and baby, my heart is blue

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/23232514.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Additional Tags: Soulless Sam Winchester, Top Sam Winchester, Bottom Dean
Winchester, Extremely Dubious Consent, Sex Magic, Self-Lubrication,
Cock Cages, Orgasm Denial, Humiliation, Incest Kink, Rough Sex,
Bondage, Barebacking, Cock & Ball Torture, Object Insertion, Bruises,
Biting, Choking, Breathplay
Language: English
Series: Part 7 of spn kink bingo 2020
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-03-20 Words: 6,210 Chapters: 1/1
 and baby, my heart is blue
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

Sam has a single condition.

2020 kink bingo square 10: humiliation

Dean comes to, unprompted. He blinks through the daze those few hours of sleep have left
him with.

There’s that peace. That small bit of peace before you are fully awake, when all you have to
do is lie there and be comfortable and safe and not think.

The room is quiet. The highway’s distant hum penetrates the cheap, thin windows. The
curtains are un-stained.

Dean breathes. Closes his eyes once more, before everything comes back to him.

A few feet away, the newspaper rustles as its page is being turned.

They don’t fight anymore. Not like they used to.

Sam is indifferent towards music, now. Doesn’t frown all worried when Dean insists that,
“Yeah, of course imma drive,” despite running on too little calories, barely any sleep. Doesn’t
worry about Dean, generally.

“Tell me before you pass out.”

Dean smiles, tells him, “Sure thing,” as he turns the key inside the ignition.

Dean harbors fantasies. Driving them off-road, down a cliff, into a lake, a tree. Anything.

He hates that he can’t do it. That he won’t.

Sam’s hands don’t explore. Don’t feather or tickle.

They grab. They tug.

Dean’s eyes are closed. It doesn’t help.

Dean wakes in a different state to Sam bringing the Impala to an effective but too-sudden
stop.

Dean heaves himself upright, grabs the front seats for stability. Looks around. Daytime-ish.
Afternoon, maybe.

The door to his left opens.

Sam inquires through a mouthful of protein bar, “You need to piss?”

Dean replies, “Nah,” and so Sam stuffs the last of his ‘meal’ into his cheek, tosses the plastic
wrapper away into the tall grass around them before he unbuckles his belt.

“Alright then.”

Dean tried thinking of good things. Of nice things.

He tried thinking of terrible things, too. Nothing will work.

He still feels his body—feels Sam’s. Feels too much, entirely too fucking much, and his eyes
are closed but that sharpens his ears.

Wet suck-squelch of them, fucking. The stray animal grunt. His own voiceless breath. The
creaking of the car, in-tune.

Sam sighs once he’s done. Not happy, just… The kinda sigh meant for wrapping up your hard
work for the day.

Sam yanks his jeans back up, zips them closed. “You wanna drive?”

Dean croaks, “Yeah,” and gathers himself up anew.

It’s still Sam, and it’s not.

Those same eyes, wide and curious. The gentle shift of his hair. The same body Dean once
raised, fed, bathed.

Sam asks, “Does this remind you of hell?”

“Nah.” Barely-curl of fingers. The rope cuts hard into Dean’s wrists. “Not exactly.”

“Maybe if it were chains instead?”

Dean scoffs. “For fuck’s sake, get on with it already. I’m freezing my ass off over here.”

Sam hums, ponders. The lean, long line of his body crawls closer towards Dean, hands and
knees on the ratty mattress. Sam’s hair hangs into his eyes in wet strings, leaves a trail of
droplets up Dean’s just-as-bare-as-his body.

Eye to eye, Dean can’t take it for long, so he turns his head. Feels Sam lowering himself with
precision, meeting him crotch-to-crotch.

Barks, “Don’t,” when Sam’s face closes in—Sam scoffs, noses behind his ear.

“Bet it felt so good.”

Drag of lips down Dean’s neck. Grind of hips that ruts the fat, unrelenting line of Sam’s hard-
on into the almost-gone softness of Dean’s lower stomach.
“Tearing you up, over and over.”

Teeth now. Tongue.

Dean swallows.

“Everyone got off on that, didn’t they? The demons,” low murmur now. Calm before the
storm. “The hounds.”

Sam rubs his face into Dean’s sternum. Runs his hands over all that bare skin, the hard
outlines of Dean’s ribs, his clavicles. Gets his mouth on a nipple, bite-sucks at that and Dean
tenses, but Sam’s bored fast, folds his hands around Dean’s throat instead.

