Sam stood at the window of his crappy third-floor apartment, staring out at the busy street below. It was the usual crowd: people walking dogs, couples holding hands, cars packed with families. He frowned, leaning back from the streaked, grimy glass.
He couldn’t see anybody who seemed to be paying any special attention to him, but for weeks now he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he was being watched. At first it had seemed like mere paranoia, but for more than a month it had persisted on and off - as though he could feel invisible breath on the back of his neck.
It didn’t make any sense. He was a nobody, a college drop out; who would be watching him?
He pulled down the battered blinds, trying to cut the light from outside. But since the windows had no curtains, thin yellow strips still slipped through the cracks when he was done.
Mechanically he moved around his bedroom, stripping out of his work clothes and hanging them over the back of a desk chair. There wasn’t much other furniture in the room – an old IKEA dresser, and his unmade bed. It was too early to sleep, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He should probably order takeout, or at least heat up a bowl of ramen, but the thought of eating was completely unappealing. If he couldn’t get to sleep he’d try channel surfing for a few hours, maybe find a good infomercial or a B-movie to shut off his brain.
He pulled on yesterday’s pajama pants and got into bed. The sheets were dirty. He probably should have washed them over the weekend, but hadn’t worked up the energy. Oh well - too late now. It didn’t really matter anyway. He pulled the blanket up over his head, escaping the light outside. Go to sleep, he begged his body, willing his eyelids to grow heavy.
Finally he felt that loosening in his muscles that indicated he was starting to drift off, and threw himself whole-heartedly into the blackness.
He awoke suddenly when a firm hand clamped over his mouth. Some kind of a cloth was being held over his face, and when he brought his arms up to push it off, they were quickly intercepted and pinned above his head. He tried to twist away but the cloth moved with him, muffling his cries. “Deep breaths for me,” said a voice near his ear.
Instinctively Sam inhaled, and his head swam from the sickening-sweet smell of whatever was on the fabric. Panicking, he managed to turn his face up and found himself staring directly into a pair of bright green eyes.
“Easy, Sammy,” said the man gently, withdrawing the material and letting Sam take a breath.
Sam frantically looked around. There were three men in his room, all dressed entirely in black. Two had knitted ski masks over their faces – the one behind him, holding his arms, and the one going through the desk. The green-eyed man held the cloth, which in another second was pressed firmly back over Sam’s nose and mouth. It was his own dirty boxers, he realized, from the top of his laundry pile. He thought he could taste himself.
What were they going to do to him? How had they gotten into his room, and what did they want? Sam tried to struggle feebly but his limbs were uncooperative, heavy and unfeeling. He was completely helpless.
“Don’t fight it,” said the stranger soothingly, holding him still as Sam ran out of air and was forced to take in another wheezing breath. “Just try to relax, there you go, that’s a good boy.” Unfamiliar hands stroked through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. A thumb traced over his brow.
Sam’s arms were released, but whatever they had drugged him with had left him entirely paralyzed. He could barely blink. Softly, he managed a faint moan of distress.
“Easy, little one.”
The stranger tossed the boxers on the bed. He picked up Sam’s arms one by one, gently rubbed his reddened wrists, and arranged them carefully at his sides.
“Cas, log onto his computer,” he ordered, his fingers closing over to Sam’s pulse, pausing to measure his heart rate. “The password is Antilles. Send an email from his account to his employer, quitting his job.”
“On it,” a gruff voice replied.
Sam was horrified to find that he was drooling, unable to fully close his mouth. The stranger bent over him and tenderly wiped his chin with the dirty boxers.
“When you’re done with that, check his calendar and his phone, make sure there’s nothing coming up in the next few weeks. If you find anything, cancel it. Bobby, can you gather some personal items, things he might want?”
A calloused thumb rubbed the back of Sam’s hand. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’re going to take good care of you.” Sam didn’t understand anything that was happening, but the rough caress was strangely soothing.
“When you’re done, Cas, go through the bathroom. Grab his toiletries and do a thorough search. Look for any medications. Then we’ll get him ready for transport.”
Transport to where? What was happening? Sam couldn’t think of why anybody would want to abduct him. His family wasn’t wealthy enough to hold him for ransom, and he was just a lowly computer guy. He couldn’t turn his head, but he could hear the sounds of the masked assistants bustling around his apartment.
“Are you about ready?” asked the green-eyed man, obviously talking to someone in the doorway. “We need to get him prepped.”
“All set,” said someone.
“Alright then, let’s get him taped up.”
Immediately one of the assistants came forward with a wide silver roll. Sam wanted to flail away but it was useless: he couldn’t move a muscle. His wrists were twisted together in front of him and tightly bound, then his ankles, protected by the hems of his pajama bottoms. His feet were hoisted up so they could wrap his thighs above the knee.
“Tape his mouth.”
Sam’s eyes were closed, so he didn’t see who spoke. He tried to turn his face away but in a second, gloved hands were smoothing the duct tape over his cheeks, trapping his muffled screams. Then hands on his shoulders rolled him onto his stomach.
“Alright, gonna give him the sedative now,” said the same voice. The elastic waistband of his pants was tugged down, exposing the fleshy globes of his backside to the cool air. Sam whimpered in fear – oh, god, not my ass – then cried out from the pinch of a needle in his buttock. Neither sound made it through the tape sealed over his mouth.
“Sh, Sammy.” Fingers brushed over Sam’s hair. The green-eyed man pulled his pants back into place for him.
Whatever they injected him with, it worked fast. After only a few seconds Sam felt himself fading out.
Someone leaned over, close to Sam’s ear. “I like you like this, baby,” whispered the green eyed man, patting his butt. “You look good on your belly, trussed up so pretty for me.”
Before he could wrap his head around that, Sam felt his eyes roll back, and everything went dark.
