Archive of Our Own

It starts off small. Sam picks up a girl in a bar, and when he's rutting deep inside of her he begs with a husky voice like a prayer for sharp nails on his back and teeth deep in his neck.

Next, it goes from heels digging into his back to dainty hands slapping the smallest, most delicate red flush into his ass. The burning heat of his inflamed skin satisfies something deep within Sam. He feels... not exactly normal, but more balanced. His head's on straight, he stands a little taller.

Sam's always been a smart guy, so he starts looking into dominatrixes on the 'net whenever he blows into a new town.

That's how he finds himself with hands on his neck, in a chokehold he knows he could break at any time. It makes his blood rush pleasantly, and he relaxes into it. His domme watches his face carefully and the instant his entire body slumps, she stops and he draws air like he's taking a stroll in a grassy mountain meadow. Unhurried; just deep, like he's in a meditative trance.

It's not far from the truth. Professional dominatrixes are usually pretty to look at, and this one is no exception. However it's her wide green eyes, so like his brother's, and her short messy brown hair, so like Cas's, that really draw him in.

Safe and familiar, yet not... since Sam has gotten his soul back, these small displays of vulnerability, this illusion of harm that he can break at any time, are all that holds him together. Submission offers surrender, freedom from the constant lowkey anxiety of "is this real" and "am I really here" that have faded in and out of his subconscious like the refrain from a mostly forgotten folk song. Snatches; fits and starts, words, feelings, memories evoked unbidden from the darkness that seems to still constantly claw at the edges of his vision. It's stark contrast to every time he closes his eyes to sleep and is swallowed by flames.

He doesn't know how or if he should tell his brother.

One night they're drinking after wrapping up a case, and to his dismay Sam finds he doesn't have enough left in his pocket to get the next round of beers.

"Dean," Sam mumbles, "Sorry, I guess I lost too many games of pool this month."

"What? That's bullshit, Sam. I haven't seen you lose a hustle in like two months."

Sam slowly drags his finger around the rings of condensation the pint glasses have left on the bar. He shrugs and looks down, letting his hair flop down to cover his eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

"Where've you really been spending your money? Don't tell you maxed out all our credit cards on 1-900 numbers." Dean chuckles and Sam can't hide his flinch.

"What? I was kidding. Sam? Sammy?" Dean puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and shakes it gently.

Biting on his lip, it's all Sam can do to keep quiet. What the hell am I supposed to say? I don't get enough of the leviathans nearly eating us on a weekly basis, so I've been paying women to spank, choke, and whip me to have something I do have a say over?

"You're really worrying me, kid. Come on, talk to me." Dean puts a finger under Sam's jaw and presses up to make him look Dean in the face.

Jaw clenched, Sam mutters, "I can't do this here."

"Okay. Well if we're out of cash anyway, there's little point anyhow. Let's go check out the river. Clear your head, maybe it'll do you some good."

Sam does look at Dean then, with hope tinged by wariness and disbelief. This is a version of Dean he hasn't seen in awhile; the one that treated him gently and told him to talk it out. Maybe... Maybe Dean will get it. Sam holds onto this frail hope as they head outside.

The moon hangs low and fat in the sky, unnaturally orange and low to the Earth like a pumpkin swollen with rot waiting to be smashed in. The river is a dark inky ribbon to their left that makes them both think of leviathan.

Dean is silent, hand on Sam's back between his shoulder blades a familiar comforting weight; like Sam is sick and worn out from trying to cough something up and Dean is trying to soothe him.

"It's nothing—bad. Or illegal. Or dirty, really." Sam takes a deep breath. "This isn't like demon blood... but there is something I’ve come to need to keep my feet under me."

Dean takes a sharp breath, but holds his tongue, slowly rubbing circles into his brother's back.

"I... need to feel pain, Dean. To remind myself that I'm really here... and that... there's something left I can control. Even if it means paying to get it. It's the—it's the only time I feel normal, anymore."

Dean lets out a shaky laugh. "Well, normal's a hell of an outdated concept for us, Sam. I'm not gonna get between you and your... freaky sex stuff. If it helps you, that's good enough for me." Dean withdraws his hand and leans back against the Impala, hand rubbing idly at the cold metal of the door pull.

"I just...I hate the thought of you being vulnerable to someone like that. What if they turn out to be something we hunt?"

"That's why I only see professionals. Even if... even if they were something like that, they have to eat. That means keeping their clients in one piece."

"Trusting the almighty dollar to protect your body and dignity... that's pretty fucked up, dude."

Sam chews on his lip, stalling. A beat later, he mutters: "I could... I could cut—"

"Do not even go there. Jesus, Sam." Dean pulls Sam into a deep hug that's closer to a headlock. "Christ, kid... that's the last thing I want to freaking worry about. That you misjudged and I could go out for a beer run and find you bled out on me." Dean rests his forehead against Sam's.
"I'm here for you, Sammy. Whatever will help."

"You can't really mean that." Sam trembles in his brother's embrace.

"I can and do. Every time you go off now, I'm gonna worry myself sick. Look, I know a... a little about this stuff. And I get it, okay? I was screwing around. I know it ain't gotta be sexual."

