Sam could hear his heart drumming uncontrollably with adrenaline as the guy talking with Lui began to walk towards him with a black rubber dildo in hands.

Fuck no, Sam thought. He had to do something about this.

When the guy was close enough that Sam could see the disgusting little glint in his eyes, Sam leaned against the pool table behind him and kicked the man in the chest with both his feet, hard.

Ronald fell on the floor immediately, gasping for breath and feeling his lungs burn and ache.

"What the fuck?!"

Sam began to race towards the door, thinking he would be able to push the pool table away and get out.

Not realizing it would be impossible to accomplish with three men still standing there and pointing their guns at him.

"Hey hey, where do you think you're going?" Lui rushed towards the masked man and caught up with him as he tried to unblock the door. He pressed the gun up against the mask and his finger close to the trigger. "Do you want to die tonight, is that it?"

"Man, did you see that kick?" Marcus beamed, despite the dirty look Ronald gave him as he made it back to his feet. "Who the fuck is he, some sort of wrestler?"

"I don't care who he is, but there’s no way he gets to walk away from that. Fucking bitch," his ego was bruised, and his lust quickly mingled with anger.

"Guys," Finn looked around, gun raised and pointed at the masked man as well.

"Aren't you forgetting the whole point here? We're supposed to trash The Club back there."

Lui was breathing fast. He knew the tall masked guy was stronger than he was, and the gun was the only thing keeping him safe, especially if said guy knew how to fight. The handcuffs certainly helped, but now they knew they couldn't trust them much.

"Come back here, kid. You don't want to die tonight. I'm sure you have people to go back to," he said.

"Finn is right," Ronald said and for a moment Lui breathed some relief. "You get Marcus and go take care of The Club. Let me take care of this unruly puppy."

Lui gave his partner a look that spoke volumes.

"What?" Ronald asked. "I won't go too hard on him, I promise."

They held the stare for a moment, until Lui caved and turned around. Marcus and Finn followed him into The Club, and soon all that could be heard was the unmistakable noise of wood splintering and glass shattering.

"Well, well, well… a slave with some spunk to him. Who are you?" Ronald narrowed his eyes. "No, forget it. I don't give a fuck who you are. Tonight, you're my plaything." He grabbed Sam's chin forcefully and licked over his gagged mouth.

He held onto the gun which he pressed to the masked man's head, as he began to fumble with the slave's belt using the other hand.

Sam began to thrash and attempt to get away, but the man only coldly looked into his eyes as his voice dropped.

"Don't get me wrong. After this is over, I'll get the money and disappear. I don't give a fuck about your life, kid. I don't care what the boss said, so if you make this difficult,  I'll claim self-defense, get the money and fucking disappear. So try to fight me if you want your momma to wake up crying tomorrow."

Sam stood perfectly still, except for the buzzing blood rushing through his veins. A pathetic little voice inside him wanted to retort that he didn't have a momma anymore, but the gag was still doing its job.

What happened next seemed to happen very slowly and with blurry precision.

Sam felt his pants and underwear be tugged to his thighs, and he remembered giving a last look to the door, full of hope that his brother would arrive at any second.

Please, Dean. Please.

It seemed like once again he needed to be rescued.

The feeling of being completely overpowered and at the mercy of criminals who could, quite literally, do whatever they wanted to him, began to drown Sam's thoughts in panic, and made his mouth fill with the bitter taste of sheer helplessness.

"Hmm!" Sam groaned when he was shoved hard against the pool table on his back, the man behind pushing his head against the green mat until his cheek burned.

Sam could feel the painful bite of the edge of the table against his hip bones as he was bent over it, but nothing compared to the burning feeling when something was pushed into him. Something too big. Something that couldn't possibly fit where it was going.

"HMMM!" Sam shook and squirmed, trying to kick and turn around, but the hand on his head slid down, where fat and strong fingers gripped the nape of his neck and squeezed tight, bruises already forming, reminding him this was not something he could fight.

"Oh, you can take it, c'mon. That's what you like, isn't it? A rubber dick up your ass?" The man pushed in the toy once again, without any preparation or any lingering compassion. "And you better get ready, this is just a teaser for what's coming next," he chuckled darkly and shoved the toy in all the way repeatedly.

A wailing cry tore from the masked man's throat, punishing his vocal cords, but not as much as he was being punished by his captor.

Sam had never been in so much pain in his entire life.

It felt like his body was being torn inside out, and he had to bite down on his tongue until the taste of blood and the stinging sensation distracted his mind a little from the ridiculous amount of pain he was experiencing under the assault.

Please! Fucking stop! Please! Please!  He screamed over and over, but it just sounded like a bunch of nonsense and grunting because of the gag.

Between the hand closing possessively around his neck and the rubber toy being forced in and out of his body, Sam felt broken and humiliated, and he shut his eyes and hoped it would—please!!!—be over soon.

"MMM!" he growled and tensed, fighting the invasion forced onto his body. His eyes focused on a stupid billiard ball. The black 8-ball.

For a ridiculous second, Sam's mind drifted, left his aching body behind and began to think about how unlucky someone had to be to sink the eight ball before the other ones were pocketed.

He remembered once when he had actually been beating Dean, a fantastic night where he'd been on fire. Everything was going so smoothly and perfectly, until Sam had accidently pocketed the 8-ball and lost the game.

Game over, the 8-ball seemed to say to him now. There's nothing you can do, no turning back time. The damage was done.

The tears sprung to his eyes out of sheer pain and got caught between his cheeks and the leather mask. How fucking stupid had he been?

If he was now at the mercy of criminals, abused and broken, he really had no one else to blame but himself, and this thought made something tear up inside him.

The guilt seemed to fuel the physical pain punishing his body, pushing it beyond its limits.

He didn't know how long it lasted.

A couple of minutes? A quarter of hour?

Time made no sense when all he could focus on was breathing and handling the pain dissipating from his very core to every other part of his aching body.

All his training, all his muscles and his strength, nothing mattered. He was bound and utterly helpless, having no control whatsoever over what happened to him. What seemed thrilling once was now a reason for despair and fright.

Sam's hazel eyes fixed on the 8-ball as the seconds went by slowly. His muscles tensed and fought the invasion, but eventually his body crumbled, offering less resistance out of sheer exhaustion from fighting back.

That was when something unexpected happened, something that startled Sam and hurt his ego way worse than his body.

When the man forced the toy into him, something inside Sam's body responded, but not in the way it was meant to. There was a shameful tingle of guilt-laden pleasure that scared Sam as much as it broke him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?! He struggled fiercely with the feeling. Though excruciating, he quickly understood it was much easier to deal with the pain than with the other intruding and unwanted feeling.

As he felt himself harden, Sam thought he would break down from just disgust and confusion. Why was his body doing this when his mind—his very fucking soul!—was in so much pain?!

Stop! Sam chided his body and began to tense again, tightening around the invasion and welcoming the burning pain as he did so. He embraced and cherished the pain, because just the thought that his body could find pleasure in what was being done to him made him feel dirty and wrong, almost as if he was drowning in chaos.

When at last the man took the toy out of him, Sam felt his knees were shaky and barely able to handle the weight of his body.

The nightmare, however, was not over.

"Come here, let's see how tough you look with my dick down your throat," Ronald groaned as he manhandled the masked man into a kneeling position. Then he unbuckled himself and kept the gun within reach, on top of the pool table.

When the gag was off, Sam thought, for a split second, about saying something—anything—to try and stop what was about to happen. He thought about saying who he was, about begging for it to stop, for mercy. But before any word actually stumbled past his lips, he tasted the salty arousal of the man dominating him slide past his lips and to the back of his throat.

There's no safe word here.

Sam gagged, and thought he would choke or puke. Maybe both.

He squirmed and muffled a plea against the intruding flesh, but it drowned in a pool of saliva that ran down his chin.

"If you puke on my dick, I'll blow your fuckin’ brains out," Ronald said as he picked up the gun and lifted it to the masked man’s temple.

Sam felt his heart race with adrenaline, and tried his best to concentrate on just breathing. The man's dick was so far down his throat that breathing through his nose was his only option, but the mask made it even more difficult due to how hard he was panting.

Please, be over, please be over.

"Fuck, yeah… such a good little bitch. Yeah, suck that dick." Ronald moaned and groaned, but his finger never loosened around the trigger of the gun pressed to the masked man's head.

From The Club, Sam remembered hearing the distant sound of absolute destruction. His mind tried to hang on to that in a desperate attempt to escape what was truly happening.

He felt hurt and humiliated, but there was no room for those feelings. He didn't want to die tonight, so survival was what kept him sane, kept him focused. There would be a time to mourn the hundreds of pieces in which his ego and trust had been shattered, but it was not now.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Lui showed up at The Club's door and looked at the bar.

"I'm causing damage," he chuckled.

"Looks like you're having fun," Marcus pointed out and Finn grinned.

"We only have a few more minutes before we need to go. Are you sure you don't want to break anything?" Finn asked, holding a broken cue in hand.

"I'm good," Ronald thrust particularly hard and held the man's head against his crotch before finally releasing him. He laughed when the young man on his knees began to gasp for breath.

"I better hurry then. Does anyone else want to take my place?" he looked at the other criminals. "C'mon, I'm sure you've done a good job in The Club back there."

Lui eyed Finn and Marcus and stepped ahead, uncertain.

He had a hard on, but he felt somewhat conflicted about the whole thing. It was not what he had in mind, but he hoped Crowley wouldn't be too pissed when—if—he found out.

"Please—" Sam managed to croak, voice raspy and breathy. "No more."

"No talking," Ronald attached the gag once again.

"Fuck this shit, man, let's just break some more stuff and get out," Lui stepped back and changed his mind about taking advantage of the bound man. It was one thing shoving his dick down the throat of a willing partner. That handcuffed man was not willing, even if he had paid for it.

"Well, fuck you, I'm seeing this through properly." Ronald pushed the masked man to his feet and made him bend over the pool table again. "Got him all ready for my dick. After all that action I'll be quick."

Sam felt his stomach churn. With his chest pressed against the pool table again, he felt the man position himself behind him and his eyes fell on the 8-ball.

Don't. Don't. Please. No.

"Whatever man…" Lui shook his head. He didn't want to get into a fight with Ronald. The man was a war veteran and a psycho. Not the kind of name you wanted on an enemy list.

"Wait, I'd like to put a face to the ass I'll be owning." Ronald's fingers once again squeezed the back of the masked man's neck and tugged him back to his knees with a tight grip.

He unzipped the mask and let it fall, looking into the blown out pupils of the hazel eyes staring fearfully at him.

"Holy shit!" Lui stepped back when he lay eyes on the bound man. "Finn, come here!"

"What?" Ronald asked, impatiently, while Lui and Finn stood side by side and stared at the man on his knees with tear-streaked cheeks. "Do you know him?" he grew tense.

Lui looked at Finn, who nodded with wide, worried and fearful eyes.

"Shit man. We're so fucked. We're so fucking fucked. You fucked us all, Ronald!" Finn began to pace around with frantic steps.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Ronald asked, studying Lui.

The tall, skinny man looked at the bound young man on his knees and shuddered.

"That's John Winchester's son you just raped."





Chapter Text



When, at almost nine o'clock, the traffic cleared and Dean could finally speed up, his heart was racing and his thoughts were filled with dread.

Bobby hadn't picked up his phone or responded to any of his messages. Considering that Dean was late for a session, which was something that never happened, Bobby should at least be concerned and checking his phone for any news.

Something was wrong at The Club, and Dean had enough experience to trust a gut feeling.

"I'm telling you man, some shit went down," Dean spoke, barely looking at Benny, as he sped even faster.

"Do you think someone broke into The Club and is holding Bobby hostage?"

Dean shuddered at the thought.

They had burned Crowley's drugs a couple of weeks ago. It wouldn't be so farfetched to assume the rival drug lord wasn't too happy and wanted revenge. The Club seemed like a vulnerable enough place for that.

"I don't know, but we'll find out soon. Call Dad. He needs to know something might be up with The Club."

"Are you sure you want to worry him?" Benny looked at his phone, then at the anxious driver.

Dean considered it for a moment. If he was wrong, if Bobby was just shitting himself in the bathroom and forgotten his phone, or if his battery had died and he couldn't find the charger, then not only would Dean be admitting to his dad and boss that he was irresponsibly late, he would also be worrying him in vain.

The gut feeling, however, was strong, and considering their previous altercation with Crowley's crew, Dean didn't want to take any chances.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Worst case scenario I'll hear a lecture. Best case scenario Dad will help us kick some ass."

"All right," Benny agreed and began dialing. As soon as John answered, Dean stopped at a traffic light, so Benny handed him his cell.



"I'm on my way to The Club. Bobby isn't picking up. I got caught up with Benny dealing with some shit, so I'm running an hour late and Bobby hasn't called or replied to any of my messages. Something's up."

There was silence for a split second. Dean assumed John was wondering whether to say something about Dean being late or move on to more pressing matters. Luckily, it was the latter.

"Do you think Crowley's men are at The Club?" John asked, first thing on his mind, and the thought caused his heart to race and his blood to boil.

"I think it's a possibility." When the traffic light turned green, Dean kept driving with one hand, holding the phone with the other. "Can you come? I think we'd better check it out together. Tell Sam something came up so he'll stay home."

"That won't be necessary. Your brother's not home."

"Oh. Okay, good."

"I'll be there. How long until you get there?"

"Ten minutes, tops."

"It'll take me a bit more. Wait for me before going in."


"That's an order."

"Right, Dad." Dean didn't know whether he felt relieved or tense that his father seemed to share in the same level of worry. He ended the call and gave Benny his cell back. "Guess we'll see what's happening soon enough."

"If we find any of Crowley's dirty scumbags trashing the place, well, they'll get what's coming to them." Benny smirked as picked up his gun and began loading it.


~ * ~


"Shit, man! Shit, shit, shit!" Lui paced around, his hands on his head. "We're screwed. We're so fucked!" He looked accusingly into Ronald's eyes. "I knew this was a bad idea, I fucking knew it!"

Finn and Marcus stood and watched, petrified, as Lui and Ronald began to argue.

"How the hell was I supposed to know who he was?! He was wearing a mask!"

"It doesn't matter! When his father finds out what we did to him—" Lui began.

"He won't find out. Let's just kill him and get out of here," Ronald raised his gun and pointed it at the handcuffed man's forehead.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt so broken and humiliated that part of him wondered if dying was really such a bad thing. On one hand, no, he didn’t want to die. On the other hand though, knowing he would have to wake up the next morning and deal with all the mental and physical abuse he’d suffered frightened him.

"Are you fucking nuts?!" Lui pulled Ronald's wrist away from Sam's head. "Kill him and we're dead! John Winchester will have us skinned alive. I won't let that happen."

"What do we do man?" Finn asked Lui, visibly fretting.

Marcus watched the discussion, not sure how to chime in. He knew very little about the whole Crowley and Winchester drug war, but he did not like the way that conversation was going.

"Let's get the hell out of here. He won't say anything, will you?" Lui looked into Sam's eyes and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

The gagged prisoner couldn't have possibly answered, but Sam grunted something unintelligible and shook his head.

"If you say anything, we'll find you again, and I swear I'll fucking finish what I started," Ronald threatened.

Lui let go of Sam's hair and they all looked at each other.

"Seriously, what are we waiting for?" Marcus urged his mates.

"Wait," Ronald stopped them by raising a hand. "If we leave now, the moment someone arrives, and I'm sure someone must think something's up by now, they'll run into him and come chasing after us," he kicked Sam's side.

Sam moaned feebly at the pain and shut his eyes. He just wanted this to be over. He just needed these men to go.

He could not handle the raw vulnerability, knowing he had been the one to put himself in this position; it just filled his mouth with a sour taste and made him want to puke.

He could still feel how shaky his thighs were, and he could still feel each pulsing reminder of the throbbing pain in his ass. Please go away. Go the fuck away.

He tried once again to fight the handcuffs, but the metal just bit into his injured skin and made him give up quickly.

"What do you suggest?" Lui eyed the older man.

"You guys got any cocaine left?" He looked at Marcus and Finn, who stared at each other and nodded, almost shyly.

"Why?" Finn asked.

"Give it to me. I have an idea."

"It's my shit, man. I earned it," Finn protested.

"Listen, you dickhead-" Ronald surged against Finn and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "Give me what you have or we're all going to be dead before the night's over!"

"Do as he says!" Lui begged.

"You too, Marcus. Good boy," Ronald said approvingly when both men handed over tiny plastic bags with a thin white powder inside.

"What are you doing?" Lui asked when Ronald crouched before the handcuffed man and tried to make him snort some of the white powder he'd spread on a finger.

"C'mon! Sniff it up! C'mon!" Ronald grabbed Sam's chin forcefully and tried to shove the powder up his nose, unsuccessfully. Sam kept turning his head and squirming, causing the drug to just waste away on the floor.

"Shit, man, that's not working. You're just wasting it!" Marcus protested.

"He's playing tough to get, but I have an idea," Ronald got up and looked at Finn and Marcus again. "How about some heroin?"

"I don't really shoot—" Marcus began.

"I have some. Here," Finn handed Ronald a tiny bag with brown powder and a syringe. By now he just wanted to get the hell away from that place.

"Dude, I thought you didn't do this shit?" Marcus looked at his mate and sounded a bit outraged.

"I don't, I just sell it!" Finn defended himself.

"And what is the syringe for then?"

"Shut up, both of you!" Ronald barked the command and began to open the syringe.

"What the fuck are you going to do?" Lui asked when he saw Ronald walk towards the bar and grab a spoon. Then, the older bearded man used his lighter to melt the brown powder before drawing up the liquid with the needle.

Sam watched everything, his heart racing. What the fuck was going on? They couldn't be thinking about drugging him, could they?

"There's too much in there," Finn pointed out. "He'll OD."

Ronald finally smiled, glad they were catching up.

"Exactly, you fool. If we give him just the right amount, then by the time someone finds him he'll be either dangerously high or already OD’ing. Whether it's his dangerous daddy or someone who works for him, I don't want to give them time to come chase after us. Let's give them some bigger problems."

"Like saving his life…" Lui's eyes lit up when he understood the plan. "That's genius!"

No. No, that's fucked up. Sam began to shake his head and tried to get up, but suddenly there were two men beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him on his knees.

"Hold him down, guys," Ronald instructed as he got close to the bound young man with a syringe in his hand.

"Wait!" Finn cried, even as he helped Marcus lay the prisoner down and hold him on the floor. "What if he really OD’s before anyone gets here?"

"Well, then I guess that’s his problem, isn't it? We'll make it look like he took it himself. He's out in a sex club having fun, why can't he have shot up too much?"

"Whatever you do, just hurry man! It's ten past nine, we've been here way too long. Crowley said half an hour, forty minutes, tops!" Lui fretted.

"All right. Make sure you hold down his arm," Ronald instructed and crouched over the man writhing on the floor.

For all his helplessness, Sam was way too strong. It took all three men to help hold him down so Ronald could inject the drug into one of the big veins running down his inner arm.

The effect hit Sam instantly.

In a few seconds, he could feel his heart begin to race like he had just run a marathon, and his vision became blurry. His thoughts rushed wildly through his mind and it became difficult telling what was real and what he was imagining in the rush of vivid dreams spilling in his brain. The euphoria that took him by storm made his breathing shallow and clipped, and soon his mouth felt dry and his tongue thick.

Sam barely registered it when someone removed the gag from his mouth and the handcuffs off his wrists. He was lifted off the floor and sat down on a chair. Somewhere in his brain he knew he was supposed to be fighting, but his sense of alertness was becoming numb, and his body was unresponsive to his brain's commands.

"C'mon, let's go!"

"Did you get everything?!"

"Hurry, hurry!"

Sam heard indistinct voices coming from somewhere he couldn't seem to identify or care about.

His body temperature began to rise uncontrollably until something good took over, something warm and delicious that rushed through his veins, making it feel as if he could fly, as though he could do anything he wanted.

The freedom embraced him, but soon began to choke him.

Suddenly, the amazing feeling of warmth began to feel like a furnace, and the hazy like dream state became more foggy, like his consciousness was slipping farther and farther away.

Sam began to pant, and little droplets of sweat broke out on his forehead, chest and neck. He tried to get up and move. Phone, a voice seemed to whisper by his ear. Nevertheless, the moment he stepped forward he stumbled, fell down heavily on the floor and his vision went black.

That was when the pain in his chest began.

They're coming back. They're coming for me. They'll get me. Run. Run. Run.

Sam's blood pressure spiked and the buzzing in his ears became deafening.

When he shut his eyes to try and regain some sort of control, he realized there was no control to be found. His entire body was shaking violently, dancing to the deadly song of the drug running wild in his system.

At that moment, Sam was sure he was going to die that night.


~ * ~


The moment Dean parked the Impala in front of the bar, he and Benny jumped out of the car and rushed up to the entrance, gun in hand.

 "Door's closed. Something's wrong."

As Dean's fingers reached for the door, though, Benny's hand on his arm made him stop.

"Your father said to wait for him."

"What if Bobby's hurt in there?"

Benny saw the anxiety in Dean's eyes and he, too, felt the same.

"If shit's going down, you want to have John beside you when you open that door."

Dean took a deep breath and nodded, albeit reluctantly.

As they waited for the longest five minutes in history, Dean took a long hard look at the outside of the building. Everything seemed quiet, and as he tried his phone for the hundredth time, Bobby still didn't pick up.

The moment John arrived, both Dean and Benny rushed in his direction.

The older Winchester had tried Bobby's phone many times as well, without success, and when he saw the bar's door closed, he wasted no time and got his gun as well.

"We go in," he announced.

Dean and Benny nodded and fell in behind John as he tried the door.

When John couldn't open it, all three men tried putting as much weight as they could to try and force it. Their sense of dread and alarm only grew by the second as the door still wouldn’t budge.

"Someone’s barricaded it from the inside. Could be a pool table, anything," John said.

"The Club, let's go in through The Club," Dean said quickly and Benny and John followed him.

They knew something had gone down, and they were certain they were going to find something wrong when they walked in. How fucked up the situation was though, they could only guess.

Nonetheless, calling the police was completely out of question, for obvious reasons.

The backdoor to The Club was open, which was unusual, considering that the door was always locked. It probably meant that whoever had been inside the bar had exited through there.

As they all stepped inside, gun in hand, they didn't see or hear anything, at first.

The only thing they saw was the chaos and destruction everywhere. Broken furniture and torn up pieces of cloth decorated the floor by their feet.

"Son of a fucking bitch," John mumbled under his breath.

"Crowley's gang?" Dean asked in a whispery voice.

"Who else? He’s going to fucking pay." John's upper lip twitched.

It was only when they approached one of the dungeons that they heard the muffled sounds coming from within.

John and Dean exchanged a look, alert and at the ready as John went ahead and kicked the door open.

There might have been screaming if the hostages had been able to speak, but they were all gagged.

"What the fuck?!" Benny spoke first.

"Bobby!" Dean rushed towards their friend as John looked around, making sure the place was clear of any danger. He had a feeling that whoever had been there had already came and left, but one couldn't be too sure.

Benny began to free the hostages, clients from the bar and possibly The Club as well, as Dean freed Bobby.

"What the hell happened here?" Dean asked as he cut the flex cuffs off and removed the duct tape off Bobby's lips—but not without hearing Bobby's groan of protest at the pain.

"They ganged up on me. Two of them pretended to be clients at the bar, and the other two arrived later. They must've known how we worked because they knew exactly what to do and what time to act."

"Go to your dad," Benny said as he helped people around him and listened to Bobby. "I got things here. Maybe they're still hiding somewhere."

Dean nodded quickly and got to his feet, following after John through the shattered evidence of all the destruction lying around them in the hallway.

When he stepped out of The Club and into the bar, gun in hand, he saw his father still looking around.

"It looks like they're gone," John said when he saw Dean out of the corner of his eye. He scanned the empty bar.

"Those fucking assholes," Dean looked at the smashed pool tables and broken chairs, as well as the shattered glass crunching under his boots as he walked further in.

As they lowered their guns and relaxed a notch, a small sound made their ears pick up, and that was when Dean saw the body thrashing on the floor, a few feet away.

From where they stood he could only see a pair of boots.

John watched as Dean rushed towards the sound and the person lying there, gun once again raised and ready to cover for him if he needed help.

But Dean would have never, ever, in a million years, or a thousand lives, be prepared for the sight that met him.

He saw his baby brother on the floor, wearing leather pants and shirtless, his body glowing under the bar's light with a sheen layer of sweat, his pupils completely blown out.

"Sam?..." Dean's voice faltered. "Sammy?!"

John's heart raced and his eyes widened. In a heartbeat, he was beside Dean, watching as his son crouched down and began to slap his brother's face lightly.

"What the…" John watched his youngest son writhing on the floor, completely unresponsive to Dean's attempts to call his name. Confusion, shock and fear hit him all at once, and for a split second John simply looked into his youngest son's fully dilated eyes and shuddered.

"SAM!" Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders and lifted him onto his lap.

There was foam coming from his mouth, and when Dean held the back of his head he realized Sam's hair was drenched in sweat.

"What is he doing here!?” Dean stared into John's eyes demanding answers. “What the hell's happening?!" One look at the way Sam was dressed and the mask and gag lying beside his body told Dean where Sam had been, but that didn’t make any sense at all! Was Sam at The Club? That was not fucking possible! It was all too much to process given the nature of Sam's condition at the moment.

Thoughts of the why and how were quickly replaced by tension and panic as Sam still seemed completely unresponsive, his skin burning up against Dean's fingers.

When John snapped out of his stupor, he went for his cell quickly as he crouched down next to his two sons.

"Dad?!" Dean stared into John's eyes with anguish and panic grabbing at his heart when he saw a syringe lying by John's foot. He nodded at it and felt a chill go down his spine.

John stroked his fingers across his son's cheek and felt his burning temperature. Then, he grabbed Sam's limp wrist and felt his pulse for a moment—it was hectic and erratic.

"Someone’s drugged him," he concluded. Whatever had gone down here, he did not think Sam had been the one to do that to himself. After so many years on the job, he would have been able to tell if one of his own sons had been using.

"He's OD’ing!" Dean cried out, looking at Sam's clammy skin and short breath.

"I know." John used his shoulder to keep his cell pressed to his ear and framed Sam's face between his hands. He did his best to wipe the foam away from Sam’s mouth and then stared into the black, oblivious eyes of his youngest. "Sam? Stay with us, okay? We're going to help you."

Dean couldn't understand his father's apparent calm when all he felt inside was icy cold fear and despair.

"Dr. Spencer? It's me. Get the clinic ready, I need to take my son in. Something's happened," John spoke on the phone with the family's personal doctor. "I'm looking at an OD, not sure what drug was injected into him, but he's completely out of it. He's burning up and his pulse is very fast." John listened for a moment. "Yes, he's sweating a lot, too. Pupils completely blown out." Another silent moment that seemed to last forever went on. "Yes, I do. How much of it?"

"Where are you going?!" Dean asked when John got up quickly and started running back to The Club, but his father never answered.

Dean looked back at Sam when the writhing and shaking intensified. "Sammy?" He wiped his brother's sweaty forehead with his hand and tried to get through to him, without any success.

"Hey, what's going on in here?" Benny walked into the bar as Bobby helped the clients out and paid them heftily to keep what had happened a secret. That was not business they wanted the police to meddle in.

"It's Sam!" Dean's voice sounded broken as Benny approached and stared at the worrisome scene. "We don't know what happened, but he's OD’ing!"

"Shit!" Benny's eyes widened and he frowned.

Sam couldn't seem to catch his breath. His body was too hot, his chest burned painfully.

He had all sorts of bizarre dreams and fucked up thoughts, but suddenly nothing else mattered because his body could no longer take the amount of heroin in his system.

"Oh, no, no, no…he's seizing!" Dean panicked, trying to hold Sam down, while raising eyes full of despair to his friend. "DAD!" Dean screamed.

Benny crouched down and helped Dean hold Sam as steady as possible. Sam's body began writhing so violently it was almost impossible to hold him down.

John walked back into the bar, syringe in hand.

"He's seizing!" Dean's voice sounded strangled.

"You better pray that he was given opioids, son," John said as he got down and opened the syringe cap. "Hold him down, I need to inject him with this."

Dean didn't ask questions, he and Benny held Sam down as best as they could while John administered the drug intravenously.

Father, son and friend watched as the intense shaking slowly subsided and the frantic and shallow breathing grew a little slower and deeper.

Dean realized he was the one sweating now, his heart racing.

"What was that?" he asked his father.

"Naloxone. It reverses opioid effects." John stared at Benny and Dean's questioning look and tilted his head a little. "It comes in handy. I've seen more than a handful of friends in this situation, so Dr. Spencer thought it was a good idea for me to carry it around." It made sense that a drug lord would carry the antidote for his own poison, the doctor had said. You never know when an accident could happen.

"We still got to take him to the clinic, though."

"Everyone’s all gone, we're alone now," Bobby announced as he walked into the room. His feet brought him to a sudden stop when he recognized Sam on the floor, in the middle of the three men who hovered above him. "What the hell? Sam?!"

He raced towards the unconscious young man on the floor, his face pale. Bobby then looked at John and Dean with confusion written all over his face.

"He was OD'ing!" Dean said.

"What the fuck?!" Bobby couldn't hold on to any thoughts as he tried to make sense of that.

"Didn't you know that he was here?" John asked when he saw the shocked look on Bobby's face.

"No fucking clue," Bobby confessed. "The eight o'clock client arrived under as much anonymity as he could. He didn't even speak the code word, he had it written down."

John and Dean exchanged a look. Sam? A client at The Club? This had got to be a fucked up, crazy nightmare, because absolutely nothing about this night so far made any sense.

However, neither father nor son had time to dwell over the bizarre discovery.

Sam began to make pained little moaning noises and his head moved slowly from one side to the other with evident discomfort.

"He might need a higher dose. We've got to take him to Dr. Spencer," John said.

 "You guys go. We'll take care of things here," Benny looked at Bobby, who was still a little bit shaky, but managed to nod.

"Just help him, for fuck's sake," Bobby swallowed hard at the sight of Sam.

The fact that he had been the eight o'clock client and that Bobby had been unable to recognize him just made him drown with guilt. Not that that would've necessarily changed the way things happened tonight, but it was a possibility. So much for keeping The Club a secret from the younger Winchester, he thought and sighed with worry and dismay.

"Shut down The Club and the bar indefinitely. We need time to figure this out," John told Bobby and then turned to Dean. "Help me pick him up."

Dean's head was still spinning when he and John put each of Sam's arms over their shoulders in order to lift him. Sam's body, though, was still unresponsive, and he was far from being someone who was easy to carry around.

"Guys, unblock the door," Dean asked. "It'll be easier to put him in the car from here."

Benny and Bobby began to push the heavy pool table away from the door while Dean and John slipped an arm under each of Sam’s elbows and lifted him up. As they did, Sam's head fell to the side, his eyes shut, ribcage expanding rapidly with every difficult intake of air.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean whispered softly.

When the door was open, and they began to walk towards it, Dean stepped on something that caused him to look down and frown.

"What?" John questioned.

Dean felt his mouth become suddenly very dry. When he didn't reply, John looked down as well and saw the big black rubber dildo by Dean's feet.

"Those assholes sure made themselves at home...” Dean spat as he kicked the toy as hard as he could, turning away.

John's eyes, however, lingered on the toy for a little while longer.

"What the fuck happened here…" Dean whispered as he looked around at all the chaos.

John looked up and nodded towards a small camera on the wall far behind Dean's back. In their hurry to do everything and get out, the criminals had failed to see the small device recording them.

"The camera's not destroyed, so I guess we'll find out soon."

Dean looked over his shoulder. He stared at the camera for a couple of seconds with both curiosity and dread tangling and fighting in his brain.

"Now move. We need to get him help," his father’s words made him snap out of his thoughts.

Dean nodded and helped his father carry Sam out of the bar and towards the Impala.





Chapter Text



As Bobby and Benny stayed behind to begin evaluating the damage and fixing the incredible problem they had on their hands, John drove fast with Dean and Sam in the backseat, the latter still barely conscious.

The high rise where John had his penthouse office was more than just a working place.

An entire floor of the building was dedicated to Dr. Spencer's small and private clinic. That was where the Winchesters and their associates went when they needed to treat any severe on the job injury, like when they had a close encounter with bullets or knives. Because they were who they were, going to a regular hospital with a bullet wound or needing stitches after a knife got a bit too close would have drawn the police in a long time ago. That was why, the moment John began to make the big bucks, which was years ago, he decided to have his own family doctor with a small hospital-like area dedicated to state of the art equipment. The entire floor had costed John a couple of millions, but it had been well worth it. Dr Spencer was an amazing, loyal and discreet surgeon who had been of help more often than any of the Winchesters could count. He had helped deal with friends' overdoses—he was the one who saved Benny and helped him get clean—and fixed the Winchesters when missions went astray.

Dr Spencer also worked in the city's hospital, but the Winchesters were his main employers. That was why, when he got the call, he left everything he was doing and headed towards the clinic, ready to deal with an overdose and whatever else had presented itself.  

He was there before the Winchesters arrived; taking a private elevator that went straight to the clinic, which only John, the boys, Bobby and the doctor had a key to. Taking someone OD'ing or bleeding profusely up in the same elevator as other people might have raised suspicions. Not that there would be anyone except them at this late hour, but still they were careful as they rushed Sam to the clinic where the doctor could take a look at him.

"What happened?" Dr. Spencer sputtered as he saw John and Dean nearly dragging Sam's half-conscious body towards him. "Here, lay him down on this bed."

"You're going to tell us," John said as they helped Sam onto a sterile white bed with wheels that the doctor could push around if need be. "We found him like this. There was a syringe by him. He was drugged."

"Did he respond to naloxone?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if it was enough," John said.

"He still looks like he needs help," Dean was fretting. Sam's breathing was ragged and uneven, his pupils were still huge and his hair was now drenched in sweat.

The first thing the doctor did was to pick up the syringe already filled with more Naloxone that he had set aside after talking to John on the phone. He studied John's youngest son thrash as if in pain, and knew he needed to act fast. It really looked like whatever dose John had given him, it hadn't been enough.

"Hold his arm, please."

John and Dean tried to hold Sam's writhing body down, his arm in particular, as the doctor attempted to inject the drug. Then, they stood back and watched, their hearts racing, as the doctor covered Sam's face with an oxygen mask.

"This is just to make sure that after what's happened there's plenty of oxygen available to him," he explained as father and soon looked on obviously worried at the sight.

Then, the doctor picked up a stethoscope and began to auscultate Sam's heart.

John and Dean exchanged a worried look, full of questions and angst, as the doctor followed through with his examination by checking Sam's blood pressure.

Meanwhile, Sam's body began to finally relax, his breathing pattern grew deep while his frantic movements stopped. He looked pale and exhausted as Dean stepped closer and put a hand on his forehead.

"Sammy? Can you hear us? You're going to be all right. We've got you. Just hang in there, okay?"

John went behind Dean and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Is he still in any danger?" He asked the doctor, his voice low and his face trying not to show any sign of the fear and rage he felt within. Crowley would pay with his fucking life if something happened to Sam.

"It's hard to tell at the moment. It seems like an opioid induced overdose but I'll run a tox screen to make sure there's nothing else. I do worry about any sequelae when he wakes up, though. His heartrate and blood pressure were through the roof. Usually, when the BP is high the heart tends to compensate by reducing its beating rate. However, with so much of the drug in his system it couldn't be done, and his heart got overworked with all the adrenaline stimulus of the overdose. I'll need to run some blood tests but mostly we'll have to wait until he wakes up to tell if there's any damage to his brain."

"Brain?" Dean felt a chill go down his spine and looked into his father's eyes.

"It's just a possibility. But I don't think it's likely. Good thing John had the opioid antagonist before Sam went into cardiac arrest. Then his brain might've been deprived of oxygen."

"He was breathing the entire time," John said, with every muscle in his body tense.

"That's good. I will, however, keep him sedated overnight. His body needs time to recover from the incredible stress it's just been through, metabolically speaking." The doctor looked at his patient and then at his bosses. "I can take it from here, guys. I'll draw some blood, run some tests and since you don't know what happened, I'll see if there are any external or internal injuries so we don't overlook anything," he explained.

"Right," John agreed. "You do that."

"Also, if someone injected him with something, we can't take chances. I'll give him PEP pills as soon as he wakes up just to be on the safe side."

"PEP?" Dean frowned.

"Post-exposure prophylaxis," the doctor explained. "In case the needle had been in previous contact with HIV positive blood."

Nightmare. This had got to be a nightmare, Dean thought, his heart still buzzing in his ears. He had to keep looking at his brother's now unconscious face to remind himself this was really even happening.

"We should go. Let your brother rest and let the doctor do his job," John put his hand on Dean's shoulder once again.

The eldest brother knew there was not much more he could do for Sam at the moment, but somehow he couldn't turn away from his brother's bed. Instead, he found himself drawing closer, and placed a hand on top of Sam's.

"We'll get whoever did this to you. I promise."

As he brushed Sam’s hair away and leaned closer to press a kiss to his forehead, Dean's eyes were instantly drawn to the finger-shaped bruises around his neck. His eyes narrowed and his heart raced erratically with a feeling of growing rage that seemed to burn him. All his protective instincts were triggered and Dean's upper lip twitched uncontrollably.

"What?" John asked as he and the doctor approached the bed again.

"Here. Look," Dean pointed at the bruises. Someone had obviously grabbed Sam by the neck quite brutally. That grip looked painful.

John's eyes darkened with boiling rage and the bitter taste of revenge filled his mouth.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," John told Dean and stroked his knuckles across his younger son's cheek. Sam was too deep asleep, he didn't even flinch at the touch.

"There could be more bruising. As I said, this is the moment I do my job and you wait it out. I'll let you know if something important comes up," Dr. Spencer said.

"C'mon," John grabbed Dean's arm.

"No—" Dean felt a lump in his throat. He couldn't—, didn't want to leave his brother's side. "I…"

"He's okay, Dean. He'll be okay," John said.

"The doctor doesn't know that," Dean's voice cracked and his green eyes glowed more than usual. If he blinked he knew there would be tears.

"Our boy will be fine. You know how strong he is." John pulled Dean against his chest and held him tight for a moment, knowing he needed the comfort to help stabilize his hectic emotions. He patted his son's back and ignored how much he, too, needed said comfort. "C'mon, let's get back to the bar. We've got to figure out who did this."

Eventually, Dean nodded and followed his dad outside.


~ * ~ 


When he was alone, Dr. Spencer prepared some sample tubes and drew blood from his patient. He called the 24-hour lab and asked someone to come pick the samples up. For a while, he let Sam alone in the clinic and took the elevator down to leave the samples at the reception, where someone would pick them up. Then, he took the elevator back to the clinic where he began to look more closely at his patient.

Indeed, the bruises around his neck looked very finger-like. As his eyes trailed lower, the doctor looked at the red angry skin around Sam's wrists. It seemed right to assume he'd been handcuffed or bound, and it looked like he had struggled.

Since they didn't know what had happened to the young man, the doctor tried to be as thorough as possible. On top of the bruises around the neck and rash around the wrists, Sam had a fresh bruise around his ribcage, as if he'd been kicked there.

The doctor removed the leather boots and unbuckled his patient's belt. He began to remove the leather pants—extremely uncomfortable, he thought—and got ready to dress Sam in a light hospital gown. When he turned the not so light body of his patient on his side, though, he stopped in the middle of pulling Sam's pants down.

Dr. Spencer took a deep breath and stared at the dark dry dot on the boy's underwear. He was a doctor, but it was hard not to feel an emotional connection to a patient he'd known for years. His throat was tight with anxiety and his thoughts were rushed when he picked up a container with hydrogen peroxide. The doctor let the liquid fall on the small dark spot and watched, without any surprise really, when bubbles made a white, fizzling foam appear.

Blood, he thought.

John would not be happy with the news.

The doctor took a deep breath and pulled Sam's underwear down. Then, he picked up his phone and called the same lab that was coming to pick up the blood. He was going to need something that he did not have, nor had he ever needed, in the Winchester's clinic.

"Yes, it's Dr. Spencer again. When you come here to take the blood samples, could you bring me a rape kit?"


~ * ~


John and Dean were driving back to the bar. During the first ten minutes, they drove in absolute silence, both men staring out of the windshield at the road ahead. Eventually, John took a deep breath and asked the question that had been eating both of them alive.

"What the hell was Sam doing at The Club?"

Dean almost relaxed when he heard the question. It was the same thing going through his mind over and over again. It was bizarre, illogical, and yet, it was the truth. Bobby had confirmed that Sam was the client waiting for the session in the dungeon. The fact that on Wednesdays Dean was the only Master working at The Club didn't escape Dean's mind. What the hell did it mean?

"Does he know…?" John asked.

"I have no idea," Dean spoke, his chest tight. "Not that I know of, no…" he swallowed with some difficulty when he thought about the flirting that had been going on between his brother and him.

"It doesn't matter," John spoke and cut off Dean's spiraling thoughts. "You were supposed to be the only Master there tonight, weren't you?"

"Yes," Dean felt a hot ring of fire around his neck and icy cold fingers squeezing his heart.

"So it means that either Sam found out and wanted to prank you for keeping secrets," John began.

Okay, that made sense, Dean had to admit. He didn't know how Sam had found out, but the internet was always an option. If he knew about it, he might have wanted to trick Dean by coming in as one of his clients.

"Or he has no clue we do this and just happens to be into BDSM," John sounded exasperated. Then, he went on as if lost in thought. "Except he saw Bobby when he went in, so it's hard to believe he didn't know anything."

Or, Dean thought, he knew I was the only Master there tonight and came in as a client so we could have some fun. The thought made Dean's heart race and his blood feel a little warmer. After everything that had been going on between them, particularly after the kiss in the pool, he wouldn't be surprised if that was what Sam had been thinking when he scheduled a session. After all, Dean had been trying to keep him at a distance. If Sam had somehow figured out what he—and maybe John as well—did at The Club, he might have seen it as an opportunity to confront his brother into taking things a step further.

"We're here." John thought for a moment about something he hadn't been completely able to shut down. He had a bad feeling about the entire night, even though Sam was probably safe and out of danger now, but he wasn't ready to share his all of thoughts with Dean. "How about you go home and get some of Sam's stuff?" he suggested.


"Yeah. When Sam wakes up he's going to need some clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste…"

"A hairbrush," Dean smiled lightly and John mirrored him.

"Yeah, that too."

Dean took a deep breath and nodded. Was his father deliberately sending him away so he could check the camera footage without him around? Knowing him the answer was most likely yes, but at the moment Dean was in such a strong state of denial, he didn't question it and didn't give it much thought.

"Yeah, right. I'll go get his things and take them to the clinic," he opened the door.

"Good. Get some rest if you can. I'll do the same. Meet you at the clinic first thing in the morning, and keep your phone nearby in case something comes up."

Dean nodded and got out. He shut the car's door and walked to the Impala, opened it and slid behind the steering wheel.

John waited until Dean started the car, double tapped the horn quickly as a goodbye, and watched as the Impala peeled away. He then got out of the car and headed towards the bar, now closed to the public.

Inside, he found Bobby and Benny at the counter, both men with drinks in hand. There was havoc all around them—broken cues, chairs, pool tables, billiard balls on the floor, bottles, and expensive whiskey making the floor dirty and sticky.

As John approached the two men, Bobby and Benny exchanged a weird, tense look and both took deep sips of their drinks. John's sense of dread only grew and his heart began to sink. He wasn't a fool. If Dean was in denial, well, he wasn't. Not after seeing all the scattered evidence he had. He'd only be able to breathe easily after making sure he was wrong.

"So, did you check the footage?" he asked. "What the hell happened here?"

"Well, sort of…" Bobby began after exchanging another tense look with Benny.

"What do you mean sort of?" John frowned, his heartrate picking up speed.

"We began to watch it, but then…" Benny licked at his lips and looked visibly uncomfortable, as if something was deeply wrong. "Where's Dean?" he suddenly asked.

"Went home to get some of Sam's things and take them to the clinic," John said and then looked at Bobby, who nodded at him with approval and relief. The silent communication made John's breathing pattern a little messy.

"I think you should see for yourself. Benny and I…" Bobby sighed and suddenly he looked older than he was and way too tired, "we think you should be the one to watch it."

"Why?" John asked astutely, every fiber of muscle tense with the dreadful feeling of anticipation.

"Here," Bobby's answer was to guide John to The Club in the back, into one of the dressing rooms, and started playing the camera footage for him. There was no sound, but on it they could see the moment two of the bar clients were joined by the two arriving criminals who overpowered Bobby and began to take control of the place.

"Son of a fucking bitch," John groaned as he watched everything unfold. They couldn't see much of the men's faces, just little bits every now and then, so they would probably have to watch the entire thing many, many times.

Benny and Bobby stood right behind John, everyone's eyes glued to the screen.

For a while, they watched as the criminals knocked Bobby unconscious and walked back and forth between the club and the bar, taking the clients to the back where they were later found. It was only when one of them brought Sam to the bar that John felt his heart skip a beat and adrenaline buzzed through him in order to try to prepare him for the worst.

He couldn't look away and he probably wasn’t even breathing properly as everyone watched the silent exchange go on between the criminals and Sam.

"He's fully masked and handcuffed. Waiting for the session," John whispered. "No way he could've fought them."

When one of the criminals walked into the bar carrying the black rubber dildo they found earlier, everyone watching the video grew tense, but it was only when the guy manhandling Sam took the toy and began to threaten Sam with it that the atmosphere in the room grew awkward and dense with discomfort and dread.

"He tries to escape," Benny says weakly, and indeed they watched as Sam kicked and made for the door, but was obviously dragged back with multiple guns to his head.

By the time Sam was pushed against the pool table and his pants were pulled down, John's face became unreadable.

Bless Bobby for pausing the video before the man did what became suddenly very clear he was going to do with the sex toy.

"We didn't watch any further," Bobby explained.

"We couldn't," Benny added.

"We didn't think it was right…" Bobby looked at John and then lowered his eyes respectfully at the pain he knew his friend was going through.

"Very well. I'll take it from here," John said, his voice cold, trying to keep a storm at bay. A storm full of nothing but fury, helplessness, and sorrow.

Benny and Bobby exchanged a look before walking out of the dressing room and closing the door.

Alone, John Winchester took a seat before the laptop and looked at the paused image for a second. Before his bottom lip quivered and showed the weakness he felt, John bit down on it in an attempt to steady the proof of his distress. Part of him wanted to burn that footage and go on a rampage, destroying everything and everyone responsible for its content. The other part though, knew it was the only evidence he had, the only thing that would help him catch and torture the man hovering above his youngest son on the screen.

Hence, John Winchester took a deep breath, tightened his hands into fists until his knuckles turned white, and pushed play.


~ * ~ 


Dean punched in the alarm code and quickly entered their house. The silence of the big, empty place became quickly oppressive, but like a soldier on a mission, he went straight upstairs to Sam's room, where he found a small duffel bag in the wardrobe and began filling it with pants, shirts, socks and underwear. When he was done getting nough clothes for a couple of days, he went into his brother's bathroom and picked up everything he knew Sam would need.

Once everything was properly packed, he threw the bag on top of the bed and sighed softly.

What the fucking hell had just happened tonight?

Sam had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and Dean couldn't help feeling responsible.

If John was right, and he probably was in that Sam had found out about their secret, then Dean knew something their father didn't, which was the reason why Sam was there. Had his brother been trying to prove a point? To prank him, as John believed? To cross the line and share a few more kisses?

Dean sat down on Sam's bed and ran his fingers through his short hair. He felt a piercing stab of guilt at the thought that he had been responsible for Sam finding himself in that helpless condition in which Crowley's men found him. Masked and probably bound. It was hardly fair that he couldn't even fight back when the criminals took over The Club. Why had they singled out Sam, though? Why wasn't his brother with the other hostages when they arrived?

Maybe he'd been recognized by one of Crowley's men? But he had a mask on, at least in the beginning, so that made no sense.

Dean shook his head and thought of Sam's thrashing as the drug had slowly devastated his body. He felt something tight and heavy in his chest, as if a massive weight was lying there, making it almost impossible to breathe.

He buried his nose into Sam's pillow, but didn't think he would fall asleep. In less than ten minutes though, his brain was swallowed by oblivion, lulled by Sam's comforting scent.


~ * ~ 


In the morning, after speaking on the phone, John and Dean arrived at the clinic at the same time, going up the elevator together. Dean had brought Sam's duffel bag, which he held on to with more force than necessary.

From the looks of it, Dean knew his father had probably gotten little to no sleep that night. He hadn't come home, which meant he'd crashed at The Club. Dean couldn't quite understand why, but he was both anxious and reluctant to ask about the CCTV footage.

Eventually, though, before the elevator stopped on the clinic's floor, he summoned enough courage.

"Did you watch it?"

John nodded. He certainly did. Many times. He'd watched it until the faces of those who had wronged him and his son had been burned his retinas, right along with Azazel's face, in John's kill list. Nevertheless, he wasn't quite sure how to approach his older son about it. John knew the bond the boys had, and he knew how protective Dean felt of his younger brother. That wasn't going to be easy.

"They will pay," John said enigmatically and looked at Dean.

Before he said anything else though, the doors opened and they met Dr. Spencer.

"Good morning," the doctor greeted them. "As I told you in the messages, he had a good night. He's still asleep, but I'll begin to lower the sedatives and he'll wake up by noon."

John and Dean nodded, then there was a silent pause pregnant with tension.

The doctor licked at his dry lips and looked into John's eyes. "I conducted a thorough examination, as required." We need to talk, was the silent message in his eyes as he fixed them on John.

John's teeth clenched, but he took a few deep breaths and tried to relax.

"Why don't you go check on him?" he looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

Dean barely registered that the doctor and his father fell behind to speak as he walked towards the bed. He also barely registered the whispered conversation, because he only had eyes for the young man lying unconscious in bed before him.

"Hey, Sammy. It's okay, we're here now."

Away from the bed, the two older men continued to speak in a confidential tone.

"I am deeply sorry to inform you, but there were some considerable wounds that led me to conclude Sam has been sexually abused."

"I know."

John's answer took the doctor by surprise.

"You do?"

"I have cameras in the bar."

"Oh," the doctor then suddenly understood the dark circles around his boss's eyes and the defeated look on his face. It wasn't just concern for Sam's health. It was a broken father having to deal with something terrible happening to their kid. "I ran a rape kit because with these things you can't waste time. Potential evidence may be lost before the patient regains the ability to consent.  But it'll take a few days until we know something."

"You won't find anything," John stated calmly.

"I won't?"

"Guy used a rubber dildo," John's upper lip twitched.

The doctor was suddenly at a loss, not sure what to do or say.

"Does he know?" he eventually asked, nodding at Dean.

John looked over his shoulder and called his son closer. "Come here. There's something you need to know."

Dean turned around and walked towards the doctor and his father. His heart was drumming in his chest, almost as if it knew the news was not good.

"Something wrong?" His face was all apprehension and his voice had a betraying pitch of fear.

John looked at the doctor before looking at Dean. His voice was calm and controlled, almost clinical with rationality. It did not portray how he felt inside, but right now it wasn't about how he felt.

"Sam was raped."

Dean didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

"There's no nice way to say this, but you need to know," John went on. "I saw the footage, the doctor saw the evidence. The rubber dildo you saw? It was used on him while he was handcuffed."

The ground beneath Dean's feet seemed to be spinning out of control. For a moment, he wished the ground would crack open and swallow him whole. It couldn't be true, it couldn't—and yet, Dean knew it was. A part of him had known for a while now, and perhaps that's why it hurt so much. No more denial.

"No…" he whispered weakly and felt the tears spring to his eyes before he could even begin to process the cruel truth.

"I'm sorry, Dean," the doctor whispered softly and watched, his chest tight, as his patient's brother fell apart and covered his eyes as a sob tore out from his throat. He had never seen Dean react like that, and apparently neither had his own father.

"Not Sammy, fuck," Dean cursed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The tears came hot and unstoppable, his heart bled and his chest worked overtime to bring some oxygen into his lungs. "Fuck!" he cried.

John and the doctor watched him quietly for a moment, giving him time and space.

Dean walked towards the bed and collapsed onto the seat beside it, burying his face in his palms and sobbing loudly. His shoulders hunched and fell with each difficult intake of air. He couldn't control or understand the conflicting and violent emotions inside of him.

Finally, John took a deep breath and walked towards his son, putting both hands on Dean's shoulders.

"Let it all out. Cry as much as you need to. You can go up to my office if you want some privacy." He leaned against the seat and pressed Dean's head against his body, feeling the tremors that rocked him as the tears streamed down his cheeks unrestrained. John framed Dean's face and made his son look him deeply into his eyes. "But when Sam wakes up you'll have to put this all behind you, you understand me?" John's eyes were fighting their own battle, and it was only a weak victory of reason over feeling.


"Go to my office, let it all out, and then get it together before you come back."

Dean's crying subdued as he paid attention to his father's words. He didn't know what to say, but he'd been trained to listen to orders, and so he did.

"You and I have to be strong now. Your brother's gonna need us."





Chapter Text



Lui parked the car in a dark alley and everyone all looked at each other, wide-eyed and tense.

"I'll go in and speak to Crowley," Lui said, looking the other men in the eyes.

"If you tell him what I did, he'll have us all killed," Ronald threatened as he lowered his voice. "So make sure you don't tell him shit about the Winchester boy then."

Lui sighed deeply, unsure and nervous about the whole thing.

"Why the fuck did you have to do it, man? If we had just stuck to plan, everything would be fine right now!"

Finn and Marcus both nodded together in the back seat.

"Well, I didn't fucking know, all right? How the hell was I supposed to know the sex slave was one of John's sons?" Ronald groaned and scratched at his beard. He knew he had fucked up, but he would be damned if he was going down for something that wasn't his fault. "Kid was wearing a fucking mask! Besides, I didn't even rape him. I just used the toy on him."

"That's rape," Marcus said, surprising the others and drawing three pairs of eyes to him.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Ronald raised his voice and turned to try and hit the man in the backseat.

"Hey, hey!" Lui and Finn intervened, Lui from the driver's seat, Finn from the back seat.

"Let him go!" Finn shoved Ronald's arm away and put himself between the two men as best as he could. "It's over and done with now. Let's just take the drugs and the money and we'll disappear."

"Crowley won't know about it if you don't rat," Ronald glared at Lui and took a deep breath. "The kid certainly won't go telling his dad's rival what I did to him. Hell, I doubt he'll tell anyone about it."

"But you don't know that for sure," Lui argued.

"He's right though," Marcus caved and looked at the driver. "Don't tell Crowley anything. Even if he does end up catching a whiff of what happened, it'll give us time to disappear. I know I'm leaving town as soon as I can."

Then, all the eyes were on Lui, as he thought of what to do. On one hand, he wanted to be loyal to Crowley after having been given a second chance. On the other, he didn't want to die, so he had to agree with his friends that keeping quiet about it was the best way out.

"Alright. I'll go in and talk to him. When I come back with the money and drugs, we split it all and I never want to see you again," he looked at Ronald when he said those last words.

"Don't worry. You won't. Now go get our money. The club is wrecked, we deserve it."

Lui turned around and walked into the agreed place. Because Crowley didn't have a regular job like his rival, the business meetings with him happened in a variety of shady locations that were only relayed to his employees moments before they took place.

Lui found his boss sitting behind a desk in an old storage room, smoking a cigar and stroking the black briefcase before him. By his side, two strong and heavily armed men stood guard silently.

"How did it go?" Crowley asked the moment he saw Lui walk in. Given the time he assumed they hadn't had any trouble.

"As planned," Lui replied. He shoved his hands into his pockets not to give away his fidgety state, but also to caress the Philip Patek watch he had found in a locker and then slid into his pocket without the knowledge of his partners. "We took over the place easily with the plan. The hostages were kept in one of the dungeons as we trashed everything in sight."

"Great," Crowley smiled, positively pleased. "Did you use the guns?"

"No. No bullets were fired."

"Anyone hurt?"

Lui's adam apple moved as he swallowed, but he didn't even blink as he went on.