At some point Sam began to register motion, the sensation of being lifted and carried. Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw himself slung between two men. One was walking backwards with his top half and the other had his legs; his limp, bound body hung between them. They were crossing what looked like Sam’s living room.
“Hold up,” said somebody, just as they got to the door.
Everything sounded like they were speaking underwater. The green-eyed man came forward with a navy blue pillow case that Sam recognized from his own spare set of sheets. He pulled it up over Sam’s face, and everything went black. He felt the hood cinched around his neck.
“Okay,” said a muffled voice. “Hurry up and get him out to the van. We might not have long.”
It was quiet and peaceful under the pillowcase. Sam lost consciousness again at the sound of his own front door slamming closed.
The next time he opened his eyes, Sam was in some kind of moving vehicle. His eyelids were heavy, and listlessly he glanced around the cab, taking stock of the situation. His hands were now taped up over his head, but when he smacked his lips he realized that his mouth was free. The skin tingled and he thought he still could feel bits of adhesive at the corner of his lips.
Blearily, he peered around, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
There were other men in the van, naked, with their eyes and mouths taped shut. Other than that, they were bound identically to him, kneeling with their wrists tied to the passenger handles on the roof of what seemed to be a large van. Sam counted five of them, although there could have been more of them up front.
One of them near him was whimpering softly and rocking from side to side. Sam was ashamed to notice, but the other prisoner had a very evident erection.
He managed to turn his head, which felt heavy and off-balance on his neck, and found the green eyed man sitting right next to him, watching his face. Sam blinked.
“You feel sick, baby?” asked the stranger, holding Sam’s glassy, unfocused eyes. Sam didn’t know how to answer. “Is your belly hurting?”
Vaguely, Sam shook his head no.
“That’s my good boy,” said the stranger. “We were worried you might get sick. Can you open your mouth for me, sweetheart?” Sam didn’t move, and after a moment gentle, calloused fingers closed around his chin, gently tugging his jaw open.
“That’s right, nice and wide, there we go.”
Something made of plastic – or maybe rubber – was pressed between Sam’s teeth. He groaned a little in protest, squirming away, but it didn’t seem to help; whatever it was, the thing kept coming, round and solid and filling up his mouth just wide enough to keep his jaw from closing. Then a tight band was fitted across his cheeks.
“Shshsh,” said the stranger, buckling the gag securely behind his head. “This is just to keep you nice and quiet while we take a little trip.”
Sam struggled, grunting behind the gag, but he couldn’t get it loose, and the sounds were trapped behind the ball. A tear that he could barely feel trailed down Sam’s cheek.
“Shh, now,” said the stranger consolingly. “You’ll get used to it, baby.”
He moved behind Sam, and then suddenly Sam’s arms dropped in front of him, heavy with sedation; he looked up and realized the green-eyed man had cut him free with a knife.
A firm arm wrapped around his waist, tugging him back. “C’mere,” said the voice, pulling him into the cradle of a warm lap. His back was propped against the stranger’s chest, his head drawn down to a broad shoulder, where it was settled, too weak to resist. “There we go,” murmured the stranger, rocking gently. “Alright, now, just try to sleep.”
Sam was a big guy, but somehow he felt strangely – little, held like this. He trembled, completely overwhelmed, as hands stroked through his hair and over his cheeks, mindful of the rubber ball in his mouth. The stranger smelled faintly of motor oil and salt, and somehow the offer of comfort was impossible to resist.
Sam let his eyes drop closed and faded out, as the miles rolled away under the wheels below them.
Sam woke up lying on his back on some kind of bench, his hands strapped above his head and his feet locked down to the padded surface. The gag was still wedged in his mouth, his jaw aching slightly from the stretch of it.
Dazed, he lifted his head and looked down at himself. He was dressed in some kind of flimsy medical robe – where were his pants? – and there were blue fuzzy slipper-socks on his feet. It was a cot he was lying on, with thick leather buckles over his wrists and ankles.
Movement at his side made him look over. The green-eyed man was standing next to him, examining a second set of straps that seemed to be intended for his chest and thighs. Sam gurgled helplessly.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” said the stranger, putting the restraints down. “You feeling any better yet?”
Whatever they had given him, the effects were still very evident. Beyond the weakness in his limbs, which he could barely move anyway, Sam was also feeling fuzzy and vague. He knew he should be panicking, but he couldn’t quite work up the energy.
“That’s good,” said the stranger, patting his arm. “So, now that we’ve got you here, I need to see what we’re dealing with, okay?”
He reached to untie the front of Sam’s robe and smoothly pulled the sides apart, exposing Sam’s entire body. Sam whimpered, ashamed of the sound as soon as it left his throat - but he was so he couldn’t even close his legs; they were strapped down about shoulder-width apart.
“Easy, now. Just want to get a good look at you, little one.”
The stranger’s eyes moved unhurriedly down Sam’s chest, lingering on the muscles of his abs, and took a good look at his limp cock, which was resting against his thigh. “Or not so little, maybe I should say?” he teased gently.
Sam turned his face away, unable to answer. The drug kept him calmed down, but he still knew everything that was happening to him, and it was humiliating to be so blatantly examined.
“I think he’s ready,” the stranger called out, and Sam opened his eyes to see who he was talking to.
There was a woman in a white uniform coming forward, and the shape of other people behind her. Sam moaned softly, but there was nothing he could do.
“Gonna be okay, sweetheart,” said the stranger.
His hand stroked up and down Sam’s shoulder, warming the goose-pimpled skin. Sam wished that he would close the gown in front of the others, but he didn’t.
“Hey Dean,” said the woman. Sam blinked; was Dean the name of the green-eyed man? “Is this him?”
“Yeah, this is Sammy. He’s a little shy at the moment.”
“That’s alright, dear,” said the woman kindly. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Sam retained his doubts. Also, nobody ever called him Sammy.