Sam really contemplates it, then: the implications stagger him. His brother deliberately hurting him, choking him, to keep him safe. Committing something close to the torture that tore him apart in Hell (both giving and receiving) because he truly feels the alternatives are all worse.
"It's okay, Sam. I said I'd be your cornerstone, your block number one. I get that your hand healed a long time ago. I know how this started, alright?"

Oh of course Dean is making a fucking martyr out of himself again and putting the blame for how Sam is screwed up himself.

"Don't." Sam pushes Dean off and stalks in the general direction of their hotel.

"This ain't over!" Dean hollers at his back.

Thinking about Dean’s offer keeps Sam from sleeping that night. When he does finally sleep, it's too troubled dreams of jade green eyes staring down at him, full lips pursed in concentration, and strong hands around his neck.

He wakes up hard and gasping. As he stares up at the ceiling, he wonders if Cas would have ever taken his madness if he knew what Sam was like sane.

"Sam?" As his eyes adjust to the dark, Sam sees Dean crouching next to him, worried eyes glittering in the dark from a sliver of moonlight making it in past the motel's cheap blinds.

"I'm fine." Sam’s tries to even out his breathing and will his erection away.

"The hell you are! You're having nightmares again..."

Sam's heart triples the speed of its beating where it's trying to escape from his ribs as Dean grabs his hand. Dean's grip is warm, dry, grounding; familiar. Sam's hand is sweaty in his grasp.

"We gotta go back to Cas."

Dean frowns in thought. "What makes you say that all of a sudden?"

Sam glares at the blinds. "I'm sick, Dean. What's the point of putting him through all that if I'm still fucked up? I'd rather deal with hallucinating Lucifer again then, then—” Sam's stomach is in knots, and he can't finish the thought. Mercifully, his erection has flagged.

"That's crap! So you need a little help, it's not—" Dean strokes his thumb across Sam's knuckles, voice going low and husky. "It's not sick. Lots of people need that kind of help." He lets go of Sam's hand and scratches at the back of his neck, tone light and teasing. "It's not like our lives are a damn county fair of kiddie rides and cotton candy no more."

Sam snorts, giving Dean's thigh a squeeze. If the gesture startled his older brother, it doesn't show. "Anymore, Dean. And yeah..." Can I do this? Can we do this? Letting Dean dictate what keeps me sane... it doesn't seem like a good idea. I know I can trust him. I know his arguments make sense... but am I ever going to be my own person again?

Glumly, Sam chews on his lip. It's not like I've ever done so hot on that front.

Dean slaps Sam lightly on the face, just two little love taps that don't hurt at all, but it makes Sam so hard he can barely hear what Dean says next over the rushing of blood in his ears. "Go back to sleep, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

Sam must've made some kind of noise that sounded like assent, because Dean pads back away to his own bed and settles back in.

In...out...in...out... Sam focuses on his breathing, on keeping it steady and slow, and tries not to think about what this means.

The next morning dawns, bringing with it grit in Sam's eyes and a horrible taste in his mouth. He'd had to rummage through Dean's bag for a mickey of Jim Beam and drank most of it before he'd fallen back asleep, the weight of his brother's eyes heavy in the dark.

Dean hauls back the blinds with a savage grin. "Rise and shine, Sammyyy!"

"Auuuugh," Sam groans, shielding his eyes from the stabbing light coming in through the window.

Dean sits down at the foot of the bed and rubs Sam's lower leg through the blanket. "Whaddya say we get some pancakes, huh? Get some chocolate chips, a big load of syrup on there, some whipped cream? I know just the place, three blocks over—"

"Fine, fine. Yeah sounds good. Just, just let me—" Sam rolls over, covers his eyes and whimpers.

"Ya' big baby."

Sam doesn't know what to do with Dean near vibrating with nervous, chipper, energy. All he can think is there's a conversation Dean really doesn't want to have—Sam neither for that matter—looming large in the near future.

Dean buzzes about for a moment while Sam wills the stabbing pain in his temples to fuck off where it came from, and then Sam's hair is being stroked back from his face and a straw is at his lips. "C'mon baby bro. Drink up and quit yer bitchin."

The cool water is a balm to Sam's parched throat and ash-dry mouth and he drinks nearly all of it before his brain catches up with how weirdly handsy Dean is being. Sam coughs and flops back onto his back.
"There ya go. C'mon now."

"Back off, Dean," Sam mumbles, keeping his eyes shut. The pressure in the air lets up, displacing as Dean gets up and heads into the bathroom. The taps creak and rattle a couple moments later and Sam breathes a sigh of relief, opening his eyes to take in the day.

A few clouds, but mostly sunshine; a perfect spring day.
What the hell do I tell him? Is he.... is he expecting a kink laundry list out of me? And then what? I somehow manage to get through that and then have to say—oh yeah, and by the way, it's definitely sexual, and if it's you, it's really sexual?

Sadly, no way out this dilemma presents itself, and Sam is treated to a damp towel landing on his face before Dean bustles about, getting dressed.

"Ugh, fine."

Sam removes the towel and shoots a disgusted look at his brother. "I got the message already."

"Well, joke's on you, 'cause that was the last clean towel and I needed to wash my hair today." Dean smirks, water dripping down his chest from his hairline and disappearing into the towel at his waist as he hauls on socks, and it is dreadfully unfair, how beautiful Sam's big brother is.

"Whatever. Jerk." Sam gets out of bed finally and carries the towel loosely in front of his lap.