"We had to knock the man behind the counter unconscious, but he was okay."

Crowley relaxed against his chair and sighed. John Winchester was in for a disturbing night. Message sent.

"Good job. Here it is. You earned it."

Crowley pushed the black briefcase towards the tall, thin man, and Lui opened it. His eyes glowed as he studied the money and drugs.

"Thank you, boss." He closed the briefcase. "I should get back to the car. The others are waiting."

"Sure." Crowley watched the man turn around and begin to walk away. There was something slightly curious about him, but Crowley believed it was the residual adrenaline after the mission. "Lui?"

"Boss?" he slowly turned on his feet and his fingers tightened around the briefcase. He knew it would be impossible for Crowley to know what they—what stupid bloody Ronald—had done, but still it felt as if the older man was seeing right through him.

"Are you sure there's nothing else I should know about the mission?"

Lui could hear his heart drumming away. He knew his life was on the line, and he was not about to die because someone else had fucked up. Besides, Ronald was right. Chances are Crowley would never even know what they had done to John Winchester's son.

"No, boss. All things considered, it went down pretty smoothly," he lied.

Crowley smiled and thought about John's face when he got the news. He knew his competition wouldn't call the police, just as Crowley couldn't in his place. That just meant he would be left to suffer alone the consequences of stepping on Crowley's toes. Served him well for being so cocky, believing he could dictate how Crowley should do his job.

"Good. See you soon. You should celebrate."

Lui smiled weakly.

"We certainly will."


~ * ~


Dean took his father's advice—order was more like it—and went up to John's penthouse office, which was empty now. He closed the door and for a moment just leaned against it, his chest heaving as he let the anguish win the battle and the sobs spill from his lips before they could choke his throat.

It could not be true. The thought that his baby brother had been hurt so badly when he was absolutely helpless was too painful to digest. It affected his body physically, making his stomach churn and his fingers curl into tight fists, processing a sort of anger he couldn't deal with. And if he tried to get past the hurt it caused him, he ended up only stumbling upon the guilt looming in his mind.

The more he thought about the reason for Sam to be in The Club, the more he couldn't help blaming himself for it. What if Sam had found out about The Club and chosen to go there in order to prove a point? Dean had hinted that he was too vanilla, what if going to The Club was Sam's way of showing his brother he was kinky and ready for whatever could happen between them?

The thought that he was the reason Sam was at The Club, bound and unable to defend himself when the criminals had burst in made Dean feel invisible hands squeezing his lungs until it hurt so much he needed to open the window and get some air.

"It's all my fucking fault," he shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck!" Dean could feel the warmth of the fresh tears running down his cheeks. He wished he could take Sam's pain away. He wished it had been him, handcuffed and abused, because he could handle it. Even if it scarred him for life, he would find a way to deal with it. As for Sam, he was naive; he probably never imagined something like that could happen to him.

Dean had felt the sub vibes coming from his brother before. What if Sam had wanted to dip his toe in the water and try BDSM out? What if he was curious to know what it felt like giving someone else complete control over him? The fact that his trust had been betrayed by the night's events would certainly leave a wound Dean didn't know how to help heal. Being a BDSM dom, he was extremely aware of how important trust was when powerplay was being carried out. A real helpless situation in which you were truly at the mercy of someone who did not have your well-being in mind was terrifying. He wished he could go back in time and protect his brother. Being unable to change what had happened tore painfully at his chest.

Dean sat down on the floor, his back against the glass wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested an arm on them. His left hand held his head and raked through his hair. He kept gnawing at his bottom lip as the thoughts flowed through him.

What if Benny hadn't asked for help?

What if the tractor trailed hadn't jackknifed?

What if he hadn't been late?

What if Sam had chosen another night, any other night?

What if…what if…

Dean didn't see or feel time pass. He stayed like that, eyes lost in the distance, thoughts following a confusing dance where guilt, anger and sorrow tangled messily, until his cell phone rang and he snapped out of it.

"Yeah?" Dean picked up when he saw it was his father.

"He's waking up. You should get down here."


~ * ~


John was standing beside Sam's bed when his son's eyelids began to flutter.

The doctor was the one who opened the door and let Dean in, and when he did, John walked away from the bed and towards his older son.

"He's been off the sedatives for a few hours, he's about to wake up," Dr. Spencer explained.

"Good. What are we gonna say?" Dean's green eyes met John's, filled with mind wrecking and heart breaking questions.

John took a deep breath.

"We should let him do the talking," he said. "We'll see how it goes, then."

Dean nodded. He was at the same time eager and anxious for his brother to wake up. On one hand, he wanted to see him open his eyes and make sure he was going to be fine. On the other hand, knowing what Sam would have to deal with the moment he woke up was not something Dean was looking forward to.

He wished there was a way to protect him from what happened to him.

They approached Sam's bed in time to see him squirming a little and open his eyes. There was no oxygen mask on him anymore, but Sam was still connected to the ECG machine that checked his vitals.

"Welcome back," the doctor smiled warmly.

"Where am I?" The first thing that hit him was how fucking much his head hurt. Then, how thick and groggy his voice sounded. The clarity of the place was hard on his eyes, so Sam squinted a little as he tried to take in his surroundings.

"At the clinic. We had to rush you in last night," John spoke.

Sam then yawned deeply and waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the light. Then, he looked at his father, his brother and the doctor, all staring at him. They seemed really worried, so Sam smiled.

"Must've been one hell of a mission, eh?" he chuckled lightly and looked at Dean, then he winced and put a hand to his temple, massaging it.

John and Dean exchanged a look but didn't say anything.

"Headache?" The doctor asked.

Sam nodded.

"What do you remember, Sammy?" Dean ventured, his eyes meeting John's and the doctor's with the kind of inside information his younger brother did not possess.

Sam shut his eyes and frowned. He tried really hard to think about the previous night, but it was all blurry, like there was this gap in his memory filled with a bunch of nothingness.

"I…I don't know, really." Sam looked at his brother and then his father. "The last mission I remember was delivering a message to Crowley's bunch and Dean burning some drugs. Someone got killed, right? And I had a gun to my head? Did I get shot?" he then widened his eyes and looked at the three men beside his bed.

Dean swallowed hard and he could feel the same tension coming from his father and also the doctor.

"It seems like there's a bit of a memory gap there, Sam. Do you mind if I conduct a few tests?"

When Sam shook his head, John and Dean stepped back and gave Dr. Spencer room to approach the bed with a small flashlight in hand. The doctor checked Sam's pupils and reflexes for a few minutes, while John and Dean waited expectantly.

"It doesn't look like there's any damage to your head, but I'll order a CT scan just in case."

"Okay, now you're worrying me. What happened last night?" Sam asked.

John and Dean were faced with a split second decision about what to tell Sam, and it seemed like they both silently agreed to hold back the truth. At least part of it.

"I'm sure your father and brother will fill you in on the details," the doctor began, "but part of what happened is that you were drugged."

"Drugged?" Sam seemed taken aback.

"Yes, with heroin. The tox screen came back. You nearly overdosed."

Sam looked from one side to the other as he processed that information.

The doctor then looked at John and Dean and went on, sensing their alarm. He knew how John felt about bringing up the sexual assault, so he wasn't going into that now. Nevertheless, he needed to tell Sam something since he would need him to take the anti-HIV medication.

"What the fuck?" Sam frowned.

"That's why I'll need you to take these pills for 28 days, okay? They're called PEP, and since we don't know if the needle they injected you with had been used before, you need to make sure you take it all the way, get it?"

Sam widened his eyes and nodded.

John and Dean relaxed a little. If Sam would need to take pills for twenty eight days, then there was no way they could have kept from him the whole overdosing episode. The doctor had to tell him.

"There's an extra pill there, it's an analgesic. It'll help with the headaches and whatever other pain you might be feeling," the doctor studied Sam as he spoke, but the young man didn't seem affected by the words. He accepted the water and swallowed down the pills quickly. "They might make you feel a little nauseated, but you have to follow through with the pills, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Sam smiled softly. "Overdose, huh? That's fucked up. I don't even remember what it felt like. I always thought drugs were supposed to give you this amazing high that made you crave more. Now I nearly overdosed and don't even remember it."

"Well, we remember it, and we don't want to see it ever again," Dean said darkly.

"Oh. Right," Sam's smile faded as he thought about what his dad and Dean must have been through. "I must've scared you guys. Sorry."

"That's okay. We just want to be certain you're all right now, Sam. You should go and have the CT scan the doctor recommended, just to make sure there's nothing serious with this apparent memory loss," John said.

"Yeah, fine. Whatever needs to be done," Sam agreed. He could sense a really tense atmosphere surrounding his father and brother, and he supposed that seeing him nearly overdose had caused it. If only Sam could remember what had happened, but when he tried to, his head hurt and his brain just seemed blank. Something similar had happened to him once, when he'd had too much tequila on his eighteenth birthday. He remembered how Dean would tease him and show him funny and embarrassing pictures about a night Sam had no recollection of upon the morning. "Will my memories come back?" he then asked the doctor.

John and Dean also looked at Dr. Spencer when he spoke.

"Probably, yes. It could be some residual effect of the overdose. You might remember everything in the next few hours or it might take even longer. The CT scan will rule out anything more serious. Considering the heroin was a one-time thing and that you're not an addict who's been abusing the drug for a while, I see no reason for this memory loss to be permanent."

Sam nodded and they could all see the worry on his face.

"John, give me a hand here, will you? I need help to prepare the CT scan."

John nodded at the doctor and stepped away from the bed. When they were somewhat alone, Sam looked at Dean with evident bewilderment on his face.

"What happened? Was I alone in the mission?"

"Yes…" Dean didn't know what to say. He knew that Sam would learn the truth, eventually, but at the moment Dean was in such a vulnerable state that he didn't think he had what it took to walk Sam through that nightmare again.

Perhaps they should all be grateful he didn't remember the previous night. At least not yet.

"You went out alone. I…I don't really know all the details, but something went wrong. It wasn't supposed to have ended like that, Sammy." This much was true.

Sam's eyes seemed lost for a moment.

"Well, I hope I can remember what happened soon and how I let my guard down. Overdose, really? Shit."


~ * ~


A while later, as Sam was getting the CT scan, John and Dean sat beside the doctor in a small room together and waited, both looking through the window as the exam unfolded.

"Is everything all right there, Sam?" Dr. Spencer spoke to him through a microphone connected to his desktop computer.


"Good. Just a few more minutes and we'll be done," he explained and turned off his microphone. It never failed to amaze the doctor the power behind John Winchester's empire. Not everyone could have their own personal CT machine in a private clinic, to use whenever they needed.

When the doctor was done analyzing all the images of Sam's brain, he sighed and leaned back on the chair.

"So?" John asked the question Dean had been dying to ask.

"The good news is, there's no damage to his brain caused by the overdose. Neither the neurologic exam I conducted nor the images point to anything worrisome."

John and Dean exhaled a tense breath, almost exactly at the same time.

"So why can't he remember the attack?" John asked.

"My guess? It sounds way more like PTSD than any actual damage he may have undergone."

"PTSD?" Dean arched his eyebrows.

"It's when trauma affects someone so much it can interfere with cognitive functions of the brain."

"I know what PTSD is," Dean added quickly. "It's just…" he ended up shrugging. It was frightening thinking how much last night had possibly changed things for Sam. For good.

"It's scary, yeah, but maybe you're right," John agreed.

"Honestly? I think you should tell him what happened as soon as possible. I get that it's difficult as hell sitting down to talk about something like that. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. But unless he knows what happened to him, those memories could keep hidden right beneath the surface, and they might come up at the worst time, putting him or others in danger," the doctor said.

"In other words, Sam is a ticking bomb," John said, to which the doctor nodded.

"I strongly recommend talking to him about this and then getting him some therapy right away. There's no telling how much this will affect him and how long it will be until he can deal with it in a healthy way. You're gonna have to be patient."

"We will be," Dean said and then fell silent, his head filled with thoughts, and his heart heavy with all sorts of mixed feelings.

"I think we should wait, a couple of days, at least. Maybe the memories will come back on their own." Yes, John was running from having to sit down and tell his youngest son that he was sexually abused, but then again, which father wouldn't try and avoid seeing their son devastated and hurting? "If they do, when they do, we'll be there for him. No need to dump all this on him while he's still clearly recovering."

Dean knew what John was doing, and he thought Dr. Spencer was right when he said they should tell Sam. Nevertheless, there wasn't one single bone in his body ready to go through with that conversation. It might sound selfish, but Dean wasn't ready to sit down and see Sam's smile fade and his heart break as he was told the truth about last night, so he just nodded and went along.


~ * ~


Sam was still in bed, waiting for the doctor to discharge him so he could go home. He spent a slow afternoon undergoing a few more exams until Dr. Spencer was fairly certain the overdose would not have any lingering effects on Sam's body. Since it was a one-time thing, the doctor did not fear Sam would go through withdrawal, but he advised him to stay away from opioids in general. Because heroin was extremely addictive, that was a rabbit hole Sam did not want to go down, so no prescription pain pills. If he felt pain, the doctor told him to stick to Tylenol or give him a call.

Although he could understand why the doctor, his father and Dean looked so worried, it was difficult for Sam to share in the same seriousness considering he did not recall exactly what had happened leading up to his overdose and consequent stay in the clinic.

"How do you feel?" Dr. Spencer asked later that evening. John and Dean had spent the entire afternoon by his side, watching or helping him through the many exams, and then talking to the doctor about the results.

"Great. I mean, I do feel a bit queasy, but maybe that's expected?"

"Yes, it is. The PEP you're taking is probably what's causing it, but you still have twenty seven days ahead of you, so let me know if the nausea gets too intense. I can give you something for it."

"It's manageable now," Sam said.


"Can he go home?" John asked. He was standing beside the doctor while Dean was sitting on a chair, on the other side of the bed. He didn't fail to see the way Dean's fingers were resting protectively over Sam's arm, and it warmed his heart.

"Sure. The test results were all good. There will still be traces of the drug in Sam's system, but as I said, the worst is over."

"You're going home, Sammy," Dean smiled and squeezed his brother's arm.

The relief on his brother's face made Sam feel all fuzzy inside, and his lips cracked with a smile too.

"I just have one more question," the doctor spoke. "What's the last thing you remember?"

John and Dean exchanged a look from across the bed, and both men looked at Sam expectantly as he thought about the answer.

It took Sam a while to revisit his memories until everything became blurry.

"Dean's birthday, I guess. I…" Sam then looked at his father before lowering his eyes to the sheets that were covering him. "I had an argument with Dad because I invited Grandpa."

That was almost two weeks ago. Both Dean and John had a frown on their faces, but Sam was looking at John and took that look to mean his dad was still mad.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't want to fight," he apologized.

"It's okay, son," John smiled and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "I'm not mad. We can talk about it some other time."

Sam seemed to relax at that and nodded lightly.

"Well, the memories might come back during the course of this week," the doctor explained. "Just make sure you eat well and get plenty of rest. No missions for at least a few more days, okay?" he looked at the young man in bed then at his boss.

"Yeah, we got it," John was the one who replied.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I need to head over to the hospital. Emergency surgery came up there, and you're all set here. Just make sure you come back here in a week. I'd like to do some follow-up tests."

"I'll accompany you down. I left my other phone in the car. Now that things are under control I need to check on business," John said.

Dean watched his father leave with the doctor. He had a strong feeling John wanted to be alone with Dr. Spencer, probably to talk about Sam's condition once again and the possibility of him remembering stuff at any given moment. A ticking bomb, as John had said.

When they were alone, Dean got up and stretched before walking towards the duffel bag on a small table nearby.

"I got some clothes. Do you need help getting dressed?"

"No, I'm fine. Just leave them here," Sam said and then his eyes fixed on his brother, watching him intently.

"What?" Dean asked when he noticed it.

"I lied, you know. About my memory."

Dean's heart began to beat so loudly in his chest he was certain Sam could hear it. His blood pumped so fast through his veins that Dean felt it rattle around inside his throat.

"You did?" his voice was barely above a whisper. "Well…" he walked towards the bed and sat down on the chair beside it once again. Not because he was tired, but because his buckling knees made him do it. "What is it? What's your last memory?"

Sam's eyes had an intimate little glint to them.

"It's the pool. You know, us together, kissing in the pool."

Dean's lips parted and his heart slammed against his chest, the dread and fear now tangling with the fluttery joy the memory sparked.


"Yeah, not like I could say that in front of Dad, right?" Sam made a face and chuckled softly.

"Right," Dean agreed readily.

"But yeah, I remember it. All of it." Sam stretched his fingers out to Dean until he understood what he wanted. He then squeezed his older brother's fingers and looked at him with something shy but also ardent.

"I…" Dean was at a loss. His heartbeats had just gone on a rollercoaster of rhythms.

Suddenly, he felt warm and tingly as he allowed himself to revel in the deliciously flirty mood between them. After what had just happened, Dean hadn't really given it much thought, so he was absolutely taken by surprise when Sam brought it up. A good surprise, though. "I'm glad you remember," he ended up saying.

Sam took a deep breath and his lips curved with the faintest little smile.

"I know this is messy," he spoke in a whispered voice. "And I'm not saying we should do something about it. But I like that it happened," he confessed. He didn't even know where that was coming from, but it felt like something he wanted and needed to say. "And I know you'll try to pretend like nothing happened and will probably come up with all sorts of excuses because you don't like to talk shit out…"

"Sounds like me," Dean smiled softly.

"But I really liked it, Dean. So unless you regret it, I'd be very happy if we didn't just pretend it never happened."

Dean took a deep breath. His heart was still racing in his chest.

"Of course I don't regret it, baby brother."

Sam felt his own heart pick up and fill his chest with something unbelievably warm.

"So can we please not ignore it?" he squeezed Dean's hand.

Dean took a deep breath. He couldn't even imagine what the next days, weeks, months, would be like, but right now, at this very moment, it was irrelevant. He squeezed Sam's fingers back just as tightly and smiled, his green eyes flashing with a warm and seductive smile.

"Don't think I could ignore it if my life depended on it," he confessed, causing Sam to smile.

"This can be good, Dean," Sam spoke with a shy little tentativeness to his voice.

Dean's reply was to take their joined hands to his lips and kiss Sam's fingers lightly.






Chapter Text



The three Winchesters went home at the end of the day, and although they were all relieved to be out of the clinic, there was an underlying, tense and awkward mood between all of them.

John and Dean would often exchange subtle glances when Sam did or said something.

Dean couldn't stop thinking about his father's words, Sam was now a ticking bomb, with memories that could spring at any moment. Who knew what would trigger them?

They should probably all sit down and talk about what had happened, but Dean couldn't blame his father for being so unwilling to do so. He as well, could hardly comprehend the idea of looking Sam in the eyes and telling him about the abuse he'd suffered.

And because knowing such a heavy secret was not an easy burden, Dean knew John would take the first moment he could to take a break from the weight of keeping such a secret.

That's why it didn't surprise Dean when John said he would need to leave after dinner.

"I have some business to discuss with Bobby," he told Dean. "Can you handle things here?" He looked into Dean's eyes and then looked over his shoulder at his youngest son lying on the sofa, watching TV.

"Yeah, it's fine."

"If something comes up…" if he remembers anything, "give me a call," John said before leaving.

Dean then looked at the tall, lean man sprawled out on the sofa and walked towards him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," Sam mumbled. "The PEP pills are the worst."

"Yeah, I bet, but you have to take them all."

"I know."

"Other than that?"

"I'm fine, really," Sam said as he straightened a little on the sofa. "I can see you and Dad exchanging looks and tiptoeing around me. I know the whole OD thing must've been scary, but one, I didn't take the drug willingly, and two, I'm fine. Whatever happened during the mission that went south, I'm sure Dad will figure it out and set it straight."

"Yeah, I know man. But you've got to admit, it's a little unnerving that you don't remember what happened."

"I…" Sam looked at his hands and then frowned for a moment. There was a rash on his wrists that was still quite painful, and depending on how he moved his neck, it also hurt a little. He'd been to the bathroom before and seen all the bruises. He also had other kind of discomfort when he visited the toilet, but for some reason his mind wouldn't let him dwell on it for too long.

Sam blamed everything on the PEP pills and the havoc it was causing in his gastrointestinal tract. He knew it was probably still too soon for the pills to take the blame, but he couldn't—didn't want to—think of any other reason why it felt like he was shitting razor blades. "I think I struggled a lot, but somehow they overpowered me. Pretty sure I was handcuffed."

Dean swallowed hard and sat down next to him.

"Yeah. I agree. Let me see." He took one of Sam's wrists and examined it gently.

Suddenly, the warmth of Dean's touch on his skin chased away the dreary clouds in his thoughts, and Sam smiled.

"I'm fine. You can stop worrying," he said softly, but still enjoyed Dean's careful and gentle touch.

You're fine because you don't remember what happened, Dean couldn't help thinking.

His heart shrunk at the thought and he worried at his bottom lip.

"Movie?" Sam asked, a laid-up smile on his face, small little glint in his eyes.

"Why not?" Dean managed to smile and his heart even did a small little loop of joy when Sam nestled his head on his thighs, eyes on the TV in front of them. "What do you want to watch?" Dean asked, his voice a bit coarse as he felt the warm weight of Sam's head on his lap.

"Whatever," Sam said, letting Dean know exactly what he wanted—closeness. "Just be nice to me. I deserve it," he smiled with a small teasing tone and took Dean's hand, placing it on his head.

"'Course you do, Sammy," Dean's heart was on fire. He let his fingers tangle and thread through soft hair as he struggled with conflicting feelings about his brother. The cold devastating truth of what had happened and the warmth of the flirty little mood between them. One feeling, though, was consistently strong—the drive to protect his baby brother from the entire world if need be, till kingdom come.


~ * ~ 


John called a last-minute meeting with The Club staff at Bobby's wrecked bar. Twenty four hours later, even though the place was clean, it still looked like complete chaos had erupted there. Bobby, Benny and Bella, the club's only Mistress, were waiting for him, as well as the girl employee who was there the previous night.

"Thank you for coming," John looked at all of them and sat down on one of the chairs in the improvised circle Bobby had made in the middle of the bar.

The truth was, John was still haunted by what had happened, but he took small comfort and brief relief in being practical about things. Avoiding Sam's eyes and holding back the truth about his pain also helped.

"Benny filled me in. Those sick fucks. What do you want us to do?" Bella asked.

John sighed. He looked at Bobby for a moment. Bobby and Benny were the only ones who knew the true extent of what had happened to Sam.

Bella and the girl employee were not told—and there was absolutely no need to.

"For the time being, we're gonna lay low. I need to do some thinking." John's thoughts kept going back to the video of the criminals—of Sam's rape. He wouldn't stop until he identified each and every one of those responsible, even if only one of them had actually hurt Sam, and he wouldn't rest until they had all paid.

"We'll shut down The Club for a while, okay? I need to figure out what I'm doing next, and I honestly don't have it in me to keep it running."

"Yeah, sure," Benny nodded readily. After what had happened, BDSM was the last thing John wanted to occupy his brain with.

"What about the bar, John?" Bobby asked.

"The bar will keep running. We'll probably have to keep it shut for another week or so until everything is cleaned up and decent again. But we have important clients who come here, and it'll be bad for business if we close the doors for too long."

"Okay," Bobby agreed. "I've already made a few calls. I think it should be ready for the public in about a week."

"Meanwhile, get The Club fixed up as well. You have the green light to use as much money as you need. When the time's right, I'll think about opening the doors again." John studied Bella and Benny. They were both well aware of who he was, with Bella being involved in luring exceptionally rich clients with drug addictions through her work in The Club and sometimes at the bars. "Rest assured you'll all be paid even though we're closed. I won't leave you hanging."

"We never thought you would John," Benny said gravely.

"Thank you, John. I just want to make sure they pay," Bella chimed in.

The girl who had helped Sam into The Club nodded. She had no idea that last night's client had been a Winchester, let alone what had been done to him, but she saw the state in which those guys had left The Club and knew they had to pay.

"You're all on vacation. Indefinitely," John said and got up.

"If you need anything, just give me a call," Benny said as he got up as well.

"Yes, same here," Bella said.

"Thank you."

John watched as the three people headed for the door.

"Benny? Wait a moment," he said.

Bella and the other girl left, and then John was looking at the two men who knew what had really happened to his son.

"Sam has no memory of what happened. I thought I should give you the heads up in case you run into him."

"He doesn't?" Benny frowned.

John shook his head.

"Last thing he remembers is Dean's birthday at home. At least that's what he says, and honestly, I don't think he's lying. Either he doesn't remember or he doesn't want to remember."

"That's fucked up," Bobby said. "Is it because of the drugs?"

"The doctor doesn't think so. He's leaning towards PTSD."

Benny and Bobby exchanged a look before fixing their eyes on John.

"I'm so sorry, man," Bobby ended up saying. "How is he?"

"Hard to tell. On the outside? He looks fine. Medically, the doctor said he'll make a full recovery. Psychologically? PTSD might be causing temporary memory loss. Like he's blocked the memory of the trauma. I'm telling you this now because if you run into him you should know where his mind is at."

"Sure," Benny nodded. "Forgive me if I'm intruding, but don't you think you should tell him about it? I mean, he's bound to find out eventually, no?"

John sighed. He looked at Benny and then at Bobby.

"We will. I just think we need to wait for the best moment. Besides, the doctor said it's likely his memories will return in the next few days, so we're still waiting." John didn't have spell it out—no father in this world wanted to sit down with their kid and tell them they'd been abused. It would destroy Sam's world, and neither men could blame John for postponing this moment. "We just have to make sure he's not alone, in case the memories come back. That's why Dean's with him now."

And why you called this meeting, Bobby thought, but didn't say anything. He knew John so well he was perfectly aware that his friend was probably avoiding contact with Sam at this moment.

"How can we help?" Bobby then asked, trying to be more practical.

"I need the footage. I'm going to figure out who they are, and then I'm coming for them."

There was fire in John's eyes, but Bobby hesitated briefly.

"John…are you sure you can stomach watching it again?"

John shook his head a little and gritted his teeth.

"Doesn't matter what I can or not stomach, Bobby. It's my son they hurt, and they will all pay."

Bobby then nodded and sighed.

"Come with me, I'll put it in a flash drive for you."


~ * ~ 


When John got back home, it was way past midnight. He had driven around for a while, unconsciously,—or perhaps not so unconsciously—delaying his return. He could barely hide his relief when Dean told him that after just a regular evening Sam had complained of a headache and had gone to sleep.

"I'll just tell you what I told them then. The Club will be closed, indefinitely. We need time to wrap our heads around this."

Dean nodded.

"What are you doing up? Couldn't sleep?" John then asked.

"Not really," Dean confessed. "I keep thinking about what happened and who did this to Sam. It's not fucking fair. We've got to do something."

"And we will. Are you sure he's asleep?"

"Yeah, I just checked on him like, fifteen minutes ago."

"Good. Come to my office then. There's something you need to see."

Dean did as he was told, even though his thoughts raced and he became unsure. He hoped John was not going to show him what he thought he was going to, because if so, there was no way in hell Dean would be able to watch it.

His sense of dread only grew stronger when John locked the office door, before turning on his laptop and connecting a flash drive to it.

"Is that from last night?" Dean asked, heart racing, when John began to skip through the footage on screen.

"It is. Help me identify the people on it." John sat down and pulled out a chair for Dean, but the younger man didn't sit.

Dean couldn't form any words. His blood began to rush through his body as adrenaline filled his veins. He looked at the screen as his brother was brought into sight and manhandled into submission.

When the blurry faced man on the screen got a hold of the black dildo, Dean shook his head and stepped back.

"I can't. I can't watch it."

"It's for your brother," John's voice was stern. "Do you think I enjoy it?" His eyes looked fiery as he stared at his son. "We need to track these people, this man in particular, down," John's finger touched the screen near the face they could see only in poor definition. "Have you seen him before? Was he in the last mission?"

Dean closed his eyes and felt his heart racing. He tried to pick at his brain but it came up empty.

"No. I've never seen him before. The other one though," Dean squinted and studied the screen closer to confirm what he suspected, "I know that face. He was in our last mission with Crowley's men. He was in charge. I might know one of the other guys from the same mission too, but I'm not sure."

"See? That's why you need to watch it with me," John stated and then took his phone and began to text on it.

Dean forced himself to sit down and watch as his brother tried to escape, only to be brought back and manhandled into submission against one of the pool tables.

After that Dean tried. He really did. He could tell his dad had a point, but the moment the bearded man took that dildo and pushed it into the masked man who they now knew was Sam, Dean's heart raced erratically and his breathing pattern got shallow and messy.

"I can't," Dean got to his feet. He couldn't hear the sounds, but he could see the body language of all the tension in his brother's body indicating the amount of pain he was in. It broke his heart and enraged him to his very core. "It's Sam, I…" It was his baby brother, the one he was supposed to protect, it was Sammy, it was the man he loved!


Yeah, it was the man he loved being abused and Dean couldn't take it.

"Dean—" John began, but when he looked at his older son and saw how pale he was, he changed his mind.

Dean looked like he was about to faint. Or vomit. Or both. His eyes fixed on the scene of his brother being abused and his fingers were tightly closed shaking fists. When the man on the screen squeezed a hand around his brother's neck, Dean thought of the bruises he had seen on Sam's skin and instantly snapped.

"Don't make me. I fucking can't—" Dean reached over John's shoulder and stopped the video. He was breathing fast and his throat was clogged with anguish.

"Hey, it's okay," John's voice softened and he covered Dean's hand with his own. His eyes studied his son and he breathed slowly, hoping Dean would mirror him—a technique to try and calm someone down during a rush of emotions. "You've already helped. Go get some rest."

Dean nodded slowly. He barely looked at his father when he turned around and left, relieved but also broken.


~ * ~


John kept staring at the frozen screen depicting a man shoving his dick down his son's throat.

His heart was racing and his blood boiled with murderous intent. Eventually, he got up and poured himself a generous dose of scotch. He went back to his armchair and pushed play once again, sipping the strong drink and pausing every time there was a better chance of seeing a face on the screen.

"They knew who he was, that's why they drugged him," John concluded to himself after losing track of how many times he'd watched the nefarious footage. The moment the mask had come off an obvious argument broke out among the criminals.

Even though John couldn't hear any of it, something told him that seeing Sam's face was game changing for whatever it was they had been doing. Just as Dean remembered one or two of the criminals from their last mission, the criminals had remembered Sam, too. That was probably why they had chosen to drug him—keep his family busy trying to save him while they got away.

John shut down the laptop and finished the last of his drink. This had gone too far. Crowley had gone too fucking far. Now, even though John didn't think Crowley had given orders to rape anyone, he was responsible for what his men did on a mission. And what they did, what that bearded man had done, was unforgivable.

John would make sure not one of the criminals involved got away, but he didn't know where to begin.

He poured himself another shot and paced around his office as the hours dragged on.

He thought of his son, scared and bound, at the mercy of a man who hurt and humiliated him.

Maybe Sam was at The Club to prove a point, to let them know he'd figured everything out and to hold this knowledge over them. Even if he didn't know, however, which was unlikely since The Club was behind Bobby's bar, it was undeniable that Sam had allowed himself to be put in a submissive position.

Maybe that sort of thing turned him on. Maybe he wanted to experiment bondage and discipline; maybe he got off on being a sub. Whether he had done it to toy with his brother—after all he did book a session with The Headmaster—or because he wanted to try BDSM—which would then mean he obviously didn't know The Headmaster was Dean—mattered very little now. 

The fact that he'd been abused while he trusted a Master or Mistress to take care of him would be extremely hard on his psyche. It broke every rule of BDSM. A rape fetish was one thing—it was safe because there was trust. What happened to Sam was chaos. His trust had been shattered, his willingness had been taken from him in one of the most frightening ways.

Losing all control in a dire situation without any promise of safety was one of the scariest things that could happen to someone, and John knew that when those memories came, because they were going to, it would be painful.

"Fuck it," he cursed and his upper lip twitched. He could spend hours looking at the heart wrenching footage of his youngest son being abused, or he could do something about it. He didn't know who those men were, but there was someone who certainly did.

At five in the morning, John Winchester loaded his gun and put it in its rightful spot by his hip. Then, he went downstairs and finished his food in silence.

It was six o'clock when John started the car and left the home where his sons were still asleep.


~ * ~


Crowley had barely gotten up at this time before. He wasn't usually a morning bird, but he had a busy schedule today, meeting up with new clients and a couple of meetings with distributors.

He was eating breakfast on the balcony of his three story house, in the south side of the old neighborhood, when one of his bodyguards walked into his room with an unusual request.


"Yes?" Crowley's voice had a twinge of annoyance. He didn't like to be 'sir-ed' before he'd finished his coffee, at least.

"There's someone at the gates ringing the bell insistently. He says he won't stop until he talks to you."

"At six in the fucking morning?" he groaned. "Tell the junkie to go away."

The bodyguard studied his boss carefully but didn't move.

"What?" Crowley sounded cranky.

"Maybe you should see the person for yourself? It's not a junkie."

Crowley frowned. He finished his doughnut and walked towards the TV in his room. He turned it on and found what he was looking for—security footage. Crowley had to narrow his eyes and take a few steps closer to truly believe what he was seeing.

"Well, I'll be damned," he whispered. "It's John fucking Winchester." Crowley watched for a moment. The man on the video looked distressed, which caused Crowley to smile a little. "So you didn't like the renovations at your club, I assume?" he whispered to himself.

"Should we tell him to leave? Ignore him?"

"The audacity!" Crowley couldn't help smiling with disbelief. In all these years, it was the first time John Winchester in the flesh showed up at his doorstep. "No, let him in. He must be here to beg me for a truce."

"Are you sure?" the body guard seemed worried. He knew exactly who John Winchester was.

"Yes, go on, let him in. We can have a talk in my office."

"Should we search him first?"

"There's no need to. Of course he's armed. He's walking into the lion's den. This will be a chivalrous talk. Let him walk in. He wouldn't be crazy enough to try and harm me in my own house."

The body guard stared at his boss with doubt written all over his face.

"Do as I say," Crowley commanded. "I'll put some decent clothes on."


~ * ~ 


When John was led inside Crowley's mansion, he wasn't surprised not to be searched thoroughly. Crowley had no reason to believe that this wasn't a friendly, albeit surprising, visit. The two drug lords were so powerful and influential, it was ridiculous thinking one would just walk up to the other and pull a gun on them. In the high ranks of the drug world, things were much more diplomatic than on the streets. Not that they couldn't get ugly, like they were about to.

John felt his blood rush to all parts of his body once the door was closed and he was alone with Crowley inside his rival's office.

"John Winchester." Crowley got up from his chair and smiled from across the table. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise little visit?"

"Can they hear us?" John nodded at the door.

"No. We have privacy." Crowley studied the man before him. There was something dark and volatile in John's eyes that he did not like. "I imagine you're here to discuss a truce?" he offered.

John's lips twitched with what could have been a smile. He took a step closer to the desk separating them and waited, and when Crowley reached out his hand to point at the seat before him, John took it and slammed it against the desk. It all happened in a split second—John securing Crowley's arm against the desk while his other hand reached at his hip and pulled the gun against Crowley's head.

"Scream and I'll pull the trigger," John said calmly into his ear.

"What the fuck?!!" Crowley's outrage and distress was loud, but he somehow managed to keep his voice low.

"You went too far. I'm afraid I'm not here for a truce," John stated.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? Kill me and you'll never leave this place alive," Crowley threatened through gritted teeth.

"Maybe. I guess I'll take my chances."

Crowley was panting now, his heart hammering in his chest.

"All this because of a fucking club? Jesus Christ, man! Buy a new club tomorrow and be done with it. You stole my drugs, what did you expect me to do? Sit on my ass and watch?"

John kept the gun firmly pointed at his head, then a low, muffled groan tore from his throat as he snarled at Crowley.

"You've got no idea what your men did, have you?" his voice was raspy and dangerous.

Crowley looked from side to side, his thoughts racing, trying to understand what was going on.

"They trashed your stupid bloody club, stole shit. That's all I know," he ended up saying. For a moment, he couldn't stop thinking about Lui's face when they'd last met, after the raid. There had been some sort of edge to him, but Crowley had assumed it was the drugs and the adrenaline.

"They raped my son."

"They what?!"

"Keep your fucking voice down!"

"Sorry, sorry," Crowley breathed rapidly, his cheeks reddening under the effort and the adrenaline.

"Sam was in there undercover. They abused him. When they figured out who he was, they drugged him. We found him OD'ing on the floor."

Crowley needed a few seconds to process John's words.

Son of a fucking bitch.

He felt the anger boil in his blood. What part of 'don't hurt anyone' didn't they understand? Especially NOT his rival's son!

"I didn't know. John, you've got to believe me, I didn't know and I never would've ordered it," Crowley felt genuine fear for the first time. A father in John's position, struck by grief, was hardly rational, and suddenly it became much more likely that John could follow through with the threat.

John's lips were quivering a little when he spoke right by Crowley's ear.

"Do you know what kind of torment rape does to someone?" There was so much pain in his voice, it was like all the hurt he'd been trying to hold down flowed uncontrollably inside of him and devastated him.

"John, I—" the position was painful, with his cheek pressed to the desk, the gun at his temple, but Crowley knew he had to choose his words slow and carefully.

"It destroys them. Sam will be destroyed, Crowley."

"I didn't know."

"You and me, we know we're responsible for our men. When something goes sideways, that's on us. So this, this is on you." John's finger caressed the trigger.

"Wait! I can help you find them I swear, I'll help! They lied to me! They went behind my back as well and look at the kind of trouble they put me in. Do you think I'm happy about it?"

"They're probably halfway across the country by now."

"It doesn't matter. I'll help you find them, I won't rest until I do." Crowley hoped John was considering his offer in the pause that ensued. "C'mon, John. Let me fix it."

"There's no fixing this!" John growled into Crowley's ear, the gun warm in his grip.

Crowley closed his eyes and shuddered, wondering if John would pull the trigger.

"I should just kill you right here and now, end this fucking war once and for all," John pondered out loud.

"But you won't," Crowley spoke calmly, "because I have something you want."

"Oh, really? Because I can find those junkies all on my own," John said.

"I know you can. That's not what I mean."

John frowned.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I know where Azazel is."





Chapter Text



John narrowed his eyes and studied his rival.

"Bullshit," he spat the word, the gun still held firmly in his hand.

"I swear it's not. If you take a step back and let me show it, I can prove it."

John's strong will wavered. He knew killing Crowley might generate more problems than solve them, but his thirst for revenge was still ravaging him inside. The only thing capable of making him stop was the promise of a different, older kind of revenge.

"If you do have something on Azazel how come you didn't contact me before? I thought we had an agreement about it."

"We do," Crowley nodded. "But you can't blame me for not wanting to get in touch at the moment. When your boys burned my drugs well, they burned the bridge, too."

John took a deep breath and looked deeply into Crowley's eyes. The shorter man didn't look away. John then pondered for a moment and pulled the gun away from Crowley's head, even though he kept it raised high and aimed.

"Let me see what you have."

Crowley went for the first drawer of his desk.

"Slowly there. If you pick up a gun I swear I'll shoot," John warned.

Crowley moved very slowly when he pulled a folder from the drawer and placed it on the desk where John could see it.

"This was taken a few days ago in Canada."

"Canada?" John frowned.

Crowley indicated the chair and this time John took a seat. The gun was not forgotten in his hand when he took the picture and analyzed it.

"As you can see, Azazel's aged. But you can still recognize his eyes, can't you?"

John nodded.

"It looks like he's back in America after a long period of time in Eastern Europe."

John sighed. He stared at the picture for a while, then his eyes fell on Crowley.

"Look," the shorter man began. "I despise what was done to your son. That was not my doing and I understand your wrath. Put your gun away and let me help. We can discuss Azazel's whereabouts and I promise to help you track down the men who took part in it. It's my priority now." Crowley looked into John's eyes and saw his pain. "Dealing drugs is one thing. Rape is something else. I do not condone it and it won't go unpunished."

Even though his mouth was dry, John managed to swallow some saliva down and nodded.

"That's a wise decision," Crowley sighed with relief when John put the gun away. "And to show you I mean it, these are the men who went to your club that night."

John watched as Crowley wrote the names down a slip of paper.

Lui, Ronald, Finn, Marcus.

"Which one has a beard?" John asked. "He's the abuser."

Of course he was, Crowley thought. It didn't surprise him finding out just how messed up and sadistic Ronald was. Until today it had never caused him any trouble, but now the war veteran had messed with the wrong people.

Crowley picked up a pen and made a red circle around Ronald's name.

"I assume he's the one you want?"

"I want all of them. And Azazel," John retorted. "But yeah, I'd love to get my hands on this one."

"How about I order us some breakfast as we talk it out? You know, from one CEO to the other?"

John looked at the red circle around Ronald's name and could see that man hurting and humiliating his son over and over again when he closed his eyes.

"I say it's a good idea," he caved, relaxed on the seat and waited.


~ * ~


Castiel woke up at six a.m., made his coffee and took a seat behind his computer in order to resume his work. He was going over old newspaper articles. As of late, he had been reading up on any piece of news Winchester related that he could get his hands on. Since no help seemed to come from his superiors, Castiel knew he had to do all the work himself.

There had to be something he could use, anything. It was impossible for two people to live so completely under the radar. At some point they had to have done something that got registered somewhere.

After days of fruitless research, something occurred to him and Castiel began to check college application portals. Not that he believed John Winchester's sons would have gone to college like a regular kid—the sons of a millionaire mafia boss who owned a drug empire probably wouldn't have felt the need to go for some higher education. It was a long shot, but Castiel had nothing to lose.

The name Winchester, S. came up at Stanford's website causing Castiel's heart to race.

"No middle name?" he whispered. Not that Winchester wasn't a common name, but judging from Castiel's notes, the time would have fit one of John's sons age for applying. "S. Winchester…" Castiel wrote it down. Not that it gave him any insight or brought him any closer to figuring something out. The whole thing was becoming extremely frustrating.

The detective sipped his coffee and leaned back on his chair. He then saw a small notification for a new email and clicked it open.

His heart raced when he saw the sender.

From: The Club

To: all clients

We're sorry to inform The Club will be closed indefinitely. Urgent renovations became necessary to maintain the Club's quality when catering to its clients' needs. You'll be informed by email when activities resume. Thank you for understanding.

"What?" Castiel narrowed his eyes and scratched absently at his chin. The Club was closed?

Great, that was the last thing he needed to make him feel even more frustrated and annoyed. No progress on the Drug Lords case, no new information on the Winchesters, and now no Headmaster to help him blow out some steam.

That was certainly a short and objective message. The thing was, the last time Castiel was there, less than a week ago, it certainly hadn't felt as though the Club was in 'urgent need of renovations'. That was weird, but it was not like he had any free time to look into why his favorite Sex Club would take some time off.

"Shit," Castiel sighed deeply and buried his face in his hands. Sometimes he truly felt like giving it all up and going back to homicide. The narcotics division was so infuriating, the progress was slow and Castiel had a feeling that more cops than he cared to admit were on the drug lords' pay list.

"Maybe I'll pay John Winchester a visit myself. Let's see what he has to say." Castiel toyed with the idea. He knew his superiors would be pissed. He knew it probably wouldn't lead anywhere, but what else could he do? Sit on his ass and wait for more bodies to drop?

He didn't think so.


~ * ~


As the days went by, Sam's memory didn't make any signs of returning. Life at the Winchester's went back to as close to normal as possible.

Sam still took the dreadful pills that made him sick or gave him a headache, and Dean and he stayed home most of the time lying low while John went out to run all sorts of errands. The older Winchester didn't really tell his sons too much about his activities; Sam because he was still oblivious, and Dean because he obviously had too much on his plate keeping an eye for the ticking bomb that his younger brother had become with his repressed memories. He did tell Dean that he was following a few leads and trying to get to the men behind the attack, but he left out the part that Crowley was helping him do it.

As usual, the brothers were home alone in the middle of the afternoon. It felt weird not having an agenda, and more than once Sam had expressed his desire to be back on the job, going on missions and doing what had to be done. He had a feeling both his brother and father were trying to protect him after what happened, but Sam felt really good, he saw no reason to stay holed up home.

"Dad's orders," Dean would say. "You don't remember, but there were cops sniffing around after the last mission with the casualty," which wasn't a lie. "We're supposed to lie low."

Still, that didn't change the fact that Sam felt somewhat chaperoned by his brother. Normally, the closeness wouldn't bother him at all, on the contrary, but at the same time Dean was always there, making sure he took his medication and rested, his brother also found clever ways to sneak out whenever the conversation took a more intimate turn or a touch felt less than innocent. It was getting on Sam's nerves a little and he couldn't deny it.

So much for having the house all for themselves when Sam couldn't seem to get his brother to stay physically close to him for long enough.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked when he saw Sam exhale a deep breath and get up from the sofa.

"Yeah. It's those pills, man. My stomach is a bit upset," Sam said and turned off the TV.

"There's ice cream in the freezer. Have some. It's supposed to help with nausea."

Sam gave his older brother a look and cocked an eyebrow.

"Did you learn that from Dr. Sexy M.D.?" he teased.

Dean felt his cheeks flush a little at being caught, but he quickly regained composure.

"Tease all you want, it comes in handy."

"Of course it does," Sam's lips quirked up.

He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a spoon and opened the freezer.

As he sat at the table and stared at the chocolate chip ice cream, Sam's eyes seemed a bit lost and his thoughts a bit blurred.

From a distance, Dean watched as his brother stared at the ice cream, spoon in hand. He frowned at the look in Sam's face and his heart rate increased a little.

I'm ready for some chocolate chip ice cream. Not vanilla.

The thought rushed through his mind and Sam felt like there was something important there, like a memory that tried to visit him but then changed its mind and got away.

"Are you gonna eat that or just stare as it melts?" Dean asked softly, sitting across from his brother.

Sam snapped out of his fuzzy thoughts and smiled.

"Yeah, right."

"Did something happen?" Dean wanted to know. "Are you remembering something?" he could feel his insides tighten at the thought.

"No, not really. I thought I might but…" Sam shrugged, "the feeling's gone."

"Are you sure? You know you can talk to me, right?" Dean reached a hand across the table and touched his brother's arm.

Sam looked at the hand resting against his skin and covered it with his own.

"There you go, being all overprotective again," Sam smiled softly and there was a different glint in his eyes.

Dean could feel his heart race when Sam's thumb stroked a semi-circle on his skin. The heat that grew around his fingers as Sam squeezed his hand quickly spread to different body parts and caused Dean to pull away.

"You promised you wouldn't ignore this," Sam's voice sounded calm but teasing.

"I'm not," Dean said quickly, but his body language gave his tension away. How could he let himself indulge in that flirty feeling when he knew what Sam had been through? Besides, now that he knew just how he truly felt for his brother, protecting him was more than just a duty. "I just remembered we have to go. You finish up that ice cream and we'll leave."

"Now? Where to?"

"It's been one week, remember? Time for a checkup. I'll call Dr. Spencer to know if he's there."

Sam thought about going to the clinic and a small little thought lit up in his brain.

"Okay," he ate another spoon of ice cream and nodded. "Let's go then."

As had been agreed, Dean drove Sam to the clinic so the doctor could give him a checkup.

Sam submitted himself to another neurologic exam and more blood samples were drawn. The doctor asked him a bunch of questions, checked his blood pressure and probed about Sam's memory loss. After letting the doctor know that he still didn't remember anything, that he was feeling great—except for the nausea and headaches every now and then—and that he was sleeping just fine, Dr. Spencer agreed to discharge Sam and reminded him once again how important it was for him to keep taking the PEP pills for three more weeks.

"Don't worry, doc. He'll take the pills," Dean said and then eyed his brother with a small little smile.

"All right, then. You can go. I'll call you if something comes up in those test results that worries me, but I don't think that will be the case. Likewise, call me if you need anything."

"Thank you," Sam said and walked with his brother towards the private elevator that had taken them to the clinic.

As they walked side by side and got inside the elevator, Sam stole a glance at his brother and his heart raced a little. Before Dean had time to understand what was going on, Sam pushed the emergency stop button and they came to a halt. Yes, he too watched Dr. Sexy M.D. sometimes.

"What the…?" Dean began and gave his brother a questioning look.

"Relax. I just want to talk. Actually, I just want you to listen," Sam's voice was calm, and there was the hint of a smile on his face.

"Well, here? Couldn't we have talked at home?"

"Dad's been coming and going and don't think I haven't seen the way you're keeping your distance," Sam stated, and could tell Dean grew a little uncomfortable. "I'm fine. I know it must've been scary, but I'm fine, Dean. You can stop worrying, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said simply. He kept pushing away the footage from the bar and the feelings he realized he had for his brother. "Can we keep going now?"


Sam closed the small distance between them and pressed himself against his brother. He pushed Dean against the wall behind his brother's back and kissed his lips.

Dean's heart rattled in his chest when Sam's taste invaded his mouth and his scent filled his nostrils. His feelings for Sam made his chest squeeze around the fluttering excitement throbbing inside and he kissed back, helpless and greedy.

When Dean's tongue gave Sam all the encouragement he needed, the younger man let himself indulge. He stroked his fingers across the stubble on Dean's chin and cheeks all the way to his short hair. He felt Dean's strong fingers curl at his hipbone and squeeze, an intimate touch that caused him to moan into his brother's mouth.

Dean's knees felt weak and his blood burned in his veins.

His baby brother, the man he loved! There were so many reasons not to let that happen, but all the reasons collided against Sam's warm tongue and drowned in the wetness of their kiss.

Sam let out a breathy little sound when Dean's lips traveled down his neck. He clutched his brother and his desire stirred in his lower belly, igniting his arousal as Dean's tongue discovered a weak spot where his shoulder and neck met.

"Dean…" Sam whispered, hard and shaky.

Dean's entire body was pulsing right now. The taste of Sam's skin, the warmth of if against his lips, was maddening. Yet, the moment he nibbled at the sweet spot in his brother's neck, Dean saw the fading bruises there and his heart skipped a beat.

Reality came crashing back and Dean pulled away, breathless and horny, but also worried and tentative.

"Where did that come from?" he whispered.

Sam smiled a little and ran his fingers through his hair, adjusting a brown lock behind his ear.

"I've been meaning to do that since that night in the pool."

"Have you?" Dean's voice sounded coarse. He was fighting a battle between his own desire and the terrible abuse Sam didn't even know he had undergone.

"I can't stop thinking about it," Sam confessed in a whispery voice. He pressed against Dean and buried his nose into Dean's neck, taking a deep whiff of his brother's soothing scent.

Dean could feel Sam's unmistakable hardness rubbing against his own. That was not right. As much as he wanted to just give in to how good it felt, Sam didn't know what had happened to him. He certainly wouldn't be doing that if he knew.

"Sammy…" Dean's voice was gentle but firm when he pulled his brother away. He looked down between their bodies at the two matching and clothed hard-ons between them. "I still think about that kiss. A lot," he admitted. "But let's go easy with this, eh?" his voice had a pleading hint as he found his brother's fingers and squeezed.

Sam pulled back and smiled.

"Are you trying to protect me?" Sam narrowed his eyes and smiled.

"What if I am?" Dean smiled too, still a little breathless.

Sam let his lips brush against Dean's ear.

"That's fucking hot," he whispered.

Dean throbbed in his pants. He squeezed Sam's fingers again and took a deep, calming breath.

"We should keep moving," Dean spoke softly.

"We should do what we want to." Sam's pupils were blown out and his breathing was uneven. He knew no one would need that elevator. It was the perfect place and he would be lying if he said he hadn't been planning that during the ride there. He reached out a hand and cupped Dean's hard-on, squeezing it and feeling its thickness against his palm.

"Sam…" Dean warned, his control slipping.

"What are you afraid of?" Sam teased. "Do you think I can't handle you?"

Dean's burning desire shut down his reason and this time he pushed Sam against the wall behind his back, reversing their positions. He also used his hands to pin Sam's wrists above his head and let their noses touch, their breaths mingle.

"Is that what you want, baby brother? Do you want to lose control with me?" Dean felt his dominant nature scratch the surface, and he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should repress it, but then Sam responded so beautifully he couldn't, for the sake of him, stop.

"Yes. I do," Sam panted.

Dean still held one of Sam's wrist against the wall, but his other hand let go and reached between their bodies, fumbling with Sam's belt for a moment before slipping inside his pants and underwear. As he expected, Sam was hot and full against his hand, and after a couple of strokes, Dean's fingers grew slick with precum.

"Dean…fu…fuck…" Sam gasped, squirming as his pleasure grew. With his free hand, he closed his fingers against Dean's moving arm as his body grew tense and needy. The feeling of Dean's fingers wrapped around his wrist as his other hand wrapped around his cock made Sam feel incoherently hot.

"That good, baby? Yeah?" Dean asked, but he also watched Sam closely, their foreheads touching, for any signs that it was not what he wanted.

Having Dean take control and touch him was like every fantasy Sam had ever dreamed of becoming a reality. His body couldn't handle the pleasure for too long when both his sex and his brain surrendered to Dean's touch.

"Hmm...I'm—I'm gonna cum." Sam licked at his lips. His hips thrust greedily into the hand pleasuring him for a moment longer as pleasure soared through him.

A rising, strangled moan escaped Sam's lips. His knees buckled and his head bumped against the wall behind him when he fell over the edge.

Sam needed a moment to regain composure after his orgasm, and when he opened his eyes he saw Dean working on himself quickly and hotly.

"I wanna help," he whispered and dropped to his knees. Sam's heart raced. He was not sure he was ready for that, but couldn't really stop himself. Dean was in his system, the sight of his brother pleasuring himself after jerking him off gave him a high like no drug could.

"What are you doing?" Dean smiled breathlessly at the sight.

"I don't really know," Sam admitted. His heart was racing and he was feeling both hot and a bit shy.

"Do you like being on your knees for me, baby boy?" Dean's dom took over and he stroked himself faster to the sight of Sam on his knees, his mouth so close and willing.

Sam shuddered at what he saw in his brother's eyes. He felt himself twitch and a tingle of arousal traveled his body again.

"I do."

"Good," Dean purred, and buried a hand in Sam's soft hair.

When Sam reached for Dean's belt, though, his brother tugged firmly at his hair and stopped him.

"Just keep looking at me with those eyes," Dean's voice sounded coarse and urgent.

Sam did as told. He watched, heart racing, as Dean stroked himself swiftly and his panting breath became clipped and urgent.

Dean bit back a growl and felt his balls draw tight. He tugged at Sam's hair again, tilting his brother's head back, which earned him an obscene look of approval from Sam that traveled to his cock and made him ache. He came after a few desperate strokes, coating his hand with warm, sticky release. He then fell to his knees, pulling Sam in for a kiss with a hand still firmly locked around his hair.

There was something possessive about the way Dean kissed him, and Sam let out a small sound of pleasure that died between their lips.

When the kiss broke Dean looked at him, breathless and sated.

"Got a handkerchief here, wait," he pulled one from a pocket and they cleaned up as best as they could before getting up.

"What are you doing to me, Sammy?" Dean licked at his lips and his green eyes looked seductive but also a bit worried.

"Nothing you aren't enjoying thoroughly, am I right?" Sam's tongue clicked in his mouth and he chuckled, amused.

Dean was still recovering from his climax and dealing with his conflicting emotions when Sam set the elevator in motion again. Something in his brother's eyes made Dean scoff a little and chuckle, too.

"Did you plan this?" he asked.

"Me?" Sam feigned innocence.

Dean shook his head and sighed deeply.

"Sammy," Dean began with a warning tone.

"We're here," Sam cut him off and smiled right before the elevator opened its doors. He leaned towards his brother and lowered his voice. "Save the sermon for later."

"You bet I will."


~ * ~


He'd been at the same place for way too long. It was time to take off again.

Lui was filling a duffel bag with money, documents and his phone when the door burst open and a man walked in, gun in hand.

"What the hell?" he looked at Crowley walking in right behind the man and his heart raced. He knows, he thought. "How did you find me?" He had been hiding in a childhood friend's house after making sure the family was traveling and then breaking and entering.

"I asked around," Crowley said casually.