He knees up the bed some more as his grip tightens, until he’s straddling Dean’s chest. Until
he can look down at him comfortably while he feels out the tendons and muscles that flex
back at him.

“God,” sighs Sam. “Wish I could have seen that. You, dying.”

Dean gurgles, “You did, asshole.”

“Oh, not like that.” Sam’s grip fastens further. His arms bulge with the force of it. “Not as
pretty. Not by my own hands.”

Dean manages a thin, “Great,” before Sam quits the bullshit and truly bares down on him.

Dean slips his eyes shut before they do it on their own. Is highly aware of the pulse in his
lips, the itch in his lungs. All that trapped blood. His ears begin to cotton-out all non-existing
noise.

His brain knows: Sam won’t do it. Not all the way.

His instincts can’t count on that, no matter how practiced.

The spasms set in, to no avail—Sam’s starfish-tied him to the damned sturdy bedposts. He’s
efficient with rope (Dean guesses he always has been—had been the one to teach him all
sorts of knots before ‘boy scouts’ even made its way into that kid’s vocabulary).

Sam doesn’t smile anymore except for moments like this. Dean knows, so he avoids looking.

Merely a ghost of his brother’s smile. Hollow, bottomless. Haunts Dean in his dreams, haunts
him in every waking moment.

Unconsciousness begins to pull him under—finally, uselessly. Giving in or not giving in

doesn’t make a difference: he’ll always come back.

There’s no way out.

Dean coughs alive just to get those hands strangling him anew, and his heart stumbles its
panicked race with the little oxygen he managed to inhale, only to fall flat again, and again,
and again.

Dean’s body is heavy, and it is tired. Aches, pulses, burns.

He slurs back with a shake of his head, another backhand.

Sam is panting, sweating.

“We need to get you some real food tonight.”

Sam crams four of his fingers into the wet warmth that is Dean’s mouth, crooks them, pulls.
Dean gags. Sam fits his hand in to the knuckles, keeps it there, hums in satisfaction with the
symmetry.

Dean’s knees are hooked over those shoulders; his hands are still bound. His cock cage
jingles with every collision of Sam’s pubic bone and Dean’s taint, with every slick suck and
punch.

His eyes tear up with Sam deep-throating him with half of his paw like that, stretching him
out and making himself at home. Dean feels the hot rush of tears down his heated cheeks,
feels them clumping up his lashes, the exhaustion of all those close deaths burning in every
single one of his muscles.

Sam’s hips barely-stutter before he locks in for good, hums all pleased with him pumping
Dean full, and Dean, whines, softly, because he can’t. He can’t do this anymore.

Sam rides it out. Grinds them together and Dean swears Sam’s come is sloshing so fucking
deep inside him, creeps even deeper up his guts like that. Has that hand fucking his throat in
languid strokes, feels his spit frothing and bubbling from the corners of his mouth, his tears
still going, his nose running thin but steady.

Sam fishhooks into his cheek, keeps him wide open. Leans over Dean and Dean tries to shut
his mouth, but Sam’s got him, so all he can do is sob—once, defeated.

Sam’s spit lands across Dean’s tongue. Pearls into the back of his throat.

“Don’t swallow.”

Sam’s fingers remain in Dean’s mouth, keep it available as he begins to pull his cock out,
cups his other hand below Dean’s tailbone. Dean doesn’t swallow but he whines, tries to
struggle with his free legs but they’re useless, bloodless.

Sam’s dry fingers scoop into him. They don’t have to go far to get him a meager palmful of
fluids. All Sam has to do is aim, tilt his hand until the mess of it can ooze into his brother’s
mouth. Can coat his tongue and Dean splutters, gags, but all that gets him is that filthy hand
chasing after the precious cocktail of come and filth and slick, follow it where it’s seeping
down the back of Dean’s throat.

Knuckle-deep again with that other hand still holding him open, Sam orders, “Now,” so Dean
swallows.
Those fingers corkscrew, rub themselves clean against the slick walls of Dean’s esophagus.

Dean convulses.

Sam warns, “No,” and exchanges the hook of his fingers for a full, sharp slap to Dean’s face.
“You’re keeping that down.”

Dean hyperventilates around that hand. Tries to nod because yeah, yeah, he knows, alright?
His stomach keeps heaving.