“I think he should wear the blindfold for this,” the stranger – Dean? – added in an undertone. “I don’t want him getting too upset.”
“Oh, sure thing. Here you go.” She handed over a fleece-lined strip of black fabric and Sam squirmed, not wanting to lose any more autonomy.
“Hush,” said Dean. Sam clung to the name. “Come here, baby.”
He slid one hand behind Sam’s limp neck to support his heavy head, lifting him an inch from the table. Then he wrapped the strap securely over Sam’s eyes, blocking every hint of light. Sam felt him fasten the back with what might have been a Velcro closure – something that left no uncomfortable lump when his head was lowered back down.
“Just rest, sweetheart, I know you’re tired,” said Dean’s soothing voice, as someone squeezed his hand. “That should help,” he added, clearly speaking to someone else. “I’m worried he might find this all a little upsetting.”
The cot Sam was laying on started to move, and Sam realized it was some kind of a wheeled table, like a gurney. He felt himself rolled along, with no way of knowing where he was being taken. He was excruciatingly aware of his nakedness – the light breeze between his legs didn’t let him forget – but he had no idea who might be watching.
“Here we are,” said a cheerful, feminine voice after a mercifully short trip. Sam took a deep breath, inhaling a tangy, metallic odor. “Now, what are we doing today?”
“Just a light cleaning, and he needs all his body hair removed,” said Dean, “but use the extra gentle formula lotion. He’s got very sensitive skin.”
How the hell had he known that? Sam wondered. It was true.
Then he moaned as slick hands started stroking over his arms and legs, spreading some kind of cream all over his skin. He couldn’t even tell how many there were. He thought he could feel the texture of rubber gloves under the lotion. His armpits, his chest - then his legs were unbuckled one at a time while they were coated, mindful of his slippered feet. Sam was still inhibited by the drugs in his system and couldn’t manage to kick. Instead he drifted, fading in and out as his limbs were manipulated into place.
“Being so good for me, sweetheart,” Dean whispered.
Sam was able to keep relatively calm until the gloved hands spread his legs and began working the lotion up over his groin, and between the cheeks of his ass. Then he struggled to pull away, grunting through his gag.
“Shh, baby,” said Dean’s voice, sounding close to his ear. “I know, shshsh.” A strong hand pressed his head down to the padded table, holding him still as somebody’s gloved finger rubbed around over his anus. “Almost done, shsh, almost.”
Sam twitched helplessly, all of his attention fixed on the presence at his shoulder. Dean was stroking his hair, muttering peaceful nonsense.
Then the gloved hands moved away, and Sam laid, helpless, his legs still open.
“Good job, sweetheart. All done with that.”
Warm water streamed down from what must have been a sprayer, over his tingling limbs and his bare chest.
“I’ll do his hair later,” he heard Dean say. “And I’ll – you know, finish cleaning him up.”
“Alright, then I think you’re all set here,” said the woman’s voice.
“Thanks, Jodi. Can I get the room for a minute?”
Equipment clattered as it was put away, and Sam strained to hear the low chatter of women, slowly moving off. There was silence.
“Come here now, gonna take this off.” Rough hands fumbled in his hair, and the blindfold was removed. Sam blinked around, dazed, until the Dean guided his chin up to meet his eyes. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, petting his cheek.
Sam lifted his head and stared stupidly down at himself, naked and hairless like a child. They had only left a patch at the base of his cock – even his balls were smooth and pink.
He moaned as he felt the sprayer directed back over his groin, then right between the cheeks of his ass.
“Looking so pretty here,” said Dean, holding him open. “Can you spread your legs for me?”
Sam didn’t know why he asked. One of his legs was still cuffed to the cot, and Dean had the other ankle in a firm grasp. It wasn’t like he could willingly comply, or resist. Still, he tensed as much as he could while Dean guided his free leg up – only to end up with his knee bent, flat-footed on the table. He was aware that absolutely everything was exposed.
“Just going to clean your bottom for you,” Dean murmured.
He indicated a variety of bottles lined up on the edge of the cot, which Sam stared at blankly. Then he squirted what Sam assumed was soap into his hands, and worked it into a rich lather.
Sam could only moan as warm, slick fingers soaped up his ass crack, moving up to the base of his balls and then back down to his hole. Before he knew what was happening, he felt what felt like one soapy pinkie finger slide inside him, quickly plunging it in and out a couple times as he thrashed weakly.
Sam had played around with his ass before, but only using his own fingertips, not even as deep as this one finger worming sloppily back inside him. Christ, it felt weird … but Dean was evidently being careful not to hurt him. It wasn’t really painful – just the slightest burn and a tantalizing little stretch.
“Does that feel good?” Dean hummed. “Gonna flush you out, hold on a second.”
The finger pulled out and the sprayer was aimed at his soapy hole, as Sam clenched with the shock of it, grunting softly. It was so wrong, but the rush of warm water inside him made his cock twitch.
“That’s my good boy, there we go, all done,” said Dean, wiping the water away with his hand. The drops beaded on the rubber surface of the gourney. “Nice and clean.”
Easily he fitted the restraints back around Sam’s ankle, then tied the damp gown closed again. He used a hand towel to blot the rest of Sam’s tingling skin.
“Alright, sweetheart, whenever they’re ready for you we’ll get a quick checkup, and then you can get some sleep,” he said.
A checkup? Sam’s eyes flew wide open as the door handle turned. As though Dean had summoned him there, a man white coat appeared in the doorway.
“Is that my three o’clock?” he asked, glancing disinterestedly at Sam.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Dean. “Sam Wesson. Listen, do you think we can be quick about this? He’s had a really long day already.”
“Well, I’ll certainly do my best,” said the man in the coat, motioning to an orderly that appeared behind him. “Bring him this way, please.”