"Bitch." Dean whips the towel off and puts it over his shoulders, stepping into his boxers, and Sam is not responsible for what being exposed to the graceful curve of Dean’s lower back does to him.

There's barely enough hot water left for Sam to jerk off in the shower and wash the evidence away.

"So..." Dean mumbles through a mouth full of half-chewed pancakes. "What is it you, you know, like?"

Sam raises an amused eyebrow at his brother. "A lot of things. Singer-songwriters, silly shirts, a comfy bed—"

"Don't give me that crap." Dean swallows and looks down at his plate, dredging a wedge of pancake through a small puddle of syrup, smearing melted chocolate on the chipped flatware.

Sam doesn't really have an appetite at all, he's barely tasting his food, but he's eating because otherwise Dean would worry (and start in with the obnoxious mother-henning again). So he takes another bite, slowly chews, and takes a sip of coffee before responding.

"Can I write it out? That'd be a lot easier... for both of us."

Dean takes a sip of coffee, idly dragging a finger through a smear of chocolate on his plate. "Yeah, okay. Take your time, Sam. Until you, you know, can't." Dean meets Sam's gaze then, and the undercurrent of emotion behind the almost-tease is hard to define.

How much do I tell him? I guess there's no real point in trying to hide anything at all...
Sam drums his fingers on the table's faded brown finish and sighs through his nose.

He gives Dean the list a few hours later, while they're halfway down the I-90 and en route to another possible leviathan case. He can't meet Dean's eyes, but he does catch the small smile that goes with, "Thanks for trusting me, Sam." as Dean pockets the piece of paper.

Later that night, while Sam is asleep, Dean holes up in the bathroom and sits on top of the closed toilet-seat lid, tense all over. Sam had been really antsy all damn day, but there just hadn't been a good time to look at the list.

Dean finally musters the courage to look at the unassuming piece of paper full on both sides with Sam's precise handwriting. He unfolds it with shaking hands, while battery acid eats through his gut.
Caning, whipping, spanking, breath-play, bondage, strapping, face-slapping— with a guilty start, Dean remembers the look on Sam's face last night before he turned back into bed—slapping, paddling, cutting, abrasion, needles—Jesus, Sam—water torture (really???), hot wax, clamps, clips, stocks, gags, electrical torture... that's pretty much all of it, and next to each item was a column for "has tried" (Y/N) "has enjoyed" (0-5) and "wants to try" (0-5).

Okay, so Dean maybe likes getting slapped in the face sometimes when he’s really giving it to a chick, kinda like he’s a horse she’s spurring on. Maybe he’s fooled around with ice cubes, and hot wax, and clothespins. There’s been more than one time his Fed tie has doubled as a gag. But this shit...

With a sinking feeling, Dean resists the tears that want to fall. I don't know what to do with this. I'm in way over my head. Yeah okay, I did a lot of this stuff—in Hell. Here, topside? Christ... usually it's me on the receiving end. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone I trusted enough to try most of the stuff on here. Not that I'm not willing to—
No this is freaking pointless. I said I'd do it and I'll damn well do it, if it keeps my baby brother in one damn piece. I've come too fucking close to losing him too many times. I can do this. Just... I'll just go slow, and see what I can find on the internet.
Yeah.

Dean scrubs a hand down his jaw and sighs heavily. He washes his face and then pauses a long while in the bathroom doorway, hand on the light switch as he regards his brother in the edge of the light.

Sam makes a little sound and turns away, curling away into the darkness.

I can't believe how much of this stuff he's tried already. And that he trusted total fucking strangers to do it for him— it makes Dean feel sick and terrified. I gotta pull through for him on this. I gotta.

Dean resists the urge to curl up next to Sam in bed like when they were little.

Instead, he turns off the light.

The next day, with the warm sunshine beating down like benediction, kissing Dean's hair, making the edges glow with golden light, Sam feels something knock loose within him. An ache like the one left behind from losing a tooth; a bloody gap he can't help mentally prodding at, and somehow that gets all mixed up with this... thing he now has about pain.

I shouldn't be surprised. Everything about me has always gotten twisted up when it comes to Dean.

He looks out at the trestle bridge, then down at the earth and thinks of things unseen, sliding slick and silent through dirt and stone. Of worms eating his brain.

"Dean—"

Alert, eyes bottle-green glass in the blaze of sunset, his brother looks over and sees the expression on Sam's face. It's all he can do not to put up walls, to keep his guard lowered, to let Dean see.

"Sammy—you... okay." Dean swallows and looks away, into the harsh glare of the sun where it crests a mountain ridge, hovering, half-swallowed by shadow and the harsh upright jut of ancient rock.

For reasons of sheer practicality, both brothers are in sleepwear; loose faded shirts worn soft from use and sweatpants.

There's a tenseness to them both, things unsaid stifling the air in the room.

The motel room is a stale little sadly forgotten place in Colorado, faded pea soup wallpaper, lumpy beds, and incongruous pictures of the ocean that is surely someone's idea of a joke in this place cradled by mountain like a giant earthy hand.

"I've thought about it, we can't afford to have you injured, Sammy. Not really. And I... maybe once I've seen how this helps I could—" Dean licks his lips, jaw working, and Sam aches to stroke his cheek, soothe his worry and pain—except Sam is the cause.
Instead, he says nothing and lets his brother continue.