Lui's eyes went from Crowley to the man holding the gun and the butterfly on his hand.

"Why are you here?" his voice broke and his heart raced.

"I don't like being lied to," Crowley informed calmly. "You said The Club mission had gone down smoothly, without any altercations."

Fuck, Lui thought. How did he know??!

"I didn't lie!" he said, despair rising as the man kept pointing the gun to his head. He had been in that same position before, and he did not like it at all.

"Except you forgot to inform me that John Winchester's son was raped."

Lui was panting now.

"It wasn't me! It was Ronald! That guy's fucked in the head. I told him to stop it but he wouldn't listen to me, what was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, tell me the truth, maybe?" Crowley approached the cowering man whilst his hitman stood perfectly still. "Do you have any idea the sort of trouble you caused me? John Winchester himself broke into my house this morning. I thought he might kill me."


"He's got you all on camera."

Shit!! Lui felt his insides churn.

"I feel sorry for Ronald if he hasn't yet left the country. John won't go easy on him."

"I'm sorry, boss, I'm so sorry, please…"

"As for you," Crowley went on, ignoring the pleas. "It's the second time you fail me and try to disappear on me, Lui."

"No, no…" he shook his head vehemently. "I wasn't going to disappear, I—"

"The bag? The money? Documents?" Crowley kicked the duffel bag by his foot.

"I didn't know what else to do, boss. Ronald fucked us over, that sadistic shit! Please, you've got to understand…"

"I forgave you once and gave you another chance. I guess that's on me," Crowley sighed.

Lui looked at the gun and the butterfly again. The man staring at him didn't even blink. "You know what they say, right? Fool me once, fool me twice…"

"Please…" he whispered.

"I deal drugs, Lui. I don't rape people. What you guys did was nasty."

"I didn't do anything—"

"No, you stood and watched, and I nearly got killed because of that." Crowley narrowed his eyes and nodded at his hitman.

"Boss? Please, Crowley, please! I swear I—" Lui got on his knees and begged.

The gun barely made a sound when it went off. Lui's body fell with a thud, a small hole in his forehead.

Crowley looked at the small trail of blood that began to run from the back of his head down the floor. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and aimed at the body.


~ * ~


John Winchester was leaving the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, when he heard the notification from his cell. He walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone resting on the bed.

It was a message from Crowley—a picture of a blue eyed and skinny man with a bullet to his brain.

One down, the message said. Lui. I'll keep my word.

John sighed deeply and sat on the bed. It was good that Crowley had meant what he promised. John's thoughts, however, kept going back to the bearded man in the video, and the name circled in red—Ronald.

"I'm coming for you," he spoke softly, and thought about the picture he'd just seen. "But I'm gonna make it slow."



















Chapter Text



Castiel stepped over the dead man's body and cast another look at the small and clean shot in the middle of his forehead. The forensic team was already doing their job, searching for prints, analyzing blood splatter, trying to find any piece of evidence the killer might have left behind.

"His name is Lui Marrone. He's got an extensive criminal record. He was arrested twice for selling drugs," Castiel told Gadreel after looking at his notes.

He kept looking at the name he had circled there after Kevin's interrogation. He knew there was a high probability that this Lui was the one they were looking for—one of the people in the room when Clark Miller was shot, allegedly by the Winchester brothers.

"I'm going to need all the evidence our team can gather sent to me as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Gadreel nodded.

"And make sure you get all the footage from any security cameras in the perimeter. These guys never leave any trace behind, but that doesn't mean we can't try."

"Sure. Anything else?"

Castiel shook his head. Until he had some answers from forensics, there was only so much he could speculate. If that was indeed the same Lui that Kevin had mentioned, and Castiel strongly believe a guy with that name and age shot in what was probably a drug related homicide was exactly the same person, then he assumed there had been some sort of trouble with his boss, Crowley. From the looks of it, nothing had been robbed. The crime scene was clean, indicating there hadn't been a struggle. Lui probably knew his killer. Maybe he had pissed off his boss? That was a possibility that Castiel would look into.

In the end, going after John Winchester or Crowley was pretty much the same thing. Both names were at the end of the same rope, with violence and drugs tangled in between in a knot that gave the detective headaches and sleepless nights. Going after John, however, was a bit easier—he had a job, a reputation as something other than a criminal, and was not likely to shoot someone who showed up at his doorstep. John was dangerous for other reasons, for his reach within the judiciary system and the police, for instance.

Castiel believed there were more people working for him than he wanted to admit. As for Crowley, he had no cover up. He was what he was, always in the hiding, doing his shady business. Going after him would require a bullet proof vest, so Castiel was not willing to risk his life unless he had enough backup to. And for that, he needed to build a strong enough case first.

"No, nothing else. I'm done here. Let me know when the reports come in," he said and left the place. "Oh, and bring Kevin back to the station tomorrow morning. I'm going to need him to take a look at this picture. I need him to confirm it's the guy who I think it is."

"Alright, boss. Will do so."

Castiel felt tense, as he always did when he investigated a homicide. He knew he was looking into days of paperwork and questioning, and probably many dead ends.

The fact that he wouldn't have his guilty pleasure to help him cope stressed him badly.

He thought about The Club and the Headmaster. Screw the stupid renovations, the dungeon looked just fine. If only he had The Headmaster's contact, then maybe he could book a private session somewhere.

Castiel smiled internally at the silly thought. Until The Club opened its doors again, the memories he had would have to be enough. Lucky for him, there were a lot of them.


~ * ~


After their little intimate encounter in the elevator, Dean would admit he had been sort of tiptoeing around his brother. Part of him had expected Sam's brain to crack right open and the memories to be spilled all over his thoughts, baffling him and tormenting him. When a few days went by and nothing happened, Dean began to breathe with a bit more ease, but only barely. He knew Sam was bound to remember the attack on him at any moment, but he was deeply relieved that their little intimate touching hadn't caused anything bad to surface.

"Hey," Sam walked past Dean in the kitchen. He was not wearing a shirt, and there was a gym towel over his shoulder.


"I'm going to work out, wanna join me?"

Dean thought about their hot making out session in the elevator. Did he want to join his brother, get half naked and sweat with him in a small room upstairs? Hell, yes. Was it wise? Fuck, no.

"No, man. I think I'll just go for a run outside." He couldn't leave the house, not when Sam would be alone.

John and he agreed on how important it was to keep an eye on Sam. However, Dean believed it would be okay to go for a run outside the house for half an hour or so.

Sam seemed to study his brother. He took a step towards him and smiled a little.

"Dad's not home, you know?"

"I do," Dean met his brother's hazel eyes and his heart raced a little. "Is this an invitation to work out or to push you against the wall again?" he teased, his throat clogging with desire.

Sam's blood rushed and his sex tingled.

"Why can't it be both?" his voice dropped a little.

"Dad will be home at any moment, you know. Gotta be careful."

Sam nodded. He knew they would probably give their dad a heart attack if he had the faintest idea about what was going on.

"I know."

"Did you take your pills?"

Sam rolled his eyes, the flirty mood gone.

"I did. I'm fine, really. That's why I need to work out. I'm tired of being home all the time. I need to do something, to feel useful. Listen, I know Dad wants us to be careful, but I'm feeling great. I can go on smaller missions. Whatever happened to me is in the past."

I wish, kid, Dean thought sadly.

"I know. But Dad's orders, what can we do?"

Sam shook his head and then picked up his phone when it buzzed in his pocket.

"That's weird," he frowned.

"What?" Dean's eyes were immediately alert and a bit worried.

"It's Rufus. He said he had a good time with us and is inviting us for dinner again, with Dad this time."

Sam then looked into his brother's eyes.

"I haven't seen him in years."

Dean could feel his heart rate increase. He took a deep breath to steady his voice.

"We saw him a few days before the attack, Sam. He screwed Crowley over and became a target. Dad gave him money to thank him and protect him. The thing is, when we went there to deliver it, he nearly shot us dead," he chuckled a little. "Guy was a little paranoid with being chased."

"Oh," Sam searched his brain, but there was nothing there. Nothing but a small, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that he chose not to overthink. "I guess I'll tell him we can do it again soon, then."

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Dean wondered if thinking about their encounter with Rufus would be enough to trigger some sort of memory. "You know what," he made up his mind. "I think I'll join you at the gym, why not? Looks like it's going to rain anyway."

Sam narrowed his eyes and looked out of the nearest window.

"Dean? There's not a cloud in the sky," he stated, his lips quirking up.

Dean wanted to keep a close eye on his brother, just in case any memory decided to visit him. But yeah, he also wanted his company and the closeness, as long as they were careful.

"Does that mean you don't want my company?" he walked towards his brother and asked seductively, his eyes playful.

Sam's heart beat faster. He felt all those ticklish butterflies stir and fly inside his stomach, chasing away the weird, warm feeling from before.

"Go get your towel. I'll wait."


~ * ~


Turns out, finding the man who had taken advantage of and abused his son was harder than it seemed. In the upcoming days following Lui's death, both John and Crowley tried to locate the man who had actually harmed Sam, with no success. It seemed like he had left the city, perhaps the state, too.

Unlike his fellow criminals, Ronald wasn't a junkie and had more years of experience dealing with crimes and violence. He wasn't a young man wanting to impress the big boss or just thinking about his next fix; he was a seasoned criminal who knew when it was time to escape the radar and save his own life.

Although Finn and Marcus had plans to leave town at first, after an entire week went by uneventfully, they just assumed Crowley wouldn't find out what they had done and that they were safe. And if they were, staying home and enjoying their recently earned drugs and money seemed a lot better than being on the run again.

The two criminals were living together in a friend's basement apartment, and because they hadn't heard a thing about Lui's death, they were extremely surprised when someone burst into their place with the promise of hell in his brown eyes.

"Who the hell are you?!" Marcus made as if he'd reach for his gun.

Finn was already raising his gun at the tall man with broad shoulders who Crowley had helped find them.

"Don't even bother," John pointed his gun at Finn. "I'm faster."

"Oh really, old man?" Finn's finger stroked the trigger as he pointed his gun at the man standing across from them threateningly. "Because if I want I—"

John fired his gun without warning and without a single twitch of his face. He'd learned a long time ago not to take chances.

Finn's body fell to the floor with a thud, mimicking Lui's death from a few days before.

"What the fuck man? What the fucking fuck!" Marcus shrieked and tried to get up.

"Stay down," John warned.

"Who are you? What the hell do you want?"

"It's a shame your friend died without really knowing why, but I'll tell you," John walked towards the cowering man on the floor. "My name's John Winchester and your friend raped my son in my establishment."

Marcus felt his blood go cold. He began to shake his head and recoiled until his back touched the sofa.

"I had nothing to do with that, man! I swear! It wasn't my idea, I didn't do anything! He wasn't even my friend!"

"You didn't stop it either," John's voice was slow and steady. He kept thinking about Sam's pain and helplessness, and that shielded him against having any sort of sympathy. The message was clear: rape was punishable with death. Both drug Lords agreed, and they had to make an example out of those who had allowed it to happen. Of course Ronald's punishment wouldn't be so fast. John wanted to savor the moment he got his hands on the man who had dared violate his son. But first things first.

"I couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to! Ronald's crazy, man! He doesn't listen to anyone; there was no way I could've stopped him," he babbled over and over again, but John wasn't listening anymore.

His eyes had been drawn to the small plastic bags on top of the center table, and the white powder inside.

"Is that cocaine?" he asked.

Marcus seemed a little taken aback.

"Yes. You can take it, all of it. There's a lot here!" the poor fool tried to bargain, unaware that he was already dead from the moment John had burst through the door.

"Snort it," John commanded.

Marcus's heart skipped a beat.

"Ah…no thanks. I've had some a while ago."

John's finger tightened against the trigger and he pointed the gun at Marcus's head.

"Snort it," he repeated.

Marcus' fingers were shaky when he prepared a line and sniffed it all, feeling the immediate effect in the form of fast heartbeats.

"Now another line."

Marcus's blood began to pump loudly in his ears. He realized where that was going and he knew he was damned.

"I…I can't have more, man. I'll OD," he pleaded.

John's eyes had a killer glint to them. He thought about his son, overdosing alone on the bar's floor, lucky they arrived on time before he died choking on his own vomit.

"I guess overdoses aren't cool, eh? My son got lucky. A few minutes later and he would have died. But don't worry, I'm sure someone will come looking for you," he said sarcastically. "Another."

Marcus's fingers were shaking badly as he prepared another line. His eyes welled up with tears and he began to murmur pitiful little pleas.

"I'm so sorry, man…please don't make me do it, I swear I'll never do anything bad again, please—" Why the fuck hadn't he left town as planned? He couldn't stop cursing himself.

"My son got injected with it against his will. You know, after your friend raped him." John had never enjoyed the act of killing, not in the war with people trying to kill him too, definitely not with the job. Not even when he forced the man before him to inhale a lethal dose of cocaine. There was no pleasure in it; he didn't rejoice in revenge. That was a job that needed to get done, a message that needed to be sent.

Marcus sniffed the remaining cocaine and his heart seemed to burst in his chest. His palms became sweaty and his vision blurry. His rapid breathing and chaotic thoughts told him he was going to overdose on that shit.

"Please, man…" Marcus whispered before his control began to slip.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll give you a fighting chance, like you gave my son." John walked towards the man and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Ask for help and give your address. Say another word and I'll shoot you like I did your friend. Are we understood?"

Marcus nodded readily, his mouth too dry to form words.

John dialed 911, then he pressed the phone to the man's cheek and nodded.

"Please—" Marcus' voice nearly faltered him. He had to lick at his lips, swallow down some saliva and go on. "…help me. I'm having an overdose, please." Marcus looked at John with tear-filled eyes and gave his address quickly.

"Remember not to breathe a word about this. If I have to see you again in my life, God knows what I'll do to you."

John Winchester wiped his prints from the cell phone and threw it by the man's feet. Then, he turned around and left quickly, getting into his car and driving away before anyone else arrived.


~ * ~ 


Castiel looked at his phone and squinted. It was two in the morning. Normally, he would be found working until late, but last night he had stayed up analysing forensic results and the autopsy report until he gave up and went to bed, exhausted.

There was only one reason for him to be called at such late hour—another drug related murder—so he picked up the phone quickly.

"Detective Castiel."

He listened for a moment and frowned. His free hand went to the bridge of his nose, pinching a little, trying to fight off the remaining drowsiness.

"'I'm on my way." 

One man had been shot dead and another was in a coma after overdosing on cocaine.

Castiel pulled the covers off of himself and got dressed. He went into the kitchen and fixed himself coffee, which he spiked with some energy drink and drank quickly, more out of duty than pleasure.

It looked as if it was going to be a busy night.


~ * ~ 


Sam was sitting on the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in the water. It was a sunny day, and since there was nothing useful for him to do, he decided to take advantage of the pool. He was beginning to feel a bit like a prisoner under his dad and Dean's careful and overprotective looks, and the water helped him get his mind off of it.

Dean spotted his brother from a distance and for a moment just stood where he was, watching the lean muscles of Sam's shoulders and back. His heart thudded quick and hotly when he thought about how he felt for his baby brother, but as it happened invariably, his light and happy thoughts soon took a somber turn.

When will he remember? Should we tell him?

Dean made a mental note to have a talk to his dad about it tonight. Then, he took a deep breath and walked towards his brother.

"Hey," Dean crouched behind him.

Sam turned around, the butterflies stirring their wings when he saw Dean. His mood shifted instantly.

"Please tell me we're going on a mission or something. I'm bored out of my mind."

"Sorry. I just wanted to check whether you took your pills," Dean smiled apologetically and ruffled Sam's hair.

"Seriously?" Sam rolled his eyes. "I did. Damn pills will kill me if boredom doesn't do it first," he sighed. Then, he studied his brother's handsome face and his lips twitched a little. "Why don't you change and come join me for a swim?" Sam thought about the last time they had been together in the pool—those were definitely good memories of when he realized his feelings for his brother weren't as unrequited as he'd previously thought.

"Can't, Sammy. Dad asked me to do some boring paperwork for him."

"Are you sure that's not just you avoiding me?" Sam teased. He licked at his lips and put a hand on Dean's arm, growing instantly aware of his brother's warm skin. "Who knows what I'll do to you in the pool, right?"

Dean's lips curled a little with a lewd smile.

"Maybe you should be more concerned about what I could do to you, you know," he spoke softly, his voice velvety like a caress.

Sam tightened his fingers on his brother's arm and made as if he would lean closer, but Dean looked over his shoulder and got to his feet before Sam could.

"Dad's at the window," Dean said. "He's on the phone, but I'm sure he'll look down at any moment now."

Sam looked up and confirmed it was true. His heart raced a little and the thrill of forbidden love gave him a good little shudder.

"Don't wanna give him a heart attack," Sam smiled softly.

"No, we don't," Dean winked.

Sam looked up again but didn't see their father. A moment later, John walked out of the house and towards the pool.

"Boys?" He made sure he had both his kids' attention. "Something came up. I'll be gone for a couple of hours."

"Something serious?" Sam asked.

"No, not really. Just a bit of a diplomatic situation with the police," John explained. Perhaps it had been too much on the side of wishful thinking hoping the police wouldn't get involved in the incident with The Club and Bobby's bar. One of the clients who were there at the time of the raid must have gone to the police. Bobby had sent John a message saying a couple of officers were asking questions, and that he could use John's diplomacy to handle it. "Nothing I can't fix after greasing some hands."

"Good, can I go?" Sam asked, hopeful.

"You need to stay put. You told me this morning how sick the pills make you feel, remember?" Dean eyed his brother and then their father.

"Oh, c'mon. Dad's just gonna bribe a couple of cops and I get to see Bobby. What's the problem?"

The problem, Dean thought, is you going back to the very place where the abuse went down. He looked into his father's eyes but John was shrugging and nodding.

"Fine, you can come." He gave Dean a serious look, more like a warning for him not to interfere. John knew that sooner or later Sam was going back to Bobby's bar. If something was going to happen, now was as good as any day, and at least John would be there.

Sam gave his brother a look and could tell Dean was worried, but that didn't change the fact his face lit up and he got up fast. Finally some action!

"I'll get changed."

When Sam disappeared into the house, Dean and John exchanged a meaningful look.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Dad?"

"Can we keep him away from Bobby's bar forever?" John retorted.

Dean shook his head and looked at the water in the pool, his thoughts drifting.

"Look," John began, "maybe it'll be the bar, maybe he'll see a pair of handcuffs or a mask. Maybe one day he'll be watching TV and bam, it all comes back. We can't control it, Dean."

The younger man sighed and nodded.

"Besides, you've been watching him twenty four seven. Give yourself a break. Go do something fun."

As if Dean could easily get his thoughts off his brother, but thanks anyway, he thought.

"Yeah, sure."

"I'll call if something happens."


~ * ~ 


When John and Sam arrived at Bobby's bar they were both wearing fine suits and packing their guns at their waists, hidden from view but within reach. It didn't matter how simple the mission seemed, John had taught them to never, ever, underestimate it. Always take a gun. The easiest mission could turn into a nightmare in the blink of an eye, especially in that kind of business.

That evening in particular though, neither John nor Sam wanted to be using their guns. Considering they would be dealing with the police, firing a weapon would mean things had gone really, really wrong in that scenario.

"Hello there," John walked in with Sam following right behind him.

The Bar was already open to costumers, though empty at this time. The Club, whose door was perfectly disguised behind a new red curtain, wasn't.

"Hi," Bobby greeted John and then Sam. He knew John's youngest still didn't remember the abuse, and even though Bobby tried not to stare at him, he couldn't help himself when his eyes lingered on Sam for a moment longer, as if making sure he was truly okay.

"Hi, Bobby," Sam walked towards the older man and squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

"You okay, kid?" Bobby whispered before he could help himself.

"I'm fine," Sam smiled so honestly that Bobby had to relax, then he retreated and stood behind his father.

In the middle of the bar there were two police officers, a man and a woman, writing something in matching notepads as Bobby talked to them. There were brand new pool tables replacing the ones that had been broken, and a TV in the corner was muted as a newscaster read the news.

"My name's John Winchester," John greeted the two officers knowing that the mention of his name would make sure they treaded carefully with their questions. "Bobby and I are co-owners of the bar. He's told me there's some sort of misunderstanding. Well, I'm here to help clear everything up, officers."

He approached the two cops with a charming smile. His attention though, was completely split between the officers and his son. He kept checking on Sam to make sure he was all right being there, but as Sam walked in, looked around, and then greeted Bobby from a small distance, there was absolutely no sign that anything bad was going to happen.

"A couple of young men stopped at the station a few days ago and reported a robbery going on here," the woman explained. "They said they were tied up and taken to some sort of storage room."

Bobby cast a glance at Sam, but the young man seemed only vaguely interested in the conversation. After greeting Bobby, Sam studied the two cops for a moment, and then his eyes strayed, looking at the TV and then at the pool tables and bottles inside the bar. He knew he was there for one reason only—John called it 'respectful intimidation'. It was up to his father to do all the talking, to bring money into the conversation if necessary, while Sam just stood there like some sort of body guard to an important business man who had no time to waste.

"I was telling him that we got a couple of rowdy young men here a few days ago. They broke some stuff and then left, but no one got hurt, so we didn't call the police," Bobby looked at John and then at Sam. No one got hurt? His chest tightened at the lie, but Sam looked so good, so…healthy, that he pushed the feeling away.

"They destroyed the place but you didn't think to call us?" Gadreel, the male officer, asked.

"We decided to deal with the material damage on our own. Besides, those were kids who drank too much, not criminals," John smiled, but he thought about Lui's picture on his phone, and the two other young men he had visited recently.

"We talked to a few neighbors and someone says they heard gunfire," the woman looked from Bobby to John.

Right, Bobby remembered. They had opened The Club's door with a bullet. He doubted there would be any evidence by now, though, what with all the cleaning and renovations.

"I think someone's TV was way too loud that night," Bobby said and smiled. "We would've definitely called the police if shooting was involved.

"Yeah, definitely," John agreed quickly.

"I'm sorry, can you walk us through that night again?" Gadreel looked at John Winchester and then at the man behind the counter. He knew what his boss, Castiel, was investigating, and since John Winchester was involved, he wondered if anything said there could help him out.

As Bobby began to talk and the two cops wrote stuff down, Sam took a few steps away from them and let a hand rest against the green pool table cloth right beside him. His eyes focused on the TV, but his fingers soon found a billiard ball and Sam began to play with it absently.

It was like his brain had a passing interest in the conversation going on as his fingers spun the billiard ball around and he stared at the mute news about some car accident.

At some point, though, Sam looked down at the black ball he was fiddling with.

The 8-ball.

"They tied me up and I heard noise as they began to wreck a few things…" Bobby's voice could be heard.

Sam couldn't take his eyes off the 8-ball. His eyes clung to it as—

The man pushed the toy inside him, tearing at sensitive skin.

Sam's heart raced and his pupils dilated. What the…

Bound. He was handcuffed, gagged, masked. He couldn't move, he couldn't fight. He was helpless and at the man's mercy. He had no choice but to take the pain and …and everything else he felt. He had no choice but to taste the dick that pushed all the way to the back of his throat and choked him.

Sam began to hyperventilate, his vision got blurry and his knees felt shaky.

"No, no, no…" Sam chanted over and over, his chest heaving.

John turned to his side, sensing the storm coming, and tried to touch his son's arm.

"Stay away from me!" Sam screamed.

The night of the attack came crashing back. The Club, the abuse, the humiliation. Sam had never felt so helpless, so useless, so ashamed.

"Sam!" Bobby tried to call his name as the two cops stared, wide-eyed.

Sam moved away and pulled his gun. Suddenly, he didn't see anything anymore. The only thing in his mind was the attack, the forced drug use, the feeling he was going to die.

"Don't touch me! Stay away, stay the fuck away!" he began to scream at no one in particular because it was not like he could see anything that wasn't a memory. When he began firing his gun aimlessly, all four people ducked and the two cops immediately drew their guns as well, ready to shoot back.

"Please!" John raised an arm and begged the cops. "Let me handle him. Please don't shoot!" his heart was racing as he talked to the cops. A few feet from them, Sam had stopped shooting but he was still pointing the gun dangerously at nothing and at everything. His eyes looked wild and his chest heaved with a panicked breathing.

"What the hell is happening?" The woman cop shrieked.

John didn't answer. He knew he had to do something. He knew he was, perhaps, one of the only people who could.

"Stay away or I'll shoot!" Sam was shaking as he barked the threat. His unfocused eyes could only see the black 8-ball as his body remembered every minute of the abuse it had undergone.

"It's me, it's okay," John raised both hands and began to approach the unstable man holding a gun. He tried to get to him but still avoided using his name, since there were cops in there.

"Stay back!!" Sam ordered.

John took a deep breath to steady his heartbeats. He could almost feel Bobby's and the cops' questioning and burning looks on his back as he attempted to approach Sam.

"Look at the door. Just look at the door."

"What?" Sam seemed confused. When he turned his head to look, John took the opportunity and closed the distance between them, wrapping Sam in a bear hug that immobilized him and taking his gun away.

Sam lost his shit.


Sam began to squirm and thrash violently, trying to get away from the powerful grip on him.

But John knew what he was doing. Now that he knew a little more about Sam's preferences, he had a feeling he could use it to help him snap out of it.

"Shhhh, just relax." He never loosened the embrace. His mouth approached his son's ear as he fought to contain Sam's violent jerking. Which truth be told, was not easy. "You're safe. You're safe, Sam. Listen to my voice," he commanded in a voice that could only be heard by Sam. "I know what's happening and I can help you, but you need to relax and trust me, okay? You are safe, can you repeat with me? No one will harm you." John kept his breathing calm and his voice steady.

Sam was gasping for air. His short fingernails clawed at the strong arms wrapped around him as if he might drown if he let go. His eyes saw nothing but the past, they were wide open, fixed on the trauma.

"Shhh….it's okay," John cooed.

It felt like they stayed that way forever, but slowly, little by little, the thrashing died down. Sam was still breathing with difficulty though, his eyes still desperately lost and confused.

"It's Dad. You're safe, Sam. Let me help. Listen to my voice and do as I say," John whispered in Sam's ear.

Sam was too broken not to comply. That firm command was like a light in the middle of darkness, and suddenly the restraining arms that felt as if they were smothering him began to feel safe and necessary.

"There you go," John pulled Sam's hair off his face and went down with him gently when Sam's knees gave out, his body shaky, his breathing a mess. "Just relax. I'm here and you're safe. Just listen to me and do as I say. We'll get through this. I promise."

Sam was barely hanging on to the words. But the voice and the tight embrace seemed to do the trick. He relaxed slowly, going limp in the embrace.

That was when the tears came and a sob tore from his throat.

John relaxed some of the tension in his shoulders and reached for his phone in his pocket. He barely paid the three other people in there any heed as he made a call.

"It's me. He's remembered it. I'm gonna need your help."





Chapter Text



Dean drove the Impala as if his life depended on it. He thought he would be lucky if he managed to reach the bar without being pulled off and given a speeding ticket first. Through his mind, all sorts of anguished-filled thoughts kept rushing, and he felt as though cold fingers grabbed his heart and squeezed painfully. He had to remind himself to breathe in and out slowly in order to focus. He begged his mind to stop picturing Sam falling apart because he seriously didn't think he could handle witnessing it.

John had been brief and clear in his message, he hadn't given Dean any details, so Dean didn't know exactly what had happened. How had Sam's memories returned? What had triggered them? How was his brother doing right now?

So many questions floating around a pool of fear that gathered in Dean's chest and made his hands less than steady.

"C'mon, c'mon," he looked at the red light and worried his bottom lip.


~ * ~ 


"Gentleman and ma'am, I can assure you there's no need to be pointing guns anymore," Bobby spoke softly to the cops after long, awkward minutes had gone past. His heart was racing as he watched John go down with his son, still holding him tight as Sam broke down and remembered what had happened to him. Maybe bringing Sam along hadn't been such a good idea. Maybe it was bound to happen sooner or later anyway.  

Gadreel looked at his partner and they both looked at the two men a few feet away. The younger one had obviously had some sort of episode, and watching him lose control out of nowhere and just begin shooting as if his life was at stake was very disturbing.

"What's just happened here?" the woman officer asked.

"I've seen shit like this before," Gadreel said. Both their voices were low and whispered. "It looks a lot like PTSD."

"Well, I'm sure there's an explanation for what happened here, but you must understand this is kind of a private matter. I don't think my friend would like the police involved," Bobby cast a look at John and his heart tightened at the sight of Sam, disheveled and looking absolutely lost.

"He was firing a weapon. Someone could've gotten hurt. Killed. He could've killed an officer," the woman pointed out.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, but does that young man look like he was trying to hurt an officer?" Bobby asked gently, "Because to me it looks as though he doesn't even know where he is right now." It was something painful to say about a kid he loved, but it was nothing but the truth.

"Bobby?" John's voice cut through their conversation. "Come here a moment."

"Excuse me," Bobby left the two cops a few feet behind and walked towards John and his son. "How is he?" he whispered, so he wouldn't be heard.

"That's hard to tell." John was still holding Sam against his chest. He could feel the tremors that rocked his son's body every now and then. He had been trying to speak kind words of reassurance to Sam, but his youngest just stared at nothing in particular, his eyes lost, unresponsive. Tear streaks were drying on both of his cheeks. "I can't move him alone. Dean's on his way."

At the mention of Dean's name Sam squeezed his eyes shut and squirmed a little.

"Shhh, it's okay…it's okay, Sam." John said quickly, then looked at his friend. "Here," he reached into his pocket and picked up a fat stack of dollar bills which he handed Bobby very discreetly. "Finish this conversation with them. Do what needs to be done. As soon as Dean arrives, we're leaving."

"Yeah, I'll handle things. Don't worry," Bobby said readily and put the money away. Then his eyes fell on Sam and he had to look away before his emotions got the best of him. "Just help him…" his eyes looked awfully sad.

"We will."

"Please, officers, would you mind finishing this conversation somewhere else? I got a small office upstairs, we just need to go outside and take the stairs. I'll answer all your questions there." Bobby guided the officers out of the bar.

The moment they were alone, Sam surprised John by moving out of his embrace and standing up quickly, so quickly he nearly swayed.

"Sam?" John got up as well.

"Stay away!" Sam took a few steps back and raised a hand. His breathing was a mess.

John raised his hands, palms facing his son, hoping the gesture would put Sam at ease.

The younger man started to walk towards the red velvet curtain at the back of the bar. He drew it and saw the blue neon sign—The Club. A small sound of pain and anguish died in his throat when he bit it back.

So it was true. Everything came back now, the YouTube videos, his father and Dean working with BDSM, the appointment Sam scheduled with his brother and then everything going to hell when Crowley's guys took over the place.

He ran his fingers through his hair and shut his eyes. How could he have possibly forgotten about it? How could his brain have done such a great job of pretending all that abuse hadn't happened?

"Son? Tell me what's going on," John asked softly. "Are the memories coming back?"

Sam's entire body was shaking. He met his father's eyes from a distance and it took everything he had not to look away.

"How could I have forgotten…" he shook his head.

"Maybe the overdose had something to do with it, maybe your brain was just trying to protect you."

At that moment, Dean walked through the doors and stood still in the middle of the bar, his eyes going from his brother to his father.

The moment he and Sam locked eyes, Dean felt something grab at his insides and twist them. He could see his brother's pain and feel it in his heart.


Sam closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Not only did he have to deal with everything that had happened to him while he was bound and gagged, he also knew his father and brother were aware of what he had done—walked into The Club anonymously looking to be dominated. That alone was enough to make staring at his father extremely difficult. Plus, the fact that the whole thing had backfired and that instead of a hot making out session with his brother he had been raped, made facing Dean really difficult, too.

And then it occurred to him. Did they know what had happened? They certainly knew he had overdosed, but did they know about the rest of it?

It took everything he had inside to look into his brother and father's eyes. Sam leaned against the counter and his large hands grabbed at it, needing the support.

"Do you know what they did to me?" his voice sounded frail, broken.

Dean's heart ached and he couldn't look at his father right now. All he wanted was to go up to his brother and offer him any kind of comfort he could, but he didn't know if anything in this world could possibly be of comfort to Sam right now.

John took a deep breath and pointed at a place above their heads, on Sam's left.

It was a camera.

"We know," John nodded gravelly.

Sam could feel his insides turn into a thick, flammable liquid. All it took was a potent spark of shame and he lost his shit.

Before he knew what he was doing, he turned around and began smashing anything and everything on his way.

"Fuck!" he cursed, breaking bottles and pushing many glasses to the floor.

"Sam!" John tried.

"Stay away! You both, stay away!" his voice was strung tight as he spiraled into chaos. Sam went towards the first pool table and threw all the billiard balls down violently. Fuck you, 8-ball. Fuck you everything and everyone!

As Sam went on a rampage against the bar furniture, under attack for a second time that month, Dean walked up to his brother and held his elbow.

"It's okay, man," Dean's fingers were gentle but firm, his voice trying to cut through the messy emotions Sam experienced. "It'll be okay. Maybe not now, not tomorrow…" he went on even though Sam purposefully avoided his eyes, staring at the floor, unblinking. "…but we'll make it okay. I promise you," he tightened his fingers and didn't let go until Sam met his eyes.

John watched from a distance Dean do with a small touch what it had taken him a powerful bear hug to pull off—contain the descent into chaos and help Sam organize his feelings.

"We should visit Dr Spencer," John said. "He can help you. Maybe he can give you some pills…" he offered.

"No," Sam cut him off. "I wanna go home. Take me home." He looked at Dean again and pulled his arm away. He felt so unworthy of his brother's touch that it caused him physical pain.

"Are you sure?" Dean tried. "He could help, Sam."

"Home," Sam looked at his brother and then his father. "I want to go home."

"All right," John nodded. "Let's go."


~ * ~ 


They left John's car behind and drove back in the Impala, with John behind the steering wheel and Dean in the backseat with Sam. John wasn't sure Sam wouldn't have another break down, and he couldn't afford having to deal with one while driving. He felt relieved knowing Dean was there, although nothing happened during the ride home.

It had been so long since the three of them had been in the same car together that it almost reminded Dean of their childhood, with John driving for hours as Sam and he slept, played or just plainly annoyed the hell out of each other in the backseat.

He smiled sadly at the memory, that came and went faster than the flapping of a Hummingbird's wings. The ride now was nothing like the past. Dean could almost feel the heavy thoughts and broken emotions of the young man sitting beside him, looking away.  

Sam was absolutely quiet as he stared out of the window. His eyes could only see the past, that Wednesday night, and he could do nothing but retrace his steps and try to figure out where it had gone wrong. Scheduling the session? Asking to be handcuffed? Gagged? Being unable to fight his way out of the bar? What if he had given that bearded guy hell and refused to have let him drag him away from the company of other hostages? What if…

He closed his eyes and wiped angrily at them. He couldn't bear to look at his dad or brother beside him. He couldn't bear being in his own skin right now.

The moment John parked the car, Sam was the first to walk out. He punched in the alarm code and rushed up the stairs, walked into his bedroom and closed the door.

Dean made as if he would follow him up the stairs, but John put a hand on his shoulder and held him back.

"Give him some time, okay? I know you want to help, so do I, but the kid needs a moment alone to process it."

"Are you sure it's safe?" Dean's heart raced with the wildest of thoughts.

"I still have his gun with me if that's what you're worried about," John said and showed Dean the two weapons at his waist. "Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on him. Just give him some time before we make a move."

Dean swallowed hard. He felt torn between wanting to follow his brother into his room and pull him in his arms, and recognizing the truth in John's words—Sam deserved some space right now. Hell, he doubted he'd be acting much different if he were in his brother's shoes.

"Besides, you and I need to talk. My office, c'mon."

Dean followed his dad upstairs and into his office. Unlike what usually happened when they were about to have a meeting though, John didn't shut the door.

"I don't think Sam's getting out of his room so soon, but I'd like to see it if he does," he said before sitting behind his desk. "Sit."

Dean took a look at the empty hallway and the closed door that led to Sam's room. He then looked at his father and sat down.

"There's something I need to tell you. I've been meaning to do it before, but something always came up."


"I thought you should know that I went to see Crowley."

"You what?!" Dean arched his eyebrows and had the exact reaction John expected him to.

"I walked in, gun in hand, ready to kill him or die. Or both. I was beside myself with anger after watching the video of your brother being hurt."

Dean's eyes were still agitated as he worked through that information.

"Did Crowley order it? I don't get it."

"Of course he didn't," John sighed sadly. "His goons went off rail. He had no idea, and I believe him. I doubt he would've agreed to see me if he knew what had been done to Sam."

Dean swallowed hard, his forehead was still creased.

"Anyway," John went on before his son could say anything. "He and I have been working together—"

"Excuse me?!"

"To punish everyone involved in what happened. As a sign of good faith, Crowley went after one of them and sent me a picture. I asked Bobby to confirm it with his contacts in the police. Lui Marroni is dead." John looked at his son's obviously surprised expression as he took it all in. "A couple of days ago, I found two more. I shot the one who raised a gun at me." John hesitated just a heartbeat before continuing. "And forced the other to overdose on coke."

"Wait a minute…so they're all dead now?" His surprise began to give room to another, darker feeling. Had his father gone ahead and gotten revenge without his help?

John could see anger flashing in his son's eyes when he spoke.

"The one who overdosed is actually in a coma."

"I can't believe you would do that without talking to me!" Dean raised his voice despite himself. "Didn't it occur to you that I wanted to be there when those asshole went down?" he could feel his heart beating fast.

"Keep your voice down," John said calm but firmly. "So what? You wanted to be the one shooting the men? Did you want their blood on your boots? Did you want to see the fear in the guy's eyes when he knew I was going to make him sniff all that drug?"

Dean fell silent for a moment.

"Revenge is not as good as it may seem," John announced somberly.

"Really? Because I thought this whole thing was about getting back at the man who killed mom."

"And it is. It's a job that needs to be done. The men who were involved in abusing and nearly killing your brother need to die. It's payback but it's also a message that neither Crowley nor I will tolerate that kind of behavior." John's voice then softened. "There's no joy in it, though. I felt no pleasure in what I did and it did not make me feel better. Neither did it help your brother," he stated. "So yes, if I can take your place and spare you from killing a human being, I will. I'd rather it be on my conscience, even though I don't feel guilty and I would've done it again considering what they did to Sam."

Dean didn't know what to say. He wasn't entirely convinced. He still felt a pulsing rage and a thirst for revenge. He felt robbed of the possibility of at least trying to make some of that anguish and helplessness he felt go away.

"There are other ways you can help your brother," John said as if reading his thoughts.

"Really? Because Sam's locked up in his room now and it doesn't look like he wants either of our help."

"Give him time," John said wisely. "Besides...there's still one of them out there, that we haven't caught yet."

"Why haven't you?"

"Can't find him. We're still looking."

"Well, let me know if I can help. I don't care about revenge not being what I need or what Sam needs. I want to be part of it," Dean stressed.

John nodded.

"Dean? The one who's on the run is the one who actually abused Sam," John let his words sink in before going on. "I don't know what I'm capable of doing when I see him."

Dean took a deep breath. Knowing the man responsible for the rape was still on the loose caused conflicting feelings in him. On one hand, he was so fucking angry that he'd gotten away and that he was still breathing, but on the other, that meant Dean still had a chance to hurt the one responsible for breaking his brother. Small joy, but it was there, regardless of John's little speech about revenge.

"Then promise you'll let me know when something comes up. I want to help." Dean thought of the black dildo on the floor and Sam's broken look and his heart fucking ached, his fingers tingling with the powerful, dark emotion bottled up inside.

John nodded. "All right. I'll let you know. But Dean? I meant it. There are other ways to help Sam. We're going to have to figure them out."


~ * ~ 


Four hours later, they still hadn't figured out how to help the young man locked in his room. John had knocked on the door and tried, and found it wasn't really locked, thankfully. He had then asked Sam to come down for dinner, to which Sam had replied he wasn't hungry. After making sure Sam was physically okay, John had given up and left, deciding to give his son more time.

The moment he was alone again, Sam went back to staring at the ceiling. He picked up the headphones by his pillow and covered his ears before turning up the volume.

He didn't even care about what he was listening to, it was just something to take his mind off of the pain spreading inside and the feeling of wanting to die.

Sam remembered every detail of that Wednesday night and he didn't even know what the worst part was. When he thought back on the feeling of being completely helpless at the bearded man's mercy Sam felt his heart pump with adrenaline and fear grab at him all over again. Even though he was lying on his own bed, in his home, with both his dad and Dean outside, the fear he experienced at the memory was so intense it paralyzed his body.

How could Sam ever function again after that? How could he be of any use to his father, how could he…

…how could he be the same Sam that was flirting with his brother and having all those warm, fluttery feelings ever again? He had been shown how helpless he truly was. Not all his planning or all his strength, not all the skills he had could have saved him. And who was to blame? Well, Sam was the one who put himself on a silver platter to be abused by Crowley's men.

I couldn't have known

A small little voice tried to argue, but right now Sam didn't want to listen. Right now he thought about the pain he experienced, the humiliation, the feeling he was going to choke and puke when the man fucked his mouth…

He felt fresh tears run down his eyes and into his hair, disappearing into the pillow that was probably damp by now.

And then there was that one moment when the pain wasn't the worst of it. Sam remembered hardening at the feeling. It made him hate himself so much he had trouble breathing. How could that have happened? The shame weighed so hard on him that Sam needed to lock that memory away, for fear of being crushed.

For fear of feeling so broken he could never get fixed.

Like he was dead inside.


If he couldn't trust himself, then who could? Who could possibly love him when he felt so much disgust at his vulnerability and stupidity? If only he'd found a way to fight. Maybe if he'd said who he was. If he'd chosen another day to go there. If he'd never googled anything about BDSM…

The painful part was, deep down, Sam knew it wasn't his fault. He knew it was a terrible coincidence he couldn't have known or prevented.

The problem was, knowing didn't make it any better.

The young man felt more tears disappear in his hair and wiped at his eyes.


~ * ~ 


An hour after they finished dinner, after night fell, John went to his office to drink and think. Sam was still upstairs in his room, and he hadn't eaten anything.

Dean looked at the sandwich he had just prepared and made up his mind. He wouldn't let his baby brother keep suffering alone. That was enough space for now. He needed to check on him.

That's why Dean went up the stairs carrying the food, determined to only leave if Sam threatened to shoot him or something—which Dean knew he couldn't do since John said he still had his gun.

"Sammy?" he knocked, still feeling a bit anxious about Sam screaming and telling him to get the fuck off.

Sam was sitting against the headboard when Dean knocked and pushed the door open.

"Sandwich?" his brother asked.

Sam took off the headphones and turned off the music.

"You've got to eat something. I know it makes you sick when you take the pills on an empty stomach," Dean said.

Sam knew he couldn't go on a hunger strike forever. He also knew that if he kept it up he would only worry his brother and father, and the last thing he wanted was to confirm how helpless he was, unable to make good decisions for himself.

"Yes, thanks," his voice sounded a bit low and sheepish, unlike his own, but it was still able to cause a wave of relief in Dean, who walked in and placed the plate on the nightstand.

"Is it okay if I sit?" Dean asked and nodded at the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, fine."

Sam picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. God, he was hungry.

For a moment, neither young men said anything. Dean let Sam eat and tried to think of what to say. The truth was, it didn't matter how much psychology he had read up on, nothing had ever prepared him for something like this happening to his baby brother. There was so much he wanted to say and yet, he feared he would say something wrong.

"Go ahead," Sam said as he watched Dean and read his tension. "I can see you want to say something. I'm not gonna break." Not again, he thought.

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head.

"How are you feeling?" he began.

Sam smiled a weird, veiled and sad smile.

"Shitty," he admitted. Guilty. Ashamed. Hopeless, he went on for himself.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you when you woke up. At the same time we wanted to…we didn't really want to, and that's the truth," Dean said.

Sam sighed.

"I know. It'd be easy feeling angry because you kept it from me. I think I had a right to know. But yeah," Sam shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said I don't understand why you did it. I wouldn't be looking forward to breaking these news to anyone either."

"Besides," Dean added, "Dr. Spencer said you might remember at any moment. I guess we were sort of counting on that, but also hoping it never happened…does it make sense?"

"It does." Sam nodded.

Dean then sighed and waited for Sam to finish the sandwich. After his brother thanked him shyly, he asked the question that had been on his mind every night since that Wednesday.

"Why were you at The Club, Sammy?" he tried to ask as gently as he could, and watched Sam carefully for signs of discomfort or distress.

There were a few, but Sam didn't seem extremely bothered by the question. It was like he knew it was coming.

"Don't you know?" he asked back.

"I mean, it's pretty clear you stumbled upon some of the videos, right?"

"I did," Sam agreed. It seemed like all that had happened years ago, and not just last month.

"I know Wednesdays are my nights, and I was told the client asked for the Headmaster specifically," he paused a little and studied his brother. He thought he saw a small blushing color on Sam's currently pale cheeks. "You must've known that was me."

"I did," he admitted.

Dean grew a little restless and there was something in his eyes that looked almost frail.

"Was it because I teased you? Were you trying to prove a point after I said you were vanilla? Were you trying to get back at me?"

Sam then understood what it was—guilt.

"Of course not!" he said quickly, found his brother's hand on the bed, and covered it with his large fingers. "I mean, yeah, part of it was to prank you, I guess." Sam was suddenly forced to revisit what he felt when he had put himself in that submissive position. The thing was, as he remembered it, the feelings weren't entirely bad. The idea was oddly still appealing. "I…I didn't know exactly what would happen, and I figured I could just stop it and tell you it was me at any given moment…"

He thought he was safe, Dean understood and his heart broke. He could only imagine how broken and helpless Sam must have felt, how vulnerable he was probably still feeling.

Sam looked deeply into his brother's green eyes and told him the truth.

"I also wanted to kiss you again." He felt a shy butterfly flap its wings in his heart. "And you were playing hard to get. So yeah…I thought, I thought it could be good." Oh fuck, Sam realized, too late, that his eyes were welling up again. "I…" his voice faltered and he looked away.

Before he was able to retreat his hand, though, Dean took Sam's fingers in his and squeezed.

"Hey…It was not a bad idea at all," he smiled, the soft hint of seduction glowing in his eyes. "If shit hadn't happened, if I had been there, you and I…"

Sam's heart began to race and he looked into Dean's eyes. There was something good inside him, something he was almost afraid to let himself feel.

"What do you think would've happened?" Sam asked, heart beating fast and a small, hesitant hint of a smile on his lips.

"I think that whatever happened would've been good…like, really good." Dean watched Sam for a moment. He knew there was a bit of the Headmaster creeping to his voice and attitude now, but he liked the way Sam smiled and his eyes lit up a little. "Listen, I can't imagine what it was like when everything went to hell that night. I just want to say that I'm here for you. Don't close the door on me, okay?" Dean felt his eyes sting a little. He then took Sam's fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, letting his breath ghost above them for a moment.

"Okay," Sam said softly.

Dean then offered a flirty little wink that caused Sam's heart rate to pick up.

Maybe he wasn't dead inside after all.




Chapter Text



After Dean left his room, Sam stayed awake for a while longer, thinking, reliving, then trying to get his memories to shut down. He drifted into sleep and woke up around midnight, thirsty and a bit hungry. Funny how the body went on as if it hadn't just been completely scarred.

As he left his room, Sam realized the house was silent. Both his father and Dean were probably already asleep.

Good. He didn't feel like talking to them.

He didn't want to see the look in John's eyes.

Though Sam tried really hard not to feel that way, he knew he had disappointed his father. He had been caught, despite all his training, he'd been caught off guard, abused and humiliated. John would've never let something like that happen to him. Neither would Dean. Part of the reason was, well, let's be honest, because they didn't have a kink about being tied up and manhandled. Sam wondered what his father and brother thought about him now that they knew—because they couldn't not know—that Sam was drawn to submission when it came to sex. Not that he minded Dean knowing it, because before the attack happened it had seemed pretty hot actually. Sam would have loved to feel vulnerable with his brother in charge, taking control.

Because Dean was safe.

And then Sam thought about everything that had happened on Wednesday, and how his sense of safety had been shredded to pieces and his desire had been dragged through the mud, like it was dirty and wrong.

Sam knew Dean wouldn't have judged him, but what did his father think about him? Did he believe Sam was a failure? Did he blame Sam's differences from his older brother on Sam being drawn to the opposite spectrum of power play? Was he ashamed to have a son who would have enjoyed to be tied up and played with?

Except Sam hadn't enjoyed any of it. Sam had been raped and drugged, and God only knew what his father's opinion of him was at that moment.

Sam shuddered at the thought and pushed it away as far as it would go in the big pile of thoughts being shoved to the back of his mind.

Instead, he let his mind linger around more hopeful thoughts, such as the little rush of joy he'd felt at Dean's touch a while ago. Could he allow himself to feel the same carefree, flirty joy from before? It seemed almost indecent that his body and mind would still react to his brother and crave his touch after everything he'd been through.

However, just like he needed to eat and needed to drink, it seemed like Sam also needed Dean.

He made his way downstairs quietly and went straight to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator's door and stared for a moment.

Sam's stomach made a sound of approval as he stared at the leftovers from dinner. He then looked at a gallon of orange juice and reached out to grab it. He failed to hear the soft footsteps approaching him from behind, and didn't realize he wasn't alone until he felt a warm hand close at the nape of his neck, with strong fingers that pressed lightly into his skin.


"Oh, you can take it, c'mon. That's what you like, isn't it? A rubber dick up your ass?"


"Glad to see you out of your room, son."

Sam felt a cold shudder travel down his spine and his body felt petrified with rising panic. The gallon of juice fell off his hand and spilled its yellow liquid all over the kitchen floor. In the few seconds it took Sam to turn around and see his father, his heart was racing, his mouth felt dry and his knees were so shaky they could barely hold him standing.

"I'm sorry!" John said quickly, feeling guilty and perplexed at the scene. "I didn't mean to startle you, I thought you'd heard me approach," he apologized.

"I…" Sam found his voice and tried to use it as he felt the adrenaline discharge buzzing through his system. "Sorry about the juice. I'll clean up."

John narrowed his eyes a little and studied his son. The fear he could see in Sam's eyes was so thick that John felt his heart break, and cursed himself for inadvertently triggering what very well seemed like PTSD.

"That's okay, I've got this," John tried to touch Sam's arm soothingly, but the boy shied away and stepped back, completely skittish and thrown off balance.

Sam was still trying to catch his breath. It had felt so real. The hand on his neck was meant to be friendly and affectionate, but instead it had taken Sam right back to the bar, pool table before him, his abuser's hand closing around his neck, subjugating him for what was to come—pain and shame.

"Cloth and…mop, I…" Sam looked for things but he didn't really seem to be seeing anything.

"Son?" John didn't want to further startle Sam, but he had to help him snap out of it. Thus, he grabbed Sam's elbow gently and squeezed a little before Sam pulled away. He waited until Sam looked into his eyes. "That's okay. I got this. Get what you want from the fridge and I'll clean this," he stated.

"I, um…I'm fine, really." Sam realized, to his horror, that his father could probably see the way his hands were shaky in the aftermath of the adrenaline filled episode. "I was going back to my room," he said quickly.


"It's okay, really," Sam said way too quickly and rushed back to his room.

He closed the door and sat down on his bed.

So much for thinking it was okay to feel normal, he thought sadly. For a moment there, Sam had really believed that he could get over it and move on, but what had just happened in the kitchen showed him the cold truth: he was broken, and what was scary was that he wasn't quite sure to what extent.


~ * ~ 


John wasn't asleep when he'd heard Sam going downstairs. He had been up talking to Bobby, who had left about ten missed calls on his phone, and reassuring his friend that Sam was okay—as okay as one could expect, given the circumstances. Bobby had then reassured him that the cops wouldn't be a problem, to which John was thankful. There was a lot on his plate right now, and he wanted to focus on Sam. That's why he had gone down the stairs when he heard his son, hoping he would be able to talk to him a little and see how he was coping.

Now, as John wiped the floor clean, his thoughts kept playing the unsettling scene over and over in his mind. He had seen PTSD first hand after coming back from the war. He knew it could destroy someone's life, had seen it happen to close friends. The thought that Sam might experience it after the assault on him tugged at his heart and made his blood boil with anger all over again. He knew it was still too early to tell—Sam had just learned about the abuse—and time should be given so he could process it, but John planned to keep a close eye on how his youngest would cope.

When he was done cleaning, John put some food on a plate and filled a glass with orange juice. Normally, he would be the one telling his sons that the bedroom was not a place for eating, and insisting that they go to the kitchen or dining room. Today wasn't a good day for 'normally', though.

John walked towards Sam's door and knocked softly. There was no answer. He tried the door and it opened. Was Sam truly asleep in such a short time? John doubted it, but if his son preferred to pretend he was in order to avoid conversation, John would respect it.

He used the light coming from the hallway to step further inside and then placed the food and juice on top of a desk. John walked towards the bed and for a moment felt tempted to stroke his son's hair and kiss his head, but refrained after the reaction he'd gotten a few moments earlier. If Sam was indeed asleep, John didn't want to startle him again.

He left the bedroom quietly and closed the door behind him.

Instead of going to his own room though, John went to his office and locked the door.

He sat before his computer and took a deep breath before opening the same file again.

It was the footage from the bar.

Did he want to delete that video for good? Certainly. But until Ronald was caught he knew he couldn't do that. It was the only evidence he had, and he needed to use it.

About twenty minutes into the video, John paused it and took a look at Ronald's face. He enlarged the image as much as he could without too many pixels getting in the way of recognition. When he thought it was decent enough, he printed a few copies of the bearded man's face.

John Winchester was going to have a meeting with his employees and make sure that face became easily recognizable throughout the country.


~ * ~


When Castiel walked into his office that morning, it wasn't long before someone came knocking on his door.

"Yes?" Castiel raised his eyes from the piles of papers already spread before his eyes.

"Excuse me, boss. Can I come in?" Gadreel asked.

"Did someone die?"

"No…not really."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Gadreel seemed a little jittery, which instigated Castiel's curiosity.

"Come in. Take a seat." He invited and waited for the other man to comply. "What happened?"

Gadreel took a deep breath. He wondered if he should be having that conversation after having accepted the money from the men at the bar. The whole incident would be forgotten since apparently no harm was done, no complaints were filed, and some good money had ended up on both his and his partner's bank accounts. It was not like they were covering up a murder, so Gadreel tried not to feel too bad about it. There was, however, something he couldn't let go.

"Carmen and I got called to investigate what looked like some punks wrecking a bar."

"Yes?" Castiel asked, politely engaging the officer before him while his mind drifted to more important matters.

"Someone said they heard shooting, too." Gadreel wondered how much he could or even should say before it made him look bad. "Anyway, no one pressed charges and it seemed like a big waste of time. The bar didn't look like it had been wrecked at all."

Castiel sighed briefly and smiled. His patience was running thin. He hoped that conversation was going somewhere.

"The only reason I'm even telling you anything is because one of the owners of the bar is John Winchester."

Now that got his attention. Castiel stopped tapping with his pen and focused his dark blue eyes on the man before him.

"Did you see John Winchester?"

"We questioned him, yes. Even though he wasn't there at the time this happened."

"Do you believe that whatever happened was drug-related?" Castiel asked.

Gadreel frowned.

"Honestly? We don't know what happened. No one was willing to press charges. All we had were the words of a couple of guys who said some robbers walked into the place and locked them up as they broke stuff around."

Castiel pondered for a moment. It wasn't anything new that John Winchester was the owner of many bars all over town. It seemed likely to assume that at some point some of these places would be the target of criminal activity.

"Anyway," Gadreel went on. "We were questioning him, when something really weird happened."

"And what was that?" Castiel liked weird—it sounded promising for someone who needed all the help he could get.

"There was this tall, good-looking man with Winchester, like a body guard or something."

Tall? Good-looking? Castiel thought. Yes, a bodyguard. Or his son?

"And at a moment during the interrogation this guy just snaps," Gadreel thought about what he had seen and still couldn't really understand it. "He pulls a gun and starts shooting at nothing and everything. Carmen and I draw ours guns too, but before anything bad happens Winchester is able to talk him down."