The orderly wheeled Sam, who was gurgling behind his gag and being entirely ignored, through the doorframe and into what looked like a medical exam room – complete with a variety of intimidating machines. The room was freezing cold.
The gurney was set up in the center of the room, and then Sam’s arms were released from the straps that held them above his head. He didn’t get much of a chance to relax, though – within a few seconds, the orderly buckled his wrists to a set of perpendicular restraints, so that he was lying outstretched, like a bug under a microscope. The orderly pulled the straps too tight.
“Male subject, 25-29 years of age, natural submissive,” the doctor was muttering. Sam realized after a beat that he was speaking into a recorder. “Well, he’s a beautiful animal,” he said, wheeling over some trays. “Really, a top-notch specimen, Dean.”
“Thanks,” said Dean, sounding proud. “I can’t wait to show everyone what he can do.”
"Alright. I just need to do the standard exam today,” said the doctor. “Do you think he’ll cooperate?”
Sam felt fingers checking the restraints at his wrists, loosening them slightly. “Not at this stage, no,” said Dean. “This is all too new for him.”
“Okay, well why don’t you keep an eye on him while I get to work?”
Dean came to stand at Sam’s head, one hand resting gently on his forehead. “Would you like the blindfold again, baby?” he whispered.
Sam had his eyes closed, but he shook his head no. He wasn’t going to voluntarily give up any of his freedoms.
“Ok then, doc, how do you want him?”
“Let’s start with him on his back like this,” said the doctor, “and I’ll let you know if we need to change.” Gentle hands unbuckled the gag from Sam’s mouth and pulled it free. Immediately, gloved fingers slipped between his teeth, holding his jaw open, and Sam whined as something smooth and flat slid in over his tongue.
“Good teeth,” the doctor commented, “nice healthy color here in the mouth.”
Sam was really coming to hate being talked about as if he wasn’t in the room.
The doctor made a note on a clipboard. “I suspect we’ll need his head restrained, to continue?”
Sam’s eyes were still clenched tightly shut, but they flew open when something obtrusive was slipped into his mouth. It felt like a flat circle, stretching his jaw wider to accommodate it.
“Just for a little while,” Dean soothed, pressing him down. “I know, I know, shshsh.”
The sides of the gag locked down to the surface of the table so Sam couldn’t move his head at all. The restraints on his wrists and ankles forced him still, unable to do anything other than lie there with his mouth open. “Don’t fight it, baby,” said Dean. “Keep calm and relax for me, do you think you can do that?”
The doctor approached with a needle-less syringe. “Just a vitamin supplement and an immuno-booster,” he said, squirting the syringe into Sam’s mouth and briskly massaging his throat.
He couldn’t help swallowing; it tasted sweet.
The doctor slid the tongue depressor through the ring, pressing it forwards without warning to prod at the back of Sam’s throat. Sam choked, his body convulsing against the restraints. “I think you’ll have your work cut out for you there,” he commented dryly.
“Easy, baby, shh.” Dean patted Sam’s chest.
Sam moaned, feeling saliva slide down his chin from his held-open mouth.
“Here, this should help,” Dean whispered, sliding some sort of short rubber plug through the ring of Sam’s gag. Strangely enough, it did help; it kept him from drooling and gave his teeth something to grip.
The doctor briefly examined his ears, his nose, and the lymph nodes under his neck. They took his pulse, listened to his lungs, measured his temperature with a forehead reader, and drew a measure of blood from his arm. Dean smoothed a bandage over the tiny injury.
The doctor’s hands moved down, reaching inside the open neck of the gown. “Good sensitivity in the nipples,” he said, pinching one and watching it harden. “He’s looking good. Maybe a little underweight, for his height.”
Then the gown was folded up around Sam’s hips.
“Did you want photos?” asked the doctor, disinterestedly.
“Just the standard set,” said Dean. “The sessions are all recorded anyway, right?”
“Yes, but it’s nice to have some close-ups. Bring that table camera over here too, would you?”
One by one, Sam’s feet were lifted and buckled into a set of silver stirrups, which were spread wide apart. Sam peered helplessly down at himself, the stupid footie socks in the metal fetters.
The doctor drew over a bright light to illuminate his exposed cock, balls, and asshole. “There’s the money shot,” he said, jovially.
Sam’s dick was examined thoroughly, then his testicles. It seemed like the doctor was checking for any irregularity, running his gloved finger tips carefully over the organs. He took a sample from the dribbling tip of Sam's penis with a cotton swab. Sam couldn’t squirm, could hardly move at all.
“No problems here,” the doctor pronounced finally. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
He adjusted the height and position of the stirrups, drawing Sam’s knees back towards his chest. He could feel it as the tight ring of his anus was exposed to the light. If there was anything worse than being strapped down on his back with his legs spread wide, Sam thought, it was the whirring and clicking of the camera equipment as it moved between his legs.
He kept his eyes tight shut and wished for Dean’s hand back on his forehead.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” said Dean. “You’re alright.”
“He looks great,” said the doctor, pulling up a stool.
“He’s been cleaned,” said Dean, and the doctor grunted in acknowledgment.
“Subject was recruited from his home this morning by a retrieval team, for his own protection,” said the doctor, presumably into the recorder again.
Sam blinked. What the hell did any of that mean?
“Presumably the anus is virgin,” he continued. “We’ll be testing now for sensitivity and general health of the rectum.”
One slick finger traced over his entrance and Sam would have thrashed if he could move. A pause, then a wet squish of liquid. At least there was a lot of lube involved. Then he felt cool, clinical hands press back the cheeks of his ass. He managed a strangled moan as something rubbery insinuated itself against his hole.
“He’s just making sure you’re nice and healthy inside,” Dean soothed. “You can take it, baby, it’s just one finger.”
“Two fingers,” said the doctor blandly.