There’s nothing in there but stale beer and that awful mix and his stomach acids, and it
fucking hurts.

Dean vomits it all up, crying, coughing. Barely any satisfaction from knowing that it’s
bubbling up around Sam’s fucking fingers because Sam is quick to keep his word, retrieves
his hand to clamp Dean’s jaws locked with it, slaps him across the face once more before
pinching his nose shut.

“I said it stays down, Dean.”

“He’ll have the double cheeseburger, large fries.” In Dean’s peripheral, Sam looks up at the
waiter, all blank. “Do you guys have pie?”

“Sure, we got cherry and pecan and—”

“He’ll have a slice of the cherry one.” Sam hands the menu back. “Two beers, and I’ll have
the Cesar salad. Can we do double chicken?”

“Su—”

“Great. Leave the dressing on the side.”

Hesitation, no footsteps.

Sam adds, “That will be all. Thanks.”

Dean feels pale. The beer helps. Sam orders him another, eventually a pitcher.

By the time Sam’s polished his plate, Dean has merely touched the solid parts of his dinner.

The pie plate slides into his forearm.

“At least have some carbs so I don’t have to carry you back.”

Sam has them bagging up the leftovers. As they begin their short journey back to their room
—the motel and diner belong together, and the latter advertises a family-friendly breakfast
atmosphere during the weekends—Dean takes a short glimpse of the clear night sky. Of the
wide-open blackness, eternity.
Sam yanks at his arm.

“Unless you wanna put out in this parking lot, you better get a move on.”

Dean stumbles after his not-brother and leaves this night to herself.

It’s all blurred together. A bad horror movie. Confusing plot—no plot at all.

Waking up, getting fucked, maybe drive or eat or both, get dumped in a room or locked in the
car, get fucked again, maybe dinner, a handful of hours of sleep interlaced with more sex, and
repeat.

Sam doesn’t need to sleep, and it shows.

Often, Dean wakes up to him doing crunches or push-ups. They lose a deposit or two because
Sam’s fucking chin-up bar destroys the odd doorframe, and Sam says it’s no big deal, he
cleared their register anyway.

Dean used to try and help with the hunts, at first. But Sam would get frustrated, and Dean
burnt out fast.

His body adapts with time, of course. And as humiliating as it may be to accept it, but: that
damn lubrication spell sure makes things easier.

Dean prefers not to think back to the pre-spell times.

Sam doesn’t care about his discomforts or his ‘moods’. All that matters to him is minimal
effort, maximum convenience.

There had been people, Dean learned, in the long span of him playing house with Lisa and
Ben. Who Sam took home. Never something as long-term as whatever he has gotten himself
into, of course, and Sam said that was getting tiring anyway. Such a hassle, too, that he has to
share his room, and more people than not are fucking prudes, would you have guessed,
Dean?

“You know me,” he had said, “and I know you. It’s the logical thing to do.”

Sam has always had a certain ‘logic’ that nobody, not even Dean, would be able to truly
decipher. And nowadays, he’s nothing but that—no jokes and no charm, no rolling eyes for
Dean’s shenanigans. No smart-mouthed bratty replies, bitchy little fits. A clean slate. Brutal
honesty.

“Still think this was a gift for you, if anything.”

Dean grunts, buried, with Sam’s powerful hand squeezing the life out of his balls all casually
while he reams him from behind.
Sam’s thumb anchors out to tug Dean’s caged cock in as well, and Dean pleads, “No,” but
Sam doesn’t judge that he’s dripping wet. All he chases is that extra throb Dean’s ass gives
him for his troubles, and his hips kick it up another notch.

He feels Sam leaning close, grunting into his ear.

“You’d be so fucking hard right now.”

Dean is all bruises and aches. Stiff knees and a sore lip.

Almost manages to doze off, but then Sam shifts the vibrating plug into a new, higher setting.

Dean groans around the rag in his mouth. Tries to shift his knees, but no chance—the
improvised spreader bar made out of that baseball bat Sam shoplifted God knows when holds
his legs spread. Slumped over with his face and chest on the bed, Dean’s arms pull back to
where his wrists are tied to his ankles.

The humbler keeps him from stretching his legs out.

“Are you awake?”

Sam’s flat palm comes down on Dean’s pulled-backwards balls.

Dean wails.

“Good.”