Castiel's forehead was creased. He wasn't quite sure he understood the scene being described or believed in its relevance.

"Anyway, whatever set the guy off, John Winchester was able to get to him, and for a moment we saw him pretty much rock the guy in his arms as the episode lasted. That's when I began to think he wasn't just an employee. It made me feel like he was—"

"Family?" Castiel offered, his heart picking up speed.

Gadreel nodded.

"I know you've been looking for information on the Winchester brothers."

"I am. Thank you for coming to me, Gadreel. I really appreciate it."

"I heard a name. The other owner of the bar said it, I don't think he even realized it"

Castiel's heart was truly racing now.

"Sam. I think the guy's name is Sam."

The detective felt a chill run down his spine. He thought of Winchester, S., the name on the Stanford application result. He quickly opened a notepad and wrote something down.

Gadreel felt happy and relieved to be helpful without having to go into details about how that interview had ended.

"Thank you. This is helpful, indeed."

"Can you just, please…I mean, if you get somewhere with it, can you not say that I was the one who told you this?"

Castiel studied the officer before him. He looked visibly tense. Of course he knew that investigating anything Winchester or Crowley related could put a target on someone's back. Hell, he felt like he had one on his most of the time. He did, however, wonder if something else had happened, something Gadreel wasn't telling him.

"I won't," he said.

"Good. Thank you."

"Wait," Castiel said before the other man was able to turn around. "Just one more thing, can you give me the address to this bar?"


~ * ~ 


Sam woke up feeling shitty. Not just because the moment he opened his eyes all the memories came crashing back, demanding attention and inflicting pain, but because the PEP pills were taking their toll on his body.

As he made his way downstairs to put the empty glass and plate in the sink, he didn't have time to think too much before he went into the nearest bathroom and doubled over. The late dinner his father had brought up in the middle of the night went down the toilet, along with the acidic taste of orange juice that filled his mouth.

Sam flushed quickly before the sight and smell triggered another wave of nausea, but it wasn't quick enough. Before he could do anything about it, his stomach cramped and he retched up again, fighting for breath as it happened.

The noises coming from the bathroom were far from quiet, and on the side of worrisome. That's why they caught Dean's attention when he went downstairs for breakfast, and why when, finding the door unlocked, Dean walked into the bathroom after a soft knock Sam failed to hear.

The sight of his younger brother bent over the toilet, emptying his stomach, caused Dean to flinch. He immediately got on his knees and put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey, you okay, man? Can I do anything to help?"

Sam turned to look at his brother and what he saw in Dean's eyes told him he didn't only feel shitty—he probably looked shitty, too.

"It's those damn pills," Sam explained and flushed the toilet for a third time. He just sat on the floor for a while, relishing Dean's warm touch and closeness. He couldn't help himself, he felt like he was drowning, and Dean's attention and care had always helped stabilize his emotions.

"That's funny. Doctor said side effects were stronger in the beginning," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. He didn't want to tell his brother that the dream he'd just had about his abuse had probably fueled his nausea.

"Go figure," he said weakly, then managed to get up and walk towards the sink, where he splashed water on his face, drank some and brushed his teeth.

"How many more do you have left?" Dean asked and got to his feet as well.

"Four more days," Sam said.

"Want to call the doctor and ask for something to help with the nausea?" Dean offered.

"No. I'll finish them. It's okay."

The brothers looked at each other for a moment and then Sam looked away and left the bathroom. Dean followed him into the living room, still trying to make sure Sam was all right.

"Dad?" Sam asked. He thought about last night's encounter in the kitchen and felt ashamed for his loss of control. Truth be told, he was not looking forward to seeing their father after his little embarrassing moment.

"Out. Said something about a meeting."

"Good," Sam said casually and sat down heavily on the sofa.

"Hey, can I get you anything? Milk? Breakfast? That bird food you like to eat in the morning?" Dean smiled softly.

It worked, Sam's lips curved a little.

"I'm good. Just…sit here with me for a while."

Dean complied and sat beside his brother on the sofa.

After some awkward silence, Dean made as if he would reach for the remote control.

"Wait," Sam put a hand above his and stopped him halfway. "What happened in the elevator…" Sam began, feeling his throat clog around very conflicting feelings.

Dean felt a cold lightening-like feeling strike his chest, something between guilt, desire and regret stirred inside of him and he took a deep breath to clear his thoughts.

"Yes?" He encouraged Sam on, even though talking about it felt like the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

"You already knew what had happened to me, didn't you?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. Guilt began to overpower the other feelings and Dean forced himself not to look away.

"I…I'm so sorry, Sammy," he began, his chest tight. "I knew about it and I know I should've just told you, but I…fuck man, it was so difficult. And I tried to stop it, but…"

"I came on strong," Sam offered, because he knew it was true.

"No, it wasn't your fault. I…I couldn't stop myself," Dean admitted. "It felt too good," he confessed.

Sam stared at his brother for a moment, but Dean misunderstood the expression on his face.

"I took advantage of you, I know. You were in a vulnerable place but you didn't know. I shouldn't have let anything happen."

"That's not why I brought it up," Sam said.


"I…" Sam swallowed hard as he looked for words that seemed to escape him constantly. "I thought you'd feel disgusted, you know…" his voice faltered and was barely audible as he went on. "To touch me after what happened."

Dean was taken by surprise by that.

"Is that what you're thinking? Why would I be disgusted to touch you, Sam?" he frowned.

Sam thought he would crack and his eyes would well up. He forced himself to look away and to breathe slowly until he'd regained some sort of composure.

"You wanna know the truth?" he then asked sadly. "Because I'm disgusted by myself?" he offered with a painful little smile.

Dean sighed deeply. Then he smiled tenderly and pulled Sam close.

"C'mere," he said and didn't give his brother much choice. He made Sam's larger frame fit against his chest and let his chin rest above soft brown hair. "I have no idea how you feel, Sammy, but I'm here to listen if you want to talk. When you want to talk. But I could never, ever, feel anything less than great when I touch you." It was Dean's turn to swallow back some of the emotions trying to get the best of him. "You're my baby brother and I love you, okay?" He kissed the top of Sam's head. "And I'm sorry I failed to protect you that night. I'm so sorry, Sammy," the words began to flow like a dam had cracked open, "if I'd been there for the session none of this would've happened. If I hadn't gotten stuck in the damn bridge with Benny than you wouldn't be feeling this way now."

"This is not on you!" Sam pulled away so he could look into his brother's eyes. "It's not on you, Dean. I asked to be handcuffed and gagged, I put myself in that helpless position where I could do nothing to protect myself."

"You did it because you thought you'd see me. You couldn't have imagined what was coming, Sam. It's not your fault either, I hope you know that."

Dean's words seemed to speak to a fragile little place inside of him.

Sam's answer was to bury his nose against Dean's neck and hide there for a moment, in the warm safety of familiarity that soothed his anguish and fed the butterflies.

"I love you, too," Sam whispered, the sound muffled against Dean's skin.

It didn't matter though, because it made goosebumps break all over Dean's body. It was almost a confession, almost like Dean knew it meant so much more.

"We'll get through this." Dean closed his eyes and buried his nose into Sam's hair, breathing in his shampoo and forgetting the world for a moment.

When eventually the embrace broke, Sam still looked into his brother's eyes with painstaking honesty.

"That moment in the elevator, that's a happy memory. Right now everything's a mess and I honestly feel like a fucking mess myself…but that, that memory puts a smile on my face," he said.

Dean smiled softly and wiped Sam's tears with his thumb. It was when Sam realized there were tears in the first place.

"Then let's keep that smile on your face. We'll figure it out, okay?"

Sam nodded.

"Wanna hear something truly disgusting?" he then smiled wickedly.

"Um, do you I have a choice?" Dean asked warily.

Sam chuckled and went on.

"After I realized you were The Headmaster," which, Sam realized, was still something he would love to talk to his brother about, "I also realized who Dom was," Sam paused to make sure he had Dean's full attention. "I don't know how many times I jerked off to Dom's videos before I realized it was Dad."

"Shit," Dean squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to try and push the mental image away. "That's very—"

"I know. It's sick and what just happened in the bathroom this morning nearly happened when I found out."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said, and then couldn't help chuckling a little.

"We still have to talk about this whole thing. How you and Dad kept me out of it."

Dean nodded. Another conversation he would happily pass on.

"How about some TV now?" Dean asked quickly.

"Yeah, I'd like that." Sam sighed and nodded. He was absolutely aware of Dean's hand still above his, holding his fingers as the first sounds and images appeared on the screen ahead.


~ * ~


Castiel knew the address by heart, but he still had to drive by the bar to make sure he wasn't going crazy or anything.

John Winchester had been inside the very bar where The Club was located.

Not that it should be extremely surprising that the man behind a string of bars in the city also owned the one where a sex club was run at the back. Still, Castiel's heart sank and he couldn't help the wave of questions and uncertain feelings that crept over his thoughts.

One of the main targets of his on-going investigation was too near to Castiel's favorite place to find entertainment.

The detective sighed and shook his head.

Mixing business with pleasure could be a recipe for disaster.





Chapter Text



John spent all day out because he always had work to do, sure, but also because he couldn't get the little night encounter with Sam in the kitchen out of his mind. The look in his youngest's eyes was of sheer fright, and the thought that Sam had a long road to recovery dealing with PTSD broke John's heart in so many pieces he didn't think any amount of blood or death would ever be enough to make it better.

Just like killing Azazel wouldn't bring Mary back or make him feel better about losing her, revenge was just a job that needed to be done, as he explained to Dean. It was a duty, not entertainment.

When he got back home, at ten o'clock, the house sounded quiet. He headed upstairs and stopped for a while before the door to Sam's room—there was no sound inside. Then, John walked towards his eldest's bedroom and knocked on the door.

"I'm up," Dean said and looked at the door when it swung open.

"Is your brother asleep?" John asked.

Dean nodded.

"How is he?"

It was a tricky question, and Dean knew it.

"Dealing with a lot of shitty feelings," Dean said softly. "The PEP pills are taking their toll, too, but I wonder how much of his sickness is because of the memories."

John nodded.

"From what the doctor said, I'd say the memories have a bigger role in making him sick than the pills do by now, but make sure he takes them to the end."

"I will."

John then walked further in and glanced quickly at the movie on TV. The volume was really low, as if Dean feared he'd wake his brother up—even though the two bedrooms were separated by a large hallway and two thick doors. He then pulled something from an inside pocket in his coat and handed it to the young man sitting in bed.

"A book?" Dean frowned when his father handed it to him. "Seriously…?" his indignation and surprise were so genuine that he couldn't really hide them in his voice. That was not the time to be thinking about The Club or about Doms and subs. What the hell-

"Just read it," John cut Dean off.

The younger man's lips still hung open around a barely formed protest and he took the book more firmly, his eyes scanning the title.

Male Survivors of Sexual Assault – Understanding and helping victims.

"I got one for me too," John said, but Dean barely heard him.

Dean's heart raced and he stared at the book as if it'd grow teeth and bite him. Then, he raised his flashing emerald eyes to his father and tilted his head a little.

"Really? Is that how you think we're going to help him?"

John shrugged. For a moment he looked truly insecure.

"I always told you that in order to do something well, you need to understand it deeply. We have no idea what Sam's going through. The book might help us understand it and help him with the trauma."

John studied Dean's silent, still a bit indignant, look.

"Look, I'm at a loss here too. I don't know what's going to happen and how Sam will cope. I just think it's not a bad idea if we try to study about it. If it ends up being helpful, then good."

Dean finally nodded and exhaled deeply.

"Just make sure you…"

"…keep it somewhere he can't find it, I know," Dean finished.

John nodded and still studied his son a moment longer before heading to the door.

"I don't know what he's told you or what you think, but your brother is not well." John could see fear and anger in the green eyes that avoided his and stared back at the TV. He knew it was not being easy for Dean either. "Good night, son."

"Night, Dad."

Dean waited until he was alone to kick the book out of the bed. He didn't even know why he was so angry at it—perhaps because it was a reminder of what had happened and how he'd failed to protect his brother.

Whatever it was, Dean couldn't bring himself to open that book. Sam would be fine! Dean would help him. He'd figure something out and things would, eventually, be okay again.

He wanted, needed to believe that.


~ * ~ 


Castiel sipped his reheated coffee and stared at the suspect board. He'd just called the hospital—Marcus Fields was still in a coma. The one person who might be able to shed some light on what was going on between Crowley and Winchester was still unable to give a statement. That was, considering he would ever wake up from his very strange overdose. Given that the man had been found beside a dead body with signs of forced entrance, Castiel doubted Marcus' drug use had been accidental. Until he spoke to him, though, there was not much he could do.

Then there was The Club and John Winchester.

On one hand, even though Gadreel had seen the man at the bar it did not mean John had anything to do with The Club. On the other, Castiel would have to be a fool to think John Winchester wouldn't know about a sex club at the back of his bar.

What did it mean?

In the very least, it meant that a mafia boss was making money off BDSM sex in a couple of secluded dungeons. Was that so bad? Castiel asked himself. Knowing that the one thing that caused him so much pleasure and relief of stress could be helping make the Winchester drug empire richer and stronger did not sit well with him.

Nevertheless, was Castiel willing to give up on what he felt whenever he was in the dungeon with the Headmaster?

Fuck, no, he didn't think so.

In fact, the past weeks had been particularly tense and dull without his Friday nights with the masked god Castiel worshipped on his knees.

The detective took a deep, calming breath and sipped from his cooling coffee again.

There were more important things than fretting about John Winchester's presence near The Club. Like identifying his sons, for one. Castiel had strong reason to believe they had been involved in at least one killing.

Sam? Could he be one of the brothers? What happened to him that caused him to shoot unexpectedly? What was John hiding about his sons, aside from the fact they were probably neck deep into the drug war?

Castiel knew what his superiors, Zachariah in particular, would say if he paid John Winchester a visit with questions.

He also knew that good police work not always played by the rules.


~ * ~ 


The next few days went by almost uneventfully in the Winchester's house. John still kept the boys out of any missions—Sam, for obvious reasons, Dean, because he needed to be there for Sam.

Since John couldn't was a way to put it. The truth was, it was hard on John hanging around the house and seeing the hurt all over Sam's face. He felt better being out there, trying to find Ronald, trying to find Azazel, trying to do something for fuck's sake.

Dean didn't have the same choice. Even though he dreamed about revenge and sometimes his dreams were filled with the blood of Sam's rapist, he couldn't just go out there and look for him. Sam was more important, and his father and he agreed his younger brother shouldn't be alone.

Of course they knew the youngest Winchester was in a great deal of emotional distress, even if in the following days Sam did his best to hide it and try to live as normally as possible.

Still, it surprised Dean a little when he walked into the kitchen after an afternoon nap and found his brother sitting at the kitchen island, on one of the tall stools, with a drink in hand.

"Sex on the beach?" Sam raised a second glass and offered.

"Excuse me?" Dean's eyes widened a little and his heart skipped a beat.

Sam chuckled at the reaction. It was exactly what he'd hoped for.

"Drink, Dean," he said softly.

Dean took a calming breath but his heart was still going faster due to the warm little discharge of adrenaline. His brain also felt it was a good moment to remind him their father was not home.

He then studied the orange-red drink and his lips curved with a cocky smile.

"That's a girl drink, Sam," he teased.

"Oh, please," Sam pushed the drink towards his brother and rolled his eyes. "You know you want it," he got to his feet and took a step towards Dean. "Besides, there's no one here you need to impress," Sam said and pushed the drink into Dean's hand. "So you can admit you love it."

Dean arched his eyebrows and offered a leering smirk that warmed Sam's chest. He took the tall glass to his lips and sipped the sweet cocktail.

"What can I say," Dean said. "Sex on the beach is all about the company, isn't it?" He couldn't help it when his voice dropped and he studied his brother with a little more interest.

"Am I good company, then?" Sam loved the flirtatious mood. It made him feel normal and happy, and chased away the shadows in his thoughts.

"The best," Dean said and took another long sip. "So, what are we celebrating?"

"The end of the PEP pills," Sam said and this time he sat on top of the kitchen island, facing his brother. "Took the last one this morning," he said and pushed the stools away so he could dangle his legs a little.

"And should you be drinking just now? Isn't it bad mixing the pills with alcohol? You know, like when you're taking antibiotics and you're not supposed to drink?" Dean frowned.

Sam chuckled and shook his head.

"It's fine. Given that I didn't throw up after taking it, I consider that a win," he took a sip. "Besides, do you know why you're not supposed to drink when you're on antibiotics?"

"I don't know, because something really bad will happen inside you?" Dean tried and Sam laughed a little.

"No, it's actually just because drinking inhibits the hormone that causes you to retain urine. This means you need to take a piss all the time when you're drinking, and some drugs are filtered by your kidneys. When you drink, you cause the antibiotics to be eliminated from your body faster than they should and thus they won't have the desired effect."

Dean's lips curved with an impressed little smile and he nodded.

"All right, geek. Thanks for enlightening me."

Sam smiled and watched as his brother took another sip.

"It's your turn to enlighten me," he said. He could feel his heartbeats picking up speed. "What about the Headmaster?"

Dean looked into Sam's expectant eyes and his blood pumped a little faster through his veins. 

"What do you want to know?" he asked, and even before he could try and help it, he could feel the Dom in him scratching the surface, his voice growing deep and soft, his eyes becoming piercing and knowing.

Sam watched as Dean walked towards him. His brother was standing at the v of his legs, but at a safe distance.

"When did it begin?" there were so many questions in his mind. Sam wanted a chance to ask them without thinking about the things that went wrong along the way.

"If it makes you feel any better, I had no idea about The Club when I was your age." Dean knew Sam was probably curious. Maybe his brother would have asked all his questions in the session they ended up never having.

Just the thought of it made Dean's heart race, for both hot and dreadful reasons.

"Did Dad tell you about it?"

"I was twenty three when he did. He said he'd watched my way around girls and thought I might be interested in role-playing. I'll tell you, it was an awkward conversation then and it still is nowadays when we need to talk about The Club. It wasn't until like, a year later, that I began to do sessions. I read up on it for a while and considered whether or not I was interested. When I decided to try it out I knew I needed a name for the dungeon. From Dean to the Headmaster, well, it was almost too easy."

Sam nodded.

"How about you?" Dean asked. "When did you begin watching the videos?"

Fuck, when did Sam begin to watch BDSM porn? He was almost too shy to admit he had been a lot younger when he checked out and jerked off to his first video.

"I stumbled upon The Club a while ago, I don't know when," which was true. The Club videos were something recent. "I used to watch…well, you know. Dom's videos." Sam shook his head and Dean laughed softly.

"Yeah, that sucks, man."

"Then a few weeks ago I clicked on a Headmaster video. I saw your tattoo and recognized your voice."

Dean felt a thrilling chill run down his spine. He could feel the same sub vibes coming off his brother, even if they were a bit shy now.

"And did you like it?" Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me? Dean felt his control slipping and the Headmaster taking control. He took a casual step towards the v of Sam's legs.

Sam felt his chest get warmer and the butterflies stir inside his heart.

He remembered the day he'd found out Dean was a BDSM Dom. There had been many feelings involved in learning about it, but lust was a strong one. And Sam was extremely aware of having jerked off to that video many times.

"I…" he could feel his cheeks flushing and his voice growing a little thicker.

When Dean drew closer and stood between his thighs, Sam could feel the little butterflies all over his body, but their wings were particularly agitated in his belly, drawing heat to his crotch and making him hot.

"That's okay. You can tell me," Dean coaxed. His voice was gentle and his eyes were curious but safe. He placed the drink on the counter beside Sam and let a hand rest on Sam's thigh. The other hand went up and his fingers toyed with a lock of Sam's brown hair.

"I did," Sam croaked. God, he was glad he wasn't standing, his knees were certainly shaky.

Dean nodded gravely and adjusted the lock of hair behind Sam's ear. He tried to read his brother for any signs of distress, but all he saw was the desire growing behind the hazel eyes, now darker with a shade of lust. He couldn't not feel encouraged by that.

"Does the idea of following someone's command turn you on?" Dean asked gently, his voice above a whisper.

Sam couldn't find his voice. Dean was absolutely intoxicating when he let this dominant aspect of his personality come out. Sam nodded and licked at his lips.

"If shit hadn't happened," Dean closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. "Do you think you would've had fun letting me take control?"

"I…yes. I do." Sam parted his lips and his heart drummed in his chest. He could feel how his breathing rose to something shallow and throaty.

"Fuck, Sammy…" Dean's voice dropped until it was low and thick, and his fingers grazed the skin of Sam's neck with a gentle yet possessive caress.

Dean's lips were soft but firm when they took Sam's in a kiss. A small little sound of pleasure drowned in the saliva of their mouths when Sam felt Dean's tongue slip inside and rub against his.

So. Fucking. Good.

Sam swore he could close his eyes and kiss Dean for hours. Except he wasn't kissing as much as he was being kissed. Dean took such sweet control of everything that it made Sam feel like he was floating.

The younger man let his eyes fall shut as the sweet fragrance of Dean's shampoo and aftershave filled his nostrils. He let his fingers hold at Deans sides, tentatively at first, more surely as the kiss deepened.


The small little sound was dangerously close to a moan, and it fueled Dean's desire. He pressed against the V of Sam's legs and let his fingers hold on to his jeans, digging into a pair of muscular thighs as his tongue slid over his brother's like it was home.

Sam felt himself harden. He could feel Dean's own hard-on pressing against his with nothing but denim separating them. His fingers clawed at his brother's sides and he tilted his head back—it only took Dean a heartbeat to put his lips on the sensitive skin being offered to him.

Dean planted soft, wet and warm kisses down Sam's neck until he buried his nose in the curve of his brother's neck, breathing in deeply and causing goosebumps to break all over Sam's body.

Sam was throbbing now. He tried to arch into Dean for more friction, but when Dean complied and thrust into him, it felt like a frozen, sharp blade pierced Sam's chest and cut through the sexy thoughts dancing around.   

He couldn't trust his body. He'd felt pleasure during his own fucking rape! How fucked up and wrong was that?!

Sam felt as if he was falling. Suddenly, all the heat pooling between his legs turned into icy cold paralysis and his whole body grew taut and stiff with something fearful.

He'd gotten hard. Sam remembered it. He'd had an erection while being sexually assaulted. His body didn't deserve pleasure after betraying him like that, did it?

"Dean-" Sam's voice was suddenly coated with several layers of hesitance and his fingers clutched to his brother with a grip that was almost painful.

"Sammy?" Dean broke away from the kissing. His eyes were still heavily clouded with lust, but he could feel the stiffness in his brother's body, and not just the delicious one between his legs.

When Dean could look into his brother's eyes he knew something was wrong. Sam looked shaky, insecure…guilty?

"I…I'm sorry…" Sam began. His eyes were straying and he couldn't seem to look into Dean's ones. The heat wave that had been engulfing him moments earlier faded quickly.

Dean felt his chest tighten with worry, his heart squeezing around a feeling of protectiveness but also helplessness at not knowing what to do to make those bad feelings Sam was experiencing go away.

"Was it a memory?" he asked gently. The arousing touches from before became tame and soothing as he ran his hands up and down Sam's arms.

Sam nodded. He curled his toes and punished his bottom lip between his teeth. He hated it, hated having that stupid memory, hated how it made him feel. Why couldn't he just bury it and pretend it had never happened?

"I don't want you to stop touching me because of this, I…I'll get over it, I don't want this to stop—"

"Shh, hey!" Dean stopped him. He framed Sam's face until his brother had no choice but to look into his eyes. "If you think you'll get to provoke me and then walk away, you got another thing coming, little brother," he teased and smiled kindly until Sam caved and mirrored him. "There's no need to hurry though, eh?"

"I'm sorry—" Sam tried again.

"Nothing to be sorry for. C'mere." Dean pressed Sam's head to his chest and felt his brother's hair tickle his chin. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

Sam's heart rattled in his chest. Did he want to tell Dean how he had, for a split moment, felt aroused at being brutally raped? Hell, no. Just the thought of it mortified him and made him want to dig a hole in the ground and crawl into it.

"No," he shook his head and spoke, the sound muffled against Dean's chest.

For a moment, Sam just let himself be, resting against his brother, feeling his arms wrapped around him. It felt way too good, except for the part where Sam felt broken and worthless inside.

Eventually though, he just needed to be alone and think.

"I…I need a moment, Dean."

"Okay," Dean watched as Sam got to his feet and looked a little lost in his own home. In his own clothes. "Call me if you need anything, promise?"

"I do," Sam nodded, smiled a frail little smile and went up the stairs to his room.

Dean lingered around the kitchen for a moment, finished his drink and then went up to his room as well in order to get his phone.

When he sat on the bed and picked up the phone from the nightstand, it was like he heard John's voice in his mind.

Dean opened the bottom drawer and took a look at the book about male victims of rape.

He sighed warily as he stared at the cover.

Maybe, he thought, and slammed the drawer shut again.


~ * ~


A while later, Sam stood before the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. Everything was quiet in the house. Dean was probably in his room and John wasn't home yet.

"What the fuck is wrong with you," Sam whispered at his reflection in the mirror.

Having Dean's attention, flirting with him, touching him, kissing him! Those were the dreams that kept him awake at night—the good dreams. The promise of crossing lines was everything Sam had ever wanted since he'd realized he was in love. Ironically, now that they were getting there, his body was all broken and wrong.

Of course Sam knew why. It would've been too easy and naïve of him believing he could bury the abuse as deep as it would go and move on as if nothing had happened.

The truth was that having put himself in such a helpless position and suffered one violation of his body and mind after the other was still haunting Sam. He was so fucking torn between his desire to explore Dean's dominant side, to give in to him, and the shame of having been humiliated when he was so vulnerable. Now, he knew Dean would never hurt him, but the same arousal he'd experienced before was now deeply intertwined with a feeling of panic Sam couldn't process.

Then, to make matters worse, there was the guilt. Sam couldn't even begin to think about the small moment of pleasure in the storm of pain because it shattered his ego and made him hate himself.

If only there was a way for him to feel confident enough to let go of those memories and give in to the amazing feeling growing between Dean and he. Sam needed to shut the door to that dark episode at Bobby's bar and allow himself to explore new territory with Dean. The only problem was, well, himself. His damn brain with those god-awful memories and the frailty they evoked.

Sam took a deep breath and looked in the eyes of the man in the mirror.

Of course, that Wednesday night hadn't been all about god-awful sensations. He needed to be honest. After the chaotic fear had grabbed at him with realization when the criminals decided to drug him, there was that one moment, as heroin traveled his system, when Sam had felt as though he could fly.

Nothing had mattered then. The rape, the pain, the guilt, he was absolutely free and stupidly happy. Of course that hadn't lasted for long because of the excessive amount of drug causing his body to crash. Before this happened, though, Sam had had a taste of the high. He'd felt good, confident, powerful.

Sam then stood perfectly still, as if questioning what he saw in the eyes of his own reflection.

He couldn't go down that road. For fuck's sake, he knew exactly why it was a bad idea. He'd grown up in the business.

Still…maybe if he used it just once…just to take the edge off. He deserved it, didn't he? After all he'd been through, it was fair to say he needed a little pick me up to help him get over the trauma and feel comfortable in his shoes again.

Of course he wouldn't be dumb enough to make an habit out of this. Sam wasn't weak. He knew better.

He closed the wardrobe door and walked out of his room. The house was still in complete silence, but when he walked closer to Dean's room he could hear the sound of the shower running inside. His brother was probably dealing with the blue balls Sam had given him.

This thought spurred him on until he walked into John's office. He closed the door and walked towards the painting on the wall, removing it until he could stare at the safe.

Sam's heart began to race. He looked around as if he was about to do something wrong—which he was—and punched in the code.

The safe's door opened with a click and Sam stared at the pricey drugs inside.

This is crazy, he thought. He couldn't do that. He knew what happened to those who began down that road.

Yet, it was like some part of his body, something inside his brain, remembered the exhilarating feeling of being problem free, feeling nothing but good.

He knew people who used cocaine recreationally. Not everyone became addicts. It was a choice, Sam thought.

Besides, he'd only use it if the memories got worse. What was the difference between taking prescribed pills to deal with trauma or using one of those bags, just in case he really needed?

Fuck, I can't. Sam shook his head, closed the door to the safe and walked towards the office door.

He then stopped on his feet and looked over his shoulder. The painting, he reminded himself.

Sam walked towards the safe, almost as if hypnotized by its contents.

Somewhere in the distance, the shower stopped running.

"Screw this, I can decide later." He opened the safe again, picked up one of the small plastic bags with thin white powder inside, closed the safe and adjusted the painting back just as neatly as it was before.

When Sam walked back to his room there was a small bag of cocaine burning in the back pocket of his jeans. Not that he was going to use it. No.

Just in case he needed, he thought before hiding it in his clothes.


~ * ~ 


A few days later, John was talking on his cell phone when the office phone began to ring. He looked at it and stared out of the window for a moment. It was evening and he was going to leave soon. He grew curious as to what reception could possibly want with him at this time.

"Look, I got to hang up. Yeah, we'll discuss the details later. I'll email you with more info," he spoke before ending the call with his Canadian contact and then picked up the phone. "John Winchester."

He listened for a moment as creases formed on his forehead.

"I don't have any meetings scheduled for now," John said, but the man on the other side of the line insisted about someone being there to see him. "What did you say his name was again?"

John listened for a while longer, his body growing a little tense. He took his cell phone and quickly found one of his last conversations with Bobby. Castiel Novak was the detective sniffing around his sons. Bobby had informed him on it. What the hell are you doing here, my friend? Because he knew the most important and strategically placed people in the police force, there was no way John wouldn't have been tipped off about a visit of that nature. That could only lead him to believe the detective was there off the record.

John would admit, this Castiel guy had some balls.

"Yeah, let him up. I'll see him," he said before hanging up the phone.





Chapter Text



John began to gather all the papers and files on top of his desk and organize them in a binder, which he then put inside the desk's first drawer. He'd been following Crowley's lead on Azazel, talking to his contacts in Canada to try and locate the man who had shot Mary. Apparently, he would have to put everything on hold, because Castiel Novak was on his way up.

Winchester looked again at his conversation with Bobby on his phone.

"No dirt on you, eh Castiel?" John narrowed his eyes and pinched his chin. "So you're one of the good guys."

John looked at the door and waited for the detective to walk in at any moment.

"Guess you won't make this easy, then," John puffed out his chest and put a smile on his face as he waited.

Castiel Novak walked in a few moments later.

The detective looked around the penthouse office and John couldn't help noticing he looked impressed. Well, he should be. The view was amazing, the place was spacious and clean looking, like the office of a true bad ass CEO—intimidating as fuck.

"Castiel Novak. Take a seat," John reached out his hand and pointed towards the chair in front of his desk.

"Thank you," Castiel said in his gravelly voice and approached the smiling man.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, detective?"

"First off, thank you for seeing me. This visit is off the record," Castiel stated what John already suspected. "I'm here to ask you questions that I hope you'll help me with, but not as a part of any investigation." Not officially, anyway, Castiel thought.

"Well, whatever I can help with, I'll be happy to oblige." John kept the smile on his face, but inside he was already thinking about how to get rid of the bold little detective who had clearly gone behind his superiors' backs to go looking for him—in his office. Not part of any investigation my ass, he thought.

Castiel took the seat before John. If that was indeed the man behind a millionaire drug empire, with many drug trafficking related deaths on his shoulders, then Castiel knew he was deadly and dangerous. Yet, because John was also a businessman, Castiel assumed he was pretty safe. For the time being anyway.

He hoped that if—when—he was finally able to prove the Winchesters' drug scheme then Crowley would go down with John. Still, for obvious reasons, looking for a shady criminal like Crowley and sitting down for an interview was off the table. The only time he would interview Crowley would be at the station, probably in the presence of a lawyer.

"I'm a detective in the Narcotics department, but I'm sure you know this," Castiel smiled.

John smiled too, an unreadable, potentially dangerous, smile. He didn't agree or correct the detective before him. Instead, he kept thinking about Bobby's words. No dirt on him? No shit. John could hardly believe that the one honest cop in town had ended up in his office, about to question him. That told John bribing was not an option. Whichever way that conversation went down, John would need to use his charm as much as possible to steer Castiel away from his family.

"I investigate drug-related crimes and try to get those responsible for them punished by the law."

"Yeah, that's what I assume a narcs detective does," John nodded. "Although why there's one sitting before me right now is still somewhat of a big question," his lips quirked up with defiance.

Castiel took a deep breath. He knew who he was talking to and that he needed to tread carefully.

"The Winchester name came up when I was conducting an interview with someone who witnessed a crime."

"Oh, did it?" John arched his eyebrows. Whoever had snitched, they would be found and dealt with.

"He was not able to give me names, but he said two men broke into the place where he and his partners were hiding. These men were delivering a message on your behalf, allegedly, and they were brothers."

Really? That's all you have? That's why you came looking for me? John thought, almost condescendingly.

"Mr. Novak…" John took a deep breath. "I assume you are familiar with the stories told about me on the streets." He fixed his brown, keen eyes on the detective's blue ones. "For years my family has been the target of malicious gossip as people try to understand how I've come into money. I know what they say, but I assure you: our small fortune is the product of years of hard work…and some good luck, let's be honest."

Castiel nodded, but his blue eyes were not friendly and he did not mirror John's smile.

"I know what they say, and you must know it's my job to look into things. The man I interviewed believes the suspect who shot and killed his friend was one of your sons."

John scoffed.

"I'm sure you'll find many young men out there who will say they are my sons." John felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He had enough on his plate what with the assault on Sam, Azazel on the loose in Canada and Ronald still missing. The last thing he needed was the police hovering and asking questions about his kids. "Sometimes they want to impress someone or get access to a certain place…I'll tell you, it's not easy being a public figure. Would you like coffee?" John got up and turned his back on the man.

Castiel was a little frustrated at the sudden interruption to his train of thought, but he said yes and accepted a cup. Some addictions were hard to ignore.

"Thank you," he said and sipped the warm, delicious coffee. Colombian? Brazilian? That was high quality shit, and not rewarmed coffee. "I also know you are very influential in the city given the many bars you own, and it's understandable people more often than not want to be on your good side."

John arched his eyebrows and shrugged lightly, as if he couldn't confirm that statement.

"So I came here off the record after days trying to gather information on your sons. To my surprise, there isn't much there."

John smiled with his eyes, like he said Of course there isn't, do I look stupid?

"Except for the Stanford university application result I found online to a certain S. Winchester," Castiel studied John intently. The smile was finally off his face. Good, he thought. "Which made me wonder whether your kids went to college or maybe decided to carry on the family business…You know, off the record," Castiel smiled.

John felt his blood boiling and his temper trying to flare. It took him some self-control breathing techniques and a poker face to smile it all off. Stanford was still a sour subject with Sam. When a few years ago his youngest had brought up college, a bit of mayhem had broken out in the Winchester house, with Sam threatening to leave everything behind and pursue a different life. In the end, John had been able to knock some sense into him. He assumed Dean had helped—and he had, more than John could imagine, by giving Sam all those butterflies—and eventually they had moved past it.

Right now, though, John chose to think about the absolute fear-stricken look in his son's eyes when he had touched him the previous night. It weighed on his heart and made him want to end that conversation soon and just go home.

"I'm sure you understand, Mr. Novak, why it's extremely important for me to try and keep my sons' lives as private as possible. It's bad enough that I have to deal with all those lies about myself. They have a right to live as they please."

"Of course," Castiel nodded and sipped his coffee. Damn, he wished he had such good coffee at the station. "So maybe you would allow me to interview them, you know, off the record, too? Just a few questions about the night Mike Miller got shot. I'm sure they have a sound alibi."

We're done playing around here, John thought and his eyes got a different, killer glint to them. He also puffed up his chest and walked towards Castiel, looming a little over him.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, detective. I've been in the business long enough to know what catastrophic effect some simple, off the record conversations, can have on someone's reputation," he was done being nice. "Get a court order and you can talk to whoever you want." John said, knowing it would be virtually impossible for Castiel to get one when John had so many important authorities in his pocket. "So unless you have one now, I believe we should stop wasting each other's times."

John picked up on a small little tremor in the detective when he stood before him. A slight hitch of his breath, a shallow intake of breath.

"I'm sorry you see it as a waste of time, John. I'm sure that a small talk could clear many misunderstandings," Castiel tried. He felt a certain amount of tension creep into him at John's closeness. There was some sort of intense authority and strength beaming in that man, and Castiel wasn't entirely immune to it.

"Oh, I don't doubt it. That's why I hope our small talk has been helpful. I can assure you that my sons had nothing to do with this guy's death. They're good kids. Forgive me if I sound protective, but without evidence, I won't allow them to be suspects in a murder case because someone believes some gossip they heard," John's voice was firm and stern.

Castiel sighed. He finished his coffee and laid it on top of John's desk. Perhaps going there had been a mistake. Yet, even if he was leaving with nothing, it had made him even more sure that something was up with the Winchester brothers, and he was going to find out what.

The detective got up and looked John in the eyes, despite how uneasy it made him feel.

"You know what they say, where there's smoke there's fire," he said.

John managed to smile again.

"Maybe," he caved. "I personally like it better the one that goes about everybody having a skeleton in their closet. You like this one, detective?" There was a smile on his lips, but a clear threat in his voice.

Castiel felt a small shudder go down his spine. He thought about John Winchester in the bar where The Club was, and suddenly he wondered if the Mafia boss knew who he was—The Pet—when he unleashed his desire. The thought made Castiel nervous and threw him a little off balance. He had always been so careful about anonymity. There was no way John Winchester knew about his visits to The Club, was there?

John's lips curved a little with satisfaction. Now that was a line that always worked. Everyone had something to hide. Maybe Bobby just hadn't dug deep enough into Castiel.

"Goodbye, John. And thanks for the coffee." Castiel turned around but then spun on his heels and faced John again. "Colombian?"


Castiel nodded.

"Thought so."

"Goodbye detective. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

John watched the man in the trench coat walk towards the elevator and disappear behind closed doors.

Only after he was alone for a while did he pick up his phone to make a call.

"Bobby? Guess who just dropped by at the office?"


~ * ~ 


John got home at seven p.m. and started calling after his kids.

"Sam? Dean? Are you home?"

Sam came down the stairs and Dean walked out of the gym.

"Did something happen?" Dean asked first. Sam stopped in the middle of the stairs and stared at their father.

"I've got something to go over with you. Let's have dinner together. It's been a while since we all sat down to have a meal," John said. His eyes then went for his youngest. "How about you? You good?"

Sam felt as though his heart got a little squeezed in his chest, and his blood rushed a little faster under his dad's attentive gaze. He still remembered his embarrassing episode of jumping startled when his father touched the back of his neck.

PTSD, that's what it was.

"I'm fine," Sam managed to say. He couldn't get over how ashamed he felt when in John's presence. His father represented everything he had ever known about strength, resilience, power. Fuck, even when it came to sex John was a dominating man. Sam wondered how John felt knowing his son had been humiliated and raped, unable to defend himself or fight back. But he also wondered—with so much shamed that clogged his throat—how his dad felt about knowing Sam was interested in a submissive role. Was he disappointed? Disgusted?

"Good. Half an hour, I'll order Thai from that restaurant you both love," John announced.

Sam nodded and went back up hastily, his thoughts still racing and his adrenaline levels still uncomfortably high.

Downstairs, John walked towards Dean and waited for Sam to go back to his room and close the door.

"What?" Dean asked. He knew that look in his dad's eyes.

"Check you phone," John said.

Dean reached into the pocket in his sweatpants and unlocked it. There was an unread message in his conversation with his dad. It was a picture.

When Dean opened it, his heart raced and his upper lip twitched so very little with the anger that coarsed through him.

"I printed copies of that photo, it's the best I could get, and sent to some of our men."

"Couldn't have just texted them the picture?" Dean asked, eyes still on the bearded man who had raped his brother.

"I did, too," John explained. "I want them to hang the photo in their offices, though. I want everyone we have looking at it as much as they can during as many hours as possible. That face needs to live and breathe in their memories. That's how we're going to find him."

Dean nodded. That made sense. And of course they couldn't have that picture printed around the house.

The thought that his father had watched the footage god knew how many times in order to capture the best picture of Sam's abuser made Dean's stomach churn. He didn't think he had it in him to see it once, let alone many times, and he was glad John was able to do it.

"All right. Just tell everyone that if they locate him, I need to know too," he looked into his father's eyes. "No more revenge going behind my back. This time I want to be part of it and I don't care what you say about it."

John nodded.

"Very well. You'll know when I know something."

"You should destroy that footage now, you know. Delete it and then get rid of it," Dean said. The last thing they would need was for Sam to accidently stumble upon it. And if he had already stumbled upon The Club, they needed to learn their lesson.

"Yes," John said, but he seemed unsure. The video was still the only evidence he had and he wasn't willing to dispose of it so easily, even if he never wanted to sit through it again. "Were you training?" he changed the subject, looking at Dean's sweaty, shirtless chest and nodding with approval. It was important that the boys keep in shape, even if they weren't going out in missions at the moment.

"Just had a good workout," Dean admitted.

"Next time get your brother to join you. Sam needs to get his mind off of what happened and this will help."

Not sure you would like to put us together in a shirtless and sweaty scenario, Dean thought to himself but just nodded.

"And go shower before dinner," John turned around and walked towards his favorite armchair.


~ * ~ 


In his room, Sam felt a little edgy. He tried to tell himself to calm down. It was just family dinner. His father had probably learned the lesson too and wouldn't touch him unexpectedly.

The thought didn't fail to sadden him, because Sam liked being affectionate his dad. They so often got into arguments and heated debate, it was good when John showed warmth towards him.

Yet, the fear that something could trigger another memory grabbed at his heart and Sam couldn't seem to relax.

Of course his eyes strayed towards his first drawer and his thoughts swirled with the possibility of doing something to take the edge off.

Getting high with his dad and Dean at the table would be a really, really bad idea. But Sam wasn't going to use the cocaine to get high. It was more like a medicinal use. For the PTSD, he told himself.

The younger Winchester locked the door and then sat on his bed before opening the drawer. Sam went through his socks and picked up the pair he wanted. He unfolded the white socks until a small little plastic bag fell on his lap.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as he fumbled a little to open the Ziplock bag. Sam had no experience whatsoever with using illegal drugs, even though he'd OD'ed a few days back. He dipped his pinky finger inside and saw the small amount of power that stuck on it.

"This won't become a thing. I just need it to cope," he told himself. "Just for now," he promised his rational brain, which did not seem happy about the choice he was making.

Sam took the finger to his left nostril and sniffed in deeply and fast.

He then quickly closed the bag and hid it back within his sock drawer. As he did it, he could feel his quickened heart rate—nothing crazy, though. Nothing at all like on the day of the overdose.

Right now there was only a warm little feeling inside him, a delicious tingling of his fingers as his muscles relaxed and his worries began to fade.

Sam checked himself in the mirror—he looked perfectly okay. His pupils were not blown out or anything and there was no evidence, on the outside, that he'd taken anything. He knew he had sniffed just a small amount, probably one third of what a regular user would need for recreational purposes. Still, Sam was happy with the result. Whether John Winchester was disappointed or ashamed of having a son who enjoyed being submissive, and who had ended up raped because of it, Sam didn't care. There was no room for bad memories or insecurities. Tonight he wanted to feel normal.

Twenty minutes after he'd walked into his room, Sam left and went down the stairs towards the dining room.


~ * ~ 


On the table, three big brown bags of takeout were open, as Sam, Dean and John helped themselves to the food. John also opened an expensive bottle of wine, which Sam refused. He had absolutely no intention of mixing alcohol with cocaine on his first time using drugs. Well, second time, technically.

They began to eat in what would otherwise have been a regular Friday night in the Winchesters' home. John sitting at the corner of the Victorian table, Sam and Dean on each of his sides, across from each other.

"So, there's this detective that's becoming a growing pain in my ass," John began. He took a sip of his wine and tried to offer Sam again, which the boy declined. Shame, John thought. Sam really needed to loosen up, even though he looked much better now than he did a few nights ago when John had run into him in the kitchen. "He showed up at the office today."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before facing their father.

"Did he have a warrant or something?" Sam frowned.

"No. It was a friendly, 'off the record' visit," John acted the quotations.

"The fuck?" Dean shrugged.

"I'm pretty sure he went behind his superiors' backs."

"What did he want?" Dean asked.

"To talk about Mike Miller." When both of his kids frowned and shrugged without any recognition, John went on. "It's the man who got shot when Dean burned Crowley's drugs," he explained.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"How did he get to you?" Sam wanted to know. He couldn't help feeling happy for his decision to use a bit of the drug. He felt confident and focused, a lot like he did before the assault.

"One of the men who escaped has talked. He said the two men who burst into their place were brothers and delivered a message on my behalf. So now Castiel is hell-bent on investigating the Winchester brothers," John tilted his head, ate a generous piece of red meat and drank wine.

"Should we worry?" Dean then asked, his eyes going from Sam to his father.

"I don't know. He knows he doesn't have much to go on or else he wouldn't have made an unofficial visit. He wanted to talk to the two of you but of course I won't let it happen. The only thing he did have was a name. Well, sort of. S. Winchester," John then let his eyes rest on Sam.

The youngest man looked at his father and brother, and then shrugged.


"He's been digging, it seems. He found an online acceptance letter from Stanford." John's eyes had a twinge of accusation Sam didn't fail to notice. "And that, Sam, is why I told you it was such a shitty idea at the time. You do stuff like that, you leave a trail."

Yesterday, Sam might have lowered his head and felt all sorts of bad, but right now the little pick me up he had used boosted his confidence and enabled a more bold reply.

"So what? He knows I applied and got accepted. He doesn't know who I am. Just that I'm smart," he sort of bragged and then winked at his brother.

Dean cocked his head a little, interested and a little surprised by the cheeky answer.

"If he knows your name, that will encourage him to keep going. Who knows what else he may uncover," John went on and glared at his son.

"That's not my fault. If there's one thing that I'm not to blame is for trying to leave this life and pursue something normal. Most parents would be glad their son chooses college over drugs," he spoke and there was evident resentment in his voice.

Dean could quickly see that escalating, so he reached a hand under the table and stretched it until he could place it on Sam's knee. He squeezed softly, and when he had his brother's attention, he gave him a meaningful look.

Sam relaxed a little when he felt Dean's touch. He could feel his heart racing and something growing restless and a little combative inside of him. Sure, he'd had arguments before, especially about Stanford, but Sam knew the cocaine might be urging him to provoke his father instead of backing down.

John didn't want to have that talk all over again. He knew Sam was still in a very vulnerable position, and maybe he was just venting to avoid thinking about what was truly bothering him.

"I'm not having this dinner so we can fight about that crap all over again. It's in the past," John said in a placating voice.

Dean's fingers nudged Sam's knee again and he sighed deeply.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. What are we going to do about this Castiel guy?" Sam asked, pleasing Dean and John by acquiescing.

"I talked to Bobby. Apparently there's no dirt on him. Not something we've discovered as of now. That doesn't mean something won't be done. He's sniffing around too close to home and I don't like it one bit."

"What's on your mind?" Dean asked, not completely sure he would like the answer.

"The same thing that's always on my mind," John stated, drank another sip and smiled. "Protect my family and get the job done."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look from across the table.

"I just thought you should know. Bobby's on it. Now let's have a good evening together." John raised his glass and looked at Sam's sparkling water and Dean's wine. "Cheers!"


~ * ~ 


Because he no longer had the usual Friday night appointments to look forward to, Castiel left Winchester's office and drove around for a while, thinking about the case and everything that had happened so far. At a certain point, he stopped at the hospital to check on the witness to another possibly drug related murder, but Marcus was still in a coma after his overdose.

At around eleven p.m., Castiel began to make his way back home. In the backseat of his car he had some Brazilian coffee he'd bought on his little stop at the supermarket before going home.

An old rock ballad played softly in the car when he stopped at a traffic light. His fingers drummed lightly to the beat as he waited for the light to turn green.

Castiel hadn't noticed the car tailing him since he'd left the hospital. He had no reason to be wary, and the late hour as well as the driver's distance didn't raise any red flags.

When the light turned green, he could not have imagined there was a car so close waiting to change his plans for the night.

There was an unexpected and brutal impact on the side of his car, shattering glass and smashing metal in a high pitched explosion of screeching noises and pain.

Castiel had no time to prepare. No time to understand what was happening.

He felt the pain exploding in his head and leg and then everything went pitch black.






Chapter Text



The continuous beeping of the monitor beside him was the first thing he became aware of when his mind was able to focus. Little by little, he was able to open his eyes into tiny slits and look at the place around him.

There were purple flowers on the nightstand table beside the bed—he was lying down, this much he figured out quickly.

That meant it couldn't be home. Castiel didn't have any plants because he often forgot to water them and they died a slow, dry and sad death. Now, had it been coffee and he would be tempted to believe he was in his bedroom, after pulling an all-nighter for work.

When his eyes got a little more used to the light, Castiel saw the white walls and again confirmed he was not home. He looked at the flowers again and followed the blue ribbon until he saw a balloon hovering above the flowers. Get better soon!, it said.

So it was the hospital.

Funny how he wasn't in any pain.

It took him a while longer to be able to look at himself and try and piece together his last memories.

He was going home. There was coffee in the backseat. He was just so tired…

John Winchester. He had interviewed the drug lord without any success. But that wasn't why he was at the hospital, Castiel had ended the interview, he'd gone to the supermarket, he'd bought Brazilian coffee…or was it Colombian?

Then there was the light, the car coming out of nowhere, and blackness.

"Nurse?" he called weakly, his voice sounding heavy and slurred. He found a nurse call button near his hand and reached a finger to press it.

In less than five minutes a middle-aged black woman showed up at the door.

"Hello, Mr. Novak. Welcome back."

"How…how long was I out?"

"Three days," the woman said cheerfully as she pulled out a thermometer and stethoscope from the pockets of her lab coat and began to examine the patient.

Castiel watched her go about it and could barely hide his surprise at the news. Three whole days?

"You were in a car crash, sir. Do you remember any of it?"

"Barely," Castiel confessed. "Just the impact and then nothing."

"The doctor will be here soon to talk to you about your injuries. Are you in any pain?"

"No…I'm fine."


"Hi, Castiel," a man in his forties walked in and the nurse left. He was tall, blond and had intelligent blue eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. "I'm Dr. Spencer and I was one of the surgeons who operated on you."


"You came here with an exposed broken femur fracture that was bleeding profusely and required immediate surgery. Besides, there was also internal organ injury. I'm the one who operated on your spleen and liver."

Castiel stared at the man and tried to process his words. His face didn't hide his shock at finding out the accident was a lot more serious than he'd first imagined it.

"Aside from that you have a couple of broken ribs, a punctured lung and many bruises and cuts around your body."

"I…I'm not in any pain…"

"I'm glad to hear that. You're on morphine, but now that you're up we'll begin to wean you off it. The less you need it, the better."

As a narcotics detective, Castiel couldn't count how many times he'd heard that story before—some poor junkie whose addiction started after a stay in the hospital and some prescription pills to take home.

"Okay." He still looked around, obviously lost.

"Is there anyone you would like us to contact on your behalf?"

Castiel shook his head. He'd had a fallen out with his brothers and sisters long ago.

"When can I get out?" he asked.

Dr. Spencer chuckled softly and cocked his head with a warm, friendly but apologetic look.

"I'm afraid you're going to be here for a long time, Castiel. You're looking at least a couple of weeks, maybe more. My fellow surgeons will need to do follow up surgery on your femur, and for that you'll need at least ten days to heal from the first surgery as well as other injuries. We want you stable when you go under again. But the ortho surgeon will explain it better when he comes here."

Castiel fell silent as the doctor's words sank in.

"I'll be back later to run some tests. You should rest now. If you need anything, just press that button and someone will help you, okay?"

"Wait," Castiel called after the man when he made as if he'd leave. "The flowers? Who left them here?"

Dr. Spencer looked at the purple orchids and shrugged.

"I wasn't around when they were brought. Want me to read the card?"

"Yes, please."

"Hope you get out of the hospital soon. Sending you my best wishes, J.W."

The doctor looked at the man in bed and smiled.

"Friend?" He asked.

Castiel could feel his heart racing. The coffee in the backseat. The traffic light, the car coming, the impact. And then darkness.

The interview from before. J.W.

It was a message.

"You could say so," Castiel smiled, feeling his chest fill with dread.

The flowers and the get better balloon suddenly looked very cold and threatening.

'Because they are a threat', Castiel thought and fell deep in thought the moment the doctor left.


~ * ~ 


John woke up after a good night asleep and went downstairs to the kitchen. Since he was the first one up, and because he was in a good mood—the detective wasn't dead, but he would be out of the way for a while, probably scared into backing off—he began to make breakfast for the three of them.

Today he would have a busy day ahead, making phone calls and having meetings about the business and about the two most important names on his kill list. It seemed like they were closing in on Azazel in Canada, and John couldn't wait to get to his office to see how that was going. Then there was Ronald—it was like the man had fallen off the face of the earth, but the more time went by, the more John's thirst for revenge grew, and the slower John would go when they finally met.

"Good morning boys," he said when he saw his kids coming down the stairs. "Take a seat, we're having pancakes, bacon and eggs today."

Dean looked at Sam and they exchanged an amused, surprised look.

"Who are you and what have you done to our dad?" Dean joked. Actually, John had done stuff like that before, but with the demands from his job and position in the family business, those moments became scarce. Dean couldn't remember the last time John Winchester had made them breakfast.

"Those are good," Sam took a bite of a pancake and smiled at his dad. "Thanks."

"Sit down, both of you."

Sam and Dean looked at each other again and took seats on the tall kitchen stools by the island. John served them breakfast and then left the dishes in the sink. The maid was coming today, and he would have to leave in a hurry.

For a moment he watched, pleased, as the boys dug in. It seemed amazing how much time had passed since they were just kids, picking on each other and teasing one another over breakfast until they got on John's nerves. It felt great seeing how much they had grown, how close they were.

Of course, things weren't perfect, but John hoped they could get better if they stuck together.

He walked towards them and approached his youngest softly. This time he was careful not to startle his son.

John put a warm hand between Sam's shoulder blades and rubbed up and down.

"How about some more?" he asked.

Sam stopped chewing and his heart raced. He could feel his body grow a little tense so he took a deep breath, becoming wary.

John's hand went up absently, his fingers landing on the nape of Sam's neck affectionately.

I'd like to put a face to the ass I'll be owning.

Sam dropped his knife and fork, taken aback by the helplessness and irrational fear that crept into him. He remembered being at the bearded man's mercy and feeling the possessive grip on his neck as he was manhandled and bent over the pool table.

Sam squeezed his fingers into a fist when they felt shaky.

"It's okay, I'm good," he answered hurriedly, his voice a little broken. His right leg kept shaking despite his control, as if he needed a way to let the tension go.

John and Dean exchanged a look, silent but pregnant with meaning, and John slowly raked his fingers down Sam's back, away from his neck. He understood it wasn't so much the touch as it was the place, and even though he hadn't shown up by surprise and had telegraphed his touch, Sam couldn't handle it. It was definitely a trigger.

Sam felt mortified. He could sense both his brother and father looking at him and he just wished he could get up and out of there without drawing attention. He then felt John's large and warm fingers go up to his shoulder and squeeze softly, reassuringly.

"Are you sure you're good?" John's voice dropped a little with concern.

Sam's leg kept moving as he tried to cope with the memory. He knew it was his father and he loved him. Sam was completely aware that he was safe, and with people who cared about him and wouldn't hurt him. Nevertheless, there was something about his dad, his built, his age, that strongly reminded him of the man who had abused him, and Sam hated not being able to shake off the feeling.

John retreated his hand and his eyes met Dean's again. He could see the barely veiled concern in his eldest's face.

Dean wanted to say something or do something really bad. He wanted to touch Sam, comfort him, ask him how he was, but one look at his brother's face out of the corner of his eye told him Sam was extremely uncomfortable and would rather be left alone.