“Just relax, sweetheart. I know you can do it.”
The doctor’s fingers pressed firmly against his rim. “Take a nice, deep breath, Sub,” he said calmly, “and let it out.” Then Sam felt a pressure in his asshole, and groaned as something solid pushed past the resistance of his entrance. It didn’t feel as good as Dean’s finger had felt. It was cold, and impersonal. Sam moaned, trying to strain away from the intrusion, but it followed him easily, slithering further in.
“He’s taking this beautifully,” said the doctor. “Nice, supple anus, quite snug here against my fingers.”
Dean squeezed Sam’s hand as the doctor probed around inside him, feeling along his tense inner walls. Sam had never been examined this way before, and he couldn’t believe Dean was casually watching as he was forced to take it up the ass right here in front of him.
“Push back against me,” directed the doctor.
“Go on baby, better get it over with,” Dean advised.
Without another option, Sam did as instructed, and the fingers slid in a little further. It felt as though he was taking a crap or something – in public.
“Good muscle tone,” the doctor commented. “Now, clench down around my fingers. Good, again, clench.”
Beyond humiliated, Sam forced himself to comply, wanting more than anything to get this over with.
“He’s going to feel lovely for somebody,” said the doctor approvingly. “Let’s see if we can find a prostate, hmm?”
That was all the warning Sam got before his vision whited out, a strangled moan escaping the gag as his hips jerked rhythmically against that pressure inside of him.
“Look at that,” said the doctor, sounding pleased.
“Beautiful,” Dean agreed, his voice warm. “Could he come like that, do you think?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, although many subs require another form of stimulation. But he does seem to be very sensitive, doesn’t he.” The doctor was prodding irregularly at that place, watching Sam convulse with each pass. “Do you want me to get the anal speculum? We could get some light up there, really have a good look around.”
“No, thanks,” said Dean, “I don’t really want to traumatize him the first time.”
Sam sobbed in relief.
“Okay. You’ve been a good patient, Sub,” said the doctor, extracting his fingers as Sam moaned. He patted Sam's naked thigh as he lowered the stirrups. “One last thing to take care of, and we’ll be done for the day. Dean, did you want to handle this?”
“Thank you,” said Dean. “Can we get him on his stomach, though? It might make it a little easier for him.”
One by one they unhooked the restraints from the table, even the straps of the gag, which were buckled tightly behind his head instead. Even once he was free, Sam found that he was still too weak to do more than twitch feebly. He was sat up, Dean’s arms under his, then pulled to his feet and turned to slump face-down on the padded surface of the exam bench. He whimpered softly, and Dean shushed him with a hand on the back of his neck.
“All set?” said the doctor.
“Give him a second to find his feet.” Dean’s knee pushed between Sam’s legs, setting him up so he was braced better.
Then the back of his gown was flipped up, baring his backside.
“If he’s not used to wearing anything, this is a good place to start.” The doctor brought some kind of thin plastic cylinder over for Dean’s inspection. “We can see how he tolerates it and go from there.”
“Sounds good.” Dean brought the toy around for Sam to see it up close. It was white, about as big around as a tampon, with a blunt nose and a flared base. “This is going to go up your bottom, okay baby?” Sam’s muffled cries were intended to communicate that this was NOT okay with him, but Dean didn’t pay any mind. “We need to get you plugged up for the night,” he maintained calmly. “It might feel a little funny at first, but it’s not going to hurt you; it’s not much bigger than a finger, and you took two of those just fine.”
Dean handed the toy back to the doctor, and moved back between Sam’s thighs. “Spread wide, sweetheart,” he said. As if Sam could do otherwise, positioned as he was; Dean’s hand on his lower back, forcing him down, Dean’s bracketing knees between his own.
“He’s already nice and slick, and with the muscles relaxed this should be no problem,” said the doctor. “Go ahead, whenever you’re ready.”
Sam felt something hard and unforgiving sliding up inside him, nudging its way deep into his ass. He moaned, unable to do anything but accept being sodomized on camera. Dean rubbed the base of his spine as he squirmed, wanting it out - but the pressure continued, moving slowly upwards, until it was fully seated as deep inside him as it could go. Sam clenched down around the unfamiliar intrusion, which shifted perilously close to that place inside of him that made the world white out. It felt – strange. Invasive. He couldn’t forget for even a second that there was something lodged up there, forcing him open. He was pretty sure he hated it.
“Subject is evidently capable of achieving and sustaining an erection,” the doctor murmured, presumably into his microphone.
Dean patted Sam’s backside affectionately, and moved back. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked.
Sam twisted around in a panic; the voice was unfamiliar, and he hadn’t known anyone else was watching. He was too weak and clumsy to turn properly, and would have fallen but that Dean grabbed his shoulders and forced him back down to the table. Sam fought at the sensation of a warm groin pressed against his naked backside – but his hands were easily caught and twisted together, held crossed at the small of his back, and he was pinned.
“Easy, little one,” Dean directed. “What is it, Cas?”
Sam managed to twist his head to look at the small, dark-haired man hesitating in the doorway. Dean paused to tug Sam’s gown down from where it was rucked up around his hips. It made Sam feel a little better, to be covered in the presence of this stranger.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” said the new man, his soft voice gravelly. Sam thought maybe he recognized it from the night he’d been abducted. “The council is looking for Sam Wesson, whenever he’s ready?”
“No, that can’t be right. He’s not supposed to go up until tomorrow morning.”
Dean was rubbing one hand up and down over Sam’s spine, trying to make him relax - deep, forceful strokes, the kind you would use on a fidgety animal, like a horse or a big dog. Sam was disgruntled to notice that it kinda worked.
“They must have had a cancellation,” said the man, sounding apologetic. “They’re ready for him right away.”