Dean huffs and puffs, leaks more spit into the sheets, whimpers uselessly as Sam removes the
heavy silicone plug from where he forces his cock in instead.

Sam bottoms out, easy as that. “Still haven’t come? Too bad.”

Sam’s been all over him these past few days. Didn’t let him get dressed, kept him tied down
and plugged up whenever he wasn’t using him. The curtains are constantly drawn. Dean lost
all sense of time.

Sam begins to pound him, and Dean catches himself moaning. From pain, exhaustion, all of
it. From the fucking twinge of pleasure crawling up his spine because the vibrations had been
kinda nice, had been kinda close to what his body—apparently—needs. He has lost touch
with those things.

Dean is Sam-shaped at this point.

Takes him easily, effortlessly, like a girl.

Gets wet like one, too.

Dean sobs, ignored. His caged cock knocks into the humbler as it swings between his legs.
Sam takes a moment to catch his breath, leans back so he can add to the red welts already
covering the skin of Dean’s ass, the back of his upper thighs. Smacks his flat palm down with
cruel precision, and Dean howls, shaking.

“Looking good, big brother.”

A harsh thrust. A slap. Both hands back on Dean’s hips then, anchoring him, keeping him
steady. Dean is held up by nothing but them.

“Give in. It’s okay.”

Every stroke blurs into the next. Flutters to a blind frenzy—friction and that immense weight,
the pressure of that iron throb of Sam’s cock punching his guts out over and over, until
Dean’s all hollow, until there’s nothing else.

It’s such a foreign sensation, such a violent clench of all of Dean. He shivers and he squirms,
can’t go anywhere with Sam holding him firm and steady, available, and he can’t even speak
but what would he say, and so his involuntary orgasm shakes all the way through his
emaciated body.

It gets a hold of his balls and his taint and pumps, contracts in tight-tighter waves and he feels
his caged cock drooling endlessly, torturously slow, and he’s crying now, again, and Sam
doesn’t stop fucking him.

Hears, “Was that so hard?” and blacks out soon after that.

Wakes to Sam pulling Dean’s jeans up Dean’s legs, feels empty and light and clean and hears,
“C’mon, are you gonna help or what?”

The night races by. Dean sits in the passenger seat, still disoriented, light-headed.

A protein bar lands in his lap.

Sam orders, “Eat,” eyes up front and chewing his own share.

In the dead silence of the car, Dean unwraps the bar with unsteady fingers, puts it between his
teeth and bares down.

Sam wouldn’t have wanted that. Not Dean’s Sam, at least. Sammy. Sam.

Dean is so preoccupied arguing, “N-not here,” that he doesn’t notice Sam kissing him until
his tongue is already getting sucked on.

Gasps, “Sonofabitch,” then, two fingers scissoring him wide with his back pressed up against
the tiled wall, with his jeans still on and Sam unzipping his own.

He’s fist-pushing at Sam’s chest without much hope. Without much fight.
“Why not?” Sam licks across Dean’s pinched-shut lips, half-grins because there’s slick
gushing around his grinding knuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy all of a sudden.”

Dean begins, “There’s people,” and interrupts himself upon the on-cue opening of the door,
the music of the bar booming inside the bathroom unhindered now, voices from just-outside.

Sam keeps finger-fucking him, keeps grinning at him.

Dean snarls, silently. Glares, already bathed in sweat, and his face and neck feel irrationally
heated.

The stranger uses the urinals. Sam goes in for another kiss, and Dean lets him, just to keep
Sam from giggling.

Sam folds Dean’s hand around his cock (Dean’s thumb and middle finger touch just-so).
Fucks his hand, keeps licking into his mouth, adds a third finger to Dean’s ass.

The stranger leaves, and Sam is quick to inform, “It turns you on.”

Dean grits, “Fuck you.”

“What part of it? The bathroom or getting caught?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” loses its momentum fast as Sam bends down to haul him off the floor,
angle those legs to fit himself between them, lets Dean’s upper back make out with the wall
so he can line his cock up, sink it in with one sharp, breathless snarl of Dean’s mouth; a hasty
cling of arms and legs and fuck, Dean shouldn’t let himself get this drunk around this bastard.

Dean’s neatly striped ass sits flush with Sam’s five-percent-body fat pelvis nearly
immediately and he feels himself going cross-eyed, feels a moan crawling up his throat just
as the door opens again and a whole wave of guys barges into the bathroom.