Their eyes met briefly, and Sam nearly begged Dean, silently, to just let it go. Sam's cheeks were flushed with shame and he just wanted to get past that awkward moment.

"He's fine," Dean said and reached out a hand. He placed it on Sam's knee, trying to still the urgent movements of his brother's leg.

It worked, and Sam felt himself relax a notch under Dean's touch. He still couldn't look at either his brother or father though, so he fixed his eyes on the syrup on his plate as if he could drown in there if he stared long enough.

John saw how Dean's touch was somewhat soothing and his heart filled with relief. He didn't know what it was about him—or maybe he did, he'd seen the footage enough times now to be aware that Ronald and he were around the same age and with the same built, except John was a little taller, and perhaps more intimidating—but he was glad Sam wasn't triggered by all sorts of touching.

"Well, I have to get going," he announced. "Got a busy day ahead." He looked at Dean one last time and nodded at the way his hand was still on his brother's leg, calming him down. "Maria comes today, don't forget to pay her," he said.

"We won't," Dean said.

"Bye, boys."


"Bye…" Sam found his voice.

When they were alone, Dean retreated his hand and took a bite of his eggs.

Sam was still looking at his food, his stomach suddenly not in the mood to deal with it.

"Hey…" Dean began softly.

"I'm fine," Sam interrupted him with a smile that didn't really reach his eyes. It was hurried and nervous, but he was again begging Dean not to push it.

"What do you want to do today?" Dean then asked casually.

It looked like they would have the house for themselves, except they wouldn't be entirely alone with Maria around. Not that it would have mattered if they wanted to do something, but Sam was unable to cheer up at the thought of spending time together right now.

He felt broken. He couldn't handle his father's warm touch, he couldn't handle his brother's passionate touch. What the hell was wrong with him?

Of course he knew the answer, but when would it go away? He didn't want to feel this way anymore; he just wanted to be normal again.

"I think I'll finish this in my room. Need a little time…" he said, almost apologetically. "That okay?"

Did Dean want Sam to be alone? Hell, no, but if he needed a moment to get a grip on his emotions, of course Dean would respect that.

"Yeah, okay. I'll think of something for us to do since it looks like another day off."

Sam smiled, picked up a plate with food he had no intention of eating, and went up to his room.

He locked the door after laying the plate on the nightstand. His heart was still racing as he struggled to push away images of 8-balls and green mats.

He didn't want to feel like that—like a victim, like a broken victim.

Sam opened the first drawer and got the pair of socks he wanted. He unfolded it quickly, opened the small plastic bag and dipped his pinky inside the power. He sniffed the drug deeply and lay in bed, and in the next minutes he could feel his worries fading and his body relaxing with a good, confident feeling.

Sam closed his eyes and smiled softly. Having something to help with those triggers was a true blessing.


~ * ~ 


As the week unfolded lazily, the days began to grow warmer with the coming of spring. John kept working in his office during most of the day, Sam and Dean stayed home or sometimes went out for small, harmless missions involving their dad's contacts.

During these days, Sam made another visit to his dad's office and restored his small stash of PTSD medicine, as he liked to call it. This time he also opened the small black book where John kept a thorough control of the pricey drugs and wrote down 'online buyer, 3 bags'. He knew sooner or later his dad might check on the product and Sam needed to account for the missing bags. He also knew 'online buyer' would be enough since he and his brother sometimes sold it too and John had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. And if he questioned him, Sam could just say he'd used the money to buy some stuff. At this stage of the game it was not like John cared too much about money anyway.

By now, Sam had used the cocaine more times than he could count, but always in such small amounts that went by unnoticed by his brother and Dad.

He wasn't an addicted, as he liked to remind himself. It was just something to help take the edge off. Like alcohol. Except alcohol took too long to work—and didn't make him feel half as good.

The problem was, PTSD wasn't getting any better, while Sam, on the other hand, was getting bolder with his need to feel normal around his brother and father. Somewhere in the back of his brain Sam could hear a small voice telling him to step away before he was in too deep, but another voice, the same luring voice that spoke in the ears of many, told him it was okay because he was obviously in control of what he was doing.

Besides, he wasn't taking the drug to party or anything. He was just soothing his wrecked brain into accepting that he was okay and could move on.

If only his brain would understand.

Sam woke up shaking and perspiring. His heart was hammering in his chest and his breathing was ragged and uneven.

He'd just had a nightmare about the bar, one of the first ones he could remember vividly.

"Come here, let's see how tough you look with my dick down your throat."

Sam shook his head and looked around. His entire body was shaking like he'd just received a bolt of electricity through him.

He kicked the covers off and walked around until he found his phone. 3:30pm. Right, he'd lain down after lunch to take a nap and fallen asleep hard.

Sam walked towards the balcony and opened the glass doors, stepping outside and feeling the breeze on his face. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling.

"Sam? Sa-am?"

The voice calling for him pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Hey," he looked down at his brother in the pool, in swimming trunks and shirtless. His mood improved greatly.

"Finally up, sleeping beauty! Come join me. Water's great."

Sam smiled. His heart raced with a much better feeling and he nodded.

"Give me a sec," he said and went back inside.

Sam got into the shower quickly to wash away the nightmare and put on his own swimming trunks. Before he left the room, though, he reached into the drawer and dipped his finger in the white powder.

Dean and he would be half naked in the pool. John was not home, the maid wasn't coming today. Sam wanted to make the most of their time and he was not having PTSD get in the way. That's why his finger went for a second dip before he walked out of his room.


~ * ~


Dean waited for his brother to come down with a small fluttery feeling of anticipation stirring in his belly. He knew Sam was a bit skittish since the last time they'd been together and he'd had an episode of PTSD, and Dean had been giving his brother time and space to work through that. However, Dean didn't want Sam to be on his own, believing he had to deal with that alone. He wanted his brother to know he could trust him, lean on him for help, even if Dean wasn't quite sure how to help at the moment.

The fact that Sam accepted the offer and now showed up in swimming trunks and chiseled chest muscles cheered Dean up. His brother was probably in a good mood, which relieved him and made him too, relax.

"Come in." Dean's green eyes flashed invitingly as Sam approached the pool.

"Oh, I'm coming." Sam smiled before diving in, splashing water all around the pool as his tall body went under the surface.

Dean turned his face and wiped his eyes. "Got to make an entrance, don't you?" He sounded playfully annoyed and splashed water on his brother.

Sam chuckled and moved his arms around, the muscles on his shoulders rippling as he did that.

"What are you listening to? Is that Taylor Swift?" Sam narrowed his eyes and provoked when he could pay attention to the beat coming from Dean's phone, now resting on a chair by the pool.

"No," Dean shook his head and frowned, as if offended. "I mean, yeah, but I don't know how that got into my playlist."

Sam repressed a chuckle and his eyes glowed mischievously.

"You do know that only the songs or artists you listen to often make it into your playlist, right?"

"Yeah, whatever. Stupid algorithm."

Sam looked at his brother's face and his heart raced a little as the butterflies warmed his chest. God, Dean looked so fucking handsome with the sun reflected in his eyes and the water drops running from his wet short hair down to his neck and collarbone. How could he have not fallen for him?, Sam thought.

"Yeah, it's the algorithms' fault, right," Sam teased and loved the response he got.

"Hey," Dean surged against him and dunked Sam's head under the water.

When Sam came back he gasped for air and laughed, especially since Dean's fingers stroked across his ribcage and tickled another round of laughter out of him.

"Will you stop?! Don't make me hurt a Taylor fan," Sam provoked, fueling their horse play.

"Oh, yeah? As if you could hurt me."

"You think I'm too rusty?"

"Bring it on, Sasquatch."

They wrestled playfully for a moment, until Dean's wet, slippery grip failed him and he ended up in a tight headlock.

"What did you call me?"

Dean was having a hard time escaping the tight grip Sam had on him because he was laughing so hard.


Dean squirmed until he found Sam's torso again and tickled him, causing his brother to let go.

They looked at each other breathlessly for a moment. Sam felt his heartbeats pulsing in his wrists, throat and chest. The drug in his system made him bold and eager, and suddenly his eyes trailed lower until all he could see was his brother's mouth.

"Sammy?" Dean sensed the shift in mood and felt his own pulse race.

Sam closed the distance between them causing the water to ripple around their bodies.

"Kiss me," he croaked out, his lower belly getting warm and his sex growing heavy with need.

Dean, of course, complied. There was no way he could be unaffected by Sam's desire, and to be honest, he had been longing for a kiss for a while now.

Sam initiated the kiss, but soon let Dean take control. His older brother placed a hand at the back of his neck and slipped his wet, warm tongue into his mouth, causing Sam's head to spin and his knees to weaken at the taste.

Unlike their first kiss in that pool, this one was more heated than tentative, with Dean's fingers raking through soaking wet locks of hair and tugging, so Sam would have no choice but to part his lips and give him access.

"Mm," Sam moaned into the kiss and the sound traveled straight to Dean's cock.

"Fuck, Sammy…you're so fucking hot."

Sam felt his body temperature rise. He tilted his neck back obediently when Dean began to kiss and nibble at his jawline and lower.

When Dean's lips locked on the curve of his neck, Sam let out a meek little sigh of pleasure and hardened to a full, heavy erection.

Dean broke away and licked at his lips. He wanted to take more, to give more, but after what had happened the last time they touched, he needed to make sure Sam was okay with it. It didn't matter how horny they both were, Dean knew he needed to tread carefully not to trigger anything. And even if he was slow and careful, he knew something might get triggered anyway.

Sam, however, seemed to have a different idea.

"Don't stop," he whispered and pushed against Dean again. He felt reckless and determined when he slid his hand past the waistband of Dean's swim trunks and pressed his palm against the velvety skin of Dean's cock.

"Whoa, tiger," Dean put a hand on top of his brother's wrist when Sam began to stroke him.

Sure, they were alone, and John hadn't been home until late evening in the past days, but it still wasn't completely safe. What if something came up and John got home earlier? What if Bobby dropped by? He knew the code, he could come in unannounced. They couldn't just go at it in the pool.

"What? Hm? Isn't it good? You can't tell me you don't want it," Sam's breathing was shallow and his eyes a bit agitated. He tried to move his hand again but his brother tightened his grip on his wrist.

"Sammy…someone could come."

"Let them see," Sam chuckled wickedly.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes a little. A thought began to form in his mind, something that bothered him, but Sam kissed him again and Dean felt the thought slipping away.

Under the water, Sam took his brother's hand and placed it on top of his swimming trunks, letting Dean feel the hardness waiting underneath a thin layer of clothing.

Not that Dean didn't want to jerk each other off—fuck, he wanted to give Sam pleasure again and he certainly wanted to find release as well. However, they were right there in the open. It was risky, but it wasn't the only problem. There was something about Sam coming on to him that was a bit strong and messy, and especially after the last time, it raised a red flag in Dean's brain.

"Sam, we can't," he spoke softly against his brother's lips. "What are we going to do? Cum into the family pool?" he grinned, but his eyes looked serious.

Sam grinned too, darkly.

"So what? Fuck it."

Okay, Dean thought, that was not his brother at all. Sam was too neat to say that. It didn't matter how horny he was, his brother would have agreed that the family pool was not the best place to release bodily fluids into.

Sam planted his lips on Dean's collarbone and sucked, tasting skin and chlorine, feeling his urgency spike. His hand once again began to work within Dean's swimming trunks.

"Sam…Sammy," Dean pulled Sam away from him gently and looked into his eyes after framing his cheeks.

This time Sam looked a little annoyed as Dean studied him with more clinical interest and less heated passion.

"What?" Sam's voice was a little raspier than he meant, and he took his hand away.

The thought that had slipped away came back, and this time Dean held on to it. He knew what was off. Sam's pupils looked dilated, like, seriously dilated. Even if he was aroused, that was more than normal. Besides, they were under the afternoon sun. There was no way his brother's eyes would look like that in the sunlight.

"What?" Sam asked again, this time a bit warily. He tried to step back from Dean's grip on his face but his brother didn't let him go.

"Wait, look at me." Dean felt his heart thud fast, this time out of concern. "Were you drinking?"

"No…" Sam frowned. He pushed Dean's hands away and stepped back.

"Sam, did you take something?" Dean hated, absolutely hated the thought that pierced his mind, but he had to voice it. He had been around drug users all his life to fail to notice the signs now. Sam's hectic behavior, recklessness and his boldness in particular, especially after what happened to him, and the anxiety he'd been experiencing, all those things were big red flags right now.

"What the fuck?" Sam seemed outraged. His arousal subdued and anger rose, instead. He could feel his entire body going into defense mode, ready to attack and protect himself from any accusations. "What do you mean?"

"I…" Dean didn't want to rouse his brother, but he couldn't ignore what he was seeing. His own arousal faded fast as concern grabbed at his heart. "I mean, if you did it's okay, man…we can talk about it…"

Sam's heart was racing erratically. He couldn't accept the idea of being caught. He was way too deep in denial.

"Actually, I drank some tequila before coming here," Sam smiled it off, angry at himself for not having gone with it before.

That, however, just raised Dean's suspicion and made him study his brother for any signs of having done something really stupid, like using what they sold.

"So relax, okay? It's fine. You can stop worrying." Sam didn't want to stop things. He was feeling confident and powerful. He wanted, he needed to prove to himself that he could do that; he could be intimate with the man he loved, he could feel pleasure. He deserved it! At least that was what the drug buzzing in his bloodstream told him. "C'mon," he closed their distance again and planted his lips to Dean's, in an almost too obvious and desperate attempt at losing himself to sensation.

Dean let Sam kiss him for a little while, but there was no way he could just shut his eyes and give in to the feeling. He knew Sam enjoyed flirting, but he also knew he was struggling with PTSD. Heck, Dean had often seen him flinch at a touch or hide his shaky hands at times. Yet, now that he thought about it, there were moments when Sam seemed absolutely fine, as if nothing had happened at all. Like during their last family dinner, for instance.

Could his brother have been using coke to deal with what had happened to him?

Dean did not believe Sam, of all people!, would resort to drugs. But he couldn't just shrug the thought off because in hindsight, it made too much sense.

"Sam…let's go in." Dean broke the kiss again and held Sam's wrist gently. "We can talk about anything that's bothering you, all right?"

"Talk?" Sam felt his blood boil at being pushed away and then at the way Dean looked at him like he was…like he was broken or something. "I don't want to talk."

The aggressiveness in his brother's voice seemed to fuel Dean's suspicions. It was really unlike Sam to jump through emotions so quickly. From cheerfulness to angry in a matter of seconds, that was another red flag right there.

"Dude, if you tried it just to see what it would feel like, I get it, okay," Dean tried a gentle approach. "No one's judging you." He needed to know the truth before he could help.

"Damnit!" Sam scowled at his brother. "There's nothing to talk about." He was so angry he almost didn't recognize himself. The fact that Dean was accusing him of having used drugs, and the fact that Sam knew he was guilty, made him feel so ashamed and angry at himself that he snapped.

"Hey…" Dean tried to call after him when Sam began to swim to the edge of the pool. "Wait!"

"Screw you. You're accusing me of doing drugs." Sam looked so indignant that if it weren't for the blown out pupils and odd display of belligerence, Dean might have felt guilty for raising the question.

"I just want to talk, man." Dean swam after him. "Look at yourself in the mirror, you'll know what I mean. C'mon, Sammy, we're not kids here."

"Unbelievable," Sam shook his head and clenched his teeth. He tried to sound hurting at the unfair accusation, but he was actually scared. "My own brother accusing me of doing drugs. Me! Of all people!" Sam scoffed, got out of the pool and disappeared into the house.

Dean sighed.

Sam was right. Of all people, Sam was the one who always passed the heaviest judgement on those who used drugs, regardless for what end.

Nevertheless, Sam was also in an extremely vulnerable place after the abuse. He'd been forcefully led to an overdose, which meant his body was more likely to seek the high of a drug. Was it so crazy of Dean to fear his little brother was doing something recklessly stupid to try and get through his PTSD?

Was he wrong to have tried to confront Sam about it?

He didn't think so.

Despite the heavy weight of his worried thoughts, Dean floated in the pool alone, wondering what to do.






Chapter Text



Dean got out of the pool and sat on the edge of it. He took a deep breath and watched his feet dangle in the water. What the hell had just happened between them?

When Dean had seen Sam get into the pool, half naked and with a wolfish smile on his lips, his only concern had been how far they would be able to take it without triggering any memories. He had never imagined that their kissing could end with arguing.

But he wasn't crazy, was he? Dean had grown up around drugs and addicts. Even more so, his best friend had been an addicted for months. Benny had tried his hardest to hide his addiction, and it took Dean weeks to figure it out. The problem with addicts was, they got sloppy with time.

Which made Dean wonder, how long had this been going on for? Was Sam using their dad's product since he had been abused? Or since he had remembered the abuse?

Or maybe he wasn't using anything and Dean had gone and accused him wrongly.

Yeah, of course he thought about it. He wasn't a hundred per cent sure. Yes, Sam's pupils were dilated, but he said he'd had a drink or two… Maybe he had drunk a few shots of Tequila to take the edge off; perhaps Sam thought he would relax and enjoy their moment better by doing so. And Dean understood, after the last time and the PTSD, he got it. Sam was trying to be normal and act as if the memories weren't bothering him, but Dean didn't think it would work. Except right now he didn't quite know how to help either.

Maybe he should consider the book John had given him.

Yes, Dean decided. He would begin reading it. Anything to help Sam.

The thing was, if it was only alcohol, why hadn't Sam been upfront about it? And why was he so edgy and a tad aggressive? Those were things Dean had seen happen to Benny when he was high.

Could Sam's body be craving the drug because of the overdose? The doctor said it was unlikely after just one use but he did tell Sam to stay away from prescription pills, so it was possible, wasn't it?

"Fuck me," he cursed and sighed deeply.

Dean raised his eyes and looked at the glass doors of the balcony that led to Sam's room. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to feel crushed under the weight of his trauma and alone on top of that.

He would talk to his brother, but first he would cool his head and organize his thoughts. If Sam was really using drugs, then now more than ever Dean needed to be there for him, near him.


~ * ~ 


Sam went straight up to his room and sat down heavily on his bed.

Dean was wrong. He was fucking wrong. How dare he look at Sam like he was some sort of addict with no control over his urges?

His brother couldn't possibly understand what he was going through. So what if Sam needed to do something a little unorthodox? The benefits were there. When he used a little, he felt confident and capable to push the memories away. Who wouldn't want that? Who wouldn't beg to feel in control again after having felt so helpless and vulnerable?

Sam shuddered.

Perhaps he'd dipped his pinky in too deep. He would be more careful the next time.

Right now, though, after his argument with Dean, all Sam wanted was to sniff a whole line of coke to calm his nerves and make him feel good again.

Of course he wouldn't do that, though.

Because Sam Winchester was not an addict.

Everything was under control. If only Dean would let it go, they could have so much fun together.

Sam sighed heavily and lay in bed, burying his head into the pillow.


~ * ~ 


John came back home in the evening. He met Dean in the living room but they barely exchanged a few words. John said he had an important video meeting with a contact in Canada to discuss Azazel related information, so he just grabbed something quick in the kitchen and went upstairs.

"I don't know how long the meeting will be, but I have distributors flying in from Spain tomorrow. I'll be up early to pick them up, so I wouldn't like to be bothered unless it's something important," he announced from the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, sure," Dean said. He was feeling a little shitty after what had happened in the pool, and it wasn't exactly easy to hide. Not that he was trying hard anyway.

"Did something happen? You know," John gave a nod towards Sam's bedroom, whose door was closed at the moment.

Dean sighed deeply. Did he want to tell their dad that Sam might be using the stuff they sold? Fuck, no. He needed to be more certain, and even if he was, he needed a chance to talk some sense into Sam before things blew up.

"Nah, it's fine," he settled for saying instead.

"Alright. Good night then." John walked into his bedroom and shut the door.


~ * ~


Dean stopped by the kitchen and fixed himself a sandwich. He'd seen, from a distance, as Sam ate something on his own before going back to his room. He hated the mood between them now and he knew he would have to be the one talking to Sam. Whatever was happening to his younger brother, Dean could only imagine how messy his feelings were. He didn't want Sam to feel like he had no one to talk to.

At half past eight, Dean was sitting on a chaise lounge, looking at the shimmering light coming from the pool. He'd hoped that Sam would see him there and come down for them to have a talk.

At a certain point, he looked up and he felt as though he was being watched.

Sam was standing in the balcony, looking at him.

When their eyes met, Sam went back inside and drew the curtains shut.

Dean sighed. He still waited a moment longer, wondering if Sam would join him.

When he didn't, the older brother decided to make his way up.


~ * ~ 


Sam peeked through the curtains and saw the moment Dean got up and got back into the house. His heart raced a little, because he could tell his brother would come up to see him. He assumed Dean was as annoyed with the argument as Sam himself was. The whole thing made no sense, and Sam would be glad to put it behind them.

Besides, Sam still hadn't gotten over the fact that their little pool party got ruined. Perhaps they could still save the day—or rather the night—even though John was home.

Sam opened his first drawer quickly and dipped the tip of his pinky inside the tiny plastic bag. He got into bed and lay on his side, staring at the small amount of power on his finger and waited. He wasn't going to use it unless Dean was really coming up, so he got really quiet and listened for footsteps.

When Sam heard them getting closer to his bedroom, he smiled and sniffed the drug, and then put the plastic back into the drawer hastily. Nothing crazy, just enough to make him lighten up and relax. Yet, just to be on the safe side, Sam turned off the dim light on the nightstand and let the room slip into darkness. He didn't want Dean looking into his eyes searching for any signs of drug use. He wanted his brother to look into his eyes for other reasons.

"Sam?" Dean knocked on the door. "Are you asleep?" Dean knew he wasn't, since he'd seen him at the balcony less than twenty minutes ago, but still he asked.

"Come in," Sam said, but continued lying on his side, his back to the door.

"Sammy, I…" Dean stepped inside and looked at his brother's lying frame. Sam was not wearing a shirt, just some light sleeping shorts. "Can we talk about before?" Dean flicked the light switch.

"Don't—" Sam asked.


"The light. I got a headache," a little white lie. "But yeah, we can talk." Sam turned in bed and faced his brother. "Come here."

Dean's heart fluttered a little as he approached Sam's bed. It wasn't so dark that he couldn't see where he was going. Once his eyes adapted to the room, it was actually pretty easy to see things around. The curtains on the balcony glass doors left many gaps, and there was a beautiful, full moon today.

"I'm sorry about earlier." Dean sat on the bed and looked into his brother's eyes. "I didn't mean to pry, but I got worried, you know?"

Sam sighed. He didn't want to be a dick about it either. He knew Dean was worried and of course he knew his brother was right. So instead of going into defensive mode and insisting that he hadn't used anything, Sam was eager to shrug the whole thing off and move on.

"It's okay. I get it. You were looking out for me," he smiled softly.

Dean was taken aback by the small little smile. He'd expected more resistance from Sam's part, maybe a little more heated debate on whether or not Sam had used anything.

"As I said before, you overprotect me." Sam reached out a hand and let it rest on Dean's thigh.

Dean looked at the large fingers lying casually on top of his shorts.

"That's my job," he said softly, his temperature rising. He hadn't gone there for that, but funny how things with Sam could suddenly shift, like a coin was flipped, causing heat to start tingling all over his veins.

"And that's fucking hot."

"Sam…" Dean warned.

"Lie down here for a moment."

Dean seemed to hesitate a little.

"Thought you had a headache," he argued weakly.

"It seems to be fading fast," Sam chuckled softly. "C'mon."

Dean thought about their dad, having a meeting or sleeping, or doing whatever in his room a few feet away. It was not like they were doing anything wrong, right? They were brothers, and they were talking. There was no reason to be on alert.

He lay down beside Sam and felt his brother's large body snuggle closer, Sam's soft hair brushing against his shoulder as they both stared at the ceiling.

"Dad's home, you know," Dean said lightly, just to make sure Sam was aware.

"I know. I heard him. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

They fell silent for a moment.

Sam turned his face a little and nuzzled the curve of his brother's neck. He smiled faintly when Dean shivered.

"This is so much better than arguing, isn't it?" Sam said softly and planted a kiss to his brother's neck at the same time his hand squeezed Dean's thigh.

"Sam?" There was a small warning in Dean's voice. That was not what he had in mind when he went up.

Was he disappointed?

Fuck, no.

"Lock the door," Sam whispered. He could feel his heart racing and his body hardening.

"Are you fucking nuts? Dad's right over there," Dean widened his eyes and they were so close that Sam could see his distress, even in the dark room.

"That's why I told you to lock the door," Sam insisted cheekily.

Dean shook his head and his lips quirked up at the look in his little brother's eyes.

"What the…" he began, got up and locked the door. "Now what?" he asked when he went back to bed.

"Now you kiss me."

Sam didn't give Dean time to think. The moment his brother's knee hit the mattress and before Dean had completely climbed in bed, Sam threw his arms around his brother and pulled him against his mouth.

Dean closed his eyes and let himself go. He had so many reasons to hold back, but the adventurous tongue in his mouth was clouding his reason and reminding him that he was only human.

He let his fingers slide up and rake through Sam's brown hair, pulling him close and deepening the kiss, marking his territory inside his brother's eager mouth.

"Sammy," Dean croaked, blood rushing to all sort of fun places in his body. Still, he tried to grasp for some clarity and look into Sam's now dark eyes. "Are you really okay?"

"I am," Sam covered Dean's hands with his own. "I promise."

"Will you tell me if you stop feeling okay?"



The younger man sighed, nodded and smiled.

"Yeah, I will tell you." Except Sam knew he wouldn't stop feeling okay because the small amount of coke in his body would allow him to enjoy himself.

Dean's lips curved with a smile that soon became lustful and predatory. When Sam made as if he would kiss him again, Dean moved faster. He grabbed Sam's wrists and laid him onto the bed, climbing on top.

Sam gasped and his body throbbed when he felt Dean hovering above him.

Of course Dean hadn't forgotten Sam's flirty little interest with being dominated.

"Can you be really quiet for me, baby brother?" Dean tightened his fingers around Sam's wrists, on each side of his head, and whispered against his lips.

Sam let out a meek little sound of pleasurable expectation and nodded. The strength with which Dean held him to bed made Sam's heart race and his dick harden.

"Now open up and let me taste you," Dean spoke softly against the corner of his mouth, and when those eager lips parted, he licked inside Sam's mouth until they were both hard and grinding against each other.

"Dean…" Sam arched into the body pressed against him, letting him feel how much he wanted to be touched.

Dean let go of Sam's wrists and took off his shirt. He smiled wickedly at the lustful look in Sam's eyes when he studied his naked chest. "See something you like?"

"Oh, I do. You cocky little shit," Sam chuckled.

Dean grabbed Sam's chin firmly and felt the shudder that raked his brother's body. His green eyes were dark with lust when he tilted Sam's head to the side and licked at the curve of his neck. "Careful how you speak to me, baby boy," Dean whispered hotly, and loved the small little whine that escaped Sam's lips.

"Dean—" Sam arched into his brother. His cock was throbbing in his shorts and he really wanted to be touched.

"Got you," Dean slid Sam's shorts and underwear down and off the bed, and wrapped a warm hand around the thick hardness that sprung free against Sam's lower abdomen. Sam was as beautiful and big as Dean knew he would be, and the fact that his cock was already leaking against his fingers caused Dean to bite back a groan.

"Shit!" Sam tossed his head back and thrust his hips a little. Dean's hand was so fucking good but so fucking slow.

"Easy, Sammy…" Dean studied his brother as his pleasure rose. He stroked knowingly for a moment, the only sounds in the bedroom those of Sam's panting and little gasps of pleasure.

"Fuck…" Sam's thighs tensed and his fingers found Dean's wrist, silently begging him for more.

"Good things come for those who wait," Dean teased and stopped his movements.

"What? Shit, no! Dean!" Sam nearly wailed.

"Shhh! Be quiet," Dean reminded him. "Do you want to wake Dad up?"

They looked at each other and smiled. It was all so wicked and good it felt a bit like a dream.

"Take those off," Sam nodded at Dean's swimming trunks.

"That's exactly what I'll do."

Dean moved off Sam just long enough to get naked too, and then he straddled his brother again. For a moment he watched as Sam studied his cock. The look of sheer lust in his brother's eyes sent a shiver down Dean's spine.

"You're so fucking hot," Sam admitted, drawn to Dean's fat length and the engorged tip of Dean's cock. Seeing his brother naked and hard was completely intoxicating and Sam couldn't get enough.

"Yeah?" Dean's voice dropped as he stroked himself up and down, making a show of it.

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice. There was a thick, pulsing vein underneath the velvety skin of Dean's cock and Sam wanted to stick out his tongue and lick it. He wanted to taste Dean. He wanted to wrap his lips around the wet tip and—

The man's salty taste filled his mouth when his cock slid all the way to the back of his throat, choking him and making him feel like he would puke.

Sam swallowed hard when the memory struck.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered softly when Sam's lust-filled gaze became a little different. "You okay?"

He felt so helpless, so humiliated.

"If you puke on my dick, I'll blow your fuckin ’ brains out."

Sam's heart raced. He closed his eyes for a moment and pushed the memory away. This was Dean! Dean was safe!

Leave me alone, he begged the memories. He just wanted his life back, for fuck's sake.

Sam went absolutely still for a moment.

"Sam?" Dean asked again and stroked his knuckles across his brother's cheek, worried.

When Sam opened his eyes again, he was smiling. He was able to hang on to the small little burning feeling inside him, the confidence and boldness the drug gave him, like a crutch, yeah, but fuck it, it was a perfectly good and necessary one.

"Yeah, I'm good," he raised his fingers—not exactly steady at the moment but the darkness of the room would help with that—and ran them across Dean's chest, exploring and indulging until Dean smiled too and relaxed.

"You sure you're fine with this?" Dean asked, his eyes attentive as his fingers stroked across Sam's naked chest with a feathery feel.

Sam nodded and thrust up. The heat spreading through his body and pooling between his legs helped him focus, and Sam relaxed and enjoyed the closeness and the pleasure.

"I want to feel you, c'mon…"

"You're gonna feel me and I'm gonna feel you, baby." Dean said before leaning down and capturing Sam's mouth into his.

 Dean then wrapped a large hand around both of their cocks and began to stroke.

"Fuck!" Sam cried and tossed his head back.

Dean broke the kiss and looked into Sam's face. There was nothing but pleasure and desire in there, so he let himself go and stroked their cocks faster, feeling his own pleasure rise at the rubbing of smooth, wet skin.

"Do you have any lube?" Dean asked, nodding at the first drawer. They were both leaking with arousal and his hand was slick, but it wasn't good enough.

Sam's heart raced. The last thing he wanted was to open that drawer now. He hadn't had time to properly hide the coke. Besides, he did not have lube anyway.

"I…I don't, really…"

Dean saw the tension in Sam's eyes and thought that perhaps Sam was having the wrong idea about lube. He hoped his brother wasn't thinking Dean would try to take him right then and there.

"Hey, it's okay. It's just that this feels much better with lube." Dean tugged at their cocks and they both sighed blissfully at the feeling.

"Sorry. Guess I am just a vanilla guy who doesn't carry lube around," Sam teased.


Dean leaned down and they kissed again as Dean's wrist picked up speed.

Sam began to writhe under the sensation, but once again, before the pleasure became too much, Dean stopped what he was doing and Sam whined at the loss.

"Dean, please…" he begged.

The sound of Sam's broken voice begging him caused Dean to tingle all over and his cock to throb.

"Shhh, just relax and be quiet for me, okay?"

Sam lifted his head a little and looked down when Dean began to move. His brother lowered himself in bed until his mouth was hovering above Sam's straining erection.

"Gonna taste you, Sammy. Gonna suck on your cock until you're begging me to cum," Dean's eyes darkened and his voice sounded raspy.

Dean's words, the look in his eyes and the feel of his wet tongue on the head of his cock were more than Sam could handle. He tossed his head back and moaned.


"Sam!" Dean chided, but only half-heartedly. He doubted their father was still up. He certainly didn't want to think of John listening behind the door.

He fucking didn't want to think about him at all.

"Sorry," Sam let out a breathy laughter.

Dean flattened his tongue and licked a wet trail from the base to the tip of his brother's cock, paying special attention to the sensitive underside of the glistening tip. When he parted his lips and swallowed Sam down as far as it would go—which was not easy and made Dean thankful he had some practice—the younger man in bed let out a clipped sound of pleasure and thrust up.

Dean's hands needed to rest on Sam's hipbones and hold him down a little.

"Dean—" Sam croaked, his fingers clawing at the sheets. He felt his brother's tongue lapping at his tip before Dean swallowed him again, allowing Sam's hips to thrust a little. The pleasure of that hot mouth and skilled tongue was maddening.

Sam had had blow jobs before, but nothing like that.

The way Dean sucked on him like he wanted to taste all of him was overwhelming.

"Shit!...fuck!!" Sam cursed when Dean closed his mouth around one of Sam's balls and then the other, massaging the sensitive area with his tongue until Sam was writhing. "Please…"

"Please what, baby?" Dean stroked Sam's cock while his tongue still worked with warm little licks on his balls and crotch.

"'m so close…" Sam looked down at the sight of his brother nibbling his inner thigh and thrust up into his hand, to make a point.

"Do you want to come in my mouth?" Dean asked sweetly, his tongue again running up and down the length of Sam's dick. His own cock was throbbing almost painfully, but because of his work at The Club Dean was used to being hard for a quite a long time while he pleased a sub.

Sam shuddered. Fuck, yeah. He wanted Dean's mouth on him again, but he was so beyond words now. Begging was like all his brain could manage.


Dean opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around Sam's cock. He kept fondling Sam's balls in his hand while his tongue worked. His cheeks hollowed as he bobbed up and down on the hard, leaking cock in his mouth.

He saw Sam's hands clawing the sheets, and with his free hand he took his brother's and put in on his hair. Sam understood and complied.

Sam's fingers held on to Dean's short hair as his world spiraled into rising pleasure.

"Dean—" he warned, a last moment of lucidity before everything went blank and his body burst into a thousand shaky pieces of bliss.

Dean swallowed fast.

His tongue kept working a while longer, and Sam's taste was still tingling on his tongue when his brother tugged at his hair, wanting to see him.

Dean smiled a pleased, wolfish smile and went up to look into Sam's heavily lidded eyes.

"That good, Sammy?" he purred.

Sam opened his eyes and smiled. His body was still shaking, his cock still twitching a little.

Dean looked at those perfect lips and those perfect eyes, the strong jawline and the beautiful neck of the man still coming down from his orgasm before his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked. He knew Sam would be tasting himself on his tongue. Normally, he wouldn't ask such a question, but he couldn't help feeling so fucking protective of the beautiful man in bed.

"Please do."

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine when he tasted himself in Dean's mouth. They didn't stop kissing when Sam's taste faded. But soon they were sharing another secret in the playful licking happening between their lips—Dean's low groan of pleasure when Sam's hand slid down his chest and lower belly until it wrapped firmly around his cock and stroked.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean cursed. He buried his nose in the curve of Sam's neck and his clipped, throaty moans got muffled against Sam's skin.

Did Sam want to give Dean a blow job? Yes, he really did. Was he sure he could do that without triggering a fucking episode of PTSD? No.

Not even with all he cocaine he still had.

Perhaps with a little more time, he promised himself.

Sam pushed the thought away and focused on what he was doing, because it certainly seemed like it was being thoroughly enjoyed.

Dean's entire body moved beautifully on top of his, Dean's hips thrusting into Sam's hand and his lips letting out obscene little pleasure sounds by Sam's ear.

"Keep this going and I'm gonna cum all over you, little brother."

Sam licked at his lips and tightened his fingers around Dean's cock.

Dean nibbled at Sam's collarbone and let his nose graze his brother's skin. He knew he was close, so fucking close. Watching Sam come undone, tasting him in his mouth had pushed him so very close to the edge. He found a tight little nipple and flicked his tongue at it.

Sam jerked a little, his hand picking up speed as a bolt of pleasure traveled him.

Dean's lips quirked in a brief smile that quickly turned into an O-shaped gasp. He felt his body stiffen and relax and he came, shooting all over Sam's fingers and lower belly.

"Fuck," he cursed, his nose once again buried into Sam's neck, breathing him in as his brother kept stroking, letting Dean ride out the pleasure.

When Dean's body collapsed on top of him, Sam chuckled softly and nuzzled at his brother's temple. Dean's scent filled his nostrils and Sam felt his heart racing. He wrapped his arms around Dean and it was like his entire skin was made of butterflies. Sam was quickly reminded of how very much in love he was.

Which also made him feel suddenly shy.

He quickly withdrew his arms and Dean moved to the side of the bed. Then, Dean's arms were the ones wrapped around him, surprising Sam a little and making his heart thud fast.

"I should probably go to my room," Dean spoke softly by Sam's ear, a hand lying possessively above Sam's chest.

"Why? The door is locked. It's not like Dad will come knocking in the middle of the night."

They looked into each other's eyes. Sam was probably right, but still a part of Dean couldn't help feeling a little tense.

"I mean, if you want to go…" Sam began, feeling a little self-conscious of his feelings.

"G'night, Sammy."

Dean yawned, placed a warm kiss to his brother's cheek and turned on his side after pulling the sheets and blanket on top of them.

Sam looked at the ceiling and smiled. He felt ridiculously happy.

There could be more of that waiting for him if he could only administer his memories.

He could feel Dean's warm body nudging him under the covers.

"Night, Dean."


~ * ~


In the morning, the sun light began to spill in Sam's room through the cracks in the curtains that shielded the balcony doors.

Dean woke up first, believing he'd heard something downstairs.

It took him a moment to relax. It was probably John getting ready to leave.

He looked at Sam's sleeping face and smiled. His chest felt tight around the love growing there.

Dean then turned on his side and grabbed Sam's phone on the night stand in order to check the time.

A quarter to six. Fucking early. He should close his eyes again and get some more sleep.

And he was about to do just that when his eyes were drawn to a small corner of a plastic bag showing from the drawer which obviously hadn't been properly shut.

Dean's heart raced, the reason, though, entirely different now.

He looked over his shoulder at Sam's still sleeping frame and opened the drawer very carefully. The small plastic bag was resting on top of socks and underwear.

Fuck, no. He thought.

Dean opened the small bag and touched the white powder very gently before touching it to his tongue.


Dean's heart fell.

"What the fuck are you doing, baby brother?" he whispered softly.

When Sam stirred softly Dean put the bag back in the drawer and shut it fast.

It seemed like helping Sam just got a hell of a lot harder.






Chapter Text



When Dean woke up a second time, Sam was stirring in his arms. He opened his eyes into tiny slits to the sight of his little brother stretching contentedly in the embrace, all long arms and warm chest, and a teasing thigh that slipped between Dean's.

The sun was coming from the balcony doors and the whole thing would be so fucking perfect if it weren't for the small fact that Sam was doing drugs. Oh, and that probably the reason why he was doing them was because he'd been raped.

Yep, so much for a perfect morning.

"Hey…" Sam smiled lazily and let his fingertips trace the stubble on Dean's chin.

"Hey…" Dean shrugged his thoughts off for a moment and smiled back.

"You need to shave," Sam teased.

"And you need to brush your teeth," Dean teased back.

"Me? I'm sure you're the one who needs it after…" Sam trailed off and his cheeks grew faintly pink under Dean's amused and incisive look.

"After what? Having your dick in my mouth? Swallowing down your cum?" Dean's smile widened as he watched his baby brother's blush escalate to crimson red. So fucking precious. "C'mere."

Dean lay partially atop his brother and kissed him. All teasing aside, it tasted like fucking heaven and Dean just wanted to close his eyes and indulge.

Sam smiled blissfully and tossed his head back a little when Dean began to plant kisses down his neck to his collarbone.

"Keep this up and I'm never getting out of bed," he said.

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," Dean purred. "Except that…"

"What?" Sam opened his eyes and looked into the familiar green ones he loved so much.

"My stomach's growling. I need to eat."

Sam chuckled and shook his head.

"Of course you do."

But Dean didn't move. Instead, he stroked a hand through Sam's hair and looked into his eyes. There was something in his look that made Sam straighten up a little in bed and feel a twinge of anxiety.

"Hey…" Dean began, trying to be as gentle as possible. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

Sam took a deep breath and felt his heart skip a beat. He thought about the small plastic bag inside his first drawer, but honestly, he was more grateful about it than worried. After all, he owed the drug the self-confidence he'd had to push away the memories and have fun.

"I know," Sam replied lightly.

Dean waited a moment longer, wondering how he could coax Sam into opening up without starting another argument.

"I'll always have your back, no matter what," he said.

Sam squirmed a little, evidently uncomfortable.

He wondered if Dean was still hung up on their fight from the previous day. Well, there was nothing to worry about. If Sam told Dean what he was doing, using the coke therapeutically to cope with PTSD, he knew his brother would flip out. Dean wouldn't understand or accept it, which was why Sam chose to keep it to himself.

"I know. Let's grab breakfast? I'm hungry, too." Sam tossed the covers off and got to his feet, smiling down at his brother still in bed.

Dean had to admit defeat. He may have lost the battle, but this war just beginning. He would find a way to let Sam know he could trust him and open up. Meanwhile, he'd keep an eye on him and try to make sure his brother didn't use any more of that dangerous little powder he had stashed in his drawer.

"Yeah, let's."

Dean got up too and cast one last glance at the first drawer in the nightstand before following Sam out of his room.


~ * ~


The next week went by rather slowly, with John home most of the time and Dean watching Sam with almost obsessive interest for any signs he'd used cocaine again. Once or twice Dean could be sure his brother had indulged. It usually happened when Sam knew he would spend time with their dad.

Dean wondered if John was somehow triggering Sam's PTSD.

Which was a bit unfair to their dad considering he had been nothing but understanding and, well, nice. Dean couldn't remember their dad being so thoughtful and caring. But then again, maybe it was something Sam didn't understand and couldn't really help.

On the weekend, John announced he would be flying to Canada to meet with the team of detectives he had paid to tail Azazel. Apparently they were closing in on him, and John wanted to check their progress closely. The truth was, they seemed really close to catching the man who'd murdered Mary, but John chose not to tell the boys just how close until he had more details.

Dean and Sam had both expressed the desire to fly with him, but John was firm when he told them to stay. That was John's personal revenge. He didn't even know if they were going to catch Azazel—but by God how he fucking hoped they would—and he would need them to stay back and take care of business if something came up.

Not a lie, but also not a full truth. Bobby could handle their business for two or three days, but John knew Sam had too much on his plate, and he also knew Dean's thoughts were mostly revolving around his brother. The last thing he wanted was Sam's PTSD getting in the way causing him or them to get hurt. Or causing Azazel to escape, to be honest.

If all went well, when John returned they would have one less problem to deal with.

This meant the brothers had the house all to themselves for the weekend.

Being home alone was at the same time sweet and awkward.

They seemed to be always one step away from pushing one another against the wall and having their way with each other until they were pleased and spent. But Sam's memory of the abuse and now his new found habit sure made things complicated.

And Dean thought it would be messy because they were brothers.

Yeah, messy couldn't even begin to describe things now.

After breaking fast with their dad and watching him leave, Dean spent an entire day assessing his brother's behavior and keeping to himself.

The following day, though, after doing a lot of thinking, Dean began to toy with an idea as the day unfolded.

Sam hit the gym and Dean went over a few phone calls he needed to make in the morning. They ate lunch together around noon and then hung out in the living room.

Dean had a theory, and he knew it would be kind of a dick move to try and prove it, but the more he knew about why Sam was doing what he was, the more equipped he believed he would be to help him.

So at a certain point during the movie they were watching, Dean turned off the TV and stared at his brother.

"What?" Sam asked.

The younger man looked perfectly fine. Dean had been subtle about it, but he had kept an eye on him since Sam had woken up, which meant there was no way Sam could have done coke, unless he did it in the shower, which Dean didn't think so. Sam looked a lot like himself, which was exactly what Dean wanted.

"Nothing. Just thought, you know…You and me," Dean's heart picked up speed.

Sam bit on his bottom lip, the gesture somewhat bashful.

"Yeah? What were you thinking about?"

Dean squeezed Sam's muscular thigh and his green eyes had a dirty promise on them.

"Just how good it felt when I wrapped my mouth around your cock and made you cum."

"Shit…" Sam swallowed hard. His breathing hitched and he felt the stabbing pierce of arousal in his sex. Now that was an unexpected and blunt move.

Dean got to his feet and stood in front of his brother after pushing Sam's knees apart with his legs.

"Does it make you hot when you think about it?" Dean's voice dropped, his dominant and charming self luring his brother's desire into rising and taking over.

"I…" Sam swallowed hard and closed his eyes when Dean's fingers stroked his hair. He leaned into the touch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Have you jerked off thinking about it?" Dean asked, his voice firm and low.

He let his hand go down from Sam's hair to his cheek, stroking affectionately.


"Where are your words, Sammy?" Dean chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his throat.

Sam felt his blood burning in his veins. He was already hard. The way Dean was taking control was so fucking hot and it pushed all those buttons Sam was still learning he had.

The younger brother chuckled, too.

"Yeah, I have."

"Have what?" Dean provoked.

"I've come to the thought of you sucking me off," Sam gasped.

"That's so hot, Sammy." Dean's fingers stroked down Sam's cheek until they found his neck. His grip was gentle and very, very careful, but Dean saw the shadow that darkened Sam's hazel eyes.

Sam felt tension creep up his body. This is Dean! Relax! He told his brain.


He was going to need a bit of coke if he wanted to enjoy the moment.

The feeling of Dean's fingers caressing his neck was making dangerous memories try and push to the front of his mind.

"You know what I think about?" Dean went on. "My cock in your mouth." He grabbed at his bulge with the other hand and squeezed a little. "Fuck, Sammy, I can't stop thinking about you on your knees and your tongue on my dick."

Sam throbbed in his pants, but his heart also rattled in his chest.

If you puke on my dick I'll blow your brains out.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and fought the mental image. He didn't want to have those memories, why couldn't they leave him the fuck alone?!

"I…" Sam covered Dean's hand with his own and smiled, but it was a weird smile. "I need to freshen up before it," he blurted. Fuck, that sounded ridiculous. But Sam needed an excuse to go up to his room and get a fix before they could go on.

"I'm sure you're very fresh, baby brother," Dean leaned over him and kissed Sam's lips. He let his hand travel down and cupped Sam's hard-on through his pants.

The thing was, Dean knew what was going to happen and he feared he was right.

Sam wanted to go upstairs and do coke before they did something intimate.

Now, Dean had no intention whatsoever of having Sam blow him because he knew—even though he hadn't watched the full footage—that it could be a trigger for his brother. Asking him to do it now, out of the blue, was a dick move, but it only proved Dean wasn't wrong. Sam was still dealing with PTSD when they made out and he was using coke as a crutch.

"Dean—" Sam broke the kiss. "I mean it, I…let me take a quick shower first."

"You just showered," Dean's eyes looked deeply into Sam's, and for a moment they stared at each other in silence.

Was Dean doing that deliberately? Was he trying to prove a point or something? Sam thought, but then waved the thought away. No, of course Dean didn't know about the drug. He might be suspicious and all, but if he knew for sure there was no way he wouldn't have confronted Sam already.

When Dean kissed him again, Sam's heart raced. He just couldn't, couldn't give his brother a blowjob without remembering the gun at his head and the threat of the trigger being pulled if he choked. And damn, Sam had wanted to puke, because he couldn't breathe and he thought he might choke, and the man's taste and smell made him sick to his stomach.


"What's the matter?" Dean asked softly, pulling away. This time he was genuinely concerned. "Is it too much?" he asked kindly, but his eyes were still analyzing his brother.

"No, it's not this," Sam shook his head and lied. "I really just need to freshen up. Give me a few minutes."

The thought that Sam would do drugs so he could do what Dean wanted was heart fucking breaking. Dean was about to draw back and call the whole 'experiment' off when they heard the sound of a horn honking.

The two of them looked at each other and then at the window.

Sam took a deep breath of relief. Fuck, he thought. He was the one who wanted to get intimate. This whole assault thing had broken him.

"Are we expecting visitors?" Sam asked.

"Not that I know of," Dean replied. It wasn't what he had in mind to break it all off, but it would work.

Dean stepped away and looked outside as Sam was barely able to hide a deep sigh of relief.

"It's Bobby," he announced.

"Guess this will have to wait." He looked at Dean with an odd little smile.

Dean smiled, a hint of sadness in the smile, and kissed Sam's forehead tenderly.

"Guess it will."


~ * ~ 


John asked Bobby to drop by and check on the boys in his absence since he knew there was a lot going on with Sam that could become overwhelming for Dean. Because it had been a while since Bobby had seen either of them, and because he was still worried about Sam, he decided to pay them a visit sooner rather than later.

Dean watched as Bobby punched the alarm at the gate and walked in.

The two brothers went outside and met Bobby by the pool, in the front yard.

"Bobby," Dean patted the older man's shoulder and approached him a little, the closest to a hug he generally allowed himself to give.

"Hey, boys. How's it going?"

"Good to see you." Sam walked towards Bobby to do what he always did without thinking—give him a hug. The moment he felt Bobby's arms around him, though, Sam stiffened and cursed himself mentally.

He couldn't help himself and the way he responded to touch. Maybe it was so because he was already a bit shaky from what had just happened with Dean, but Sam couldn't stand the idea of arms wrapping around him, restraining him. It made him feel so helpless and alarmed like he would suffocate.

Bobby's eyes seemed to linger for a moment longer on the younger Winchester when Sam broke the hug and looked at the floor, feeling evidently awkward. His eyes then met Dean's with a silent question.

"Come in, do you want something to drink?" Dean asked, ignoring Bobby's look.

"Yeah, sure," Bobby replied.

Sam thanked the gods when he saw his chance.

"I'll make us some Margaritas," he smiled and turned around to go back inside.

Shit, Dean thought. He knew why Sam wanted to go into the house. He knew what he wanted to do all alone there.

"I'll help you. I make some mean Margaritas," he rushed in. "How about you make yourself comfortable while you wait?" Dean eyed Bobby.

The older man frowned a little. There was something weird going on there, something he couldn't quite put his finger to.

"It won't be necessary." Sam touched Dean's shoulder and smiled. "Keep Bobby company. You're not the only one with bartending skills," Sam said lightly, hoping Dean wouldn't insist.

Fuck, Sam could use a fix. He felt so rattled. All he wanted was to have steady heart beats and no memories about the sexual assault visiting him while he had fun. He was looking forward to a nice conversation with Bobby, and he knew he just needed a little pick me up to keep PTSD under control.

Dean didn't know how to insist without making Sam suspicious and perhaps causing a scene in front of Bobby. Maybe Sam wasn't going to do anything? he thought hopefully. He did not want to believe his brother was already addicted to the drug.

Perhaps, Dean thought with a stupid, silly hope, this whole thing was all in his mind and Sam wasn't going to do anything wrong.

Except there had been the plastic envelope in his drawer.

"Right," Dean caved, because he didn't know what else to say.

If Sam was using coke, he was probably in a vulnerable position. He was probably ashamed and insecure. If Dean could, he'd rather deal with that between them without exposing Sam to their friends.

Or Dad.

"I'll be right back," Sam gave a beaming smile and turned around, disappearing inside the house.

"'S he really okay?" Bobby asked when they were alone.

Dean sighed, and the look in his eyes told Bobby more than words could.

"We're trying here, Bobby, but it's not easy. I can tell the memories come and go."

"Has he opened up about it?"

"Would you?" Dean asked back.

Bobby nodded gravelly with understanding.

They walked towards the chaise lounges and sat down, one on each seat, facing each other.

"How about therapy?"

"You mean like the movie Analyze This?" Dean scoffed.

Bobby shrugged.

"I guess we could try to talk to him about it but I don't know how he would react. I think Sam's trying to bury it deep inside and act like it never happened."

"You mean he's doing exactly what daddy has taught you both to do with feelings? Can't say I'm shocked," Bobby said.

"What can we do? He's taught us what he's learned."

"That's true."

Bobby and Dean talked for about twenty more minutes before Sam came back from the house. It was like a different Sam had walked into the yard. He seemed cheerful and confident, whatever uneasiness had been there before it had vanished now.

"Here you go," he put the tray with drinks on top of a small table and they each grabbed one.

Bobby took a sip while Dean studied his brother.

"I'll tell you, it's not my go-to drink, but this isn't half bad," he said.

Sam smiled proudly and patted Dean's thigh.

"Told you I can find my way around drinks."

"And without any condensed milk," Dean nodded, impressed. "Atta boy! Cheers!"

They laughed a little and toasted.

For the next couple of hours Dean watched, his heart sinking, as Sam talked about a series of things with them without any hint of the tension that had been there moments before. His little brother touched Dean and Bobby as he talked, and before Bobby left Sam gave him a long hug, as if he was still the same young man from a month ago.

Of course, there was the sniffing, too. Every now and then Dean caught a glimpse of Sam sniffing and touching his nose absently, as if it was itching or something, classic behavior expected from someone who'd snorted a few lines of cocaine.

Fuck, Dean thought, disheartened.

Normally, if he had had the slightest suspicion that Sam was using drugs, he would have given his brother hell about it. He would've confronted Sam and tried to knock some sense into him, probably as he screamed his head off. There was no way he would've gone easy on his brother if he knew he was on his way to becoming an addict.

The abuse changed everything, though. Dean knew Sam was vulnerable. He didn't want to make things worse.

Besides, he couldn't really shake off the guilt he still felt for having been unable to protect his brother from the assault. In the end, it was sort of his fault that Sam had been attacked, preyed upon and that he was all broken in the aftermath, wasn't it? So it was not like he could pin it all on his brother.

Dean knew that if Sam was using cocaine to deal with the trauma, it was hardly his fault.

He needed to find a way to help him, and he needed to do it fast. The longer that went on, the more delicate the situation would become.

"Hey," Sam approached him after Bobby had left. "You want to pick up where we left of?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. His fingers stroked across Dean's shirt and went to his lower belly, resting there.

Of course Sam wanted to cross the line now. He was feeling confident and in control.

The thought that Sam needed drugs not to be scared of being touched by him made Dean's stomach churn and his heart break.

"Sorry, man. I got this shitty headache out of nowhere," Dean lied. He hated the disappointment he saw in his brother's eyes, but he promised himself he would not touch Sam again if he was under the influence of drugs.

"Oh, it's a shame."

"Yeah, I know."

"Maybe tomorrow then?" Sam tried.

Dean leaned closer and gave Sam a quick kiss on the lips that set both their hearts on fire. It was a small little gesture, but it reminded Dean of how fucking much he loved that man. And, unknown to him, it reminded Sam of all the crazy butterflies he lived with since he'd realized he had fallen for his big brother.

"Yeah, maybe. Night Sammy."


~ * ~ 


His hands and feet were bound.

Sam tried to scream but he was gagged.

His heart began to hammer in his chest and he looked around, but everything was dark.

Sam felt himself being dragged somewhere by a large, strong man with a beard.

No. No. No.

He was pushed into a room full of pool tables, and all the balls on the green mats were the 8-ball.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?" the man spoke by his ear and licked at his cheek.


"What?" the man removed the gag and laughed.

"Don't you fucking touch me. I swear to God I'll kill you!"

Another resonating laugh.

"How? You are naked and tied up, sweetie."

Sam looked at himself. He was naked and completely tied up. His wrists were burning against the rope, his heart seemed to be beating inside his throat, clogging it.

He felt so fucking helpless.

"Please don't," he begged. "Please."

"Don't worry, I won't use the dildo." The man shoved Sam hard against the nearest table and got behind him. "I'll use my own cock. Make you come on it."

"NO! Get off of me! Get the fuck away!" Sam buckled and squirmed when the man took him from behind.

"Who are you fooling, kid? I know you got hard. I felt it, remember?" the abuser laughed leeringly.

Sam let out a strangled cry out of anger and pain as the man raped him. His shame and fear escalated and he felt like he would choke, or puke, but there was a gun pressed to his head

If you puke on my dick I'll blow your brains out

And Sam couldn't, he

His felt himself get hard and he just wanted to cry and

He hated his fucking body, he did!