"We can save the whips and chains for the second date, alright?" Dean smirks at him, all false bravado, and all Sam can do is struggle to stay neutral.

"Okay."

Dean looks away again. "Get on the bed, Sam."

Sam brushes past Dean, and sits on the short edge, looks a question.

Something dark and heavy has settled across Dean's features, a veneer that makes his eyes look like a muddy puddle that stayed in shadow throughout a winter's day, frosted and untouched by the sun.

"On your back." His Adam's apple bobs while his jaw works, and an authoritative edge has crept into his voice, sending shivers down Sam's spine.

Sam complies, and Dean slides on top of him, crouching with his knees on either side of Sam's thighs, a solid weight that instantly eases some of the tension locking up Sam's muscles. Dean's ass is firmly in contact with Sam's lap and the oppressive silence weighs down again like a heavy blanket of snow that mantles them both.

Dean strokes his thumb up Sam's cheek, making a half circle on the apple of it, before sliding his fingers into Sam's hair and grabbing. The tug is sharp and short, and Sam has seemingly blinked in the time it took for him to get violently, achingly hard.

Leaning down, Dean kisses Sam's forehead, murmuring into his hairline. "You're gonna keep your hand on my thigh... and if at any point you need to tap out, you do it, Sam. Do you understand me?"

Sam can barely swallow around the lump in his throat. "Yes."

Dean takes a bigger handful of his Sam's hair and yanks hard, exposing his throat. "What was that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. That's a good boy, Sam." Christ. Of fucking course, Dean knows him well enough to know exactly which buttons to push. Or he's done this before. The idea makes something bitter and acid like days old coffee churn in Sam's stomach.

Dean lets go, trailing his fingers down Sam's face to rest on his throat.

Sam's hand feels like a pale fat spider when it settles on Dean's thigh, conspicuously out of place, unwanted. Something that's crept up from the reaches of the earth and into the light, exposed. He swallows past the feeling and thrums with tension, which Dean echoes, nearly vibrating with it on top of him.

Slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Dean squeezes, Adam's apple covered by the web formed by his thumb joining the rest of his hand. Sam feels his cock twitch against his brother's ass and struggles to keep his hips still.

I can't believe I'm reacting like this. Yeah, I usually needed to rub one out after a session, but it wasn't like this. I guess that's the major difference of it being with someone you know and love…

Dean gently scratches at the bottom, digging in at the hollow of Sam's throat with his thumb. He studies Sam with an air of cold, detached calm, and only someone that knew him as well as his brother would see the panic at the edges. He lets go.

"Alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"More?"

"More."

"More what?"

"More, please sir." Sam can't look at Dean. He sighs and shuts his eyes.

"Look at me, Sam."

"Dean—"

"Look." The tone of command is unmistakable, and Sam's eyes snap open while his cock fucking pulses.

Dean has softened back into his worried older brother, tone gentle. "I need to know you're okay. I need to know you're okay, Sammy, so look at me."

"Okay. Okay, Dean. I can do that."

Before he can blink, Dean slaps Sam in the face, and he can't help the way his hips rise up at the blow, barely swallows back the groan trembling in his chest.

"Don't disobey me again. Be good for me, Sam."

Sam shudders and no longer cares if Dean knows what this is doing to him. He looks up steadily at Dean, open and unguarded. Flushed hot with want.

Dean swallows, but doesn't falter; both of his hands come up to Sam's throat now and he presses down; slowly but surely cutting off his air.

And it's such a relief. Sam can end this whenever he wants. Someone he loves, the only person he truly loves that is left, in fact, is right there with him. The situation is completely under his control. Worry sloughs off of him like a spring flood bursting a dyke, and he simply feels.

His body starts to crave air, a tight clawing sensation in his chest, and Dean eases off, allowing him to draw in a small bit of air, but not enough. And it's so different, so different from when almost every monster ever does it, because it's his brother and he's safe, cared for.

The tension drains out of Sam as his vision starts going grey around the edges; there's only the solid weight of his brother and a feeling of euphoria as Dean chokes him again, digging his hands in deeper, harder. Sam forces his eyes to stay open and Dean watches as his little brother’s eyes go glassy, and is dimly aware of something throbbing against his ass.

He shoves it back down and doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about holding a jaw open with hooks and chains and shoving his hand down a throat and of gasps and wheezes. He doesn’t think about the way the inside of a lung felt as it slithered across his fingertips nor the hissing sound it made when he dug his fingers in and punctured the interpleural membrane. Or the gurgling cries he heard when agonizingly slowly, he pulled the lungs entire out through his victim’s mouth while mockingly stroking their lips. What makes Dean’s flinch is a double exposure: Sam’s dark eyes with another pair turning from mottled brown to solid gleaming black as Sam twitches.

Dean slides off of him as Sam lies there, gasping for air. "Go get a shower, Sam." He sits on the bed and his hands clench and unclench, like he's reaching for something just out of his grasp.

"Dean? Are you—" Sam sits up and puts a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Dean tilts his head back and smiles, calm and reassuring. "Don't worry about me. Just go clean up, okay? You're all—sweaty." Dean's lips twitch at the corners, and he looks down at his hands.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." On his aftercare list, Sam had written that he needs to be held. Surely, Dean is only being practical. His shoulders are stiff and he doesn’t look up as Sam slowly, and with a wobble, gets to his feet, both hands on the mattress holding him up. His elbows look like they might fold in for a moment.