Sam’s animal eyes fix on him and Dean’s gonna cry. Can’t beg or speak, just feels his lips
shuddering open as Sam uses the general commotion to slap into him once, twice, sticky and
fat.

A harsh series of knocks on the door, and Dean really fucking feels himself tensing.

“Yo, how much longer?”

Sam growls, “Come back with a warrant,” and someone hollers, a few laugh.

The constant chatter and pissing and running taps give Sam all the opportunity to grind them
together, bounce Dean on his cock until Dean’s ass leaks hard enough for his slick to splatter
onto the floor to their feet. (Or, Sam’s feet.)

Dean mouths to the Lord above while his brother bites a fresh row of purple into the crook of
his neck.
He manages to put his foot down, after, and locks himself in the single stall to clean himself
up in peace while Sam clicks his disappointed tongue and washes his overgrown hands.

There’s a new nuance to the drunken swing of Dean’s body, a new layer of exhaustion. He
barrels his shoulder into Sam’s just because he can.

Sam shoves them back to the bar, orders another round. Dean throws his share back as soon
as he can reach it. He gestures for another two.

Sam scoffs.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Dean grunts, “Fuck you,” and yanks his knee away from where Sam’s monster-hand flirts
atop of it.

As a result, Sam’s hand shifts up the inside of his thigh instead.

Dean elbows him, too-hard (not hard enough). “Fucking stop it!”

Sam chuckles into his glass, cups Dean’s locked genitals over his jeans, and Dean has
nothing more to do than fucking chase the taste at the bottom of those two new drinks.

“Everybody knows,” hums Sam, and Dean’s insides lurch painfully.

Dean counters, “Bullshit,” and gets his second glass. Tries to ignore the warm-warm hand on
his dick, how those fingers love-rub at his overfull balls.

“It’s true.” Sam smiles and Dean’s heart sinks a little more after being dumb and looking at
him. “You think they can’t see it in your face? What you are?”

“Shut it, Sam, I mean it.”

“If I tied you to any of these tables, you really think they wouldn’t take up on the offer?”

Sam interrupts his low-tuned monologue for the bartender setting another set of twins in front
of Dean.

Back at Dean then, their knees touching, and Sam is leaning close so he can spill his words
directly into Dean’s ear, and Dean knows what this looks like, how anyone around them can
tell, and his face is numb (not numb enough).

“Or in the bathroom. You liked that, didn’t you? Bend you over the toilet, cuff you to the
pipes. You think there wouldn’t be a line? You would fucking love that,” and Dean is sick,
sick, sick, “getting used, and it would all be out of your hands. Wouldn’t even be your fault.”

Dean throws his whiskey into Sam’s face, manages to connect a left hook; hears a stray
scream around them and someone bellowing, “Hey!” but Sam and him are both on their feet
already, and Sam gets a hold of his weak-weak arm and twists it until Dean shouts.

He roars as Sam escorts him away from the bar, beelines for the bathrooms and Dean kicks
and flails and curses but Sam placates the crowd with a gentle smile and, “That last one was a
little too much, huh?”

Dean’s face meets the graffiti in the narrow corridor.

Sam forces him up against the wall until there’s no room left to breathe. Dean still pants.

“I’m gonna wash up the mess you made,” slithers into Dean’s ear (from way too close), “and
you better still be right here when I get out, or I swear to God, Dean, I will leave you in
there.”

Without the pressure-pain of Sam crowding into him, Dean nearly falls right to his knees.
Steadies himself against the wall, shivering, and hears the bathroom door behind him. Turns
his head to look around him, finds several faces staring back at him in

horror? Pity?

Dean sniffles, eyes back to the wall, his fingers. The dry skin of his knuckles. The bruises
from punching Sam.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Dean tells them, “Yeah, yeah, sorry” sniffles more, rubs his good hand over his face, turns to
lean against the wall with his back. Smiles, crookedly, croaks, “Those goddamn Jager
Bombs, am I right?”

Sam takes a while. A test, probably. But Dean’s sense of time is fucked, drunk off his ass or
not.

Dean peers down the hallway. Storage room. Ladies’ room. Coats.

Even if he ran, where would he even go?

Back to Lisa? To Bobby?

Sam would find him. Or, worse:

would abandon him.

Would kill and get killed, and Dean would be none the wiser.