"Let me go! Let me go!"

Sam got up from the bed still fighting an invisible enemy. He jerked and twisted wildly to get away from bindings that were only real in his nightmare. As he stumbled inside his room in a messy and disoriented way, he shoved and kicked to get away from the abuser—from himself.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise and pain, and Sam couldn't understand a thing.


~ * ~ 


Dean woke up with the sound of glass shattering and an alarm blasting. His heart began to race instantly, all his senses on alert.

"Shit. Sammy." He reached for the gun under his pillow and got up.

Even though he was wearing nothing but black boxers, he was completely prepared for confront—just as Dad had trained them—and he followed the noise to his brother's room with his gun raised high, his heart beating fast.

"Sam?" Dean pushed the door open and stepped in, looking for any intruder, ready to shoot. He then quickly saw the man sitting by the balcony door on top of thousands of shattered glass pieces.

"Sam?" he asked again, this time with a lower, heavier voice.

Dean reached for the light switch and his heart broke at the sight.

His brother was sitting on the floor, blood running down his cheek from his hair, the look on his face was glassy and absolutely lost.


Dean put his gun on top of the nightstand and walked towards Sam.

"What happened?" he crouched before his brother.

Sam felt someone approach him, he saw something, but he was still too caught up in his nightmare and the memories still visiting him.

"Stay away!!" He barked, grabbed a piece of broken glass in a swift moment and attacked.

"Whoa, easy there!" Dean hadn't been expecting that, and when he stepped back he took a hand to his inner arm, feeling at the place where Sam had just cut him.

"Don't touch me!" In his agitated state, Sam fumbled blindly with the glass, getting several superficial and a few deep cuts in the process of feeling his way around.

"Sammy, it's okay… Did you have a nightmare?" He asked, his voice kind and pregnant with worry and fear.


Sam was so confused, so fucking hurt. There was an overwhelming need to protect himself and a great deal of irrational fear inside him now.

"I…" Sam looked around, as if his senses were beginning to come back. "What happened?"

Dean tried to approach again, but Sam squeezed his hand around the glass and raised it, cutting his palm in the process, shaking under the adrenaline buzzing in his ears and numbing some of the pain.

"Hey, hey…it's okay, Sammy, it's me. You can drop that, all right?" Dean looked at the mess around his brother. There was glass everywhere, and blood drops too. Even Dean was bleeding now.

He couldn't see perfectly, but there must be a gash on Sam's head somewhere, because his hair was soaked and there was blood running all the way from his cheek to his shirt, staining it.

"Dean?" Sam put down the glass. He was shaking and he wanted to fucking cry. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm here, okay?" Dean crouched again and tried to pull Sam closer.

Sam was still skittish and tried to pull away, but Dean didn't give up. He wrapped his arms around his brother's body and pulled him against his chest. "I'm here. It was a nightmare, you're safe."

A sob broke free from Sam's tight throat and he rested his forehead against Dean's chest, bleeding all over him.

"I don't know what happened, I…I needed to get away," Sam apologized hectically.

"I know, I know," Dean soothed him.

"I didn't meant to break the door, I didn't see it, I… Oh my God, I hurt you, I'm so sorry, I—" Sam freaked out when he saw the cut on Dean's arm.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay. This is nothing, all right?" Dean nodded at his arm. "Just try to stop moving, okay? We don't want you to get hurt anymore. And let me take a look at this cut on your head."

Dean pulled Sam's head gently away from his chest and studied the cut above Sam's hairline. His hands were already covered in blood as he framed his brother's face, and Dean frowned because the cut looked way too deep. He doubted they'd be able to stop the bleeding with a cloth or something. Sam would need stitches.

"Is it, is it too bad?" Sam asked, his voice broken and his eyes still fearful and hazy.

Dean bit on his bottom lip and hid away his own fear and worry. Sam needed him. Be strong, John had said. Well, he would be.

"Just another little scar for the collection," he smiled softly and Sam mirrored him. "Where's your phone?"

Sam frowned and pointed at the nightstand.

Dean walked over and grabbed it, then he crouched before his brother again and pointed the phone to his face in order to unblock it.

Sam watched as his brother went over his contacts. He wanted to ask who he was going to call, but he felt so shaky he still couldn't find his voice.

"Yes, Dr. Spencer? It's actually Dean. Sorry for the late hour, but can you come over? It's sort of an emergency."

Dean then eyed his brother.

Sam looked down at the floor, obviously embarrassed.

Dean smiled warmly at him, found his hand and squeezed it.

"Come on, now. Let's get you away from this glass."





Chapter Text



From the moment he arrived in Canada, John couldn't help but let his expectations grow. He met with his business contacts in there right after someone picked him up at Billy Bishop Airport and took him to his hotel.

As soon they began to talk, John was shown the many pictures his spies had taken in the past days of Azazel coming and going from a certain hotel.

He hadn't told his sons just how close he really was because deep inside he was afraid Mary's murderer would slip through his fingers again, so John knew he would only tell the boys when the deed was done and Azazel was dead.

Still, it didn't mean it was easy controlling his excitement.

He knew Crowley was also behind him being so close to catching Azazel—Crowley's men had tipped off John's spies and together they had been able to close in on Azazel. Nevertheless, after everything that had happened in his life, and now in Sam's life, John found little room in his heart to feel grateful. Crowley had done nothing but what they had agreed upon, and for that John was relieved.

The moment the team John was paying was able to pinpoint Azazel's location to a hotel, and to a hotel room, was the moment John knew he had to fly to Canada and end that quest for revenge once and for all. Under his command, men had kept eyes on every movement in the hotel and its surroundings. John had, however, been extremely clear—do not interfere. No one should touch Azazel. John didn't want to risk a wrong move tipping the criminal off and causing him to escape, sure, but he also didn't want anybody to get in the way of his personal revenge. Azazel was his to punish. Just like Ronald would be too, eventually.

Even though his thoughts were racing with images of revenge, John knew he couldn't rush things. He needed to make sure. He wanted to see it with his own eyes.

That was why he bid his time for an entire day, watching all the evidence that had been gathered, sitting through camera footage of Azazel going in and out of the hotel, letting his men close in on him.

Having to wait an entire day and night in his hotel after the meeting in order to put the plan into practice was almost excruciatingly painful. But John was not a man to jump in without a good plan, so even though his men had reason to believe Azazel was getting ready to leave the country, John couldn't burst into his hotel room in the middle of the night.

Killing someone in a hotel room was not a simple task, so John needed to arrange every detail of his plan to make sure he could walk out of that hotel undercover and fly back home without having to worry about Azazel's blood on his hands.

Though the place was known for being cheap and shabby, walking into one of the guest rooms in the middle of the night would draw more attention than John was willing to deal with. According to his men, the safest time to break into Azazel's room and kill him would be around noon, with plenty of people walking back and forth the hotel lobby and clerks more preoccupied with lunch than with checking who was coming and going.

That's why John resisted every impulse in his body and stuck to plan. He caught a few hours of sleep that night, and the next day he could barely eat because he was just too anxious.

Everything could end today—his entire quest to avenge Mary's death could finally be over and John might finally be able to lay his weary head to rest. It would never bring her back or make it hurt any less, but it would certainly bring him peace.

After that, there would be Sam to deal with, but for the moment John pushed thoughts of his youngest son off of his mind and focused on the plan. No distractions. 

John Winchester felt the weight of the gun at his hip as he walked into the hotel lobby. His heart was racing. He knew there were a couple of his men following him at a distance, heavily armed, ready to jump in in case Azazel wasn't alone—which wasn't possible. They had made sure the criminal was all by himself in his room.

Still, John wouldn't take chances.

He walked past hotel staff without looking anyone in the eyes. The less people who remembered the tall man in a black overcoat and hat, the better.

When he got into the elevator, he had to focus on breathing techniques to steady his heart rate and make sure the buzzing adrenaline wouldn't get in the way.

There was no one on the hallway where Azazel's room was, just as had been planned. Staff members had been strategically paid off or dealt with so John could walk down that hallway and open the door with a key his people were also able to get with the staff. In times like this it made all the sense in the world that he needed to get filthy rich in order to pursue his revenge more effectively.

The thought vanished quickly when John opened the door. His hand was already on his gun, and he raised it high the moment he walked in. There was a silencer at the end of the gun, and John was ready to shoot.

He scanned the place quickly, his heart racing in his throat.

There was no sign of Azazel.

The bed was neatly made, there was nothing on the floor, no drawers were open.

It was a small room, but there was still the bathroom, which was where John headed, gun still warm in his grip.

He opened the door and aimed, but there was no one there either.

Fuck. Fucking fuck. John began to feel the blistering taste of disappointment in his mouth, but he checked the room again. It couldn't be possible.

He looked under the bed, into the wardrobe, but he only confirmed what he already knew. Azazel was not there.

How the hell had he managed to escape when there were people watching him twenty four seven?

John sighed deeply and gnawed at his bottom lip. He could see his men looking at him from a distance, through the open door of the room, and he shook his head when he met their eyes.

"Shit." John felt anger and frustration taking control, and it was hard keeping himself steady and rational. He'd waited so long for this, he'd been so close.

He walked towards one of the drawers and opened it. There was a small note inside.

Sorry you're too late, my friend. Actually, not sorry at all. Have fun in Canada.

When the two men in charge of covering for John arrived in the room, they saw Winchester's eyes narrow and his upper lip twitch. There was something so volatile in his look that neither men approached him.

John was fuming as his fingers closed around the paper and he squeezed it into a tiny little ball. He looked at the two men and swallowed down his anger.

"He's gone," he said, his voice barely able to scrape its way out of his dry throat.


~ * ~ 


When Dr. Spencer arrived Dean went downstairs to let him in. He thanked the doctor in a small voice for coming in the middle of the night so quickly and closed the door behind them.

"What happened?" Doctor Spencer asked since Dean hadn't given him much detail on the phone. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs," Dean lowered his voice so they wouldn't be heard. "He had a nightmare."

"Oh." The doctor's eyes were kind and understanding. "It's expected, you know. After the trauma. Did he hurt himself?"

"He walked through the balcony glass doors. Yeah, he's all cut up and pretty shaken," Dean explained.

"How about you?" The doctor nodded at the cut he saw on Dean's inner right arm.

It was still bleeding a little even though Dean had held his hand over it for a while.

"I'm fine," Dean said quickly, picking up a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blood. "Sam was a little confused when I found him."

"Did he attack you?" The doctor asking knowingly.

Dean swallowed hard. His chest hurt. He wanted to cradle Sam against his body and make him feel safe, but he didn't fucking know how to begin helping.

He nodded.

"It's fine, though. You should go see him. There's a pretty bad gash on his head."

"Fine, I'll check on him. But then I'm taking a look at this cut, too," the doctor stated. "Lead the way."

Dean took the doctor upstairs to Sam's room, where broken glass was still shimmering on the floor near the balcony entrance.

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes were lost and his bleeding hands were shaky.

He's in shock, the doctor realized the moment he lay eyes on the younger man.

"Hello, Sam," he greeted softly.

Sam raised his eyes to the doctor. He felt so vulnerable and ashamed that he barely felt any pain from the many cuts he had caused all over himself. Except for the one in his head, which was throbbing rather painfully, the rest were just distractions for his drifting mind.

"Hi," he said. His eyes then went to Dean's face but Sam couldn't hold the stare. He looked at his hands, too embarrassed to look up.

"It's okay, the doctor will take a look at the cuts, right?" Dean wanted to put Sam at ease because he could feel how tense and skittish his brother was.

"So," the doctor began as he opened his bag and began to get his gloves out. "Your brother told me you walked into that glass door over there."

"I did," Sam answered almost mechanically and watched as the doctor got his gloves on.

Dr. Spencer was quickly assessing the many different cuts on Sam's arms and legs, but the one on his head was clearly the most worrisome. There were dried blood clots on Sam's hair and the cut was still gushing fresh blood down his cheek and jawline.

"May I advise against trying this stunt again? Humans and shattered glass are not a good match," he smiled gently.

Sam scoffed very lightly and tried to smile, too.

The doctor's voice then dropped and his eyes were serious when he looked into the hazel eyes avoiding his.

"Were you having a nightmare about the assault?"

Sam's heart raced. He chewed on his bottom lip and tried to find his voice.

"Yeah," he said weakly, the sound barely audible.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He knew he perhaps wasn't the best professional to help with that, but it didn't mean he wouldn't try.

"Not really." Sam cast a look in Dean's direction when he said that and then went back to looking at his hands. He knew what he needed right now, what would help him feel better, both physically and mentally.

Reaching for the first drawer and sniffing a white line of coke right now were completely out of question, though.

"Okay, no need to," the doctor reassured him.

The doctor's fingers then began to move Sam's hair away from the cut so he could take a better look at it.

Sam hissed and flinched.

"Yeah, this looks nasty. You're gonna need some stitches, Sam."

"Okay," there was a despondency in Sam's voice that tugged at Dean's heart and made him look away for a moment.

Dean's lungs ached inside his chest, but he took a deep breath anyway and looked calm and strong. Sam will need us.

"It'll probably leave a scar, but your hair will eventually cover it just fine."

Sam shrugged and nodded, as if he didn't really care. Scars were a part of the job.

Being overpowered and forced to give a man a blowjob, that wasn't.

Sam shuddered and pushed the thought away.

The doctor prepared an anesthetic to inject locally before beginning to patch the cut up. Sam winced a little when the needle went in to desensitize the skin around the gash, but when the doctor began the first stitch, he barely felt a small pinching discomfort.

There was utter silence in the room, and his and Dean's eyes met a few times as the doctor worked.

At the same time Sam wanted to look away, he was drawn to his brother's eyes. Even though shame made him feel humiliated and broken, Dean's look was warm and reassuring, and Sam could barely run from how much he needed what Dean offered silently from a distance.

"All done here," the doctor announced. "Now let me take a look at the other ones."

Sam needed a little more patching up in different places of his body. He had a bad cut near his wrist, two small but deep ones on his calf and near his left knee. The other cuts were superficial and wouldn't need stitches, but the doctor took his time cleaning each and every one and then covering a few of them with bandages, including the one on the palm of Sam's hand.

There was a rather deep cut on the sole of Sam's right foot, but location and the skin in the area made it very hard for stitches to hold, so the doctor cleaned the cut thoroughly with antibacterial soap and dressed it with gauze. He wrapped bandages that went from the heel up to Sam's ankle, and advised him to rest plenty for at least three days.

"I think my work here is done," the doctor smiled gently after a couple of hours. "Now you need rest and some pain medication."

Dean's heart skipped a beat in his chest. What would Dr. Spencer prescribe Sam? No opioids, hopefully?

Dean hadn't told the doctor anything about his brother's addiction, and now he wondered if he should have.

"Thank you," Sam whispered. "You should take a look at my brother now. I accidently cut him when he tried to help," Sam said, visibly embarrassed to admit it.

"I'm fine," Dean said quickly. "It's okay, Sam."

"Oh, I intend to take a look at him too. Come," the doctor patted the bed next to Sam. "Sit here."

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. He didn't want Sam to feel bad about an instinctive defensive reaction he had been absolutely unable to prevent. Dean was the one who should have known better than to approach his brother when he was reliving his trauma.

"Come on. This is an order."

Dean looked into the doctor's friendly face and warm smile and caved. He walked towards the bed and sat down beside his brother.

"It's nothing, really," he said as the doctor checked his right arm.

Sam's heart began to race the moment Dean was close. Even though he was ashamed and hurt, the closeness made him feel good and the fluttery butterflies flapped their wings, albeit shyly.

"Let me be the judge of that."

The doctor cleaned the cut and studied it. He could see fat tissue inside, and there was still a small trickle of blood oozing from it.

"Gonna need a few stitches, too."

"'m sorry, man," Sam mumbled, visibly upset.

"Dude, it's okay. Really." And even though there was someone else there with them, Dean reached out his left hand and squeezed his brother's fingers. "I'm fine," he smiled with a glint in his eyes way more intimate than brotherly affection.

It caused Sam to relax a notch and nod.

"Go ahead, doc. Patch me up."

Doctor Spencer did as told and when he was done he left some pills on Sam's nightstand—for the pain, he said. Dean was relieved to find out it was just Tylenol. Not that he wouldn't have to keep an eye on his brother, because he would. Dean had a feeling Sam might feel tempted to use something stronger to deal with the aftermath of his night terror.

After walking the doctor out and thanking him again, Dean went upstairs into Sam's room.

His brother was lying in bed, his feet and legs still dangling from the edge.

"He's gone," Dean said and then checked his clock. "It's half past three a.m. Do you wanna try and get some sleep?"

The young man in bed barely moved his shoulders. Sam still didn't know how to find his way around his embarrassing episode. As the adrenaline levels went down, the pain also began to be a nuisance. Still, even though he was tempted to reach into the first drawer, he stuck to Tylenol and water. It was like part of him welcomed the pain, like he deserved it after losing his shit over a dream.

"Sam?" Dean walked further in and stared at his brother from beside the bed. Sam was still wearing a white tank top and pajama shorts.

"Yeah, maybe. Gotta clean up all that glass first, though." He made as if he might stand up.

"No, you get some rest," he put a hand on Sam's chest and pushed him down the bed again. "It's fucking late and most of the glass is on the balcony anyway. I'll help you clean up tomorrow."

Sam looked unsure, but then Dean was nudging him to make room.

"C'mon, Sasquatch."

"What are you doing?" Sam adjusted in bed and watched as Dean lay down beside him. His heart picked up speed when Dean put an arm around his torso and tried to draw him closer.

"Gonna sleep here with you," he stated. "That a problem?" Dean used a faint hint of authority in his voice, but he coated it with a sexy little smile that he knew would break through Sam's defenses.

"No. Of course not," Sam smiled and felt a little warm inside.

"C'mere." No way in hell Dean wouldn't be there for his baby brother after what had just happened.

Dean felt Sam's body adjust against his and the room slowly drowned in silence, with a faint rustling of leaves and the eventual nocturnal insect reminding them of where they were, and why those sounds were louder than usual without the glass doors.

Dean's fingers stroked over Sam's arm and his nose relished the sweet scent of Sam's hair.

After what felt like a long time, Dean spoke.

"You know I'll have to tell Dad, right?"

There was a shift in Sam's breathing pattern, as if he was considering it.

"I don't want to worry him," he ended up saying.

"Um, Sam? He's always worried. It's Dad," Dean joked lightly.

Sam sighed deeply. He was so not looking forward to the look in his father's eyes. If Sam had it his way, John would only come back when he was all healed and the glass doors replaced, like nothing happened. He knew, however, that was highly unlikely to happen.

"Yeah, I know."

"Just try to get some sleep now." Dean slid his fingers down Sam's arm and held his brother's hand.

The gesture in the middle of the night, in the silence of the room, felt so intimate and made Sam feel so protected that the younger brother turned around and faced the other way.

He didn't want Dean to see how close he was to crying.


~ * ~ 


John was in the middle of a meeting when his cell phone rang. He tried to ignore it for a while because this was an important meeting. Important as fuck.

Turns out, Azazel had found out he was being monitored by John's men and had bribed a couple of them to leak information about John's plan. They had been paid to look the other way as Azazel escaped in the middle of the night. Of course the betraying shits were now gone and had obviously earned a place on John's kill list.

That's what you got for working with people with no morals and a thirst for money. Their loyalty shifted if they were offered a heftier prize. And unfortunate for John, his reach in Canada was not as personal as it was back home. He couldn't have made sure that everyone involved in the operation was as loyal as the guys he worked with in the U.S.

The question now was to decide whether or not to invest a ton of money into locating Azazel again. For all they knew, he could be an ocean away by now—unlikely, since it looked as though he had come back—or he could be in the U.S. or any other place in Canada. In a few hours the trail had gone cold, even though John had people looking into camera footage and airport tickets bought under fake IDs.

A phone call at the moment was a distraction he couldn't afford to have as he made decisions.

When the phone wouldn't stop ringing though, John sighed and picked it up.

His expression changed a little when he saw it was Dean.

"Hi," he answered it. "What happened?"

John listened for a moment, his face unreadable to the other men in the room.

Suddenly, the only thing capable of taking his mind off of Azazel had happened. As Dean explained to him the events of the previous night, John admitted defeat—Azazel had won this battle, but the war was still on—and focused instead on someone else who needed attention.

"I'm glad he went there to help." John closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed at his wrinkled forehead. "Listen, I'll wrap up the meeting and be on the next flight. You hang in there, okay? You did good."

John ended the call and looked at the expectant pairs of eyes waiting for him to go on.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid there's been a setback. I need to go back home."


~ * ~ 


John arrived home around evening.

He was still taking off his coat and shoes when he saw Dean coming down the stairs to meet him.

"Hey," John greeted.

"Hey. How was the flight?" Dean asked.

"It was good." John thought about everything that had happened concerning Azazel, but he knew now was not the moment to bring this up. Now it was about making sure Sam was all right. "Is he upstairs?"

Dean nodded.

He looked at his father and felt really tempted to tell him everything that had been going on. How Sam was turning to drugs to try and move on from the assault on him, and how it was obviously failing miserably and sending him down a dangerous path.

Dean chose not to say anything, though. He feared that when he told their dad what Sam was up to, John would harden towards his brother. He would be scared, of course he would, but he would probably go hard on Sam, and that was the last thing Dean wanted, especially now. He knew how vulnerable Sam was at the moment, so Dean just refrained from saying too much.

"Sorry you had to cut the trip short," he said instead.

"No, you did the right thing. Sam's more important than business." John squeezed Dean's shoulder reassuringly.

Mary was gone. Sam was very much alive and needing his family. Azazel could wait.

"We'll talk later," John said and walked past Dean towards the stairs.

A while later, John was walking into his youngest son's room.

Sam was leafing through a magazine in bed, his phone by his side.

"Hey there," John knocked on the door before walking towards the bed.

"Hey." Sam looked at his father and felt his muscles stiffen despite anything he tried to tell his mind. "Sorry you had to come because of me," he blurted the moment his father sat down on the corner of the bed.

"I was coming home today anyway. Business in Toronto didn't go as planned," John said, which wasn't a complete lie.

"Oh. Wanna talk about it?"

John studied the many cuts on Sam's arms, the bandage around his foot, the stitches he could see in his head, where Dean said the worst cut was.

"No," he smiled kindly. "I want to talk about you." His hand went for Sam's forearm and rested there, but the moment John felt his son's tension he retreated his hand and waited.

Sam had trouble looking his dad in the eyes. He felt so fucking helpless, so fucking weak. John was the personification of strength. Everything his father had ever done was coated with bravery and fierceness. Sam felt like such a disappointment he couldn't bear the attention.

"I'm okay. Just stumbled upon the doors in the middle of the night."

John nodded. He wanted to know how Sam truly was. He knew it might be difficult for his son to speak up, but John needed to try and get close to him.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked.

Sam felt heat on his cheeks, a burning feeling that also clogged in his throat as if it might choke him. The last time his father had asked him this question Sam was a little boy. He felt mortified. It reminded him that even when he was little, six, seven years old, Sam already knew a thing or two about guns, he was already able to defend himself with a jackknife, and he was far from being helpless.

Right now though, as he lay in bed with many stitches and a shattered ego, Sam wanted to hide his face. But mostly, he wanted to hide his thoughts, because he had a feeling his dad could see right through them.

"I…" Sam looked for words.

John could tell his son was uncomfortable. He had enough experience and knowledge on psychology to tell when someone was feeling intimidated by him.

"If you did, that's expected when you're suffering from PTSD," John went on when Sam seemed at a loss. "We can get you help, you know. Someone to talk to," he offered, hopeful.

Sam's reaction, however, was far from grateful. His face hardened and he looked extremely uneasy.

"I'm fine, Dad. It was just a dream. It won't happen again."

"It might." John hated the broken look on Sam's face. "You know I've been to war, right?"

The sudden change in topic made Sam's feelings shift a little with curiosity and he was able to look into his dad's eyes again.

"I've seen all kinds of shit, believe me. And as much as I wish it was all in the past, that shit still visits me at night," John confessed. "Mary's death still haunts me, too."

Sam kept staring at him, paying close attention.

"Pushing something to the back of your mind can be tricky, son. You never know when it might pop up."

"You seem to be doing just fine," Sam retorted.

John smiled sadly.

"I am," he said. "Doesn't mean I don't have my demons." John stood up and made as if he might get closer, but he changed his mind when Sam flinched a little, almost unconsciously. "I just want you to know that you're not alone, okay? Dean and I are here for you."

"Yeah, thanks. I think I'll get some rest now," Sam felt relieved when he saw his father nod and walk towards the door.

When he was alone, he closed his hands into fists and felt the throbbing in the cut near his wrist and the one on the palm of his hand. Somehow the piercing pain soothed his hectic emotions a little.

Downstairs, John accepted a cup of coffee and sat down with Dean in the kitchen.

The older man sipped from his mug and eyed the bandage on Dean's arm.

"Was that Sam?" he asked.

Dean looked at his wound and nodded.

"He didn't recognize me at first."

"It's called parasomnia and it can be incited by PTSD," John said.

Dean looked at his coffee as if he could drown there and find the answer to all his problems.

"It was fucking scary," he admitted.

John nodded. He could only imagine.

"That means your brother is not doing as well as he may want us to believe he is."

Dean thought about the cocaine Sam had stashed in his room.

"I know."

The two of them stared at each other and finished the rest of their coffees in silence.


~ * ~ 


Azazel stepped out of his hotel and smiled into the beautiful, sunny day.

God, he had missed this country. It felt good being back home.

After so many years hiding, living like a criminal who couldn't afford to show his face, it was finally time to regain control of his life, to have a purpose.

For a long time he had been planning that moment, making contacts, making money, gathering information. Now, he was very close to restoring his life and privileges and getting rid of both the law and the Winchesters.

He thought about the look on John's face when he realized he was already gone.

He smiled and took off his sunglasses for a moment, revealing a pair of strikingly amber-colored eyes.

This was going to be good. He couldn't wait to get started.

Now that he was home, the most important part of the plan would be set into motion. This was the moment he regained the trust of his boss and fell back on his good graces. This was the moment to reclaim his power and wealth.

This was the moment to open that damn cage and set Lucifer free.





Chapter Text



It would be a normal day in the life of FBI agent Meg Masters if it weren't for the envelope on her desk.

She got to work at the usual time, walked into her office, and saw the white envelop lying there. Meg looked around but there was no one else there with her at the time, just a few people who worked in other departments walked back and forth drinking coffee or texting on their phones, not paying her the slightest heed.

Curious, she sat on her chair and her fingers went for the white envelope. Nothing was written on either side of it, and the moment she opened it, there was a frown on her forehead.

Meg's heart raced when she saw the content.

Before doing anything else, she got up from her chair and walked towards the windows in her office, closing the blinders in order to have privacy.

As she sat back behind the desk and looked at the message inside, her mouth went dry.

"Dad?" She whispered, as she recognized the handwriting.

I'm back. It's time to set the boss free. Call me in this number and I'll let you in on the plan.

Meg stared at the cell phone number and felt her pulse quicken. So Azazel was back, after all these years! And not only was her dad back, he also planned on setting Lucifer free?

Whoa, that was a lot to process.

The identity of her father was one of her best kept secrets. No one inside the bureau knew that one of FBI's most wanted was her very daddy. She liked her job, but family was still family, and she knew she couldn't ignore the message. As long as she didn't have to do anything compromising, she wondered if she could help her dad set Lucifer free.

As she thought about it, she began to think of names that could help her in the process. People believed the FBI was an institution above corruption, but they didn't know that humans were far from being incorruptible beings. She knew there were people she could trust to help her if good money was involved.

And knowing her dad and Lucifer, she knew there would be big bucks up for the grabs.

Meg sighed and pulled a lighter from her pocket. She added the contact in her cell phone before burning down the message.


~ * ~


Dean was sitting in bed leafing through the book on rape victims that John had gotten him. Ever since Sam's nightmare, he'd decided to try and be more helpful to his brother, because clearly he wasn't helping enough. The night terror told them how traumatized Sam really was, and the fact he wouldn't open up about it was not making things easier. Then, there were the drugs, but thank goodness Dean didn't think Sam had used anything for the past few days.

His brother looked withdrawn and sad, and also oddly shy and tentative when he was around his dad and brother, but mostly when John was around.

Dean wondered what was going on, and if their dad somehow reminded Sam of the man who'd abused him. He knew it probably wasn't anything rational that Sam could control, so he hoped the book would give him some insight into what might be going on in his brother's mind.

Maybe if Dean was better equipped to help then Sam wouldn't need to turn to coke to feel better and confident.

As he dipped into the book, Dean had to admit it wasn't half bad. On the contrary. There were many passages that really spoke to him and felt as if he was reading about his own brother. Sure, because Sam's a rape victim, he thought and his chest tightened with pain. There was even a part of the book that addressed drug use as a way to find comfort after such a traumatic event. The stigma attached to men who were violated by other men was still great, and victims were often reluctant to speak about it, which could lead to severe depression and substance abuse.

Another passage stood out to him and caused Dean's thoughts to race.

"An extreme form of loss of control is demonstrated by those victims who were physiologically aroused while being terrorized."

He put down the book and thought about it for a moment.

Now, he had no idea whether Sam had been physiologically aroused during the abuse, but he did have quite some knowledge and experience with sex with men to know it could happen. The prostate was a highly sensitive bundle of nerves, and there was only so much the brain could control and filter regarding the stimulus it got. Perhaps not all the anguish the victim experienced in the assault could prevent the body from responding.

Although he had never thought about it, Dean could only imagine how having an erection during a violent assault could fuck with the victim's brain.

Feeling anything other than sheer horror and repulsion —like pleasure, for instance— might cause a rape victim to blame themselves and feel even worse about the episode, research said.

Dean sighed. He didn't know if Sam had experienced this and honestly, he was afraid to ask. It seemed like something way too personal. He once again thought about how different things were in BDSM. Even if sessions did get rough and if people did experience some level of pain, it was a place where a fetish for submission or even rough sex could be explored safely. The sub always had control—one word and the whole thing was called off.

He wondered how his brother felt having the safety stripped away from his fantasy. Now that Dean knew Sam enjoyed a more submissive role in sex, he also realized how much a real, violent assault must have fucked with his brother's feelings regarding pleasure and intimacy.

As one thought led to another, Dean thought about the stuff he had been reading up on before things took a turn and their lives changed quite dramatically. Unfortunately, though, Dean's books were at The Club, since keeping that kind of material at home had seemed like a bad idea a while ago. Still, he remembered one of the chapters in the Shibari book was about the healing properties of the Japanese bondage art and how it could help dealing with past trauma. Except that Dean hadn't read that part yet. It hadn't been exactly super interesting before, but suddenly he found himself quite curious about it now.

Dean made a mental note to go back to The Club and retrieve the book. That was, if Crowley's goons hadn't trashed it beyond repair.

Meanwhile, he stopped reading and got up and out of his bed, ready to go check on Sam.

Before he left the room, though, Dean stared at the book for a long while before picking it up and slipping it under his arm.


~ * ~ 


Sam was sitting on the sofa, skipping through channels. He hadn't used anything for the past three days, and even though he was reluctant to admit it, he wasn't feeling his best. He really wanted to use some and take the edge off of what had happened, with him walking through the glass door because of a nightmare. But Sam was also trying to prove a point—he didn't need the drug. He could stop whenever he wanted.

So he chose to ignore the little plastic bag in his drawer—which by the way was almost entirely gone. He would need to pay his dad's safe another visit soon if he wanted more. He also hadn't been taking the pain medication Dr. Spencer had prescribed. Oddly enough, the throbbing pain from the cut in his head was sometimes what kept him grounded and firm in his decision of not using coke. Sam didn't like to think too much about it, but the pain was like its own drug, giving him something he craved, replacing this huge emotional anguish with something physical Sam could control and he could understand. The pain from the cuts would go away, unlike the one in his mind.

He saw Dean walking down the stairs and muted the TV as his brother got closer. There was a book under Dean's arm as he walked towards him on the sofa.

"Hey," Dean nodded at him.



"Working in his office."

Dean nodded again and looked around. He tried to overcome his tentativeness and unwillingness to delve into the subject. This was not about what made Dean comfortable, this was about helping Sam.

"How's the cut?" Dean stared at Sam's head and the stitches in there, barely visible under his hair.

"It's okay. Yours?" Sam looked at his brother's inner arm and felt a guilty shudder travel him.

"I don't even remember it's there anymore," Dean smiled. Not true, the cut still hurt when he used his arm—which happened all the freaking time—but Sam didn't need to know that. "You were the one needing to be patched up," he teased lightly. "Are you taking the pain pills?"

"Yeah," Sam lied. He knew it would be kind of crazy if he said he was currently welcoming the pain.

Dean sat down beside his brother and looked at the muted movie on TV.

Sam's eyes then went for the book whose title he couldn't read. Considering Dean hadn't asked him to turn up the volume or gotten hold of the remote himself, Sam assumed he was there to talk.

"What are you reading?" he ventured.

Dean's heart raced. He needed a few moments to take deep, calming breaths and steady his feelings. He thought about how much self-control he had learned to have as a dom, and used it so his own vulnerability wouldn't seep through his words.

"This…" he began, getting the book and holding it on his lap. His hand was still partially covering the title. "Might be a little helpful, Sam."

The younger man frowned and grew curious. As he stared at the book on Dean's lap, Dean removed his hand so Sam could read the title.

Male Survivors of Sexual Assault – Understanding and helping victims.

Sam's heart began to thud in his chest. He felt his lungs fill with an icy breath of shame and panic, and his fingers grew cold and numb. Suddenly, he wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it.

Yes, he knew he was a male victim of rape. Staring at that book, however, sort of made everything more real and frightening.

Sam swallowed a lump in his throat and tried to get a grip. It was like he had to go to war with his brain in order to put together some damn words, and in the end he couldn't manage much.

"Are you serious?"

Dean could tell Sam was tense and wary, so he tried his best to put him at ease.

"Look, I know it may seem a bit scary and ridiculous, but perhaps reading about others who went through it will help you understand stuff."

"There's no stuff to be understood, Dean. It happened. It's over. The end."

Dean stared into the hazel eyes that tried really hard to be strong.

"I know, Sam, but you can't deny it's still in your head. The nightmare—"

"It was just a bad dream, for crying out loud!" Sam got up. He began to feel flustered and a little unsure of himself. Suddenly, the small plastic bag in his drawer started to sing to him.

Come get me. I'll make you feel good. I'll get you through this, it sang.

"Fine," Dean got up too, the book still in his hand. "Maybe you don't want to read it, but I've been leafing through it and I thought maybe you'd be interested."

Sam shook his head.

"Why? Because all rape victims are the same? Is a book supposed to tell me how I should feel, how to let it go?" Sam felt his chest tightening.


"Where did you get this book in the first place?" Sam suddenly wanted to know.

Damn, Dean thought. He didn't want to lie.

"Dad's given me this one."

Sam's heart was racing now. He felt so ashamed and vulnerable that his limbs grew shaky and his lungs burned in his chest.

Sam looked into Dean's green eyes as his thoughts spun out of control. "Has he read it too, did he recommend it…?" he began, his voice coated with sarcasm and barely hiding his anger.

"He's got a copy," Dean admitted.

"Oh, so it's like a book club?" Sam scoffed. He could feel his blood pumping faster—the throbbing in his head was a great sign that his heart was beating wildly.

"Sammy, don't. We're both trying to help you, okay? We're trying to find the tools to—"

"To fix me," Sam cut Dean off. "Dad's just suggested therapy. Now you come and offer this book for me to read. Stop trying to therapize me! I'm fine!"

"That's not what I mean, no one's trying anything, we just want to help," Dean softened his voice. That had escalated quickly, and it was going completely south. So much for trying to help Sam understand his feelings.

"Well, don't. I don't need help."

"Sam," Dean tried to touch his arm.

"I'll go to my room," Sam went up the stairs quickly.

He felt like crying. He did want help. He wanted Dean's help and his comfort, and he knew he needed it. Why had he snapped like that?

Because I'm ashamed, he thought.

As he got into his room and closed the door, Sam had trouble breathing.

He stood right by the door, trying to calm down.

He had grown up in a family where bravery and strength were cornerstones, and then there he was, a rape victim. Someone who had been stupid enough to be helpless around criminals. Someone who had failed to defend himself, despite all his training.

Someone who had a kink for being dominated.

Fuck. It was all so fucking much and so fucking confusing.

Sam knew he was a rape victim. He knew Dean meant well. He knew his dad was probably doing his best to try to help.

Yet, knowing didn't make him feel any less ashamed and shitty about what had happened. The feeling of helplessness seemed to eat at everything inside of him, and Sam thought he might drown.

He locked the door and opened the first drawer of his nightstand.

Sam began to calm down and regain control even before he picked up the plastic bag.


~ * ~


Dean couldn't sleep. Not after the terrible way he had left things off with his brother. He'd had the best of intentions, but everything had backfired spectacularly. Sam became completely defensive and shut down, and Dean couldn't even blame him. The more he thought about it, the more he understood Sam was basically reacting the way any Winchester had been wired to.

That didn't change the fact that Dean felt fucking shitty about the whole thing. He shoved the book back into one of the drawers and slammed it shut.

The house was silent because everyone had eaten dinner at different, separate times. John because he'd worked until late, Sam and Dean because they were sort of avoiding each other.

At midnight, Dean was still in bed, staring the ceiling. He couldn't stop playing the argument over and over in his mind and wondering what he could've done or said differently to make Sam feel comforted and not riled up.

Eventually, Dean gave up on his thoughts, but still couldn't find sleep.

He got out of bed and went down the stairs to the kitchen. Nothing like a midnight snack to help him get his mind off the argument. He hoped there was still some leftover pie in the fridge.

Dean didn't turn on the lights as he made his way down the stairs. He didn't want to make any noise or cause his dad or Sam to wake up, since the house was so quiet they were probably both asleep.

His face lit up when he opened the fridge.

Dean smiled and helped himself to a generous slice of pie, which he began to eat in the dark. He had his phone with him, so he went over the news as he ate, the light from the phone being enough at the late hour.

When he heard the noise of a door opening and steps, he put down his fork, swallowed the last of his pie and got up.

Dean didn't make a sound when he left the kitchen and looked up at the stairs to the second floor.

He saw the door to Sam's room ajar and wondered if his brother was having any trouble sleeping.

He was about to move when he saw his brother, and something about Sam's attitude made Dean stand back and watch.

Sam was sneaking around.

His brother also carried his phone to see his way around the dark house. He looked over his shoulder as if someone was watching him, but Sam seemed to relax when he couldn't hear or see anyone.

Dean had closed his bedroom door, so his brother probably believed he was sleeping.

When Sam walked towards John's office, Dean's heart fell.

He stood still in a dark corner of the living room, watching as Sam walked in and closed the door. Then watching as his brother left a few minutes later, his hand closed tight around something.

Bags of coke, Dean thought.

He kept looking from his hidden spot as Sam got into his room and closed the door stealthily.

"Fuck," Dean whispered and ran a hand through his hair.


~ * ~ 


The following day, Sam woke up feeling much better and he knew why. He tried not to dwell too much on the fact he had broken his promise to himself and indulged in the coke again, but it was hard to feel sorry when he felt so much better about himself and what had happened.

He knew Dean had meant well and he wanted to apologize.

It was weird, but Sam was actually proud of how reasonable he was in his use of the drug—like a medicine, truly. A prescribed medicine that helped him cope. He saw things with more clarity and was ready to let his brother know he was sorry for the outburst.

He was also ready for something else.

Sam hated arguing with his brother. He wanted Dean's attention, his touch, his kisses. Arguing got in the way of that. Dean and he had unfinished business, and Sam wanted to address such business as soon as they were alone.

Since Maria came up the next day to do some cleaning, Sam kept mostly to himself, avoiding his brother and healing, both from his visible and invisible wounds. He waited patiently, biding his time and pushing all upsetting feelings off of his mind. He didn't want to read a book about rape victims because he didn't want to identify as one. Couldn't Dean and his dad understand that it would be just too hard for him?

There were far more better things to focus on, and thanks to the white line Sam snorted, he was able to.

A couple of days after their argument, Sam saw his opportunity. John left a little after lunch. There was so much on his mind that he failed to notice the awkward mood between his kids.

The moment they were alone, Sam bid his time for a while, in case their father returned home. After an hour or so, he went out and found Dean on the porch, a pair of tiny scissors in his hand as he cut off the stitches in his inner arm.

"Thought you're supposed to leave them on until tomorrow," Sam said casually, his voice friendly and a little apologetic.

Dean raised his eyes and shrugged.

"What's one more day? It's all healed," he pulled the last stitch off and showed Sam the faint scar.

"Can you help me out, then?" Sam sat down on the porch beside his brother and inclined his head towards him, looking down as he did so. "If you say a day won't matter and you already got the scissors, go ahead."

Dean seemed to hesitate a little. His heart, as it invariably did, had already acknowledged Sam's presence and had begun beating in a faster, excited rhythm. He still had a lot in his mind and he felt extremely tentative about their last argument, and angry about the night excursion he had caught Sam engaged in a couple of nights ago.

"Yeah, no problem," he ended up saying.

Dean pushed his brother's head further down and his fingers moved Sam's hair gently out of the way.

"This will pinch a little," he warned.

"Go on," Sam replied.

Dean's fingers were very steady, and even though he tried to be as gentle and careful as possible, he could feel the flinching when the scissors' blade began to work.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay." Sam took a deep breath and tried not to flinch again as Dean continued. "So listen," he began, to distract his mind, but also because he needed to say it. "I'm sorry about arguing with you. About the book, you know."

Dean felt his chest tighten so he focused on the stitches before him with renewed interest.

"You know I didn't mean to upset you, Sammy."

"I do. I was a bit of a dick. Guess you caught me off guard," he confessed, to which Dean nodded. "I know you're trying to help, Dean. I just…"

"No books," Dean offered a small smile and removed the last stitch.

"Yeah, no books. Not now, anyway."

"Yeah, okay. There you go."

"Thanks." Sam lifted his head and they looked into each other's eyes.

Shit, Dean thought. He couldn't ignore the blown out pupils when they were this close. It caused his heart to sink and his temper to flare a little. Fuck this shit. He couldn't believe Sam, of all people, didn't see what was going on there—the way he was turning to drugs not to deal with his feelings.

Sam then got up and unbuttoned his jeans. He'd pulled them halfway down when Dean spoke.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a small twinge of annoyance slipping past his lips, which Sam didn't notice.

"I have more stitches, remember?" Sam pointed at the cuts on his calf and near his left knee.

"Uh, yeah, sure." Dean shrugged off his annoyance and went to work on the remaining stitches. He was so pissed knowing Sam had used cocaine again that he failed to notice that Sam had slipped into a flirty mood.

The younger brother watched as Dean finished removing all the stitches. He kept his breathing under control and tried not to let the closeness affect him too much. He didn't want to get hard just yet, but having Dean's attention completely focused on his naked legs caused him to tingle and his blood to pump faster.

"Foot," Dean instructed.

Sam put his right foot on Dean's lap and his features twitched a little as his brother removed the stitches on his calf. Dean then studied the scar on the sole of Sam's foot with his fingertip and nodded approvingly.

"Now you're all set," Dean announced, but Sam didn't move right away, neither did he pull his pants up.

When his brother didn't seem to be paying him much attention, Sam removed his foot and slid closer to Dean until his naked thigh was touching his brother's jean-covered one.

"Do you think this will leave a scar?" he asked casually, tracing the small pink line near his knee.

"No. And I don't think you care either," Dean narrowed his eyes and studied Sam shrewdly.

Busted, Sam smiled internally.

"I don't, but I did get you to look," he looked into Dean's green eyes with a spark in his hazel ones. "Now I wonder what I'll have to say to get you to touch…"

Dean's heart responded, his sex responded, of course his entire body grew hotter at the invitation in Sam's eyes and voice.

If only Dean wasn't so fucking pissed and worried about the cocaine thing, he thought.

"Sam," he began.

"It's okay. We have the house for ourselves." Sam went closer and let his nose graze Dean's cheek. He could feel his blood rushing to all parts of his body, especially to his lower belly.

"It's not this," Dean tried, but the moment he looked to his side Sam slammed their mouths together.

For a split second, Dean ignored his persistent thoughts and indulged in the sweet taste of Sam's kiss. It was unreal how good it felt, and before he knew it his tongue was taking control, deepening the kiss and causing Sam to moan—a sound that went straight to Dean's hardening cock.

Feeling bold, Sam let his hand go up Dean's thigh and squeezed. He loved the way Dean took control of the kiss, and when he felt his brother's lips nibbling at his jaw line Sam sighed blissfully, ready for more.

Sam cupped the hard-on between Dean's legs and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I believe we have unfinished business, brother. Last time I remember you were talking about how much you wanted to put your dick in my mouth?" Sam teased, squeezing Dean through his pants.

Dean hated his self-control, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. He was so done with the drug thing he couldn't possibly let it go on any further.

He pulled away and pushed Sam's hand off of him, gently but firmly.

"What happened?" Sam asked quizzically, his dilated pupils moving from side to side.

"Is that why you did the drugs? So you can go ahead and blow me?" He asked bluntly. Dean had had enough of that shit.

Sam went perfectly still. He felt frozen, his heart racing erratically, his mind rushing with all sorts of thoughts.

"Because no, thanks. I don't want anything to do with you if you need cocaine to get in the mood."

Sam felt busted. He felt exposed. He felt—Dean was wrong! How dare him treat him like he was an addicted?

"What the hell, dude?" Sam pulled back and got up, pulling his pants up and covering himself in the process. "I told you I'm not doing anything. Can't believe you'd think—"

"Cut the crap," Dean got up as well.

On his face, Sam could see his anger, and it made him waver a little.

"I've no idea what you're talking about!" Sam tried, desperate.

"Oh, please, don't insult me," Dean grimaced.

"You're going crazy, man. I'm not using anything, why would you say that? You're the one insulting me!"

"Don't you fucking lie to me because I'm not a fool, Sam. I've been trying to be patient and understanding, believing it was a one-time thing. Well, clearly it's not. You've got no control of this anymore."

Sam took a quivery breath and decided to come clean. There was no way he could convince Dean to believe his lie. His brother knew.

"And if you lie to my face I swear to God I'll—"

"Okay," Sam caved. He grew fidgety and angry. That was so unfair. Dean was judging him because he didn't understand.

"So you admit you've been using it?"

"Once or twice. Look, I know it's not right, okay? But I swear I've got this under control."

Dean scoffed.

"Sam, you're fooling yourself, don't you see it? You don't have this under control, not anymore. You need help. Let me help," he begged, his voice gentler and urgent.

"Dean, I don't need help, I need you to trust me and back off, okay? I know what I'm doing. I'm not an addict. I can stop whenever I want."

How many fucking times had Dean heard Benny say that? It broke his heart.

"Look, man, I know it feels this way, but drugs are never the answer to anything. You know how dangerous they are, c'mon!" Dean tried to reason with his brother. "There's a reason why dealers don't do their product, and that's because we know how addictive it is, and we know that it's too easy to get in over your head."

"I know," Sam sounded defensive. "But I swear it's different, okay? It helps me when I'm feeling too stressed out. It's either this or some mind-numbing prescription pills."

"There are other ways, we can find them together," Dean pleaded with him. Sam couldn't see it, but he was already in too deep.

"Just stay out of this, okay? What I do or not is none of your business, I'm old enough," Sam's jaw line tensed and his nostrils flared.

Dean's upper lip twitched.

"Really? I expected better from you," he couldn't help the violent emotion he felt. His brother was drowning and refused his help.

"Just because I don't do what you want me to?" Sam scoffed. "You sound like Dad."

"And you sound like a junkie."

That was a blow Sam was not expecting.

"Fuck you," he gritted his teeth and turned around, fuming his way into the house before the tears sprung to his eyes.

"Shit!" Dean cursed and raked his fingers through his hair. What the hell had just happened?!

He'd at least gotten Sam to admit it, but his brother just did not see he had no control and needed help.

This had gone way too far. Dean needed to know exactly what he was dealing with, so he walked into the house and up the stairs. Sam's room was closed, and Dean went straight to John's office.

He locked the door, removed the painting and punched in the code.

He also walked towards John's desk and opened one of the drawers, going over sheets of paper until he found what he wanted—their numbers.

Dean examined the list of buyers carefully and circled every 'online buyer' Sam had registered on the book in the past weeks. A small little gasp left his lips when he was done counting.


He'd thought that Sam had snatched two or three bags of coke. There were eleven missing bags. Each bag had enough for three or four uses.

Shit was seriously messed up.

Dean sat on his father's chair and took a few deep breaths as his thoughts raced.

Part of him wanted to just call John and beg him to come home and help him help Sam out of this fucking mess.

Yet, Dean couldn't help being sort of dreadful of their father's reaction when he found out. He thought John would go ballistic if he knew his son was addicted to coke. After everything he had always taught them during all these years, Dean was afraid John might grab Sam by the hair and drag him to a rehab clinic, lock the door and forget the key, regardless of Sam's PTSD and the abuse he'd suffered.

Nevertheless, Dean couldn't keep it to himself anymore. He felt as if he might burst. He needed someone to talk to, some fucking advice on what to do with his brother.

He got his cell phone and made a call.

"Benny?" Dean's heart was still racing. Eleven fucking bags! Holy shit. "Are you busy? How soon can we meet?"






Chapter Text



When Castiel was finally discharged from the hospital, he felt a bit like a stranger in his own skin. For days he had been confined to a hospital bed and small little walks through the white hallways. It felt weird finally being able to go home.

He paid the taxi driver and got out, thinking about the damage to his car and the whole insurance nightmare he was bound to deal with sooner or later.

Castiel walked in and looked around. His apartment was quiet and neat, although a bit dusty.

For a moment, the silence was almost oppressive, reminding him of his life choices and everything that had lead him to where he was right now—alone. Castiel had had a falling out with his family long ago, he hadn't seen them in years. He had never had a serious girlfriend and he couldn't even remember the last time he had dated.

His only pleasure was the weekly sex dates he allowed himself to have, and even that had been taken from him. Whether because of 'renovations' or because John Winchester had anything to do with The Club, Castiel didn't know and honestly, he tried not to care. Believing John was deeply involved in The Club would take away the one thing Castiel indulged in and—he knew it was sad, fuck, he did—that made it worth living.

Truth was, Castiel had been married to his job.

Now, as he looked around and realized there was no one there, and that his job had nearly just costed him his life, it was hard not to give everything up and never look back. Fuck John Winchester and fuck Crowley.

To hell with the drug war no one else inside the police force seemed willing to fight.

Castiel walked into the kitchen and opened some cabinets.

No coffee.


The detective sat down heavily on the sofa. Castiel thought about his last meeting with John Winchester. He knew what had happened even though he couldn't prove it. That had not been any casual car crash. He had perhaps asked the wrong questions and Winchester had sent a clear message.

Castiel caught himself thinking about the many dead ends in his investigation, and likewise, in his life

What was the point anyway? Catching a drug dealer who was thoughtful enough not to deal near schools?

Was it worth his life?

Or more importantly, was his life worth it?

Fuck, he needed coffee.

Or a session with The Headmaster.

And then coffee.

Yeah, that would be great.

Castiel closed his eyes and sat in silence for a moment. He might have dozed off, but suddenly his cell phone was ringing.

He picked it up and looked at the caller.

"Detective Castiel."

"Hi, Castiel. It's Zachariah," the voice on the other end began.

"I know," Castiel couldn't even hide the despondency in his voice. "I'll be back on Monday."

"How are you doing? All better, I hope?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he said politely. Had something happened? Why was his superior calling him? Certainly Zachariah didn't give a rat's ass about his welfare?

"Good, that's great news. Listen, I have some good news for you as well."

Castiel doubted it, but he paid attention.

"I got a call in my office. Your request with the FBI to interrogate Lucifer has been approved. You can go see him."

Castiel's heard began to race. Now that was not what he was expecting to hear. Castiel had all but given up on a one on one with Lucifer, Crowley's former boss, the big bad guy behind bars in a high security facility.

"Are you certain?" he asked, and for the first time since the accident his eyes had a spark of life.

"Yes, I am. They'll let you know when the best day is, but it's happening, Castiel."

There was silence in the line for a moment.

"Congratulations," Zachariah said and hung up.

Castiel kept looking at his phone, his heart racing.

An interview with Lucifer was exactly what he needed to breathe new life into his investigation.

So what if John Winchester had tried to kill him? Castiel was still alive, and he could still do something.

And the Headmaster was still there somewhere. Perhaps The Club had already reopened?

Castiel got up and went for his keys.

First things first.

He went for the door and left to go buy some coffee.


~ * ~ 


A couple of days after he'd gotten Dean's call, Benny opened the door and stared into the green eyes of the man standing right before him. The first thing he could tell was that Dean looked fucking tired.

"Hey, man. Come in," he said, wondering what could have possibly happened to make Dean look like that. John hadn't said anything, so Benny assumed it wasn't any serious work-related issue.

"Thanks for seeing me," Dean walked into Benny's living room as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"No problem, you know I'm here for you. Besides, when Dean Winchester says he wants to talk you better sit down and listen." Benny knew his friend well. Dean was not the type of person to talk shit out. More often than not he would bury his feelings as deep as they would go and pretend he was just fine. If those feelings hurt him, then it was all the more likely Dean would not want to have a chat about them. Of course Benny was worried, and curious.

"Well, what can I say. If I don't talk to someone I'm afraid I'm gonna burst and do something I might regret," he admitted.

Benny's curiosity grew as he looked into his friends' eyes.


"Hell yeah," Dean accepted it. He sat down on the sofa and waited.

Benny walked towards a few bottles resting on a side table and poured Dean a generous amount of whiskey.

"Here you go," he handed him the glass. "Be right back." Benny went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of sparkling water, lemon and ice.

He sat across from Dean and waited.

"Is that water?" Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah. 'Been clean for two years now, Dean. Can't risk going down that slippery slope."

Dean nodded gravely. He thought about Sam and his heart ached in his chest. How the fuck had things gotten this far and how could he help his brother?

"I'm proud of you," he said, raising his glass as Benny did the same before they both drank. "Isn't it hard, though? I mean, you have alcohol in your house."

"For special occasions. Visitors and shit. Dates," he shrugged. "I don't really drink. I mean, even though I didn't go down because of booze I don't want to get started. I really can't afford to relapse."

"That's some strong will there, friend," Dean said. He knew Benny was doing better, and he knew how much he had struggled with addiction, which was why he had come here to talk to him about his brother in the first place. He just didn't know, probably because he had never asked, how intent Benny was on staying away from danger.

"Yeah, yeah," Benny smiled lightly and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sure you did not come here to talk about my sobriety."

"Actually…" Dean took a deep breath and sucked on his bottom lip.

Benny narrowed his eyes a little and his interest grew. Dean looked visibly uncomfortable, as if he didn't know where to begin. Could this possibly mean what it looked like it did?

"No shit, drugs? We're here to talk about drugs?"

Dean didn't immediately say anything, but he nodded slowly.

"Shit, man, shit!" Benny frowned. "You?"

Dean knew he had better tell Benny what was happening. He hadn't gone there to play a guessing game.


There was a moment of silence as the two men looked at each other and let Dean's revelation sink in.

"How long?"

"It began a little after he got his memories back. You know, of the assault," Dean explained.

"How did you find out?" Benny still remembered how much Sam had given him—still gave him—a hard time about being a drug addicted. The younger Winchester didn't really trust an ex drug addicted and he made it pretty clear. Well, Sam was the last person on earth Benny would have imagined getting involved with drugs.

That, however, had been before he was raped.

"At first I thought I was just going crazy, you know? I thought I was imagining things, probably because I was just so worried about him all the time."

Benny nodded.

"You were around me when I was using it. You should know to trust your gut feeling," he said.

"But it's Sam we're talking about. He's the last person I could see using the shit we sell."

"But that was before the assault."

"And the PTSD," Dean added.

Both men stared silently at each other. Dean rolled the glass in his hand and took a large sip of the strong drink. He watched Benny do the same with his water.