“But … Sam’s pretty tired,” said Dean, doubtfully. “He should probably get some rest. Doc, you want to weigh in here?”
The doctor was washing his hands, having already disposed of the rubber gloves. “Do it now,” he advised. “One more hour tonight isn’t going to make a difference.”
“I dunno,” said Dean. He was still absentmindedly rubbing Sam’s back.
The stranger – Cas – sounded upset. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll just – I’ll tell them to wait until tomorrow?”
Apparently Dean registered the other man’s distress. “Hey, I’m sorry, angel. It’s okay. Maybe Sam’s up for one more adventure, huh?” Taking a firm grip on the hair at the back of Sam’s neck, he forced his head up, peering into his face. “Whattaya say, sweetheart. You want to get it all over with at once?”
Sam didn’t know what he wanted, and anyway his mouth was still stuffed with plastic. He couldn’t even nod or shake his head; Dean was holding his hair too tight. Dean studied his expression for a long time, then affectionately patted his cheek.
“You heard the man, Cas,” said Dean. “Sam’s in. Come over here and help me with him, and we’ll go.”
They brought around a wheelchair that had been folded up behind the door, and Sam was forced down into it. He gurgled as the seat jolted the plug in his ass, and Dean chuckled, holding him down as Cas strapped him in. His arms were trapped by a wide buckle across his chest, and his feet were guided carefully into the footrests and then strapped down as well.
Dean squeezed his shoulder, and then he was wheeled down a series of hallways, each one deserted and dark.
Sam’s mind was spinning, finally beginning to recover from the effects of the sedative, at least mentally. But no matter how he turned it over in his mind, he still couldn’t understand what these strangers could possibly want with him.
Who abducted somebody, just to give them a medical exam? Just to stuff things up his ass? Why him, why any of this?
“I think his brain is cooking, Cas,” said Dean, ruffling Sam’s hair. “You don’t need to worry, sweetheart. All you need to know right now is that I’m going to take care of you.”
Finally they turned a corner and reached a doorway where several men were lingering, dressed entirely in black. They saluted Dean. “Is this the new sub?” asked one, looking Sam over.
“This is Sam Wesson,” said Dean. He sounded almost proud.
One of the men made quick work of the straps binding him into the wheelchair, and then Sam was hauled to his feet. Immediately he was taken by the arms, one man on each side of him. It must have been an effort for them to keep him upright, as his knees were quick to give out, and he was a good head taller than any of them. But they kept a tight grip on him and half-dragged him to the door.
“I’m right here, baby, you’re okay,” Dean soothed, keeping pace with them.
The room was large, and dark. Sam heard the murmur of voices speaking low, and was conscious of many eyes on him. He wished the gown he was wearing wasn’t so short. He tried futilely to tug against the hands that gripped him, but to no avail.
“Behave yourself, Sub,” said one of the guards, shoving him along.
“Easy,” said Dean at once.
In the center of the room was a raised, lit stage, and the strong men dragged Sam towards it. They lifted him bodily up the few steps, his kicking feet barely touching the ground, and then he was hauled towards what appeared to be some kind of seat. Maybe more like a throne.
Instinctively, Sam looked to Dean, who was talking quietly to a grey-haired man on the meeting room floor. But his eyes were watching Sam, and he nodded reassuringly, so Sam allowed the guards to press him down into the chair. They clasped two thick leather cuffs around his wrists, which he realized were attached by long chains to the base of the seat. Clearly he wouldn’t be getting up until somebody released him.
Then a spotlight came up on the stage, right in his eyes, so he couldn’t see anything beyond the edge of the platform.
“If we’re ready to begin?” said a cool, feminine voice.
A man’s voice answered, sounding bored. “Case number three hundred and seventeen,” he pronounced.
“Who will present this sub to the council?”
Sam’s heart leapt when Dean cleared his throat, off in the darkness – somehow Sam could identify him just by that sound. “I guess that’s my cue,” said Dean amiably. There was the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs, and then a tall shadow leaned over Sam. “S’gonna be alright, baby,” he whispered. A hand brushed over Sam’s forehead.
“This is Sam Wesson, 26,” began Dean, confidently. “He’s worked in tech support at Sandover Bridge & Iron for the past three years. Formerly he was registered at Stanford University, but he dropped out of the program in his final year."
Sam squirmed. This was true, but he didn’t like to hear it announced to everyone. Still, with his mouth stretched around the ring gag, and his tongue pinned down by the plug, he could hardly offer an intelligible protest.
It got worse: "According to our extensive research, including interviews with each of his sexual partners, Sam is virgin, anally. The doc confirmed it.”
Interviews with his sexual partners? Dean probably didn't mean that literally, right? That was probably some kind of joke?
Dean had continued without interruption. “As you know, natural submissives are vulnerable to a variety of emotional problems, with symptoms ranging from personal neglect to outright self-harm. Sam here was identified by our computer’s algorithm as extremely high-risk. We’ve been worried for some time that he’s been showing signs of depression.”
What the hell was this term that everybody kept using, natural submissive? Sam had no idea what it meant. He certainly didn’t know why everyone said that he was one. And what depression? Okay, maybe he hadn’t been hungry lately, maybe he hadn’t been taking the best care of himself, but - how had they known that, anyway?
“How many submissives were identified by the computer this cycle?” the woman’s voice inquired.
“Six,” said Dean. “Four were determined to be in healthy conditions in the wild. We lost the fifth before an extraction team could be assembled. Overdose.” Dean's voice was sober.
“Last week Sam lost five pounds in as many days, and we knew we had hit a tipping point. We had to act to protect the sub. He was collared last night by my team.” Dean paused, his eyes on Sam’s face. “I’ve had the opportunity to observe Sam for the past 48 hours. Despite his intimidating size, Sam is very sweet and naturally willing to please.” He reached out one finger to stroke back Sam’s bangs. “Like all subs he requires firm handling, but unlike some of the others here, he responds better to a gentle touch.”