Dean’s head whips around to the sound of the bathroom door swinging open, to Sam
emerging and beelining for him with that eternal set of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes.
Doesn’t need to tell Dean ‘good job’ or something, isn’t surprised.

Doesn’t tug him along, so Dean stumbles after him by himself.

By the car, Sam doesn’t unlock her but pulls a bottle from inside his jacket, extends his arm
towards his confused brother.

Tells him, “Drink,” so Dean unscrews the thing, sets it to his mouth.

It doesn’t burn that much anymore. Nothing does.

Sam stares him down, crossed arms and all. Says, “Go on,” when Dean frowns in silent
question.

Nearly all of the bottle finds its way into the crippled empty of Dean Winchester’s stomach.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scoffs. Rubs at his eyes.

“Happy?”

Sam’s on him, presses him into Baby back-first. Shoves their mouths together until their teeth
click, until he can taste the back of Dean’s throat.

Dean whimpers, “No,” when his belt gets worked open with strict pulls, hears nothing but a
sharp, “Yes,” and his own rattling, wet breath.

Dean finds himself pushed and shoved face-first into the backseat; the cool night air on the
tortured skin of his blank ass. Can’t feel his face but blurts again, “No,” tries to shove Sam
off but who is he kidding?

Something cold and ungiving rams up his ass, and Dean yelps because why does it burn, and
he sobs upon realization and horror and shame.

Sam tilts the bottle until the last of its content have disappeared in his brother. Fucks the neck
of it in and out a few times, just for the noises that gets him from both ends. Pulls it out and
tosses it into the nearby bushes and gets his dick out.

Dean buries his face in the familiar softness of the leather cushions. Sobs heartbroken and
overheated and he’s gonna be sick.

The whiskey sloshes in him with every powerful thrust. He swears he can feel it bulging him
out in cooperation with the insistent push of Sam’s cock, swears Sam can hear it, that he can
hear it himself.

Gets a hand behind him to push at Sam’s still-clothed hip, pleads whatever variations he can
think of (not many, at this point). Isn’t heard, doesn’t matter.

Sam spanks his ass and it’s so fucking loud, echoes in the crowded parking lot and God,
Dean thinks he hears people walking by, but nobody hollers, nobody says anything.

Thinks he hears giggling. Low whispers, excited.

Sam’s nails rake down the already-inflamed red of his skin, and Dean screams into the seat.

~
He thinks he hears, “Stay,” and even though he blinks, he can’t see a thing.

Feels crammed and Sam must have tied him up. He’s still wearing his tee, his jeans.

They’re driving. Feels like driving.

He can’t quite turn; still intoxicated, and everything is spinning in complete darkness.

Filthy, sore, cold.

Dean shivers in the footwell of the passenger seat, curled in on himself.

There’s the distant thrum of Sam’s fingers tapping along with the music.

Dean throws up. Nothing new.

“Come on,” urges Sam, doesn’t make him scrape it off the floor and eat it. Rare. Tugs him
along instead. Dean can barely walk.

Sam maneuvers him into their room, into the bathroom. Strips him efficiently, doesn’t
remove the blindfold made out of Dean’s plaid.

Dean gets shoved into the shower. The water is ice cold for a few horrible moments, but it
warms surprisingly soon.

Sam hoses him down, lathers some soap to get the worst from between Dean’s legs. Fingers
him without finesse just to scoop him back to moderate cleanliness.

Bare and dripping, Dean shivers. His hands are still tied. Sam stuffs Dean’s underwear back
into Dean’s mouth, towels his head dry before he applies duct tape over the fabric, across
Dean’s cheeks.

Dean’s whimper is muffled. Barely-there at all.

He’s tired. Will pass out.

It won’t matter.

Sam dries him head to toe. Guides him back into the room, to the bed.

Stomach-down, Dean’s insides protest. He grunts; Sam is busy folding his legs, roping calves
to back of thighs.

The world is black and spinning. Dean’s arms are trapped under his chest.

That characteristic slap of Sam’s naked feet on cheap linoleum floor. The zip and shuffle of
his duffle bag, the whisper of skin on wood.
The mattress dips, the bed frame creaks. Pop of capped bottle of lube; Sam’s knees lodge
between Dean’s, keep them spread, and Dean is sweating with how he’s shaking.

The blunt pressure of the rounded end of the baseball bat up against the wrecked softness of
his asshole creeps up Dean’s spine until it is replaced with an odd sort of searing pain.