"So how did you make sure? Because unless you did, I doubt you'd have come here today."

"I saw it. In his first drawer." Dean thought about the hot passionate night he had with his brother before finding evidence of his drug use. He was glad Benny couldn't read his thoughts, because they became very graphic for a moment or so.

"Did you confront him about it?"

"I tried," Dean sighed. "First time I did he dismissed it, said he'd only had a drink. I could tell his behavior was off, his pupils were blown out…but yeah, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then his behavior began to get really weird. Like there were two different Sams I was hanging with." Dean thought about Sam's fears being triggered by their making out, and how bold he suddenly got after using it.

"Yeah, I bet. But that's the way it goes, Dean. You know that. I remember what it felt like for me, and more than one person told me I was like two different people. I guess it happens to all users." He could finally understand why Dean looked so beat. "Have you tried talking to him again after that?"

"I have. It didn't go well," Dean fixed his green eyes on his friend. "He didn't lie this time. I got him to admit it, but he doesn't think it's a problem. Told me to fuck off. We haven't really talked for the past couple of days."

"Ouch," Benny knew that must have stung. "In his defense, that was probably the drug talking. What's he using? Coke?"

Dean nodded.

"How often?"

Dean shrugged and thought about it. He tried to count all the times he had clearly seen the shift in Sam's behavior after a little trip upstairs.

"At least three times a week. Four, maybe."


"I…I checked Dad's stash of Afghan coke. He's taken eleven bags so far."

Benny stared at his friend and his heart raced.

"I mean, I know he's been using it to cope, I do," Dean went on quickly. "And fuck, he's been through hell. I don't blame him for trying to find a way to deal with all that crap. I can't begin to understand what it feels like having those memories."


"But that's not a healthy way to cope. You know it can go wrong and get truly dangerous," Dean went on. "Besides, he was injected with heroin and nearly OD'ed, maybe that's also pulling him into this."

"Dean—" Benny tried again.

"I'm afraid he might not be able to stop as he says. What if he becomes addicted to this shit? What if—"

"Dean, listen to me," Benny knew he would have to break it to his friend. Dean was worried but he was also in denial. "Sam's already addicted," he tried to sound gentle, but his voice was firm and incisive. "It's already gone wrong."

Dean narrowed his eyes a little and made a face.

"It's been a little over a month. I thinks it's helping with PTSD, but he's flirting with something truly dangerous."

"He's no longer flirting," Benny went on again. "Sam's already consummated the affair with addiction. The things you told me, those are big red flags, Dean. Your brother can no longer stop on his own. He's gonna need your help. And by your I mean yours and John's."

Dean's heart rattled in his chest and he looked visibly tense. But that was the reason why he had gone there in the first place, wasn't it? He needed to talk about it with someone who would understand, but he also needed Benny to tell him it had gone too far. Apparently, Dean's decision-making skills were completely impaired due to his feelings for his brother.

"I…I thought about it, but I can't tell Dad, man."

"You have to."

"He'll go ballistic."

"It doesn't matter. Addiction is fucking serious, Dean. You can't handle Sam on your own. John will have to know."

Dean seemed nervous and unsure.

"I mean, Sam does listen to me. Perhaps if I go harder on him, ask him to get clean…I could change the password on the drugs, I could—"

"He'll figure it out. Shit, man, his daddy is a Mafia boss. There are drugs everywhere he goes to in his life. I'm saying this because I know it first hand, okay? This won't work unless everyone who is close to him commits to keeping him clean. Detoxing won't be pretty. Cocaine's a possessive bitch."

Dean was chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He stared at the bottom of his drink as if he could find some answers there. He knew Benny was right, deep down he did. But that didn't make it any fucking easy.

"Where is he right now?" Benny asked.



Dean shook his head. He wouldn't have left Sam by himself under the circumstances.

"Dad's there, too."

"Perfect. So we'll leave now and you'll go talk to your father in private. I'll keep Sam company as you do the talking."


"For what? For him to OD again?" Benny knew he was being harsh, but Dean needed to understand the seriousness of the situation. Clearly his love for his baby brother was blinding him. He got to his feet and walked towards his friend.

"Shit, man!" Dean exclaimed, obviously frustrated and at a loss.

"Today's as good as any day," Benny said and then his voice softened a little. "Dean, if you want to help Sam, your dad needs to know. You know John, he will find out sooner or later. Wouldn't you rather be the one who tells him before John sees Sam high out of his mind? Which will be worse? And when he finds out you knew and didn't tell him?"

"All right, yeah…I get it," Dean caved. He got up as well and started pacing around the living room.

"What are you so afraid of? What do you think John will do?" Benny softened his voice and asked.

Dean shrugged.

"I don't know. Grab him by the hair and drag him to rehab?" Dean scoffed lightly and swallowed hard. It was not funny, and it filled his chest with dread.

"He's a drug dealer. If his kid's into drugs, I'd like to believe John would be a little more sensitive to the issue. Anyway, I'll go with you. If he does fly off the handle then I'll help you talk him down. We won't let him harm your brother, okay?"

Dean nodded, obviously a little relieved. He finished his drink, put the glass aside and ran a hand through his hair.

"This is the right thing, Dean," Benny reassured him. "Sam's just been abused, John will understand him going off the rails."

"Yeah, maybe."

Dean looked as if something was still troubling him.

"What?" Benny asked.

Dean seemed unsure about his next words. On one hand, he did not want to share his secret affair with his brother with anyone. On the other hand, Dean knew that if Benny was willing to help, he might as well learn the entire truth. Dean feared that if things got too wild, their secret might end up surfacing. Dean figured that having Benny know and hopefully having him on his side would come in handy if he had to deal with the truth being outed to his father unexpectedly.

What if Sam was high and out of his mind, what if he said something? What if he did something in front of John?

What if their relationship was contributing to Sam's drug use? Was what was really on his mind but Dean wasn't brave enough to admit it to himself.

"There's something else you don't know." He took a deep breath and fidgeted with the car keys in his pocket. "That's not the only secret I've been keeping."

Benny stood very still and studied Dean's obviously edgy look.

"Okay…" he began, his forehead creased, his eyes attentive. "Should I sit down for this?"

Dean wasn't going to beat around the bush. He was going to own the lines he'd crossed.

"Sam and I are sort of in a relationship."

Benny didn't move, except for a few muscles on his face.

"Come again?" he asked, because that didn't make any sense.

"We've kissed a few times. Crossed some lines." Dean looked into his friends' eyes.

"Are you telling me that you're fucking your brother?" Benny couldn't help his choice of words, that was way too bizarre and his tongue worked faster than his brain could.

"No," Dean shook his head. "We haven't…we haven't gone there yet." Yet? Dean shuddered at the thought. He'd been there plenty of times in his head. "It began before the whole assault thing," he said quickly as Benny tried to wrap his mind around it. "I…I think he's got a crush on me."

"What about you?" Benny asked quickly.

"I love him," Dean said without any hesitance or shame. "I don't think I'd let things go this far if I didn't."

"Well, does he know how you feel?"

"Not yet. I just…I just think there's so much going on. We didn't get to talk about feelings. We just…just hook up sometimes."

Benny took a deep breath and held a hand up. He shook his head and walked towards the table with the drinks.

"Fuck you man for screwing with my sobriety, but this requires a drink." Benny whistled and scoffed as he poured himself a small dose of whiskey.

"Sorry, I guess…" Dean watched his friend drink it, his heart still racing.

"Does John know? I mean, forget it, what a stupid fucking question. Of course he doesn't or you two wouldn't be living and breathing," he chuckled darkly.

Dean nodded gravely.

"It seems like I've been keeping a lot of secrets lately."

"Do you reckon this…thing between the two of you, which I won't even get started on because damn, you're both grown men and I couldn't care less about what happens between you if there's consent," as a BDSM Master, it would be a little prudish on his side if he did. Besides, Dean was not asking for his opinion on whatever he had going on with his brother, he was just sharing the information, "do you think it's affecting him? You know, with the drug use?"

Dean shrugged and looked around for a moment, trying to find the most honest answer.

"Honestly? No. I mean, I hope not. Sam's very much into it and he's often the one who initiates something. But since the attack I can see how being intimate can trigger his PTSD. Except when he does cocaine. So yeah, that's part of how I figured it out. When he's high he gets reckless and bold, like he's trying to prove a point that there's nothing wrong."

Benny nodded.

"Sam's using drugs to feel confident, to feel unbroken," Benny stated. "You don't need to be a shrink to see that."

"That's what I think. And it sucks, because indirectly it makes me feel responsible, you know?" Dean confessed. "The thought that's he's on drugs so he can be with me without triggering memories of the abuse."

"Dude, it's not on you. Using it so he can do whatever he wants with you is just an excuse. Trust me, I've been there. As an ex addicted I'll tell you, there are always excuses. One day it's because he wants to get intimate with you, the next because he had a bad dream, or then because John said something, but ultimately, it's just because of the way he feels when he's on it."

Dean felt like a huge weight had been partially lifted off his chest. Partially, because that did not change the fact that Sam was having an addiction problem and that he needed help.

"So are you ready to tell your father?" Benny asked intently, his eyes fixed on his friend. "About Sam doing drugs, I mean. Please don't tell him you've been making out with your little brother because I don't want to be around if John catches whiff of that," Benny ended up laughing a little. "On a second thought, I guess part of me would like to see the look on his face—"

"Shut up, you're drifting," Dean cut him off. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I have to tell him about Sam. I don't want him to do any more drugs." Dean then gave his friend a serious look. "Benny? If shit hits the fan and Dad goes batshit crazy, I need you to help me get Sam into the Impala so we can run away," Dean said half-jokingly.

Benny could tell his friend was tense, so he walked up to him and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

"I got your back, don't worry."

Dean exhaled a sigh of relief, but Benny still looked very serious when he went on. "You do know that Sam will hate you when he finds out you told your dad, right?"

Dean swallowed hard. He hadn't thought about it, but yeah, he figured it was true.

"And that you'll have to take it and understand this will be his addiction speaking. Whatever he says to you, that's his craving for a next fix doing the talk. You'll have to be strong."

Yes, Dean thought, it was something he was told quite often. Be strong. He could do that.

"I know."

"Then let's go. The sooner you tell John, the sooner Sam gets help."

Dean was feeling all sorts of nervous when he walked outside with Benny and got behind the steering wheel.


~ * ~ 


The younger Winchester was outdoors, sitting by the pool and leafing through a book.

No, not the book Dean wanted him to read—Sam shuddered at the memory. He was reading an adventure book that helped get his mind off his feelings.

Because even though he looked relaxed in his swimming trunks with his sunglasses on, the truth was, Sam was angry.

Dean had no right to interfere with his life choices. It was not like Sam was a kid or like he was a stupid junkie who would get addicted to cocaine. Sam knew what he was doing. He only ever used it to take the edge off, never to have fun or just for the sake of it. He also did small doses, and he didn't even do it every day. Except for the past two days because things had been shitty after their argument.

Besides, it was not like he planned on using it for a long time.

Sam knew he just needed time to get through the worst of his memories. With time, things would settle down, like things always did. Then he would feel more capable of dealing with it on his own.

It was not fair denying him this help because Sam was not a drug addict and honestly? Dean thinking Sam didn't have it under control was a little offending.

So yeah, he hadn't spoken to his brother since their last argument, even though Sam missed him and craved his presence and attention. He figured that would teach Dean a lesson to trust Sam's instincts and stay away from his business. Sam knew his brother could go overboard with his protective instincts, but this time he would have to trust Sam that he had it under control.

When Sam saw his brother parking outside in the garden and walking out with Benny, his anger dissipated and Sam felt a spike of genuine fear tangle with worry in his chest.

What was Benny doing in his house?

"Hi, Sam. What's up?" The older man greeted him and sat down on a sun lounger across from him.

Sam felt tension creep into his every muscle. That couldn't be good, could it? Was it a coincidence that Benny was there? Were he and Dean coming back from a mission?

It didn't have anything to do with his stupid argument with his brother about cocaine, right? Sam hoped not, but he felt something stir in the pit of his stomach and he grew uneasy.

"Hey," he managed to say, but behind his shades his eyes looked wary.

"I'll go get us a drink," Dean told Benny and just cast a hard look in Sam's direction before disappearing into the house.

Dean had no intention of preparing drinks. Benny was there to distract Sam while he sat down and talked to John about what was going on.

And no, Dean didn't feel ready to tell their dad everything, and yes, he still feared John might lose his shit and try to harm Sam or just start yelling at him for being so fucking stupid and using their product. Except for Benny, when others near them fell into addiction, John had expressed nothing but contempt for their weakness. With Benny, he had been helpful, but obviously disappointed.

Dean hoped John wouldn't lose his mind and make things worse when he learned his kid was addicted.

He took a deep, calming breath and tried to get in touch with his dom energy before he knocked on the office's door. If John threatened to get too violent or even physical with Sam, Dean knew he would have to intervene.

He was not looking forward to it. What made him go ahead was Benny's reminder that today was as good as any day. The sooner they got Sam help, the better it would be. Dean would die if his brother had another overdose because he failed to report his problem and get him the help he needed.

"Yes?" John paused the video on his computer, his hand still on the keyboard, and waited.

"Hey," Dean stuck his head into the office. "Can I come in?"

John relaxed and leaned against his chair.

"Yeah, close the door behind you."

Dean did as told and walked further in. He looked into John's brown eyes and held on to his decision. It was the best for Sam, he told himself again.

"We need to talk," he began.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, does it have to be now?"

"Yes," Dean felt his heart drumming. He wouldn't back down. "This can't wait."

John frowned at the answer and his eyes grew serious, his jawline harder.

"The police?" he asked.

Dean shook his head and swallowed. His mouth was dry.

"It's about Sam."






Chapter Text



John put down his notes and stared at his older son with more attention. He could tell Dean had something important to say, but judging from his look and body language, it didn't seem to be life threatening. John took a deep breath and beckoned him closer.

"Take a seat."

"Actually, I'd rather stand." Dean felt too uncomfortable to sit down. He kept trying to take deep breaths and steady himself, but his mind kept racing. Not only with the news he had to break to John, but also with what he imagined was going on between Sam and Benny right now.

Not that Dean thought something was actually going on, but he couldn't help wonder what was going through Sam's mind right now.

Dean had a feeling his brother had an idea why Benny was there, and the thought that Sam might get angry and feel betrayed made Dean's heart sink and his stomach ache. The drug issue was, however, nonnegotiable. Dean couldn't just stand back any longer as Sam dug a bigger hole for himself with addiction.

"Benny's also here."

"I know."

When Dean frowned John tapped his laptop screen with his knuckles, indicating he was watching security footage.

"Saw you walking in."

"Oh, okay," Dean was about to say something when he was drawn to the computer screen after glancing at it out of the corner of his eye.

There were actually two tabs opened, and only one of them showed the entrance to their house.

The other was the footage from the bar on that Wednesday night everything had changed.

Dean's words faltered and his eyes were drawn to the sight of his brother on his knees, being forced to perform oral sex on his abuser.

Dean was aware that Sam was triggered by the idea of giving a blowjob and he knew why, but actually seeing it sent Dean's thoughts crashing and burning, and he forgot everything but the dreadful buzzing of adrenaline in his ears.

"What the…" he tried.

John paused the video and looked at his son. He hadn't wished for Dean to see it.

"It's paused. Go on."

Go on? Dean had trouble remembering his own name, let alone the reason why he was there.

Right, Sam was doing drugs because of that very moment of his life that their dad was watching again.

"I thought you'd gotten rid of it," he managed to speak.

"We still haven't caught Ronald. If I can find a better angle that shows his face, I will. If he's still able to hide it means he's not as easily recognizable by our people as he should be," John explained.

And sure, it made sense, but suddenly everything was chaos inside of Dean. His heart was torn to pieces and there was anger boiling fast inside him.

"What if Sam had walked in?" He looked at his father, his face muscles stiff with the strained emotion. "What if he'd seen it, Dad?!"

"Calm down. I would've turned it off the moment he walked in."

"I… I just don't get why you still have it, I mean…" Dean thought of Sam obviously having PTSD when he tried to go down on him, and then trying again under the influence of coke. No wonder Sam felt like he needed drugs to go ahead with it. That was probably a major trigger.

"Dean, what do you want to tell me?" John asked calmly, trying to help his son find his focus again.

Dean looked at his father as if he didn't know what exactly he was doing there and how he'd gotten there in the first place. The sight of Sam on his knees giving a blowjob with a gun to his head was still tugging at the strings of his heart and making it difficult to get a hold of his emotions.

"I…Sam, he—" he began to look for words that were suddenly very scrambled in his mind.

John's eyes narrowed and a deep frown creased his forehead.

"What the fuck…" he began, the words spoken under his breath.

"What?" Dean was totally confused.

John was staring at the security camera on the tab that showed the entrance to their house.

He could see Samuel Campbell being allowed entrance.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" he groaned.

"Who?" Dean finally looked at the screen and saw his grandpa walking in with Sam by his side.

His heart fell for a second time. There was no way he could tell his dad about Sam with an audience in the place.

"Dean, can this conversation wait? I feel like I'll be needed downstairs really soon," John looked at his son.

Dean sighed and flailed his arms a little until they just went limp by his sides.

"Yeah, it can wait." Telling John Sam had a drug problem was not something Dean wanted to do in front of their grandfather.

If he feared John's reaction would be unpredictable, well, now that his mood had obviously taken a turn for the worse, he knew he'd rather wait to have that conversation.

"Good. Can't believe he had the balls to come back," John muttered and got up.

Dean watched his father walk out of the office. He shut down the laptop quickly and went down after him.


~ * ~ 


Sam was taken by surprise when he saw his grandfather at the door. He hadn't invited him, and he thought his dad had been pretty adamant when saying he did not want to see Samuel in his home again.

So of course Sam was a little nervous when he walked towards the gate and punched in the code, but it was not like he could just leave his grandpa waiting outside. Whatever Samuel wanted, John was home and could deal with it.

"How are you, Sam? Haven't heard from you since Dean's birthday," Samuel walked further in.

"Well, yeah, I've been a bit busy, you know how it goes."

"Right, the business doesn't rest. Hi, Benny!" Samuel greeted the other man from a distance.

"Hey!" Benny looked at Sam and his grandfather walking side by side and wondered if Dean had already been able to talk to John. Probably not. And he probably wouldn't. Talk about timing, Grandpa Campbell!

"Would you like something to drink or eat?" Sam asked, not sure why he felt a restless little feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"No, I'm fine. I'm just here to talk to your dad. Is he home?"

"Yes, I'll go tell him you're here…" Sam made as if he would walk into the house but John was soon coming out, with Dean following right behind him.

John Winchester's eyes left no doubt to the kind of mood he was in. He took firm strides towards his father-in-law and puffed out his chest a little.

In the meantime, Dean found Benny's eyes in the patio and he shook his head, silently answering the question in his friend's eyes—there had been no time to talk about Sam's problem.



"I believe I made myself clear when I said you weren't welcomed in my home," John kept his voice calm, but the twinge of anger was there for anyone to hear.

John then thought about the last time Samuel had been there and his eyes found his younger son.

Sam felt his heart race and his breathing grew immediately clipped and somewhat erratic. The look in father's eyes threw him a little off balance as he remembered how mad John had been at him on Dean's birthday.

"I…I didn't…I didn't invite him…" Sam stuttered in a small voice. He hated how fucking meek he sounded. His body reacted to the combative waves coming off of his father in a way Sam couldn't help. He never liked to confront his father, but now it felt so much worse. Sam experienced something he never did in the many times he'd argued with his dad—fear.

John was then quickly reminded of everything that had happened to his youngest son.

When he looked into Sam's eyes he did not see the fiery spark of defiance he usually saw when they were about to have a disagreement. That spark was gone, and John could actually see extreme uneasiness and a layer of fear as his son looked at him and then stared at the ground.

"He didn't invite me, I invited myself," Samuel spoke, not really noticing the awkwardness of the youngest man in the group.

"It's okay, Sam," John spoke reassuringly, trying to soothe that wave of distress before he focused on Samuel. "So you invited yourself? Well, it's a shame you came all this way only to go back."

"Really? I thought you'd at least go in with me, have a talk. I'm sure we have some catching up to do," Samuel insisted, his eyes alert and unfaltering.

"I've got no idea what you mean," John stated, his patience running thin.

"I thought we could have a chat about Canada and what happened, well, what didn't happen there." Samuel looked deeply into John's eyes. He knew about Azazel coming back and he knew John had been about to catch him. He might not be actively working in the business anymore, but he was a mafia boss himself once; he still had friends everywhere and he knew shit.

John took a deep breath. He could feel Sam and Dean's questioning eyes on him but he did not make eye contact with his kids. He hadn't told them how close he'd been to catching Azazel and he didn't want to disclose that information just yet. They would just get their hopes high and end up as frustrated as John was. And he definitely didn't want Samuel to be the one telling his sons about it. John would tell them later, in his own time.

"Come in," he said curtly, his voice gravelly. "We'll talk in my office."

Sam and Dean stood behind as John and Samuel disappeared inside. Benny watched the brothers from a distance.

Dean then stared at his brother and his chest felt tight at the sight of him.

Sam looked jittery and he could barely conceal it.

"Hey, are you okay?" Dean asked softly as he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam shied away from contact. For a split second he was tempted to gravitate towards Dean, but then he saw Benny a few feet away and recalled his argument with his brother.

"I'm fine," Sam said curtly. He knew exactly what he needed to help him get through that surprise visit. The last thing he wanted was to be all fearful and out of control in front of Benny and his grandfather. It was bad enough when something triggered his PTSD in front of his brother and Dad. "I'll go drink some water."

"Sam, wait," Dean tried, but his brother had already started making for the door.

Dean put his hands at his waist for a moment, sighed and then ran a hand over his face.

He turned around and walked towards Benny, sitting on a chair next to him.

"You know what he's going to do, don't you?" Benny asked softly.

"Of course I do. Tried to stop him but he's still pissed at me."

"Something triggered him, maybe it was my presence, maybe your grandpa's…" Benny pondered. "He's gonna use it."

"I know. Shit!" Dean cursed and shook his head, supporting his chin against his hands and staring at his feet.

"You need to talk to John as soon as possible, man. Sam's not in control of anything, regardless of what he might tell you. First sign of emotional distress and he'll run to it. He's addicted."

"I know," Dean agreed, albeit a little reluctantly. Hearing Benny say it made him open his eyes and feel guilty that perhaps he had waisted too much time trying to understand Sam and wait for this whole thing to phase out.

"Hey," Benny patted Dean's thigh when he saw the anguish in his friend's face. When Dean raised his eyes, he went on, "We'll get him help, okay? It's gonna be tough, but we'll help him like you guys helped me."

Dean nodded. He felt a knot clogging his throat and didn't trust his voice.



~ * ~ 


John didn't invite Samuel to sit.

As soon he closed the door behind them, he went straight to the point.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Samuel scoffed and looked at John with a mixture of disdain and amusement.

"Do you seriously think I would stop being aware of things just because I retired? I know everything that's been happening. Everything that's important anyway."

No, John thought. He didn't know about Sam and neither would he.

"I know Azazel is back and you were tracking him down in Canada. I know something went wrong and he slipped through your fingers."

"Well," John moved his hands and smiled sarcastically. "Then you know all there is to know about it. I tried to catch him, he escaped. The end."

"You said you'd let me know if you had any updates on him," Samuel accused.

"Sorry, must've slipped my mind," John said, his face showing he was not sorry at all. "Besides, I had to act fast, there was no time to give you the heads up."

"I could've helped, John!" Samuel insisted. "I still got contacts in Canada, people who wouldn't have betrayed you and tipped Azazel off!"

John's jaw tightened. How did Samuel know so much?

In reality, John shouldn't be surprised, but he was pissed.

"We have reason to believe he's here in the USA now," John caved.

"I know that, too."

"Do you happen to know where he is, then? Because that would help more than a smartass attitude," John's voice hardened.

"Of course I don't, John," Samuel's combativeness died down a little. "Can you drop the attitude and for one minute remember we're on the same side, here? I lost my daughter. So yeah, I want to know if we're any close to catching her killer. Let me help. I got men, too."

John seemed to consider it, but he had already made his decision—pride wouldn't get in the way of catching Azazel.

"Yeah, okay. Fine. I'll get in touch and send you what my men have dug up so far. You can be part of the search team," he conceded.

"Thank you. Jesus," Samuel sighed. He thought he was even sweating a little. "We should be careful, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"There's no way Azazel showed up out of the blue without an agenda. We might not have any idea about his plans yet, but he's up to something."

"What could he possibly be up to when he's on FBI's most wanted list? It's not like he can go to places. He's probably holing up somewhere," John argued.

"Probably. But he has a plan to get back in power. I wouldn't be surprised if it included Lucifer."

"Lucifer?!" John scoffed. "He's in a maximum security prison. He's not even allowed visitors."

Samuel shrugged.

"You and I both know money opens a lot of doors."

The two men stared at each other meaningfully for a moment.

"All right," John caved for a second time. "I'll keep my eyes open to any move regarding Lucifer as well." He stared at Mary's dad and it was difficult not feeling the pinch in his heart at the memory of his beloved wife. "Anything else?"

"No. That's all I came here for. I won't bother you anymore," Samuel made as if he would go for the door, but something suddenly occurred to John.

"Wait. I have something else." John ignored the curious look in the older man's eyes and used a key to open one of the drawers in his desk. He pulled out a printed photo from it and walked towards Samuel in order to give him the picture. "This man's name is Ronald. He's wanted by me and by Crowley," he said as Samuel studied the somewhat pixelated picture. "He fucked up with Crowley and hurt one of my men." John stared intently into Samuel's eyes.

"Did he kill them?"

John shook his head slowly.

"No, but some might say what he did was worse. He crossed lines he shouldn't have."

Samuel narrowed his eyes a little as he tried to make sense of the riddle in John's words.

"Look, he's a dead man walking," John said. "I'd appreciate it if you had men who could try and help me locate him."

"All right. I'm on it," Samuel raised the paper a little before folding it and making it disappear in the back pocket of his jeans.


~ * ~ 


In the patio, Sam joined his brother and Benny after about ten minutes into the house. He was feeling much better, lighter and happier, and definitely more confident about his emotions.

As he approached the two other guys, he sniffed a little and scratched at his nose absently.

"Hey," he sat on another chair that faced the pool.

"Hey," Benny's voice sounded friendly and laid-back, but he was studying Sam closely. "You look different, man. Did you have something to drink?" he teased, checking Sam for his reaction.

Oooh, Sam wouldn't fall for the provocation. His eyes went for Dean, shooting daggers. Had he told on him?? But then he looked at Benny again and smiled a carefree, cynical smile.

"Yeah, had a glass of cold water. Got to keep hydrated. Do you want some?" he offered.

"Nah, I'm good." Benny shrugged it off and let it go. He could see, even from a distance, the blown out pupils, the fidgety behavior and the glassy look. Whatever Dean wanted to believe, his brother was not doing just a little.

"So, what do you think grandpa wants with Dad, huh?" Sam asked Dean, as if the mood between them wasn't heavily charged with animosity after their last argument.

Dean knew why Sam sounded so cheerful, and it weighed on his heart.

"I don't know, man," he replied, engaging Sam but only barely. "He said something about Canada…"

"I heard it. Do you know how things went in Canada? Dad hasn't told me anything about it," Sam went on.

"He didn't tell me shit, either." Dean tried to act normal when all he wanted was to walk over to his brother, grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him. How stupid was he to go down that road? And yes, Dean knew Sam was going through a lot of shit right now—the footage was a strong enough reminder—but still, drugs? Fucking drugs? After everything they knew and had seen?

It was hard keeping a straight face when his mood was so dark. Dean couldn't bear making small talk, and he was actually pretty thankful when he saw his dad and Samuel walking out of the house.

"Wow, doesn't look like they tried to kill each other," Sam chuckled darkly.

Dean ignored him. He kept staring at his dad and his grandpa as they walked towards them by the pool.

"I'll just say goodbye to the boys and be on my way," Samuel turned his back to his grandkids and spoke to John.

"Yeah, fine," John nodded.

Then, Samuel did something that John did not see coming and that caused his heart to race.

The older man grabbed the picture in his pocket, unfolded it and stared at Ronald's face again.

"And I'll help you find him," he reassured John.

Sam wasn't too far. Not far enough that he couldn't see the face on the picture. And even though that face was pixeled, Sam's brain knew all the details of his abuser not to recognize him in the image.

"Put it away," John said quickly, taking Samuel aback and making him look puzzled.


But it was too late because it all happened too fast. Dean and Benny barely understood what was going on when Sam got up and strode towards his grandfather.

The was adrenaline buzzing in Sam's system, fueled by the drug and the triggering image.

"What the fuck?!" Sam tried to grab the picture from grandfather's hand but Samuel reacted quickly, out of instinct.

"Hey!" The older man grabbed Sam's arm firmly when he felt him trying to snatch the picture out of his hands.

Then, it was Sam's turn to react instinctively. PTSD clouded his thoughts and triggered survival mode. When that strong hand grabbed him and tried to stop him, Sam's hand flew to his attacker's face, punching and then twisting the arm grabbing at him until the he had the abuser on his knees, whimpering with pain.

Except the alleged abuser was just his granddad.

"Sam!" Both Dean and John screamed at the same time as Dean and Benny got closer to the scene.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, Sam?!" Samuel cried out.

Sam let go and stepped back. His hands were shaky and his knees were threatening to buckle.

He looked around himself like a deer caught in headlights.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on him, but Sam couldn't think clearly for the sake of him. There was a monstruous sense of dread and need to defend himself rumbling inside him, and he was not in control.

"Where the fuck did you get that? Is that some sick joke?" Sam looked at the many pairs of worried eyes. Why were they staring at him like that? He was only defending himself!

"You were not supposed to see that," John said as he helped Samuel to his feet.

Campbell still couldn't take his eyes off of his grandson, now disheveled and wild.

"Sam, come sit with me. It's okay," Dean tried to approach his brother but Sam snarled at him and pushed him away.

"Don't fucking touch me! You're all together in this, aren't you?" Sam's heart was drumming, the coke in his bloodstream making his blood pressure spike. "You, Dad, Benny, grandpa…you're all in this, all going behind my back!" Sam cried. "What else are you hiding from me?!"

Now, John could understand Sam's PTSD being triggered by the photo, but it felt like there was more going on. Sam looked…well, paranoid.


"Don't! Don't fucking talk to me! You're all the same! Keeping secrets, trying to fool me… shame on all of you!" he was seething.

"What the hell…?" Samuel's frown deepenedd.

Dean then met his father's eyes with a very meaningful look. It made John think about what Dean had wanted to talk to him before. Apparently there was something important they needed to discuss about Sam. John couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with this outburst.

"Sam," Benny tried, standing before the taller man and looking him in the eyes. "You've got to try and snap out of it, okay? Don't let it control you. Take a deep breath. Everyone here cares about you."

Sam narrowed his eyes and his face expressed contempt.

"Oh, I see what this is all about now." Sam chuckled wildly and looked at his brother and then at Benny. "You're ganging up on me, aren't you? Well, you stay the fuck out of my family." He pointed a finger at Benny's chest.

"I know what you're going through, I can help—" Benny tried, his hands up as a peace-offering sign.

"You don't know shit!" Sam spat the words. "You're a fucking junkie with no self-control."

Benny didn't take it personally. He knew where that anger was coming from.

John was still watching everything while feeling completely struck.

"Sam, I used to be exactly where you are. This is not you speaking. Look at yourself!"

"Don't you dare compare us! I'm nothing like you!" Sam felt outraged. Not only were they all plotting behind his back, Benny was also trying to humiliate him.

"Oh, so you're not using it?" Benny confronted him. He could see John's face turn pale out of the corner of his eye.

"That's not the fucking same. I know exactly what I'm doing!" Sam protested.

"What the hell is going on here?" John looked at Sam and then at Dean.

Samuel's anger had long turned into sheer shock at the way things were unfolding.

"That's what I was going to tell you," Dean stepped in. He hadn't meant to do it in front of Benny, let alone Samuel and his brother, but it was not like he had much choice now. "Sam's being using the coke we sell." He looked at his brother and saw the anger flash in Sam's eyes.

At that moment, Dean knew his brother hated him. And even though Benny had prepared him for that, it still hurt like hell.

"He's what…?! Are you doing cocaine?" John had a hard time wrapping his head around it. He, who was so sensible and practical, who could keep his cool in a number of hectic situations, did not know what to do with that information and all the many feelings it evoked.

"Sam?" Samuel frowned, as if he could not believe what he heard but was forced to trust what he saw.

"What? Is everyone here to judge me, is that it? You don't know what the hell I'm going through. You should all stay out of my life!" Sam felt himself cracking. Somewhere deep down he knew he was a little paranoid—fuck, he could barely recognize himself. But it was like he couldn't stop. Something kept him paralyzed as this other, vicious person spoke through his mouth.

"Mr. Campbell?" Benny spoke softly and approached the older man. "I think we should leave them alone. They have a lot to talk," he said in a small voice.

Samuel watched the heated looks between father and sons and even though he was worried about his grandson, he knew his presence there was probably making matters worse.

"Yes, yes…" he agreed.

Dean nodded lightly in Benny's direction, thanking him silently as he walked out of there with Samuel and gave them privacy. Whatever happened, Dean didn't want these many eyes watching.

"Sam…" John closed the distance between them and looked deeply into the hazel eyes that kept straying. "Is that so? How long have you been using it for?"

"Just a couple of times," Sam lied quickly.

"For at least a month," Dean said.

"Shut the fuck up!" Sam snapped at his brother; he was livid.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?!" John asked Dean. His voice sounded a little strangled under his growing tension.

"I thought I could talk to him, make him stop," Dean spoke sadly, looking into Sam's glassy eyes. "But he won't listen. Then I checked the stash and…well, it's pretty fucking serious. We're down eleven bags."

"What?!" John felt his head spinning as it all dawned on him way too fast.

"You're a fucking rat, you know that?" Sam was shaking. He was almost unrecognizably angry. "I'd never do this to you. I thought you had my back, I thought you—"

"I do, man. I'm doing this to help you…" Dean pleaded.

"Fuck you!" Sam charged at Dean blindly, fueled by anger and hurt. He thought me might cry, but he wouldn't let those tears come, not without a fight.

In this case, an actual fight.

"Sam!" Dean dodged a blow and grabbed his brother's wrists as he tried to hit him.

"That's enough!" John barked. "Stop it!"

Sam tried to break free from Dean's grip, but being unable to just made his feeling of helplessness escalate. And when John interfered physically, pulling him off of his brother, the proximity and the strength with which John grabbed him sent Sam spiraling into PTSD chaos.

"Don't fucking touch me! Don't touch me! Stay away! You don't know what's it's like! You don't know how it feels, those fucking memories, those fucking nightmares!" he wailed and thrashed violently against the two men trying to calm his movements down.

"Sam…" Dean felt his eyes welling up and his voice faltered. He took a step back to try and see if Sam calmed down, but his brother just kept struggling as if he was being attacked. Which, in his mind, he probably was.

"Sam, stop it! Stop fighting me! Goddamnit, kid, you'll hurt yourself!" John commanded, trying to knock some clarity and focus into his youngest.

"Don't!" Sam's hands were claws at John's chest, pushing him away. His body jerked trying to get away as he felt strong hands securing him in place.

"It's okay, Sammy," John's voice melted and softened when his heart broke. "We'll get you help. Do you hear me? We'll help you."

Sam broke down. He felt the sobs coming convulsively and instead of pushing he grabbed at his father's shirt and pulled.

Fuck, he knew he'd lost control. It just hurt like fucking hell admitting it.

"We're here for you. You're not alone," John went on, and when his eyes met Dean's over Sam's shoulder he realized they were blurry.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam cried. He buried his face against his father's chest. "I'm so sorry…"

Dean had feared John's reaction—he'd feared his father might go ballistic and even try to hurt Sam out of rage.

What he saw now broke his heart, but also warmed the shattered pieces.

John went down with Sam sobbing in his arms, and there were tears in his father's eyes as he ran a soothing hand up and down Sam's back.

"It's okay—" John said.

"It's not! I'm weak, I disappointed everyone. It's embarrassing, I—" a sob tore from Sam's chest and swallowed up his voice.

"We'll figure it out," John squeezed his arms around Sam and kissed the top of his head.

Dean closed the small distance between them and got down as well, wrapping his arms around Sam from behind and holding his father's arms with his hands.

"I'm sorry, Dean…" Sam croaked out. He was so fucking ashamed, so tired, so lost.

"You heard Dad. We'll figure this out, okay? We will."

Sam turned in the embrace and buried his runny nose in the crook of Dean's neck. He kept sobbing and saying he was sorry over and over again, until the words sounded blurry, broken, but still desperate.

"…s' sorry…" he wept.

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean's eyes met John's as they both hugged Sam and held on to each other in the middle of the patio. "Right, Dad?"

John reached out his hand and squeezed the back of Dean's neck reassuringly. What a mess they were, all huddled together on the ground, feeling a little of Sam's pain and a lot of their own helplessness to do something about it.

"Of course we will. You hear it, boys? We'll be just fine."






Chapter Text



Neither man had any idea how long that embrace lasted. Or how many sobs tore from Sam's chest. Or how many tears they all cried.

When Sam eventually calmed down, John got to his feet and let his rational mind take control of the situation. He looked at his boys, still sitting on the floor, Sam's head still resting against Dean's shoulder.

"We need to do something about it, you understand, right son?" he looked at his youngest and his voice was soft but firm.

Sam felt so broken and ashamed, but when he managed to look at his dad he didn't see anger. John was still a little emotional and evidently concerned, which helped put Sam more at ease.

"I do," he agreed, and closed his eyes when Dean squeezed his hand.

"What do you have in mind?" Dean asked, because he could tell just by looking at his father that John had a plan.

"Detox, to begin with," John said. "How long have you been using it, Sam?" Shockingly—at least to Dean it was—John's voice had no anger or judgement, just calm curiosity.

"A month or so…" Sam admitted, his eyes focused on the pool ahead.

"You'll go through withdrawal, that's not something we can help," John stated. "But I think Dr. Spencer should assess you in order to determine whether you need to detox at a medical facility or at home."

"Home, please…" Sam begged, looked into John's and then Dean's eyes. He didn't want to be separated from his brother. Despite their ridiculous argument, in which Dean was completely right to be mad, Sam couldn't stand the thought of being away from the only person who helped him feel something good in the chaos of his emotions.

"Son," John looked intently at the younger man until Sam looked back at him. "We'll help you. I swear we'll do everything in our power to get you through this. But you've got to promise you'll do as we say. And that includes doing what the doctor says."

Sam looked into John's serious eyes and then looked at Dean.

"He's right, Sammy," Dean reassured him with a gentle look and another squeeze of his hand. "You gotta let us help. I don't want you to go away, but let's see what Dr. Spencer says, eh?"

Sam caved and nodded.


John sighed, relieved. He could tell Sam just wanted to do the right thing, and that was part of why it hurt so much. He could have never seen Sam becoming addicted to something unless some part of his brain really believed it was the right thing to do. Given his PTSD, some part of Sam must have seen the drug as a way to cope, and even though it was wrong and fucked up, and Sam should know better!, John understood, he fucking did.

How many fucking times had he drowned his heartache in a bottle of whiskey? It was a legal drug, but potentially devastating.

Besides, John raised the boys with drugs all around them. Before they even had their first chemistry class in school Sam and Dean were already extremely familiar with different pharmacological substances sold for kicks. It would be a little unfair to blame everything on Sam if eventually he took a wrong turn and stumbled upon their product. As a father, John knew he had his share of blame. He had always known it would be on him if any of his boys ever went down that dangerous road. That's why he had always been so rigid about teaching them how dangerous and stupid drugs were, most drugs anyway, and that's why he had tested them countless times, leaving a few pills or bags with powder here and there to see if they would get curious and try it. They never did.

John thought he had done a good job, but what happened to Sam had imploded the moral code John thought he'd taught them.

Now they had to find a way to fix him, help him, and then figure out how to rehabilitate Sam. Because even if he managed to detox and stay clean, John knew Sam wouldn't be fine as long as his PTSD was running out of control, taking over so easily.

These were worries for another time, though. There was something way more pressing right now.

"I'll go get the keys. Take your time to straighten up and I'll be waiting in my car," he announced.

When John disappeared inside the house, Sam looked into the green, worried eyes studying his every move.

"I fucked up, didn't I? I fucked up so bad," Sam's voice was shaky and so was his bottom lip.

"Hey, that's okay. You did," Dean smiled a little, "but we'll help you, Sammy. Gotta focus on getting better now."

"Thought he was going to fucking kill me if he found out," Sam admitted, looking over his shoulder at the door John had just gone through.

Dean cocked his head a little and nodded.

"To be fair, so did I. Kind of surprised the shit out of me."

They both chuckled softly as Sam wiped at his puffy eyes.

"You know," Sam began, as if a thought just occurred to him. "Maybe he would be okay if he found out about us being together."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean scoffed and arched his eyebrows.

"We should just kiss in front of him and then everything would be right there in the open," Sam grinned foolishly at the thought.

"Sam? Is that the coke talking?" Dean frowned.

Sam laughed a little, his chest moving up and down, his eyes welling up with fresh tears. God, he was a fucking mess.

"I guess," he nodded. "Fuck, my thoughts are all over the place."

"Then promise me you won't say anything until we get to the clinic, okay?" Dean asked warily. The last thing they needed was to push John's understanding mood even further. "Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can."


Dean made as if he would move but Sam squeezed his fingers and choked on another sob.

"I'm fucking sorry," he said. "I am."

Dean's heart rattled in his chest and he squeezed Sam in his arms again.

"I know, baby," he said, lips brushing his brother's hairline right above the healing scar.

"Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. Now, come on." Dean helped Sam to his feet and followed with him through the same door John had used a few minutes ago.


~ * ~ 


After a quick and mostly silent drive to the clinic, Dr. Spencer was waiting for them with a puzzled look on his face. John hadn't been specific on his call, saying only that Sam needed help. Even though he had assured him it wasn't an emergency, John had also asked the doctor to be there as soon as possible.

"How can I help?" He asked as Sam and Dean took a seat before his desk while John stood behind them.

Dean looked at his brother with a twinge of anxiety, wondering if Sam would change his mind about the whole thing, but he didn't. Dean felt so fucking proud he could've just kissed him right then and there.

"I fucked up and began using cocaine," Sam admitted. He was embarrassed, but thanks to the drug still in his system, he wasn't mortified.

"Oh," now that was not what Dr. Spencer had been expecting.

"I began to use just a little to help me cope…" Sam hesitated momentarily, but went on with firm intention, "…with the PTSD. And it helped, I felt good, and confident, and the memories weren't so bad…"

He looked at Dean apologetically, as if he could make his brother understand why he had done something that he was obviously very much aware was wrong.

"But let me guess, you needed more and more to experience the same good feeling?"

"You know how it goes. I do, too. But I thought I wouldn't feel the pull. I…even though I know what drugs can do and I have seen it firsthand I somehow convinced myself I could stop whenever I wanted."

John was silent as his son spoke, and just like Dean he couldn't be prouder of his youngest for admitting those things.

"I…I didn't realize I needed it so bad. Besides, after I used it today, it didn't really feel good. It was actually the opposite. I felt like everyone was out to get me, I felt betrayed, I felt…"

"Paranoid?" The doctor offered.

Sam nodded.

"It can happen, Sam. That's why we don't use coke to treat PTSD. It can make you feel really good or it can activate all your triggers and give you hell. It's extremely unsafe for recreational purposes because it's highly addictive, but for someone dealing with trauma it can be extremely dangerous." Doctor Spencer then looked at John. He was a little surprised but extremely relieved that his boss was not making a scene. He would have expected John to be losing his shit if his son had used the very thing they sold, which, truth be told, would have been a little hypocritical of him. The fact that the boy's father seemed calm and caring made him truly glad.

"I thought I had it under control…I told myself I could stop whenever I wanted. But I won't stop. The next time I have a nightmare or that something reminds me of the assault I know I'll be tempted to use it," Sam sighed deeply. It felt like a huge weight off his shoulders. It also felt like the stupidest thing he could possibly do—give up his one form of comfort? His only way to deal with that shit he'd been through? But then he'd think about the look on Dean's face when he used it, the disappointment, the anger…and Sam knew he could do better than this. He had to be better for his brother and father, too.

"I'm glad you realized this, Sam."

"Well, I had help," he chuckled sadly and nodded at Dean and then at his father behind him.

"We want you to tell us whether he can detox at home or if a facility would be better. Sam says he'll do as you see fit," John spoke.

"Fine," the doctor nodded. "I'd like to speak to Sam in private for a moment, then. I want some specifics and I think it's better if you're not around." He looked at Dean and John.

"Yeah, no problem," Dean said first and John agreed.

"Then I'll give you my medical opinion."

The doctor got to his feet and opened the door behind him that lead into the examination room. "Let's go?"

Sam looked at Dean, who nodded reassuringly.


Dean and John stayed behind as Sam and the doctor disappeared into the next room.

After a couple of minutes, John sat on the chair beside Dean where Sam had been and sighed heavily.

John's large hand rested on top of Dean's and squeezed a little before retreating. The younger man looked at his father and the faint hint of a sad smile lingered on his lips.

The two men then stared at the painting on the wall behind the doctor's desk and at the closed door. There was awkward silence for a moment.

Eventually, John began to chuckle, the sound startling Dean.

"Dad?" The younger man frowned. "Are you all right?"

John's chuckle grew into a muffled laugh that lasted for a few seconds, worrying the hell out of his son.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he shook his head, exhaled a noisy breath and relaxed. "It's just that, if one of my boys was going to dip their toe in the water and try drugs, I always thought it'd be you," John looked at Dean.

"Oh," Dean didn't know if he felt flattered or offended.

"Don't get me wrong," John went on quickly. "But you were always the more…adventurous one, let's say. Hence, The Club."

Dean cocked his head to the side. He knew his father had a point.

"And Sam? Jesus Christ, the boy's a nerd. I would've never thought of him as a junkie."

"He is not one," Dean said firmly.

"I know," John waved a hand dismissively. "You know what I mean, though."

"Yeah, I do."

"But then again, I never would've thought he's interested in being a sub," John thought out loud.

Now that was a conversation Dean was not willing to entertain.

John frowned as if something suddenly occurred to him.

"Did you figure out what he was doing at The Club that night?" he asked.

Dean thought fast, his eyes moving quickly from side to side.

"Um, yeah. He was there to prank me. He knew I was The Headmaster and he wanted to get back at me for keeping secrets." Dean knew his father was smart so he didn't try to fool him. A half lie was also a half truth. "And he found videos online. I guess videos of sex slaves kind of…float his boat." Normally, he wasn't shy to talk about it, fuck, he was a BDSM Master. But it was Sam, his baby brother and the man he had been kissing and touching, so no, Dean didn't want to have that conversation.

John's face changed suddenly and he looked grave.

"You should've told me sooner. Why didn't you?"

"What? Why? About the Club? I didn't think it was relevant."

"No, Dean. About the drug use," John's forehead was creased.

"Oh." Dean heaved a deep sigh. "I thought I could help him on my own, that he'd listen to me."

"But you saw it happen to Benny. He didn't listen to you even though you're his best friend," John pointed out.

"I know. But I thought…well, I thought it was a one or two times thing and that I could get him to stop," Dean said. "Besides…" he looked into John's eyes. "I was afraid of what you might do to him when you found out. Thought you might grab him by the hair and drag him to rehab with screaming and fighting."

"Shit, really?" John's eyebrows were drawn close together. "Did you expect me to hit him or something?"

Dean shrugged.

"Not hit him…well, maybe. I thought you'd see red and end up hurting him." Dean went on when he saw the confusion in John's eyes. "I was actually pretty surprised when you took it in stride. I mean…you were a lot more understanding than I assumed you'd be."

John reclined against the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. He smiled faintly before he spoke again.

"Dean…I run a drug empire. I've exposed you boys to all sorts of drugs since you were kids. Instead of being outdoors playing with friends you and your brother were helping me do the math and pack out the stuff we sell. I think it would be a little hypocritical of me to entirely blame either of you for using this shit. Even though I do expect you to know better by now and stay away from the product, I can't say I don't get where Sam's coming from."

John looked at the closed door as if his thoughts were drifting far away.

"The assault was not easy on him, despite what he wants us to believe. I haven't told you this, but I can't seem to touch your brother without triggering PTSD." John looked at Dean. He felt so sad it was hard not to get emotional. "The few times I've tried to physically approach him, he shies away and looks visibly distressed. Maybe somewhere in his brain he associates the abuser with me."

Dean wasn't completely surprised, he'd been under the same impression.

"Why do you think this happens?"

"PTSD is not rational," John explained. "And I've been reading about it. Maybe his brain finds some similarities, height, age, attitude…go figure, and Sam is triggered before he can even help it. I think this could've contributed to Sam turning to drugs."

"Well, if that's happening, how do you change it?" Dean questioned.

"That's the million dollar question. How do you cure PTSD? How do we help Sam heal from his trauma? I offered therapy but he doesn't seem open to it. Do you think forcing him will do any good?"

Dean shook his head.

"I tried offering him the book you gave me. I mean, I read some shit there that made sense, so I thought maybe if he read it and understood he's not the only one who feels the way he does…"

"I think Sam's still in denial. He hasn't revisited his trauma, hasn't addressed it in his mind. Do I blame him? Fuck no," John sighed deeply. "I guess I have my share of responsibility for telling you boys how strong you had to be all the time. Sam's trying to be strong, but the trauma is there, like a festering wound. It needs to get treated."

"Well, how…"

"Shhh," John cut him off when they heard noise approaching from behind the door. "First things first. He needs to detox," John lowered his voice and then they fell silent as Dr. Spencer opened the door and walked in with Sam.

The younger man in the room kept staring at his feet most of the time, his hands in his pockets.

"So?" John asked and got up, but Sam didn't take his seat.

Dean got up as well and gravitated to Sam's side.

"I ran some quick tests and will have the results soon. Based on what Sam told me about how much he used and how often, I do not think he'll go through severe withdrawal."

Dean seemed relived, but before he could express it, the doctor went on.

"Just because it won't be severe doesn't mean it won't be a bitch, and I told him this, right Sam?"

"Yes," Sam nodded. He looked briefly at the people there and then stared at a small decorative statue on the doctor's desk.

"He knows he can expect body pain, tremors, nausea, vivid and unpleasant dreams, restlessness and depression to name but a few. Let alone a strong craving for the drug, which is likely to be experienced in the upcoming days. I do believe Sam's symptoms won't be too fierce, and he might just experience some craving and some discomfort, but he needs to be prepared."

John and Dean nodded at the doctor. Dean's heart ached at the list of withdrawals symptoms. It wasn't fucking fair that Sam had gone through the assault and now he was in for a few hellish days. However, Dean knew that it had been Sam's choice—a desperate one—and there were consequences for it.

"Can he come home with us?" Dean then asked.

"I know you want to help him and I believe both of your help will be crucial in this process," the doctor stated. "John, you've got to understand when I say that a drug dealer's house is not the place where I want a patient to recover." He stared into his boss' eyes with evident tension.

"You're right," John agreed, surprising the doctor a little. "You can rest assured he won't have access to anything and we'll be with him twenty four seven, but I see what you mean."

"How about Sam stays here at the clinic for the first week? We'll see how it goes, how severe the symptoms are, and I can drop by in the mornings and afternoons to check on him and see if he needs some sort of medication for the symptoms. You two can take turns staying with him during the worst of it. After this week, if he's feeling good enough, he can go home. I'll obviously recommend to keep helping him avoid relapsing, though. It's like alcohol, guys, Sam can't be around drugs of any type. Not even alcohol, at least not for the first months."

John and Dean exchanged a look, they both seemed pleased with the doctor's plan.

"Does that work for you, Sam?" Dean knew his brother didn't have much choice in this, but he felt like he should ask.

"Yeah, it's fine. Whatever needs to be done." Sam didn't want to think too much about it. He knew he had fucked up and wanted to get better. He had too much in his mind without adding a drug addiction to the list.

"I have to go back to the hospital, but call me if you need anything during the night," the doctor said. "You have the keys, make yourself at home and don't break anything in the lab. My boss is a pain in the neck about his things," Dr. Spencer winked at John and joked lightly.

"I'll follow you down, doc. Gotta go home and get some of our stuff then."

"I'll stay with him tonight," Dean said readily.

"Fine. I'll be back with your things."

"All the important medication is safely locked up," Dr. Spencer told Dean and then looked at Sam with an apology in his eyes. "But keep an eye on him nonetheless. Sorry, Sam."

"It's fine," Sam mumbled quietly.

"The beginning is the worst. You'll get through this," Dr Spencer smiled encouragingly and then left with John.

When they were alone, Sam and Dean walked into the part of the clinic where the hospital beds where. With Sam's help, Dean pushed one of the spare beds closer to the one Sam had used not that long ago, and that was closest to the window.

When they were done, Sam sat on the bed and Dean stood before him.

"TV?" Sam asked, reaching out for the remote control on the small table beside the bed.

"No, not now." Dean covered Sam's hand with his own. "How are you feeling?"

Sam shrugged.

"As of now? I'm fine. Don't have an cravings or withdrawal symptoms. I guess it's too soon. I did just use it."

"Good. And how are you truly feeling?" Dean asked shrewdly.

Sam shrugged again. There was a frail smile on his lips, one that looked as if it might break under the right words.

"Ashamed?" Sam offered.

Dean nodded gravely and walked towards the v of Sam's legs.

"Dad and I are here for you. There's no need to be ashamed, man. We both get it."

"No, you don't," Sam swallowed hard and felt a stinging sensation in the back of his eyes. "You were never raped. You both might mean well, but you don't know what it feels like."

"You're right." Dean gnawed at his bottom lip. "Sammy, I…"

"I want to feel good with you and I can't," Sam cut Dean off with anguish in his voice and something a little desperate in his hazel eyes. "I know the drug was not the answer, but it let me be fucking happy for a moment, you know? I could at least be with you, and…"

"I know. I could tell you were using so we could be intimate, but don't you get it? I don't want to be with you if you need coke to make you feel good. I want to be able to make you feel good and safe without it."

Sam felt as if he was cracking.

"I…I can feel good with you but then…sometimes I have these flashbacks," he admitted. "I don't know how to make them go away."

"What did you feel when I was touching you?" Dean wanted, needed to know. "Did you feel threatened? Afraid? If you can tell me then I can try to help you with it…"

Sam searched his mind for his thoughts and feelings and tried to be as honest as possible without talking about something he still couldn't bear.

"Guilty," he croaked out. "I feel fucking guilty for feeling pleasure after what he did to me. Like…like I don't deserve it or something. I…" Sam couldn't stop the words even though they were a bit messy as his thoughts raced. "I feel wrong and dirty for feeling good, and I know I shouldn't but I just can't help it."

Dean sighed deeply. He was so glad Sam was able to tell him that. He still didn't know how to help, but he knew where he might find a few answers. The connection between BDSM and trauma processing, especially with Shibari, visited his thoughts again.

Acting more out of sheer instinct than logic, Dean put a hand at the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He took control so quickly that his brother didn't have time to protest.

Sam's heart slammed against his chest and the butterflies flapped their wings avidly. He felt Dean's tongue in his mouth and his blood grew instantly hotter.

Just as fast as it had begun, though, the kiss ended.

"How does it feel when I take control like this?" Dean lowered his voice a little, his green eyes piercing and knowing. "Does it bring back memories?"

"No…not now."

"Do you feel good?"

Sam felt a little shy but also hot.


"Guilty?" Dean softened his voice.

Sam lowered his eyes and nodded.

"A little, yes."

"What if I told you that I might have a way to work on this guilt?" Dean had enough experience and knowledge about BDSM to know that being tied up and pleasured was so good and thrilling for some, especially for women, because having no choice but to give in could be extremely freeing. He wondered if something like that would work on Sam or would make things worse.

Using BDSM to try and help could be dangerous. But fuck, not as dangerous as cocaine, Dean thought.

"How?" Sam was fully interested.