I should help him. Feeling simultaneously drawn to Sam and repulsed, Dean is immobile, eyes fixed on the carpet while Sam struggles upright. But if Dean gets up, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Part of him is still feeling the slither of lungs passing through his hands.

After a few steadying breaths, Sam heads to the bathroom.

Dean sits on the edge of a crappy, lumpy motel bed in a crappy run-down motel. "Cas," he whispers, fingers loosely clasped, dangling between his knees.

"I know it ain't fair. But I need you. Like you, you. I know you're one flavour short a full box of froot loops right now, but I don't know where else to turn. Bobby's freaking gone, and Sam—yeah." Dean swallows past the blurring of his vision, stubbornly refuses to give into tears.

"He... it was my damn idea. But he needs me to give him something I don't know, I don't know if I can... Christ Cas, it's so fucking wrong. I need you, buddy. I don't—I don't know what to do."

The vision of Sam's eyes, glittering with hunger, arousal, pupils huge as Dean laced his fingers around his neck swims across his vision. How Sam had licked his lips, moaned a little at the touch and—and this is the absolute worst part—the expression of utter peace on his face as the light had started to fade from his eyes. How his little brother had gone completely boneless, relaxing into this gentle teasing brush with death.

And then—Dean had rubbed his thumbs in little circles—helpless, enraptured—caressing Sam's adam's apple as he had tried to swallow—Sam had made a mess of his pants. Dean had let go as if burned, while Sam orgasmed, cock pulsing against Dean's tailbone as he gasped for air. And Dean had, he'd wanted—

"I don't know what I'm feeling. If I even should. But I'm in over my head. Please, just—I don't freaking know, OK?"

But the moments turn to minutes that drag on and Castiel does not appear.

Dean crawls into bed and turns out the light. A few minutes of this, with only the sound of his own breath and the distant roar of cars echoing as they zoom past on the highway, has left him feeling suffocated.

The stillness is broken by Sam re-entering the room, and the smell of him is soft, damp and clean, the hippy orange cinnamon and clove soap he favours filling Dean's nose.

"C'mere, Sammy." He flips the covers and sheet back, and as much as it makes his heart swell, Sam tries not to feel ridiculous and like he's five years old.

He keeps quiet and settles in, on his back next to Dean. Dean slides over and settles his arm under Sam's neck, tugging his damp hair until Sam puts his head on Dean's shoulder. Tears prickle at both of their eyes. They fall asleep together, conflicting feelings of desire and anxiety keeping their slumber shallow.

It's the next day. Dean is kicked back in the motel room's lone chair, feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the bed, drinking crappy coffee and surreptitiously studying his brother.

Sam is markedly calmer, relaxed and focused; Dean wonders how he ever mistook this as just the "morning after" effect. He's alert, doing research on his laptop while Dean takes a break on the Dick Roman hunt.

And, if he's honest with himself, which Dean usually avoids at all costs, it had been really good, after. Having Sam near and close and himself. Not in Hell, not without a soul, not tortured by visions of Lucifer, but 100% Sam. Within reach, fuck, cuddled right up to him like he was a safety blanket or some crap—
Well. Dean reflects with a twist of his lips as he takes another sip of black coffee. That ain't far from the truth.

"Listen Sam, before we start I, uh... I gotta make a request, mm'kay? Lay some ground rules."

Sam gazes over at Dean, snaps himself out of the trance he'd already half slid into with the offer of imminent release on the table. "Sure," Sam rakes his hair out of his eyes and sits at attention.

"I don't know if..." Dean drops his gaze, "If I can do this if it's just—us. When we're—scening or whatever. Call me sir, or a fake name, or hell even Daddy if you want, don't call me by name or—or familial title." Dean holds up his hands and plasters a smirk on his face. "Yeah I know, with that Japanese crap I'm into, I'm as surprised as you. But—don't. Alright?"

"Dean, we don't have to—"

"The hell we don't. Listen Sam, if it kept you safe and with all your marbles in one sock, I'd put on frigging high heels and step on your nuts, alright? So don't give me that crap." Dean meets his shocked stare cooly, but Sam can see the terror underneath.

Swallowing at the catch in his throat, Sam carefully regards a stain in the carpet instead.

"And you—" Sam snaps his attention back up to Dean's face, just in time to see him look away again.
"You wrote you were into orgasm denial, right?" Dean blushes, freckles standing out on the bridge of his nose.

Slowly, like his head is under fathoms of water, Sam nods.

"So it won't be a problem if... if I give you something to help with that?"

"No. No problem..." Sam would be turned on, if his brother's discomfort wasn't so blatantly obvious.

"I can't... I can't deal with that end of things right now. So it's as much for me as it is for you." Before he can let that sink in, Dean is asking, "So what do I call you? While we're—in a scene or whatever?"

Sam blinks and gives it a long moment of thought, while Dean fidgets, ankles and arms crossed, leaning against the cheap plywood dresser in their current motel room.
Finally, he answers: "Sal."

Dean arches an eyebrow, "What, like in "on the road"?"

Biting his lip, eyes downcast, Sam nods.