The lube is cold. Dean is too weak to even buck.

Sam advises, “Breathe,” and Dean’s nostrils flutter in sheer panic.

Sam fucks the first few inches in and out. A weak moan. The lube spreads. The thickest part
is the head, you’ve got this, you do.

He can do this. Probably.

It pushes deeper, much deeper, and Dean’s body startles with the sensation of his belly
denting out into the mattress.

Sam informs, “That’s one third.”

Dean loses count of his orgasms. (At least one might have been him pissing himself; he has
no interest in knowing.) Wakes to feeling too open, too vulnerable, to Sam sweet-rubbing the
blossomed lips of his asshole.

The blindfold is gone; his arms are tied behind his back now, ankles and knees bound
respectively. Dean is on his side, blinks through tears, the specks of early morning light
entering through the shitty blinds.

Tries to say something, anything, and Sam shushes him, slips what feels like a lot of his hand
into him and it doesn’t even hurt that much.

Canine smile. “Good morning.”

Just because the tops of Dean’s ears flush scarlet doesn’t mean he cannot glare dead serious
at the raised eyebrows, the stare of the cashier.

“And this one,” he grumbles, slams a chocolate bar down on the counter.

Dean peels another bill from the wad Sam entrusted him with for the gas—and water, and
snacks. Tosses it to the rest, gathers his bounty in his arms and marches back to his brother.

Sam’s hair whips around in the desert wind. His sunglasses emphasize the wide plane that is
his forehead. “You got everything?”

Dean throws him his bottled water, his zero sugar thirty grams of protein chocolate flavor
lunch.
Dean climbs back into the passenger seat while Sam sits outside in the curb by the gas pump.
He tosses the food into the backseat, retrieves a pack of chips and rips it open, shoves a
handful into his mouth.

Both Winchesters are cultivating pit stains the size of Texas. Dean begins to forget what it
feels like to not have his back glued to a goddamn car seat.

A shadow casts itself, rescues Dean’s jeans-clad leg from burning alive. Dean glares up at his
brother, crams more junk into his body.

Sam shoves his glasses up the sweaty bridge of his nose.

“Did he say something to you?”

“Now what would he say to me?” Dean scoffs, blinks against the cruel black of Sam’s
(Dean’s) soaked t-shirt. Gestures his crumble-sticky fingers towards his face, whatever patch
of skin not covered by the neckline of his decade-old Metallica shirt. “Me, lookin’ as dapper
as I do? Fuck you.”

The shiner stings in the sunlight. The rope burns on his wrists got infected; he ignores them.

Behind the darkness of Sam’s glasses, he might be mapping out the blue-green-violet he’s
keeping a good eighty percent of Dean’s neck in.

“Should I kill him?”

“What?” Dean’s frown deepens. “What? No!”

“I could.”

“Quit it with this bullshit, man.”

“Would be easy,” contemplates Sam. Dean is highly aware of the concealed gun stuck in the
front of Sam’s belted jeans. Sam has raised his head now, peers over to the shop. “He’s on his
own, isn’t he?”

Dean orders, “Stop it.”

Sam gazes towards his point of interest for another moment before he snaps out of it. Puts his
water bottle to his lips anew, takes several gulps.

Asks Dean while he circles the car, “You wanna switch?” and Dean tells him, “Nah, I’m
good,” and if Sam hears the shake in his voice, he doesn’t care about it.

Dean’s head droops against the window frame. The dry, hot air assaults his face, tosses his
long-overgrown hair around, his t-shirt. He squints at the dead scenery. Canyons and sand
and the highway. Always the highway.

How many months has it been?

He’d rather not remember.

Would rather not think about how slowly, how horribly surely this is turning…normal. All of
it.

Is this how it’s gonna be, forever? Until one of them bites the dust?

“Hey, get this.”

Sam points at the info board of the motel.

“They have a pool.”

“Great,” says Dean, who hasn’t felt ‘great’ or even ‘good’ about anything in a long, long
while now. “You gonna drown me in that?”

And there’s Sam’s smile again, and he flirts, “Maybe,” and it’s the closest he’s come to a joke
in weeks. Months, maybe.

The room has moderate AC and Dean sighs around Sam’s tongue. Lets him peel the two of
them out of their clothes, not tired, never tired.

He fucks him standing up in the shower. Drags him into bed, continues there, half-kneeling
on the edge of the mattress and with Dean slumped over, face in the once-cool sheets.