"Tell you what, you hold on to this thought and we'll first get through this whole detox thing. Think of it as something to look forward to. For you and me."

Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"I don't know how to help, but give me time, okay?" There was a plea in Dean's voice.

"Yeah… just—"


"I think I might need another of those kisses. You know, before the worst of the symptoms set in," Sam smiled invitingly.

Dean's heart raced and his sex tingled. He knew he would have to wait and the next days, the next month!, would be no piece of cake. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and he could feel the heat of that light all over his skin.

"C'mere," he said before pulling Sam against him for another kiss.


~ * ~ 


Marcus took a deep breath and his eyes shot open.

Something began beeping faster beside him and it took him a moment to realize he was in a hospital room. Or was he, really?

Maybe he was dead.

He was so fucking confused.

What the hell had happened?

His last memories came crashing back and he remembered the man pointing a gun at him, forcing him to overdose on coke.

Fuck…fuck, man, he thought.

Marcus's heartrate skyrocketed and the monitor started beeping crazy fast. Was he truly at a hospital? Was he safe?


Would the man come back to finish the job?

"Help—" he croaked out, his voice faltering and his throat aching. "Somebody…please! He'll come back, he'll kill me…he'll…HELP!!"






Chapter Text



Marcus was still screaming when a nurse walked in and hurried towards his bed.

"Sir? I'm gonna need you to stay calm, okay?"

"He'll come get me! You've got to get me out of here, you've got to—"

"Calm down, please. You're in the hospital, no one will come get you."

Eventually, Marcus was able to calm down without the nurse having to call a doctor to give him a shot of sedative.

The nurse explained he had been in a coma for almost a month after a cocaine overdose and asked him what he remembered.

Marcus remembered it all, to his despair. He remembered Finn being shot dead right next to him and then the gun pointed at his head forcing him to snort one line of coke after the other. He also remembered the 911 call he was allowed to make and the man's promise to come back for him if he said anything.

"No, I'm sorry. I…I don't remember anything."

The nurse nodded and offered a kind smile.

"The doctor will be with you shortly, sir. He'll talk to you about your case. If you experience any pain or discomfort meanwhile, just push this button on your bed," she instructed.

"Okay, thanks."

"You're welcome."

The nurse smiled and left the room.

She walked a few feet down the corridor until she found a sleeping room for nurses on-call. She walked in and closed the door.

Her fingers fumbled a little with the cell phone in her pocket but she managed to make the call.

"Hi. Mr. Crowley?" she asked, unsure.

"Who's calling?"

"I'm…I work at the hospital downtown, I'm a nurse here…you approached me about a patient."

"Of course. How are you Miss Thompson?"

"I…" the woman ignored the question. She just wanted to get it done and forget the whole thing. "The patient in 608 woke up. The one who was in a coma after overdosing."

There was a small pause on the other side of the line.

"Has he talked to anyone?" Crowley asked.

"No, no…he's just woken up."

"Fine. I'll need to know if anyone pays him a visit. Is that understood?"

The nurse licked at her dry lips. The whole thing made her feel nervous and guilty.

"Will my son be left off the hook?" she asked in a frail voice. "About the money he owes you?" that was the deal, and before she did anything more compromising than what she was already doing, she needed to know it would be worth it.

There was a smile on the other side of the line which she obviously couldn't see, but she could almost hear.

"I'll keep my word. You let me know if Marcus receives any visitors in the upcoming days and I'll forgive your son's debt."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Crow—"

The call had already ended.

Crowley sighed deeply and stared at the phone.

"Fuck you John for your goddamn loose ends," he cursed.

Crowley had no idea why Winchester had gone easy on Marcus—okay, a forced and likely lethal overdose was not easy—when he could've just killed him. Maybe John didn't think he would make it, but taking the chance was fucking sloppy. And the problem was, Marcus had been Crowley's employee. If he talked, Crowley would go down just as much as John.

That's why Marcus' coma had been a matter of interest to the drug Lord. Maybe John had forgotten about the junkie who had taken part on the assault on Sam, which was understandable considering John was obsessed with Azazel and now Ronald. Marcus had probably slipped his mind.

Well, it hadn't slipped Crowley's.

He'd found someone he could blackmail inside the hospital and waited, and it seemed like it had been a wise call.

Maybe Marcus didn't remember anything—if he was lucky. Maybe he wouldn't talk—if he was smart.

But if he did remember and chose to talk, well, Crowley wouldn't just sit and wait for the consequences.


~ * ~ 


Sam hadn't been using the drug every day, but he'd certainly been using it more often than he cared to admit. With a little bit here and there, four or five times a week, it had become a habit, meaning the line into addiction was extremely blurry.

Withdrawal didn't kick in on his first day at the clinic with Dean and John—Dean spent the night and John was there in the morning and early afternoon. It kind of made Sam feel a bit cocky—See? I'm not an addicted. I had it under control all along!

But his told you so got stuck in his throat as the second day went on and his craving began to grow. That day John was with him for most of the day, spending the night at the clinic as well.

Dr. Spencer paid them a visit and asked how it was going, and Sam assured him everything was fine.

John, Dean and the doctor watched him closely while Sam went through his third day at the clinic, jittery and a little short tempered, but they didn't say anything.

It was on the fourth day that withdrawal kicked in and Sam had to bite back and swallow down his pride. He could feel the craving. He felt the tremors and the sweating, and he knew that if he could just have a little bit—less than a teaspoon—he would be just fine.

That, he realized, was the rabbit hole people fell down into and had a hard time climbing back out.

"Do you want something to eat?" Dean asked as he saw his brother pacing back and forth in front of the large windows of the bedroom that extended down to the floor.

"Did I say I was hungry? Jeez, I'm fine," Sam answered curtly, sighing and running his fingers through his hair. He could feel his fast heartbeats and the small little tremors rocking him. He was so fucking anxious and so pissed at nothing and at everything.

"Hey, I just asked. Don't need to be a bitch," Dean retorted with a good-natured voice and smile. He had talked to Benny, had seen Benny go through that, and he knew irritation was expected and part of the process.

"Sorry. I…" Sam swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. He sat down heavily on the armchair in the room and his legs kept moving restlessly. "I can't even help it."

"I know. That's part of detox, you know?" Dean sat on the other bed and watched his brother for a moment. "How much do you crave a fix right now? One to ten?"

"Seven. Eight?" Sam pondered. "I would've definitely gone for it if I had it. You know, just to help with the nerves."


"We should stop selling this shit. It's fucking dangerous," Sam blurted in a moment of epiphany.

"No shit, Sherlock!" Dean grinned.

"I mean it!"

"It's not like we're forcing anyone to use it. People have a choice. It's like cigarettes or alcohol…"

"Coke is that much stronger," Sam pointed out.

"That's why you should stay away from it," Dean shrugged.

"Fuck you," Sam said quickly, but it was friendly and they both chuckled.

"And that's why no drugs near schools. You need to be old enough to know better. Kids should be protected. That's why Crowley's an ass."

"And we're not?"

"We're better asses."

"Right," Sam scoffed with disbelief and got up. When he did, his vision got blurry and he sat back down, shuddering.

"Hey," Dean got to his feet and hurried towards his brother. "You okay?"

Sam felt a cramping pain in his stomach that turned into nausea. His muscles ached as if he'd exercised like a madman the day before. And yes, he craved a small little dose of cocaine to feel better.

"'Been better', he smiled sadly.

Dean hovered over his brother on the armchair and felt at his forehead. Sam was a little sweaty but his skin was cold.

"Should I call the doctor?" he asked.

"No. I'm fine. Just…I need a shower."

After declining help, Sam picked up a few clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Even though there was nothing he could use in there either to get high or to harm himself, doctor Spencer's orders were that all doors were open at all times, so Sam just left the bathroom door half closed and got into the shower. He knew Dean wouldn't enter unless he called for help or stayed in there for too long.

And really, Sam didn't want to do anything wrong. The one thing he craved was out of reach, and he was glad to be detoxing, though it was beginning to dawn on him that it wouldn't be a smooth sailing ride.

All Sam needed now was a moment to himself so he could slide down the tiled wall and bury his face in his hands, letting the running water from the shower cool his skin and wash away the silent tears.


~ * ~ 


Castiel was impatient. For days he was forced to sit and wait for the day he would be allowed to interview Lucifer. When he expressed his impatience, Zachariah had just told him he should be happy it was going to happen and that getting an interview with an inmate such as Lucifer was indeed extremely bureaucratic and bound to take a while.

In the meantime, with his investigation at a dead end, Castiel spent hours in front of his desktop computer at work or of his laptop at home. He drank up coffee from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to bed, even though he knew he should probably cut down on it.

Without the Club, Castiel knew he had been indulging in the hot—sometimes cold—beverage way too much.

Eventually, Castiel just got into his car and drove past the bar where The Club was. He parked his car and stayed there for a moment, thinking.

John Winchester, drugs, death…The Headmaster.

Fuck, Castiel needed a session.

For the past nights he had had such a strong craving for the masked God that he googled videos of The Club and jerked off to exhaustion at the sight of The Headmaster dominating slaves. It was a shame Castiel had never had any of their sessions on tape, because he would've loved to watch one and relive a bit of that thrill.

He missed the green eyed Master so much he was having dreams about him, about being his Pet, about going down on him in the dungeon. Castiel wondered how long it would take them to finish the damn renovations, because he knew that regardless of the Club's proximity to Winchester, Castiel wouldn't be able to stop himself from going there again.

His thoughts were interrupted abruptly when his cell phone began to ring.

"Detective Castiel," he answered. Castiel's dark mood began to change quickly. His heart rate increased and he might have even smiled on the phone. "When did this happen and can I see him?" he listened for a while longer. "Yes, of course. Tomorrow's great. Thank you, doctor."

Castiel ended the call and cast a look at the bar before starting the car again.


~ * ~ 


The fifth day of his detoxing was probably the worst. Not only because of his symptoms, but also because of his feelings.

John was there with him, and on top of having to deal with pain in his body and nausea that turned into vomiting, Sam had to deal with all this happening in front of his dad.

Not that John was accusing or cruel, on the contrary. His dad was extremely supportive and caring, which just made Sam feel even worse about being in that situation.

And ashamed.

He couldn't seem to shrug off the fucking shame he'd been feeling since the assault.

Doubling over and throwing up inside a bucket held beside the bed by his father was certainly not helping.

Fortunately for him, Sam was almost in too much distress to care.

"There you go. Feeling better?" John asked and Sam nodded.

John could see how pale Sam looked, and how much trembling was going on under the sheets of his hospital bed. There were dark half-moons under Sam's eyes and John knew Sam hadn't been sleeping well. Insomnia was also on the list of withdrawal symptoms.

"Just need to be quiet," Sam mumbled and turned to the other side, facing the window. He was in fetal position and trying to brace himself against the cold sweating, tremors and cramping pain. And he knew, rationally, that it wasn't half as bad as it could be, had him used cocaine for longer or in higher doses.

Dean was home getting some rest since they were taking turns staying with Sam at the clinic. Bobby, who had been told about Sam's misguided adventure with cocaine, had offered to help, but John and Dean agreed that they should be the ones staying with Sam through this crash period. Bobby could help later, when Sam was back home.

The doctor had stopped by earlier today and offered Sam medication for the nausea and the body aches, but Sam had politely declined.

If John didn't know better, he would say Sam was choosing to stay off medication as a way to punish himself for what had happened. Not that it was entirely his fault, and not that suffering the withdrawal symptoms would make it better, but sometimes the mind worked in mysterious ways.

That night, as he tried to catch some sleep on the bed beside Sam's, John was woken by the sound of heavy breathing and moving.

He had been a light sleeper ever since the war, and particularly now, when he knew he should be watching his son, his ears perked up at the sound and his eyes shot open at the movement.

"Sam?" he called softly, and turned on the lamp beside the bed.

He looked over his side and saw his son writhing in the other bed. Sam's breathing was shallow and noisy, and his eyes kept moving rapidly under his closed eyelids .


The other hostages stayed behind as Sam was led to the bar. He could feel the fingers at the back of his neck and the handcuffs biting into his skin.

When Sam saw the huge pool table before him, filled with black 8-balls moving rapidly, he knew what was going to happen.

He began to panic and try to wiggle out of the grip on him, but it only tightened, until the bearded man's fingers were digging bruisingly into his neck.

"No, please, no …"

Sam saw all those eight balls turn into black rubber dicks as he got close.

"That's what you like, isn't it? You get hard from it."

"No …"

Sam felt the man's hand close around his arm and force him onto the table.

He turned around, panicked, kicking and pushing until he ran for the door.


John placed a hand on top of Sam's arm, but the touch startled the younger man, who got to his feet and rushed out of the bed.

"Sam!" John watched as his son rushed towards the nearest wall and placed his palms flat on it, trying to look for something. A way out?

"No, no, no…where's the door, where's the door??," Sam kept feeling around in the dark, knowing the man would soon catch up with him, and Sam was handcuffed and gagged, at least in the dream he was, and fuck, it was so vivid.

"Sam, it's not real. We're at the clinic. You're safe. Wake up," John approached softly, but the younger man kept trying to look for a door that did not exist on the wall ahead.

In the process, Sam knocked over decorations and stumbled upon the armchair.

"Son," John put a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed.

"NO!" Sam screamed, turned around and began to push his attacker away.

Because he was so confused though, trapped in some scary place between nightmare and reality, he tripped and fell, stumbling forward against John, who took a step back and watched.

"Sam, it's okay…" John tried gently, touching Sam's hair.

When Sam at last opened his eyes, he was on his knees before the man ahead of him, feeling the man's hand on his hair.

It was impossible to shy away from the triggering connection that happened in his brain.

"If you puke on my dick, I'll blow your fuckin ’ brains out."

"No! NO!" Sam squirmed and raised his hands around messily, trying to fight the man before he pulled him towards his crotch. The feeling that there was a gun pointed to his head somewhere just made him pant heavily and squeeze his eyes shut. Sam fought for his freedom knowing it could end in death.

John first walked towards the light switch and the room was immediately bright. Then, he walked towards Sam, who was still crouched before him, gasping and looking confused and fearful.

"It's a nightmare. Let it go."

Sam looked at his father's face and then at his surroundings. Slowly, his frantic heart rate began to settle and his breathing became deeper and slower.

"Vivid dreams, remember? The doctor warned against those," John said calmly, reaching out a hand to help Sam back to his feet.

When Sam took John's hand, however, instead of getting up he pulled his father down with him.

The nightmare was still soaring through his brain, and Sam felt his body crumbling under the memories and the craving twisting in his insides.

"Dad?" Sam begged, his voice full of anguish.


"Don't you…don't you have something?" Sam was wild and desperate, he didn't fucking care he sounded pitiful as fuck. "Anything…anything will do, just a little…" Sam's hands began to roam over his father's body blindly, looking for a pocket, looking for a fix.

"Sam," John pulled Sam's hands off of him and looked into his eyes. If that wasn't rock bottom yet, well, it was very well close to it.

"I know, I know," Sam began quickly, his words rushed and desperate. "I know I shouldn't and I won't go back to it, I swear. It's just…the nightmare, you know? It's…it's still here with me. Just to help me sleep, Dad…" his voice cracked and his fingers tightened around John's arms. "Just to make it go away," his eyes welled up and his lips quivered.

John took a deep breath and covered Sam's hands on his arms with his own.

"Sammy? I'm your dad, not your dealer," he spoke with a firm, gentle voice. "Get up and let's get you in bed."

Sam broke down and cried. He was in physical pain, and he was terrified of closing his eyes and reliving the abuse. He didn't feel strong enough to get up.

John felt the tightening feeling in his chest at the sight of Sam lost and hurting, so he sat down on the floor and pulled his son against him.

"I'm so weak. I'm sorry. I can't do this, I can't—" Sam sobbed and crawled closer, resting his head on John's knee and burying his nose on his father's jeans.

"Of course you can," John said calmly. "You know," he began, his eyes lost somewhere in the past, a smile on his lips as his fingers raked absently through Sam's sweaty hair. "When your mother got pregnant again I could swear it would be a girl." He fished the story out of his memory, hoping it would help distract and calm Sam down.

Sam stopped sobbing. He hadn't been expecting that conversation.

"But Mary was so sure it was another boy," John scoffed a little and chuckled. "We ended up making a bet."

"What kind of bet?" Sam grew curious. He hadn't heard that story before.

"If it was a girl, I'd get to choose her name. If it was a boy, your mom would name you. Well, you know how that turned out," John smiled lightly at him. "Of course it wasn't only that. Because I lost, I couldn't complain about any of her cravings. Which sometimes meant getting out of bed at 3 a.m. to go shopping for olives," John shook his head and laughed a little.

Sam smiled. He'd stopped crying and was looking at his father, still huddled against him.

"What would she have to do if you'd won? You know, aside from you naming me?" he asked.

John's face changed a little and he bit back a leering smile.

"Can't really tell you that. It's too dirty."

"Gross," Sam crawled off his father's lap and they both laughed a little.

Eventually, Sam was able to take a deep breath. He understood now, more than ever, why addiction was so fucking hard.

"Thank you," he said, sheepishly.

"I'm your dad, you don't need to thank me."

"Can we…can we not tell Dean about this episode thing?" Sam asked self-consciously. "I don't want to worry him."

John nodded.

"Just try and get some sleep okay? How about we keep the lights on for now?"

"Yeah…that'd be nice."


~ * ~


Marcus was leafing through a magazine in his hospital bed. He would be discharged at the end of the week, after the doctor analyzed his test results and decided he was stable enough. He had reached out to his mom after months of not talking to her and gotten all emotional hearing her voice on the phone. He knew he'd been given a second chance and he intended to make the most of it.

Meanwhile, he enjoyed being pampered by the nurses, getting his meals in bed and watching TV all day.

When a nurse announced he had a visitor, however, his mood shifted to something wary and restless, and when the man introduced himself as a narcotics detective, Marcus' heart began to hammer wildly in his chest.

Remember not to breathe a word about this. If I have to see you again in my life, God knows what I'll do to you.

"I don't have anything to say," Marcus said quickly, hoping the man would just go away and leave him alone. "I don't remember anything."

Castiel didn't know what had happened, but he could see someone had put the fear of God into that man.

"Your friend was shot dead right beside you, Marcus. You nearly overdosed on a crazy amount of cocaine. Should I believe these things are not related?"

"Believe whatever you want, man," Marcus swallowed hard.

"Or perhaps you shot your friend during an argument and then sniffed all that coke in regret?" Castiel knew that was not the case. The forensics team had assured him Marcus could not have been the shooter since they did not find the weapon of the crime in the place. He knew it, but the man in front of him didn't.

"What? Hell, no! I would've never hurt him! We were friends—"

"Then you're covering up for someone," Castiel narrowed his eyes, pulled up his phone and prepared the recording function. "Are they worth you spending the rest of your life in prison?"

"Yes, if I'll be alive," Marcus retorted.

"Are you afraid of talking to me? Because I promise you I can help you."

"How? I know what they do to snitches, man. There's no way I'm telling you shit."

Castiel could see that the younger man's strong resolve was built on fear, so he smiled softly and walked towards him.

"Can I sit?"

Marcus just shrugged.

Castiel sat down and his heartbeat picked up.

"I believe you now have a once in a lifetime opportunity Marcus, so I want you to think carefully about your options here."

"What options?" he was tense from head to toe.

"You can spend the rest of your life in prison, or you can have a fresh start somewhere else."

"Fresh start? You're crazy. If I rat they'll track me down and kill me."

Castiel smiled widely and his finger hovered above the record button.

"Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?"









Chapter Text



Castiel was shaking with excitement when he left the hospital. He kept his phone in his trench coat pocket and kept going over the conversation he had just recorded.

Marcus was more than a light at the end of the tunnel, Marcus was probably the answer to put John Winchester and Crowley behind bars.

The young man had confessed to working for Crowley, selling drugs, and had told Castiel about everything that had happened in their last job for his boss.

Castiel had confirmation that John Winchester was indeed the mastermind behind The Club, which had become a target in his drug war with Crowley. During the raiding of The Club and bar though, Castiel learned that one of the men had gone off limits and sexually assaulted a client's club while he was bound waiting for a session.

That part of the story had been harrowing for the detective, as he could easily put himself in this client's shoes and feel his despair at the situation.

It got better—actually, it got worse,—because Marcus said the client this other man, someone called Ronald, had abused was John Winchester's son.

So much made sense now.

The episode Gadreel had witnessed at the bar, with John's body guard—who was most likely one of his sons—having a panic attack and shooting out of nowhere. Maybe he had flashbacks of what had happened to him in there.

Then there were the deaths of Lui, Finn and Marcus' overdose. They were all payback for what was done to his son. And according to Marcus, the one man responsible for the sexual assault was still on the loose, which meant Castiel needed to find him before John did and killed him off, too.

Castiel had never had so much information on his hands. He had never known so much about John Winchester and Crowley's war. His hands gripped the steering wheel with a sweaty grip as he rushed to the station.

Marcus had given him enough to go after John and Crowley. Even if his testimony alone might not be enough to get a conviction, it would certainly grant access to Winchester's estate. At least any decent judge would see he had a strong case now.

The detective parked his car and went straight to his office. Now it was time he fulfilled his part of the deal.

Castiel sat before his computer and turned it on. Before he did anything though, he uploaded the recorded testimony to the cloud, in case something happened to his phone. Then, he typed down his passwords and gained access to restricted police material.

This time Castiel wouldn't be a fool. He wasn't going to tip anyone off on what he was doing. Not even—least of—his superior, Zachariah.


~ * ~ 


The next day, as Dean arrived at the clinic in the morning, John got his things and left after a quick but meaningful goodbye to his son.

The two brother didn't have much time to talk because Dr. Spencer arrived shortly to check on Sam.

"How are you feeling?" The doctor asked as he began his physical examination.

"I've been better."

"Any vomiting last night?"

"No, just in the afternoon."

"Good. And how was the night?"

Sam stiffened a little and his eyes met Dean's, who was sitting on the armchair under the TV and across from the bed. His first impulse was to lie, but he didn't want to do that. No more lying, Sam promised himself.

"I had a really vivid nightmare," he confessed in a voice that sounded strung a bit too tight.

The doctor nodded with understanding.

"It's not uncommon. Remember we talked about it?" he asked.

Sam nodded. Knowing he could have vivid nightmares about being raped and actually having them were a bit different.

"Yeah," he said and shrugged. He could feel Dean's stare on him but couldn't really meet his brother's eyes.

"Any other symptoms?" The doctor asked.

"My head and my muscles hurt, but it's nothing unbearable. Sometimes my hands are shaky too, but it's less than a couple of days ago."


"And yeah, there's the craving. It's not as intense as in the beginning, but if I had a line of coke before me I doubt I'd be able to control myself," he admitted, even though he did feel a bit ashamed to say it so bluntly in front of his brother.

"Well, I think it's great that you're perfectly aware you're not healed from the addiction, Sam. You need to know you'll never truly be. Even though I believe you'll be strong enough not to use cocaine again, you must know that if you have a fix it'll be very unlikely that you can refrain from another fix. And then another. And then another."

"I get it."

"If there's nothing else then I'll just draw some blood and be on my way."

Dean watched the doctor get a needle and a syringe, then attach a rubber band to Sam's forearm until a thick vein popped out.

When Dr. Spencer was done, he said goodbye and left the brother to themselves.

Dean asked Sam if he wanted anything to eat or drink, and after a negative response he just walked around the room for a moment. His thoughts were still fixed on something that Sam had said, and it was only so long before Dean needed to speak about it.

"So, tough night, eh?" he approached the bed.

Sam thought about being on his knees, terrified he was going to be forced to relive the assault. He also remembered how he had begged his own father to give him drugs. Yes, Sam felt utterly embarrassed about it, but John had been really nice about the whole thing and hadn't brought it up again in the morning, so Sam tried to cut himself some slack.  

"I…can I tell you something?"

Dean's green eyes fixed his brother and his heart rate picked up a little.

"Sure. Can I sit?" Dean patted the bed, and when Sam nodded, he sat crossed legged before his brother.

"I promised myself I'd try to speak about what I feel, but bear with me because it's fucking hard."

"Okay…" Dean frowned a little, his interest growing.

"I was dreaming about that night, except when I woke up and saw Dad, I couldn't really tell reality from the nightmare. I…I kind of freaked out when Dad tried to get close."

Dean's chest tightened a little as he saw Sam struggle.

"Like I did when grandpa tried to grab my arm back home. I'm being triggered by people trying to touch me or when they unintentionally sneak up on me," he confessed.

"I'm no expert on this sort of thing, but I guess that's sort of expected, no?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded and shrugged. "I guess."

"Does it mean you'd rather I don't touch you?" Dean asked with honesty, but also with a tad of concern. He would understand, of course he would, but if Sam asked him to keep a distance it would break his fucking heart.

"Actually…" Sam felt the butterflies flap their wings and tickle his heart. "Yours is the one touch that doesn't distress me."

"Oh." Unknown to Sam, Dean was experiencing a much similar, warm and fluttery feeling in his chest. "I wonder why that is," he smirked and winked at his brother with the perfect mix of playfulness and seduction.

Sam had to hold back not to swoon over Dean's handsomeness, but he did feel his cheeks growing warm. He was extremely aware of why Dean's touch excited and soothed him, instead of rattling and frightening him, but Sam didn't want to confess his love while he was detoxing from cocaine. Besides, he wasn't even sure how Dean would react once he learned that Sam loved loved him, and that this wasn't just a crush or physical attraction. Who knew, his brother might be a little shocked and unnerved.

Sam didn't think now was the moment to go through strong emotions, not when he was still dealing with the worst of addiction.

"Whatever the reason, I'm just happy about it," Sam finally said.

"Yeah, me too."

Dean leaned closer and put his lips on Sam's.

It started small and soft, but soon both men had their hands at the back of each other's necks and parted their lips to take the experience to a more fun level.

The fact that Dean's tongue was deep into his mouth and his lips were sealed over his should have given Sam an instant hard-on. It did worry him a little that his body didn't seem as eager about the action as his heart was. But Sam knew it was another consequence of detoxing and that he would have to be patient.

They kissed for a while longer and then Sam lay with his head on Dean's crossed legs, his knees up and his feet on the bed, so that they could fit together in the small space.

"I missed you. I worry about you all the time, you know," Dean said softly, his fingertips tracing Sam's cheeks and strong jawline. His heart was beating fast. He really wanted to let Sam know how he felt, but Dean had never said I love you to anyone in his life—not that kind of romantic, I'd do anything for you, love. It did scare him a little even if he wouldn't admit it. Especially because Sam was his brother, his world. If he didn't feel the same—physical attraction and affection could very well exist without someone being in love—then Dean knew he would feel crushed. He wasn't ready for that.

"I missed you too," Sam caught Dean's wrist and kissed his knuckles.

They stayed in bed like that for a moment, relishing the closeness, the peacefulness.

Eventually, Sam began to feel his muscles aching and he really needed to take something for his growing headache. Still, he was reluctant to move until he began to feel nauseated.

"Be right back," he said quickly, got out of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam returned a few minutes later, looking a little pale.

"You good?" Dean asked. He'd stood up as well.

"Don't need a bucket near the bed anymore. I'd call this progress," Sam said.

"Me too," Dean agreed, seeming impressed and amused.

"It's a little less embarrassing, in a long series of embarrassing moments."

"Oh, c'mon. What's so embarrassing about detoxing, right?" Dean teased.

Sam then smiled shyly and shook his head.

"Last night I begged Dad for drugs."

"You what?!" Dean gasped, then saw the embarrassed smile on Sam's face and burst with laughter. "No shit!"

"Yeah, so…" Sam's hand scratched the back of his neck.

"What did he say?!" Dean wanted to know. He knew it was sad and serious, but damn, it was also funny as fuck picturing Sam trying to coax John—of all people!—to give him a fix.

"That he was my dad, not my dealer."

Dean roared with laughter. Despite being embarrassed, Sam couldn't not laugh too when he saw his brother losing it.

"Holy shit!" Dean's shoulders heaved up and down until the delicious sound of his laughter began to fade.

"Yeah, if that's not rock-bottom, then I don't know what is."

"Actually, it's not as bad as having him check your browser history and find some Dom videos there," Dean teased.

"Oh, please!" Sam frowned. "I've just thrown up!"

Dean chuckled.

"Sorry, bro," he took a deep breath to calm down. "You know, Dad's been particularly understanding about the whole thing. Can't say I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "Thought he'd kill me."

"Guess tough love is still love."

"Or maybe he's just plotting to send me away to some rehab facility overseas and bury me there for good," Sam tried.

"He wouldn't do that and you know it," Dean said, on a more serious tone.

"Good. Because I wouldn't go. Not without you," Sam smiled bashfully and licked at his lips.

"Sammy?" Dean purred seductively.


"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Of course I did, jerk."

Dean smiled as Sam chuckled. They were kissing again in a heartbeat.


~ * ~ 


John was working from home, trying to get caught up on all the drug and money movements from the past few days, which was not something easy at all, when his cell phone rang and he was forced to take a break.

"Yes?" He was so deeply focused that only a few people would have been able to get him to stop what he was doing. Crowley was one of those people.

"We need to talk."

John reclined on his comfortable chair and looked away from the numbers in the spreadsheet before his face.

"Go on."

"We have a problem on our hands."

John took a long breath.

"Ronald? Azazel?" he asked.


Now that caught John off guard. After everything that had happened in the past days, John hardly remembered the junkie he had—mostly—killed. Apparently, that problem was back to bite him in the ass for not being thorough.

"Did he wake up?" John asked, even though he knew he had, otherwise Crowley wouldn't be calling.

"Not only is he conscious, he's also talkative, apparently." There was a sigh on the line before Crowley went on. "What a time to grow a conscience, John. Couldn't have just offed him, could you?"

John went on as if he hadn't heard the provocation.

"Who did he talk to?"

"Detective Castiel Novak," Crowley said. "I have a nurse inside the hospital feeding me information. The detective visited him today."

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Really, Castiel? So you don't scare easy, is that it?

"That doesn't mean he talked. I told him that if he survived and if he did, well, I'd be coming for him."

"Are you seriously willing to bet both our businesses on how much you think he's afraid of you?" Crowley grew a little impatient.

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous," John said quickly. "But I gave him a fair chance to live, as they did to my son when they forced him to overdose."

Oh, Crowley thought. Now he understood the poetic justice. They were still in trouble, though.

"I have a man who can finish the job. The nurse can grant him access. He'll be in and out of his room quickly," he offered.

"No," John said.

"John…" Crowley took a deep, audible breath. "If you want to go down then that's on you. I'm not risking everything I have because of a junkie with a loose tongue."

Because of your fucking sloppy, sentimental job. Poetic justice my ass! Crowley wanted to add but refrained.

"Let me take a look into it. If Marcus did talk to Castiel then maybe we'll have a way to find out," John was obviously thinking about Sam's hacking skills but he didn't say anything.

"He could walk out of the hospital at any moment and disappear, he could —"

"Give me a few hours," John cut him off. "I'll call you back and we'll solve this."

Crowley found himself caving despite his will. He wanted to end this right now, but then he remembered how much John too had to lose if Marcus talked to the police. He knew how far Winchester would go to protect his sons, so he decided to trust him.

"I'll be waiting," Crowley said and ended the call.

John stared at the phone for a while and then at his computer. He shut the laptop down and walked out of the office towards Sam's room.

He found what he was looking for quickly and left the house towards the clinic sooner than he had anticipated, taking Sam's laptop with him.


~ * ~ 


During his days at that clinic, Sam was almost constantly hungry. He knew that was also a side effect of cocaine withdrawal, and he tried to keep a somewhat healthy diet in the process. Sometimes, though, like that evening, eating felt a bit like a waste of time. Right now both Sam's stomach and bowels agreed they wanted nothing to do with food, and the young man struggled with his body in the bathroom until everything that needed and could come out, did.

Afterwards, Sam was taking a shower, so he didn't hear the noise of someone else walking into the clinic. When he left the bathroom, he was surprised to find his father there with Dean.

"How are you?" John asked quickly when he saw how pale and sickly Sam looked. "Dean told me you weren't so great."

"I'm not…" Sam agreed. He was wearing sweatpants and no shirt. His hair was still wet and his feet were bare.

Sam walked towards the nearest chair and sat down. He felt a little dizzy but didn't want to worry his brother and father.

"All part of the process, you know. One day at a time," he said with a hollow smile.

"Do you want some water? Juice?" Dean asked, studying the darker skin color under Sam's eyes. His brother certainly looked a bit battered.

"Water, please. Thanks."

Dean left to go get some and John waited until he was back to say what was on his mind.

"I told your brother that something came up and I needed to talk to you," John began.

He then pulled Sam's laptop from a bag he was carrying and walked towards his son.

Sam frowned when John placed the computer on his lap.

"What's going on?" Dean asked quickly.

"I'm gonna need Sam's hacking skills on a case," John said.

"Are you kidding? Can't it wait?" Dean protested. "Dad, look at him. Sam looks like shit."

"Thanks," Sam smiled weakly and sarcastically.

"It's true, though," Dean went on.

"I know, but unfortunately this can't wait," John said. "There's someone who knows too much and that could have just talked to the cops about us. It's an emergency. What you find will determine whether he lives or dies," John stressed how grave the situation was.

"Who is this guy anyway?" Sam asked as he opened his laptop and turned it on.

John and Dean exchanged a look.

John made as if he would say something but Dean was faster.

"Tell him the truth."

Sam's heart rate picked up and he looked from his brother to his father.

"What truth?" he asked.

John sighed defeatedly. He would have made something up, but Dean had obviously narrowed his options down to the truth. Maybe his eldest was right, maybe knowing they were after the men who'd abused him would help Sam a little.

"He's one of the men who was at The Club on the day you were there," John said.

Sam's heart was now thudding. His fingers missed a few keys as he typed his password and he had to try again.

"Oh," he said, for lack of a better thing to say.

"Two of them are dead," John stated. He chose to leave the whole collaboration with Crowley out of the way. "Marcus was in a coma after a forced overdose."

"Forced overdose?" Sam questioned, because it sounded eerily familiar.

"I shot his partner and forced him to use way too much coke. I let him call 911 to give him a chance, as they gave you."

Sam shuddered. Picturing his father as the deadly mob boss he was could be a little overwhelming. Knowing that he did something so cruel out of protective instincts gave Sam mixed feelings.

"Didn't think he would make it, but he did. I've been informed that he may be talking to that same detective who was sniffing after you."

"The one you said you'd taken care of?" Dean chimed in.

"I did take care of him, just didn't think killing him would be necessary. A near-death experience apparently wasn't enough," John explained.

"Shit, this is a fucking mess," Dean whispered.

But all Sam could think was,

"The bearded man?" he managed to croak out, his heart beating erratically. He thought about the pixelated photo his grandfather had been holding when he freaked out. "Is he dead, too?"

John and Dean exchanged another look before John lowered his eyes and shook his head slowly.

"He's still on the run. Dean and I won't rest until he's caught, Sam."

Sam nodded. He also swallowed hard and turned his attention to the computer.

Let me put a face to the ass I'll be owning.

Sam focused on the keyboard and tabs before him, and not on the fact that the man on whose cock he'd choked was still walking around freely. Actually, Sam had never thought about it until now, and he did not like how knowing the man was free could impact his already hellish and vivid nightmares.  

"Sam…" Dean began. He could feel Sam's uneasiness and the unspoken fear in his eyes, so he felt as if he had to say something, anything, to reassure his brother they would catch his abuser.

"Who should I be looking into?" Sam went on, desperately needing to change the focus of his thoughts.

"Castiel Novak, the detective with a death wish," John said.

Sam worked diligently and in total silence.

Both John and Dean watched as Sam's fingers moved quickly, his forehead creased. He looked a lot less sickly and much more powerful when he was doing something he was good—great—at.

"This will take me a moment," Sam eventually said. "The encryption code's fucking wild," he muttered absently.

"Take your time," John said hopefully.

Meanwhile, Dean gravitated towards his father and they had a silent conversation through their eyes. Dean could tell John wasn't happy about Dean's decision to be honest with Sam, but Dean was glad he'd been straightforward. Sam deserved to know that what had happened to him wouldn't go unpunished. Even if they hadn't yet been able to catch the man who'd inflicted the most pain…

"I'm in," Sam spoke and pulled Dean out of his reverie. "What am I looking for?"

"Anything that indicates he has Marcus's testimony. I want to know all about his latest activities online."

Sam typed away for a moment longer and then sighed deeply. He knew what would happen when he spoke, but he also knew that family came first. Besides, knowing that man saw him get raped and then nearly killed and did nothing to stop it certainly made Sam care a lot less about what happened to him.

"There's a request to put a certain Marcus Fields under witness protection," Sam announced.

"Shit!" Dean cursed.

John's brown eyes looked dark.

"Thank you, son."

John looked at both his kids briefly as the information sank in.

"I need to make a call," he said before walking out of the clinic.


~ * ~ 


Sam didn't have any more nightmares, despite the unsettling information about Ronald being on the loose, and when he woke up the following morning with Dean by his side he was actually feeling a little better.

He was still vaguely nauseated and the headaches still bothered him, but most of the muscle and joint pains were gone, and he did feel more in control of his mood and irritability.

Doctor Spencer dropped by in the afternoon, at around the time John did, too.

Together, the four of them talked about Sam's condition and the next steps for him.

"I'm really proud of you, Sam," the doctor said. "I know detoxing is hard, and even though it wasn't an absolute hell for you, I know it was far from easy. Congratulations, the worst is over."

"Thank you," Sam said a bit shyly.

"Your blood exams are looking good. You look better today than you did yesterday. So how do you feel about going home? Do you think you can handle being there or would you rather stay here for a bit longer?" he asked.

Sam looked at his father and brother as if asking for permission.

"If it's okay I'd like to be back home."

Dr. Spencer turned to look at John.

"Will it be a safe place to him?" No drugs within reach? Was what he was really asking.

"You bet it will," John answered.

Sam was still unaware, but his bedroom had been searched thoroughly, the cocaine bag was found and returned to the safe, whose code had been obviously changed. With Bobby and Dean's help, John had also searched the rest of the house and not found any drugs stashed, to his relief.

"Good. Then he can go. Just remember, it's still an on-going process. It's called rehab for a reason. You'll need to learn to live with this and fight the urge to go back," the doctor said.

"I know."

"We'll be there for him, right?" Dean used his shoulder to poke Sam's playfully but tenderly, and Sam managed a weak smile.


"Good. Then if something happens, give me call. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go. I got fifteen missed calls on my phone from the hospital. I'm guessing something really bad went down there."

Sam, Dean and John exchanged a look full of complicity but didn't say anything as they watched the doctor leave.


~ * ~ 


Marcus had finished his red gelatin and was watching TV in the early afternoon when the male nurse walked in.

He didn't pay the man much attention when he shut the door and closed the blinders because he was watching a football game on TV.

"Hey," he said absently. "Can you get them to send some more gelatin? I'm still hungry," he complained.

"Sure thing, sir."

The male nurse approached the bed and tapped the patient's shoulder.

"Could you move a little? I need to adjust your pillow."

Marcus complied, but instead of adjusting it, the male nurse grabbed the pillow and held it over his face.

Marcus still had time to see the butterfly tattoo on the man's hand before the pillow was pressed to his face. It all happened so fast he didn't have time to scream.

The desperate sounds of his pleas were muffled against the pillow as his oxygen levels dropped quickly with his writhing efforts to breathe.

Marcus remembered Finn telling him about 'The Butterfly' man, who did most of the dirty job for Crowley.

He just never imagined his would be the face he would see before drawing his last breath.





Chapter Text



Sam walked back into his home like he hadn't been there in a long time, instead of just a week. Something inside him was different, like he had changed and wasn't the same anymore, which was partly true. Sam had now been down the rabbit hole and taken a good look around. Luckily, he'd been dragged out of that hole by his brother and father.

He was a little surprised to see Bobby there when he arrived.

"Hey, boy."

"Bobby—" Sam felt a little shy knowing that Bobby knew he had screwed up, but the older man didn't say anything when Sam walked in followed by his brother and father.

"Just shut up and come here." Bobby pulled Sam into a tight hug and held him for a moment.

There was so fucking much happening with that kid and that Bobby couldn't help with that he just needed to show him, somehow, that he was there for him, even if he couldn't find the proper words.

Sam felt his eyes sting and he buried his face on Bobby's shoulder for a moment. That was such a heartfelt and much needed embrace. Sam felt at the same time devastated for having disappointed his surrogate dad and relieved to know Bobby still loved him and forgave him—the hug told him as much.

"Welcome back." Bobby broke the hug, swallowed the clog of emotion in his throat, and placed both hands on Sam's shoulders.

"Thank you."

And because Bobby couldn't help it—

"What the hell were you thinking? You know better than to use that shit," Bobby didn't want to give a lecture, but now that the emotional hug was out of the way, the angry words kept pouring out.

"Bobby—" John began.

"You're smarter than this," he shook Sam a little. "Next time you feel like you need that shit promise me you'll give me a call and I'll knock some sense into that head of yours."

"He won't do it again," Dean also intervened.

"I want him to promise," Bobby kept looking intently into Sam's eyes.

The younger man smiled, albeit a little embarrassedly, and nodded.

"Yeah, I'll ask for help."

"Fucking idjit!" Bobby groaned affectionately and pulled Sam in for another quick hug.

Sam knew the insult was a heartfelt confession of Bobby's fear because he could see the older man's eyes were dangerously close to tears. Of course Bobby wouldn't give in to feelings, so he turned around and recomposed himself quickly.

"Let's have lunch? I asked Maria to cook us something," John said.

"Yeah, I'm starving," Dean said quickly.

"I…me too. I just, can I go to my room before? I want to change," Sam said.

"Of course. Go ahead."

As Sam disappeared upstairs, Dean gave John a somewhat worried look that John read right away.

"Don't worry. He won't find anything. I have been thorough," he said.

"Okay," Dean said, but still looked a bit unsure. "You two go ahead," he said after a little while. "I'm going to change before lunch as well."

Dean left Bobby and John behind and went up the stairs.

He didn't find Sam in his room, as he knew he wouldn't. And he also knew exactly where he would find his brother, which made his heart sink and drown with worry.


His younger brother was standing in their father's office, the painting resting on the floor, against the wall, as he stared at the safe where the drugs were.

Dean swallowed hard as he approached him;

"You changed the password," Sam stated emotionlessly.

Dean breathed in deeply and nodded.

"We did."

Sam looked into his brother's eyes when he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"Good," he then said. "I…I needed to come here, I needed to check," he explained. "If the password was still the same I don't think I would be able to stay away, Dean."

"We know. It's not that we don't trust you," Dean tried.

"It's exactly that you don't trust me," Sam grinned sadly and retorted. "But it's fine, I swear. I don't trust myself right now so you shouldn't either. I just needed to make sure…" he nodded at the safe and raised a hand towards it. "…that it's off limits. I don't want to use it again."

"You have no idea how much it means to hear this," Dean admitted.

"But I'm not out of the woods yet."

"You're not alone." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder and turned his face towards him.

Sam's heart basked in warmth when Dean kissed him softly.

"Let's change and go eat lunch, they're waiting."


~ * ~ 


Sam ended up spending all afternoon and evening in Bobby's company since John said he had something to do and could use Dean's help. The younger Winchester believed his dad and brother were definitely entitled to some time off caring for him, so he was quick to encourage Dean to go and catch a break. Besides, it felt good being in Bobby's company. There was something brutally honest and endearing in how Bobby had trouble showing his emotions but could, nonetheless, let Sam feel loved and cared for.

The two of them watched some TV and then hung outdoors for a moment. Sam missed just being outside and feeling the sun on his skin. It was a beautiful spring day, and even though he didn't feel like going into the pool, he was glad to be outside in Bobby's company.

The older man seemed to struggle a little every time he had to do something and leave Sam alone, like go to the bathroom or go get a drink. Eventually, Sam just chuckled sympathetically and addressed the issue.

"Bobby? If you need to take a piss just go. There are no drugs in my pockets or the pool." Sam smiled at the way Bobby squirmed a little, uncomfortable at Sam's keen perception. "Or I could go with you and—"

"Shut up," Bobby sounded gruff. "I'll be right back and you better be good, boy."

Sam smiled again and watched Bobby disappear inside the house.

The older man came back after a few minutes and sat back down on the chair beside Sam.

"I'm still sober," Sam joked.

"You better be if you know what's good for you," Bobby grumbled and Sam chuckled again.

The lazy sunny afternoon unfolded in the beautiful patio. Sam might have dozed off on the chair a little, he wasn't sure. At a certain point though, he couldn't fail to notice Bobby's lingering look filled with worry and something else—something Sam had seen in Dean's eyes a few times since the assault on him.



"Just say it."

Bobby seemed a little taken aback.

"What are you? A mind reader or something now?"

"No, but you keep looking at me and your lips open and close as if you're not sure what to say. It's fine, just say it." Sam sat up on the chaise lounge and crossed his legs, so he could better look into Bobby's eyes.

The older man sighed and stared at his feet for a moment, until he found the words and the courage to look into Sam's eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't stop Crowley's men that night, Sam," he spoke.

Yes, Sam was right. It was the same guilt he had seen in his brother's eyes before.

"It's not your fault," Sam stated the obvious, because he knew how hard it was to understand and accept the obvious. You were tied up and couldn't fight it, you didn't know what was going to happen, it's not your fault.

"I should've seen it coming. If I'd paid more attention to the ones who were already inside the bar, or if I'd seen them walking in before I could've just shot them—"

"Bobby," Sam interrupted him. "I'm sure you did your best. There were four armed men. I'm sure they didn't just decide to go into the bar like spur of the moment thing. They planned the attack." Sam felt himself stiffen a little as he thought about that night.

He had been so foolish and naive, hoping to experiment BDSM at Dean's hands.

"I should've recognized you," Bobby then said, pulling Sam out of his reverie.


"Yeah, I mean. Something did look a bit familiar, but it's not like I scrutinize The Club's clients."

Sam smiled sadly.

"I did a good job of disguising myself. Besides, if you had recognized me, what would you have done?" he asked.

Bobby shrugged.

"I don't know. Asked you what the hell you thought you were doing there?" Bobby offered.

Sam laughed lightly.

"Seriously, now. What the hell were you doing there?" Bobby asked with renewed interest.

Sam's heartbeat quickened.

"I'd found out about The Club and the whole secret activity there. I wanted to surprise Dean, prank him…I don't know, I wanted to get back at him for lying."

Bobby narrowed his eyes and studied the young man before him.


"What?" Sam asked innocently.

"Maybe John believed it, but I smell bullshit. You went pretty far for a prank." Bobby's piercing eyes watched the boy intently.

"Yeah, you got me. I'm actually in love with my brother and wanted to have some fun with him in the dungeon," Sam admitted carelessly.

Bobby stared at Sam for a moment and then reached out his hand to smack him across the head.

"Hey!" Sam complained. "What was that for?!"

"Making fun of an old man," Bobby grumbled, annoyed.

Sam just laughed and lay on the chair again.

"In love with your brother…" Bobby shook his head. "I should ask your daddy for a raise. Really! The things you boys put me through."

Sam just watched Bobby mumble half-heartedly. Of course he wouldn't tell him that he had just spoken the truth, but even though Bobby hadn't believed it, it felt kind of good sharing the secret.

"Whatever reason you had, it's okay if you don't want to tell me. I'm just really sorry, kid."

Sam smiled sadly and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah, me too."


~ * ~ 


Dean didn't really know where they were going when John asked him to come along. He'd imagined something related to drug distribution or collecting some debt or even granting a favor. He was not expecting to be taken to a sex shop.

After John parked and they walked up to the second floor of what was on the outside a boring, normal house, Dean found himself stepping into a world of sexual fantasy and fun. Toys, clothes, accessories, furniture…that place was one of the biggest Dean had seen and he had seen many stores like that before.

"Really?" Dean looked at his dad and asked.

"Thought you could use a break. Besides, Bobby wanted some time with Sam. I figured he didn't need us around," John said as he began to walk around.

Dean was still following behind his dad, looking at the many interesting and kinky items around them.

"I think it's time to reopen The Club."


John's fingers stroked across some floggers hanging from a wall.

"It's good for business. There was a significant decrease in sales without The Club. The renovations are done, and I believe Bella and Benny are eager to get started." John then turned and studied his son.

Dean could see the unspoken question in his father's eyes.

"I…" he hesitated briefly. "I'm not sure I'm ready to go back." Not sure I want to go back, Dean thought. There was so much going on with Sam, and between Sam and he, that Dean didn't really want to shower strangers with attention, especially sexual attention.

He was looking forward to touching Sam, learning what he enjoyed and helping his brother explore pleasure after what happened to him. Besides, Dean had feelings for Sam too, that he wasn't aware of before, and it made him uncomfortable thinking that he was cheating on his brother, even though The Club was a job.

John studied Dean with a little more interest.

"This is not an order for you to go back," he then said, his voice smooth. "Dean, it's supposed to be fun, remember? If you feel like your attention is too focused on your brother and helping him, fine. I just think that some sessions could help you blow off some steam and focus. That's how I feel anyway."

Dean sighed. Of course he couldn't tell his father how he truly felt about his own brother.

"I need time to figure this out," he said.

"Just talk to Benny and Bobby, we'll see if they'll need another Master to cater to the demand. I might step in too."

Dean looked at a ball gag and his fingers touched it absently. Erotic thoughts struggled with traumatic memories from the assault on his brother.

"Hey," John touched his arm and startled him a little. "As I said, it's something you only do when you want to, and if you want to, all right? No pressure."

"Yeah, I know."


~ * ~ 


Sam took his recovery one day at a time. He didn't have any of the more acute symptoms such as nausea, vomiting or diarrhea. He still had cravings and headaches, and his nightmares were sometimes more realistic than he would have wanted them to be.

John and Dean still alternated with staying home and helping him out, to which Sam was thankful—even if slightly embarrassed—because he knew he wouldn't have made it out of that rabbit hole without help.

"Dad's just left and Maria won't come today," Dean announced at the door before walking into Sam's bedroom.

"Okay." Sam was sitting cross legged on the bed, his laptop resting above his knees.

"So, what are you up to?" Dean smiled sassily and approached his brother.

Sam smiled, too, and put the laptop on the nightstand.

"I don't know. I'm feeling a bit useless as of late. Like I'm on forced vacation or something."

"You sort of are," Dean agreed with a faint chuckle.

"It's hard not get a little depressed, to be honest," Sam admitted. "Although I know this could be from the withdrawal too."

"What can I do to help?" Dean put a knee on the bed and leaned towards his brother.

Sam could smell his brother's cologne and his heart raced a little. He cocked his head to the side and parted his lips invitingly.

"I could think of a thing or two…"

Dean bit the tip of his tongue and his eyes lit up with the provocation. There was something sexual and promising in his eyes when he closed the small distance and captured Sam's lips in a kiss.

Sam's eyes fell shut and his heart hammered in his chest when Dean's tongue claimed every corner of his mouth. He went boneless when Dean's palms cupped his cheeks as he deepened the kiss, rubbing his tongue slowly against Sam's before nibbling at the corner of his mouth.

Sam tilted his head back and goosebumps broke on his skin when Dean planted wet, warm kisses down his neck.

Sam loved the sweet, teasing kisses. His heart was racing, but his body…well, it kind of disappointed him. That was the moment when Sam knew he would be growing hard, blood rushing to his dick as Dean's tongue worked. Except that there wasn't much going on down there.

Dean's hands went down and his thumbs flicked over Sam's nipples over the thin fabric of his shirt. His lips closed on the curve of Sam's neck, teasing and tasting, as his stubbled chin brushed against Sam's sensitive skin.

When he didn't get much of a response, Dean broke the kiss and looked into Sam's eyes.

"Is everything okay?" Dean asked gently.

Sam took a deep breath and pressed his lips together in a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

"Yeah, I mean…What you're doing with your tongue, and the way it feels…fuck, I should be having trouble concentrating."

Dean frowned, not sure what his brother meant.

"It's just that…well, since I began detoxing, there's not much activity down there," he pointed at his crotch and shrugged.

"Oh," Dean finally understood. Then, he smiled with understanding and playfulness. "Lack of libido is part of the package, I'm afraid. At least that's what Benny told me."

"You could be naked and hard dancing hula before me and I don't think I could get it up," Sam admitted.

Dean got out of the bed and went for the hem of his shirt.

"Maybe we should try it."

"Dean!" Sam flushed and shook his head. "I appreciate the effort, but I'd only feel worse if nothing happens."

Dean then smiled and put a hand on Sam's knee.

"Hey, it's fine. Benny told me that it's just for the first couple of weeks. Everything goes back to normal. Relax."

"So I guess it's a movie then?" Sam offered with evident disappointment but also a twinge of relief. He was glad Dean understood it and didn't push it.

"Fine, but I get to choose. C'mon."


~ * ~ 


A couple of days later, detective Castiel walked into the city's largest and oldest hospital, in the heart of the old neighborhood.

He hadn't heard from his witness in the past three days, and every time he called no one was able to give him decent updates on the patient.

Castiel would have visited him sooner but he was busy with the bureaucratic aspect of asking for witness protection, especially since he was doing everything as quietly and discreetly as possible. Besides, he wanted to have good news for Marcus when he next saw him, which he did.

Castiel's request had been accepted. Marcus would get a new identity and a fresh start if he agreed to testify in court. Until then, he would be granted protection twenty for hours, something Castiel couldn't have offered him before without drawing too much attention.

"Excuse me," he stopped a nurse in the hallway where Marcus used to be.

"Sorry, sir, I don't have time to—" the woman began.

Castiel flashed his badge and the woman stopped in her tracks and listened, even though she was clearly still impatient and in a hurry.

"There was a man in room 608, I visited him a few days ago. Has he been transferred? Discharged?"

The woman frowned.

"608…let me see," she took a look at the sheets on the clipboard she was carrying and the creases on her forehead deepened. "I…I'm sorry, sir, but Marcus Fieldman suffered a cardiac arrest and died three days ago." She looked at the detective with an apologetic look.

Castiel didn't say anything. He was stunned. He was pissed. He was fucking angry at the audacity of the drug barons he was up against.

Even though he'd tried to do everything right and fast, they had been faster, smarter, and ruthless.

"Sir? Are you okay?" the nurse asked.

"Yes…thank you," Castiel smiled coldly at her.

He could feel his fingers growing numb and his heart racing.

Before he could do or say something he regretted, Castiel turned on his heels, got into his car and drove home.

When he was alone in his apartment, he slammed the door shut and groaned.

"Fuck!" He cursed. "Fuck!"

He slid down against the door, his teeth gritted painfully and his jaw tightened.

He was so fucking exhausted he didn't even care that he was crying.

Maybe it was time he gave up before he was the next meaningless death.

"Please…" Castiel shut his eyes, wiped at his tears and begged. "God…I…I don't know if you're really there, but if you are…please, please…send me a sign." Although Castiel came from a religious family he had drifted apart from them and from his beliefs. Right now, though, he prayed feverishly, his shoulders hunching up and down as all the pent up frustration inside him needed to leak down his cheeks before he burst. "Please…"

Castiel buried his face on his arms and sobbed quietly. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, hopeless and defeated, until his cell phone beeped.

Castiel rubbed a hand over his face, took a deep breath to regain composure, and checked his phone.

It was an email.

It was an email from The Club saying their doors were once again open and waiting for clients.

Castiel's heart tingled.

The Headmaster.

Not the sign he had been expecting but—

"Hello?" he picked up the phone.

"Detective Castiel Novak?" A voice asked.

"Yes, it's him."

"Your interview with Lucifer Morningstar has been granted and arranged. Can you be at the prison in three days?"

"Three days?" Castiel swallowed hard. Now he was fully alert and his heart was indeed drumming.

"Yes. At four p.m."

Castiel rubbed at his eyes and his breath quickened.

"Three days, four p.m.," he repeated, still a little stupefied.

"Yes. Can I confirm it?"

"You can. I'll be there."

Castiel ended the call and stared at his phone.

The Headmaster and Lucifer?

He looked up at his old, moldy ceiling and smiled.

"Thank you, Lord."