Dean snorts, "That's some poetic irony there. Sure, let's go with that. When you annoy me I can call you "Sally" too, so that's a bonus." Dean shoots him a grin, teasing and full of genuine warmth, and some of the tension drains out of Sam as he shakes his head and laughs.
It's gonna be okay. Really.

Sam chews on his lips, brow furrowing; Dean crosses the room and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"What is it, Sammy?"

"Can I... can I call you Dale?"

"Twin Peaks? Cooper's more a weird mix of me and Cas, but... eh sure, let's go with that."

"It... it means the same thing as Dean: valley."

Something shutters over Dean's expression, he's closed off, remote as the horizon.

"Put this on over your cock and balls." Dean tosses a black silicone cock ring into Sam's hands. "Then I'm gonna beat your ass candy-apple red, 'Sal'."

Sam turns bright red and nearly fumbles the ring onto the grimy floor. Dean smirks and leans in close, lips skimming his ear. "Can you do that? Can you be a good boy and put that on for daddy?" Sam tries to ignore the way Dean's voice cracks on a couple of words, files it away for later.

"Yes, Sir." Sam viciously yanks down the front of his sweats, and scrambles to stretch the ring out and fit it on over the entirety of his genitalia before he swells any further. He hadn't shaved so it catches on his pubic hair some and he winces as it snaps into place.

"Good boy."

Sam feels his cock twitch at the praise, and he silently praises and damns them both for the indulgence. He tucks himself back into the sweats and takes a deep breath, holding it for a long time before ever-so-slowly letting it out. Dean regards him in silence and waits patiently.

"We good?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Get over here and lean over the back of the chair." Sam does so, heart trip-hammering in his throat. The chair is wedged in under the desk, clearly not going to go anywhere.

Dean strokes a hand down Sam's neck, following the curve of his spine, gives his ass an experimental swat (to which Sam makes a whimper of frustration) then goes down the back of one thigh and up the other.

Sam's brain nearly shorts out at the caress because—holy shit his brother technically just groped his ass—but he can't think like that now, because it's "Dale" and not Dean. Dean places a soft kiss at the vulnerable hollow where spine meets skull, and then yanks Sam's pants down all in one swift movement, thumbs skimming down his brother's hips.

"Kick 'em off." Sam uses his feet to haul the soft fabric the rest of the way free and indeed, kicks them to the side.

"Good. Spread for me, Sa—Sal." Sam's breath hitches and he reminds himself that this is okay, he's not exposing himself to his brother right now, but to Dale. His dick has gotten half-hard, and is hanging between his thighs. It's tough not to feel embarrassed but he's also feeling aroused. It's Dale. Dale's not my brother. He's not going to make fun of me.

Dean smoothes his hands over Sam's hips, up his shoulder blades, then down again, thumbs rubbing over the nubs of his spine before pressing into the dimples of his ass. Lips brush at the spot between his shoulder blades.

Sam's nervous and jittery, breath huffing out of his nose, nostrils flared wide like a nervous colt and then there's the sting of a blow—the sound seems to reach him from a long distance away. He flinches, dick narrowly missing hitting the slats of the chair.

"Yeah. You like that, baby boy?" Dean's voice is only slightly strained in Sam's ear with the unfamiliar words his mouth is shaping.

Sam whines a little, fully hard.

"You want some more?"

Flushing all over, in a cold sweat with adrenaline racing through his veins, Sam can only nod.

"Say it."

"Y-yeah... please, sir. More."

There's a scraping sound as Dean drags something out of the closet. Sam hears a thwap as Dean hits whatever it is with his palm. His dick pays even closer attention, leaking just a little. Could that be—?

"Remember your damn safeword, Sa—...Sal." And then there's a hard line hitting the meatiest part of his ass, a rough scrape that causes his hips to thrust forward, shaking the chair a little and he gasps for air. Lawrence is the last thing on Sam’s mind right now, aside from how little he wants to use the safeword.

"Did you like that?"

"Yes, Dale," Sam gasps, shuddering. Endorphins are racing through him, pleasure tracing up through his clenched jaw and out the crown of his head.

"More?"

"More, please Sir."

Dean's thumb traces the line of fire welling up on Sam's ass. "Alright. Since you begged me so nice.. ."

Thwack. The cane comes down again in more savage blow, and Sam struggles to keep his breathing even. He doesn’t flinch this time.

"Good boy," Dean murmurs in his ear, sliding the cane along the inside of one thigh. The tip nudges just behind Sam's balls, some things small and nearly pebbled feeling rasping the ultra-delicate skin there, making his eyes water, then it scratches down the opposite leg.

The cold rough slide is gone (Sam distantly realizes it's the scrape of bark he's feeling). The back of one thigh receives a lighter blow that stings not so differently from a paper cut.

The unmistakable sound it makes as it hits him makes his hair stand on end and Sam's leg nearly buckles and the chair rubs an inch across the carpet. A whine tears out of his throat.

Thwip. Another strike comes, mirroring the previous on the opposite thigh. Sam is so fucking hard he can barely breathe.

The urge to touch Sam—to cover, encircle, claim—threatens to overwhelm Dean. He drops the make-shift apple sucker cane and slides his hands along the marks he's lain. Sam moans, shaking and sweaty at his touch. The fire in Dean's stomach is burning him from the inside out with the dual sensations of desire and revulsion consuming him, turning him into a hollow doll made of ash.