Sam never fails to make a point of not hitting Dean’s prostate. Of not making this about Dean
in any regard whatsoever. Reminds him that he is here to be used, that he’s a toy and nothing
else.

And that’s okay. It is.

Helps Dean hating himself a little less. The cock cage, too, and Sam was right about that. Of
course he was.

Sam tells him to, “Spread it,” after pulling out, still not having finished. So Dean’s hands do
that, so Sam’s fingers can come down neat across the wet bloom of his hole—over the swell
of his balls, too, and Dean grunts at that, too weak to protest.

He tells himself: these are tears of exhaustion. Of twenty hours on the road and too much sun.

Sam jacks his well-slicked cock a few times before he presses it back inside. Gets a good
hold on Dean’s hips and slams them together just right, helps Dean meeting his thrusts like
this is exactly what he needs. What he wants.

It’s different. Dean’s animal brain parts stir.

A weak moan.

“A treat,” explains Sam, “since you’ve been so good lately.”

The right angle for once has Dean in a panting, sweating mess embarrassingly fast. Has him
humping back, buzzing underneath his skin, keeps words at the very tip of his tongue, like:
don’t stop.

But Sam does. Comes, copiously, and Dean whines, stuck; tries hard to grind himself on that
cock but Sam keeps him still, has him take it.

The pull-out isn’t messy, because Sam always fills him up deep.

Dean can’t say: please.

Sam still teases, “What?” and pulls Dean’s wrists crossed on top of his lower back. “You
need anything?”

Dean croaks, “I—I.” There’s nothing.

Sam tells him, “Slut,” and brings his hand down over Dean’s ass. Repeats until Dean
squirms, labor-pants into the sheets with Sam’s other hand still pinning his wrists.

Dean is told to stay, so he does that. Gets his ass plugged, his arms bound behind his back.
Duct tape across his eyes, his mouth, wrapped tight around his caged genitals so that they’re
squished all anonymous. His legs are last—hog-tied to the binds on his arms, pulled
backwards.

Sam runs his hand down Dean’s spine. Dean focuses on keeping his breath steady, on
embracing the darkness.

“How much money do you think we’d get for you? Ten thousand,” Sam wonders, “twenty?”

Dean’s body jolts upon the vibrations setting in, upon the deep, perfect buzz where his body
is still throbbing, still craving.

It’s a joke. Sam would never.

And yet, Dean whimpers.

“Maybe fifty per fuck,” continues Sam, and Dean finds a new layer of sweat upon the sound
of him pulling something from his pocket.

A hand on the inside of his thigh, shoving.

Shutter release.

“Now hold still.”

Dean struggles against his binds, gets another sharp slap for it; Sam’s thumb pressing onto
the fat base of the vibing plug.

“Keep pissing me off and I’ll list you for ten.”

 ~

Sam is the only constant thing.

The weight of him. The smell of his sweat. The sound of his voice—blasé, artificial.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t think of it before.”

The urgent press and clench of his hands, of his teeth. How they gnaw Dean’s neck into
darker purples, break the downy skin covering the shells of his ears.

Sam confides, “I did,” and sounds almost-loving, almost-true. “God, I did. When we were
kids and you just…grew and grew, and.” A tender grunt. Dean hates it slow. “And people
started looking at you, really looking at you? But you were mine. All mine, even back then.”

Dean isn’t here. Doesn’t listen but he hears. Pushes his ass out just to fight, at least a little bit,
but Sam is heavy and it won’t matter.

“I was always so proud. That nobody had you to themselves like I did.”

How he wishes he couldn’t remember—when those things were still true. When they had
each other and there was no doubt. When nothing else mattered.

It’s the same now, isn’t it?

Not the same, but similar…maybe.

Sam groans, “You would have let me,” without the hint of a question.

Dean is floating. Not-himself.

It’s dark outside and warm in here, in the car, in Sam’s company.

Cranked-up heater. They said there might be snow tonight.

Dean drives, both hands on the wheel. The most familiar thing he has left. Sam takes up half
the car with his papers, his books, his body.

Types, furiously, on his laptop. On his phone. Doesn’t converse because Dean doesn’t have
anything remotely interesting to say anyway.

Dean’s eyelids are heavy.

Slip closed, once in a while, just a second.

Not yet. Not yet.

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!