Sam flushed to hear himself described so. It wasn’t really how he thought of himself – he was a big, tough guy. Wasn’t he? And anyway, what the hell? They talked as though he had been rescued, but he’d been gagged and bound for every second since he’d arrived here, and that didn’t suggest protection to him.
“At the moment, Sam is being kept here at the Facility until he can learn to accept his submissive nature," Dean concluded. “So, that’s the current status of his case.”
There was a respectful silence, and then the same woman’s voice cut through the echoing room, clear and cold. “Do you have a nomination for Samuel’s trainer?”
Sam didn’t know what they were talking about, but he could tell from the tone that it was important, and held his breath waiting for Dean’s answer.
“I would like to train this sub myself,” said Dean, sounding perfectly calm. “If the council will permit it.”
There was a murmur of interest.
“It’s been a while since you took on a training,” said the first man, neutrally. He had a shrewd voice and close-set, weaselly eyes.
Sam could hear low conversation as the council, whoever they were, conferred. “Well, I think we can all agree that Samuel is a very lucky sub,” said the woman finally. Her voice was approving. “You can take him back to his room now, but we’d like to be updated on his progress.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” said Dean. Sam felt himself released from the cuffs of the chair, and in the next second he was being gently pulled upright. With the lights now directly in his eyes, he could see nothing. “Alright, sweetheart,” said Dean, his voice low and soothing, “let’s get you out of here, okay?”
Sam didn’t know what was had happened, or what was going on, but he knew that he wanted to go with Dean more than he wanted to stay in that creepy room with the terrible council. Willingly, he dragged his sluggish body up out of the chair and moved at the direction of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, leaning on him heavily as they moved down the steps and across the floor, until they passed through the entryway and he heard the heavy slam of the door closing behind them.
His legs seemed to be recovering, but he still felt faint and weak, and he couldn’t lift his arms at all. Sam hobbled along as Dean led him down a different series of corridors, each step sending a twinge up his ass from the plug. He made himself focus on keeping up with Dean, following his broad shoulders down the hall, because if he thought too much about what was happening he’d probably start screaming.
Finally, Dean turned a corner and led him through what appeared to be a dark dormitory, lined with cots. Sam could tell there were people lying in some of them, and thought he could hear muffled moaning, but Dean hustled him through a door in the back and into a private room, with one cot pushed up against the wall.
“Sit on the bed, sweetheart,” said Dean.
Dazedly, Sam sat.
Dean went to a back room and rattled around for a second, then came back with a basin and a covered tray.
“You probably have lots of questions,” he said, “but I want you to save them until tomorrow, okay? You need to rest. I know you’re exhausted. He slid a finger under the strap of Sam’s gag. “Do you want me to take this out? I will, if you promise to behave yourself for me.”
Sam hesitated. He didn’t really want to cooperate with his captors, but he fervently wanted his mouth free. Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay, good boy. Head down.” Sam let his head be guided so that Dean could reach the buckle at the back, free hand holding the plastic piece in place even after the strap came lose. “Hold still, gonna get this off,” said Dean. Then he lifted Sam’s chin, and gently pulled the whole thing out of his mouth. “There you go, good boy, here,” said Dean, smoothing a hot towel over Sam’s jaw, soothing the ache. Sam moaned in pleasure. “Don’t talk. Feels good, huh baby?”
“M’not a baby,” Sam rasped. It was the first thing he’d managed to say since he’d been abducted.
Dean didn’t answer, bringing the cloth up to gently wipe Sam’s cheeks, which were stained with tears. Then he tipped Sam’s face up to wipe down his sweaty neck. It felt amazing – but, when he was finished, he eased Sam’s jaw open and slipped the cloth deep into his mouth, silencing him again.
“It’s not your decision what you’re called,” Dean corrected him gently. “Now, lie back for me like a good boy.” He pulled the top sheet of the bed, revealing a set of canvass four-point restraints, like the kind found in a mental hospital.
Sam grunted, reaching up at once to pull the cloth out, but Dean quickly caught his hands and held them in his lap. Sam knew he should fight, kick out, maybe try to struggle. But Dean’s fingers felt like iron around his wrists, and within himself he could feel the deep well of exhaustion. The drugs were still his system, and he was confused and overwhelmed. He wasn’t going to be able to get away - not tonight.
So instead, out of options, he allowed himself to be laid back in the bed. He kept still as Dean leaned over him, buckling his wrists down to the cot. The restraints were well padded, soft around Sam’s wrists. Secure, but not uncomfortable.
“It’s not ‘baby,’ like, something helpless or immature,” said Dean, guiding Sam’s ankle into position and wrapping the straps around it. Sam’s arms were at his sides, his feet almost together. Dean adjusted the straps to spread them a little wider. “It’s baby, like, my baby, you know - precious, my boy to take care of. My baby.” He checked the tension of the other foot. “There. Okay? I’m going to take that out of your mouth now. It’ll go back in if you can’t behave.”
He reached to gently tug the washcloth out from between Sam’s teeth, and Sam didn’t ever bother trying to speak again. He felt completely out of energy, limp as a doll. Dean nodded, sliding his other hand under Sam’s neck and lifting it to receive the glass of water he pressed to Sam’s lips.
“Drink all this sweetheart, I know you’re thirsty, saw you sucking on that rag.”
It was true - Sam was parched. Obediently, he accepted a mouthful of water, savoring it, and swallowed. Then he drank deeply and finished the glass.
Dean set the empty cup aside. “That’s a good boy,” he said, stroking Sam’s hair back out of his eyes. “You ready to sleep? You need to get some rest. Or if you like, I could give you something to help? I don’t usually like to drug subs - I think it delays their acceptance of the situation - but I know you have trouble sleeping. ”
Sam shook his head no – the last thing he wanted was any more drugs. Thankfully, Dean seemed to accept his answer.