His hands wind around his brother's hips and he pulls him flush, only realizing belatedly that he's hard when the unexpected jolt of pleasure from pressing into Sam's ass registers.

Dean stands there, shaking, eyes burning and desperately tries to hold it together. Gotta do this for Sam, gotta do this for Sammy, gotta get my head back on straight, this isn't Hell, I'm safe, we're safe, he's trusting me, trusting me with so much, with everything, Gotta, gotta—

Dean bows, pressing his forehead between Sam's shoulder blades and swallows frantically. He watches from outside of his body while Sam's sweat and his own tears run together, indistinguishable.

From a great distance, his voice sounds foreign to his own ears as he croaks, "Doing so good for me, Sal. Doing so good, baby boy, taking it so well." Sam moans and whimpers beneath him. Dean hears the wood of the chair creak beneath them.

I love you. I love this kid, so fucking much. I'm not broken, we're not broken, I can do this, I can, I can....

The cold mantle of command settles over Dean like a shroud, and he straightens up. He steps back, crouches behind Sam, and picks the apple tree sucker back up. He strokes a thumb over the rough bark and his thumbnail over a cluster of buds, considering.

Closing his eyes and setting his jaw, he swallows around the after-image of Sam quivering and exposed, waiting for more. Patient, but eager and needy. Panting for it. For what only Dean will now give him. What he is depending on Dean to give him.

Dean places a hand on the back of Sam's thigh, gripping gentle to feel the tremors, whether the muscles have give or tension. The sounds of striking his brother echo in Dean's ears. He licks his lips and takes a deep centering breath, and the cane becomes just another tool to do a job.

He refuses to think of what that job actually is. Had refused to think at all, in fact, of what he was doing when he'd tugged the sucker up from the ground, whittled the ends and placed it in the closet to dry out a few days earlier. Of what it had meant when he'd wrapped grip tape around one end and sanded the other. There hadn't been time to varnish, and Sam had written down abrasion, so—
part of him had wanted to be able to burn the switch of wood, after.

Dean silences the thoughts trying to break through by clustering a small flurry of blows to the left side of Sam's crack, and it was awkward since Sam is leaning over and not lying down (Dean couldn't take the intimacy of kneeling beside or over Sam while he was face down), but his hands are sure and precise as they have always been.

Sam moans and shakes under the assault, all the nerves and muscles of his groin, lower back and dick lighting up with vibration as the strikes push through him. His cock is leaking in earnest, and he feels high, drunk, even though this session has not been going on so long.

The feeling of Dean's hand on his thigh is a comforting, reassuring weight, and his breath is hot on the back of Sam's knee, tickling just a little. He's relaxed, sliding under as Dean slowly skates a hand up and down the small of his back. He feels slightly smug with the phantom sensation of where Dean's erection had been pressed into his ass. Lips flutter on the back of Sam's knee.

"Breathe, slow and deep for me, Sammy." Neither of them mentions the slip. Sam concentrates on a few slow steady breaths while he trembles and leaks. A harder blow lands then, to that same area—the meaty lower left half of his ass—and he gasps, arching, shoulder blades rising up. Another series of lighter blows follows, easing the sting back into pure pleasure that makes thready high-pitched moans whistle through him.

Sam hears Dean shuffle beside him, and then he's switched sides, two hard strokes land then before another cluster of lighter strokes on the right side, and Sam's shoulder blades press up violently as he arches his spine, bony ridges reaching for the air like they may sprout wings at any moment. The wood of the chair creaks under his hands under his white-knuckled grip and his fingernails scratch off the cheap, worn varnish.

He can tell his skin is scratched, is starting to tear; the heat pulses from his left cheek where the skin is split open. Another heavier blow lands on Sam's right cheek, overlaying the heat that's risen there, and the rasp of buds at the tip of the cane as they break his skin is exquisite.

Without the cock ring, he would've come all over the desk.

"Let go of the chair, Sal." Dean commands.

It takes a moment for his fingers to straighten out, and he lets go, hunched over, panting still.

"Face me."

Sam's knees are weak, he struggles to keep breathing. He whispers, "Yes, sir," but can't quite move.

"I said... turn around and face me, Sal." Dean takes a shaky breath and then says, "Show me your pretty, hard cock, baby boy."

Sam pulses and throbs, dick jerking and slapping against his thigh as he whips around.

Standing before him, Dean is sweating, face streaky red, hair mussed. Dean's jaw and throat work, and Sam tracks the movement as he licks his lips. There's a tension—panic—fluttering at the edges, knuckles bloodless as they stand out where he grips the cane. The cane which is wood, in fact. Wood and clearly something Dean took the time to make himself—

"Good. Good boy." Dean takes a breath, and Sam tracks where it fills his stomach and puffs up his chest before noisily coming out through his nostrils. He stares Sam down, making him feel pinioned and small despite their height difference, and brings the make-shift cane up, under his balls. A distant part of him notices that Dean is hard, clearly poking out from the sweat pants.

"Spread."

Sam gasps, closes his eyes, and widens his stance. Dean strokes a hand up his face and into Sam's hair, then tugs back, forcing his eyes open. Sam stares at the overhead light, eyes watering.

"Look at me."

Sam makes himself look at his brother, throat bobbing as he swallows a moan. Dean's lips shine with spit, and their gazes lock as he watches Dean's jaw and lips work. His eyes are a glittering, brittle jade. Sam watches disbelieving, as Dean spits right on his dick, which drools in response.