“Okay, sweetheart. Just try to relax.” Dean pulled a thin sheet over his body, tucking it carefully down around the edges. Just as Dean reached for the light switch, they heard the squeak of the door as it swung open. Sam turned his head to see an orderly dressed all in white, wheeling one of the cots from the other room. There was a man in the bed, strapped down in restraints just like Sam. From the uncomfortable way he was shifting, it looked like he was also wearing a plug in his ass.
Unlike Sam, his face was entirely covered. He had a thick red ball gag in his mouth, an industrial blindfold tightly strapped over his eyes, and what looked like earplugs stuffed in his ears. Sam didn’t know why he was so lucky as to have his head free, but he was grateful; he had no idea how the other man was going to sleep like that.
“Put him behind the curtain,” said Dean. “Sam, I said go to sleep. Otherwise you get the sedative.”
Sam quickly closed his eyes, but he didn’t drop off. He heard the orderly leave, heard muffled grunts from the man on the cot that slowly petered out – he wondered if Dean had used the drugs on the stranger. He sensed the room darken from behind closed eyelids.
It was difficult to sleep, locked down on the bed; Sam was used to rolling around to get comfortable. He usually slept on his side, curled around a pillow, but in the medical restraints he’d been forced to lie flat, and he was stiff. The aching stretch of the plug in his ass distracted him any time he started to doze. The room was dark and silent, and he was beyond exhausted, but he just couldn’t drift off. He twisted in the restraints, hissing softly in frustration.
He heard Dean move closer to the bed. “You need some help, sweetheart?” he whispered, and Sam flinched. “No no, shh, here, we can do this the all-natural way.”
Sam felt the sheet pulled back, and a strong hand rubbed over his thighs, soothing and warm. He whined, not sure what he was feeling.
“It’s okay, baby,” said Dean quietly. “I gotcha, I gotcha.”
Sam couldn’t move his feet, but his knees were gently nudged apart, as far as they could stretch, and the hands slid between them, sliding upwards. “Just relax for me,” Dean whispered.
Dean held his legs open and Sam groaned, struggling against the restraints. “You’re going to like this, baby,” said Dean, gently. “Gonna help you get to sleep.”
Sam managed to groan, wanting to tell Dean to stop but not quite able to talk intelligibly, somehow.
“Shshsh. I know. You can barely move, can you? Nothing for you to do but lie there, all spread out for me, and take it.”
One hand slid up over Sam’s abdomen, resting possessively over his belly, and the other inched up the crack of his ass, fingers sliding up to find the stretched hole sucking at the base of the plug. It was dark, and Sam closed his eyes, feeling fingertips trace over his smooth, soft skin.
“You have no idea how special you are, do you?” said Dean, almost talking to himself. “So precious.” He pressed the plastic plug gently forward, and it rubbed against the sensitive walls of Sam’s ass. Sam moaned and squirmed in his restraints, but Dean’s other hand held him down easily. “You don’t even know what you are, not yet.”
Dean’s hands were sure and confident.
“My friend Ash invented a computer program, just to find people like you – natural submissives, living with no training in the environment. People who need someone to tell them what to do. DMV records, official transcripts, even traffic cameras – we can sort through all of it with the click of a button, looking for the right person. That’s how we found you, baby.”
Sam was listening, embarrassed by the sound of his own heavy breathing. His arms and legs ached from the stretch, but his ass was clenching around the plug shoved up inside him. The hand on Sam’s stomach moved lower.
“Gonna teach you to come just from your bottom next time,” said Dean, cupping Sam’s balls. “But like this, for now.”
He took a good hold of Sam’s cock and jacked it a few times. Surprisingly Sam was half-hard already, although he hadn’t noticed until that moment.
“Don’t,” Sam begged, his voice almost breaking as fingers found their way back to his hole.
“Shh, baby, almost done. You need this so bad, don’t you?” Dean turned the base of the plug in a slow circle, and the thing in Sam began to vibrate, buzzing like an angry bee, sending his whole body humming. Sam screamed, writhing against the straps that held him down, but he couldn’t get away from the thrumming of the toy in his ass.
Dean picked up the pace on his cock, squeezing on every upstroke, and Sam instinctively thrust upwards into his hands, his whole body a mess of confusion and contradictory signals.
“That’s it, there you go. Just give it up for me, sweetheart.”
Sam was close.
“Come on, baby boy, wanna see it.” Dean thumbed his slit, rubbing just underneath the dribbling head. “Now, Sam.”
Sam came all over himself, every muscle locking up as his hips pumped uselessly, rhythmically, for what seemed like hours. Dean stroked him through it, until the last pulse spattered over Sam’s naked thighs.
Immediately afterwards, Sam’s body went loose, his eyelids heavy. Dean turned off the toy, but left it buried where it was. He wiped Sam down with a damp cloth, then pulled up the sheet, covering him warmly.
“Now. Go to sleep,” he directed.
Sam obeyed as if his eyes were glued shut.
Twice in the night, Sam was awakened by what he thought was the shape of a man, leaning over him; the presence wasn’t threatening, but it was watchful. He felt fingers checking the tension on the restraints, adjusting a strap that had ridden up his arm. His hands were carefully rearranged in a more natural position at his side. Once the blanket, which had slipped down in the night, was pulled back up over his chest. Sam might have tried to pull away, if he could have, but the hand drifted immediately to his hair, stroking over the greasy strands.
“Shh, baby,” said a soft voice. “You’re alright. Go back to sleep.”
Sam felt himself dozing off again.
“That’s right,” Dean whispered. “You sleep, sweetheart. Need you to be well-rested for tomorrow, when we start your training for real. Gonna be another big day.”