Again, and again, those beautiful plush lips purse and spit, wads of saliva hitting Sam's dick and balls. "Rub it in."

"Go on. Rub it in around the cock ring. It'll be hard taking it off if you don't."

Shaking, pale spiders that are somehow Sam's hands comply, rubbing the fluid in and around the cock ring, smoothing matted hairs out of the way. Dean slides his tongue over his lips, slow and deliberate, then drops his gaze and the apple switch at the same time, stepping back. "Take it off and go finish yourself in the bathroom."

"Yes, sir." Sam wobbles to the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself. His groan of relief once the cock-ring is gone is obvious, too loud in the quiet. The shower turns on a moment later, and the spray of water is not loud enough to cover up the other sounds Sam makes.

Dean puts his back to the wall next to the door and slides down, head in his hands. "Jesus fucking Christ." The trust and vulnerability, it's too much, it's too fucking much, no one's ever looked at him like that— From the back of his mind, he hears Cas's voice faintly: "Can I tell you something, if you promise not to tell another soul?"—

Dean aches. He can't deny that seeing his brother's dick, hard and red, nearly purple, glistening with precome and his own spit had done something to him. He doesn't know what to do with his erection, or the fact that he's crying again, or that he feels so utterly alone. And gnawing in his gut is jealousy… no one has ever, ever been there for him that way—

He picks up his stupid makeshift cane and looks at it. At the small traces of blood and precome glistening on the surface and takes it in both hands. In one vicious explosion of violence, he brings it down over his knee, snapping it in two with a thunderous crack.

Only then does he fall apart, desperately wishing for the one friend he has left. His erection wilts pretty fast and he's left with small hiccuping sobs. Those too, taper off as the shower continues to run.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean pushes himself up and crosses the room to the kitchen sink. He tosses the two broken halves of the cane out through the window, whipping them as far away into the motel parking lot as he can.

Slamming the window shut, he glares at nothing in particular as he turns on the tap and lets it run to ice cold. Dean then splashes some cold water over his face and dries his hands before getting out the first aid supplies.

He's gotta look after Sam.

Sam is lying face-down on the bed as Dean bandages his wounds, applying gauze and tape to the abraded areas so sitting down won't be so uncomfortable. Excuses like "Sam wrote it down on a piece of paper" and "he didn't use his safe-word", (and, buried way down deep "he jerked off in the bathroom screaming my name") don't seem to amount to much.

He presses the last piece of tape down and kisses the back of Sam's neck through his hair. Sam is watching, eyes a sleepy near green, snakeroot-chocolate, in the fading light of dusk. He looks drowsy and relaxed, cozy, if you could ignore the spots of red dotting the gauze like an angry teacher's pen hovering over a failing student's report card.

According to the internet, a proper caning takes an hour, or two... There are lots of different areas you can hit, lots of different types of strokes, especially with a springy sapling like the apple sucker. You can pull the blow at the last second so just the tip hits a small area. You can give a broad, medium stroke that leaves a pleasant bruise behind. You can just focus on the feet, or the back, or the thighs.

A proper caning, well, it can put the cane-ee to sleep, they relax so deep into it if you build it up right. They can wake up drunk and giggly, bruises rising black and blue to the surface like rocks buried by shallow ground cover that is washed away by rain.

Dean cards his fingers through Sam's hair, and those lazy cat-like eyes slide shut.

Dean hadn't done any of that.

He'd gone right to the one area, the most sexual area, because of the sounds Sam was making, and he had wanted it over.

He'd wanted more and he'd wanted none because he'd gotten hard from torturing his little brother.

Just like in Hell. Just like the demons wearing Sam's face in Hell.

Hell wasn't supposed to count. It was Hell. That's what everyone said. Cas had still raised him up, told him he was worth being saved.

Cas with his big black wings and electric blue eyes. Cas who had fallen and gone to death at Dean's command in that fucked up alternate future. Cas who had betrayed them all, and then doubly damned himself. Cas who was basically in a coma on Sam's behalf right now.

Had he set himself up for failure, straight out of the gate, with that whole cockring idea? All he had wanted was to not have to watch Sam come, but—his mind skitters over how he'd stroked the rough bark cane between Sam's legs in a decidedly sexual nature—he wasn't making any sense. None of this was making any goddamn sense.

Masochism is hard-wired into Winchester DNA,

he thinks distantly, as he absently rubs small circles into Sam's back with his thumbs. Sam hums quietly with pleasure, breathing deep and even. It's not long before he drifts off.

Dean climbs in beside him and turns out the light.

The next few days find Dean moody, erratic.

"Dean, you're dropping, dude."

"The fuck are you talking about, Sam?"

Sam gives an impatient flick with the newspaper before spreading it out on the small card table.

"For days now. You're slow....tired. You give me a guilty look like every five minutes. Come on."

“Hard not to when I can see with my own damn eyes how hard it is for you to sit and ride in the car, when you’re squirming around like you got ants in your pants.”

Blushing a little, Sam tries to catch Dean’s gaze. “... what if I like the reminder? About what we did?” Dean folds his arms and scowls, squinting against the early morning sun hitting him through the holes in the blinds.
“Dean, it’s okay.”

“Yeah, and if it slows you down just that much and gets you killed?” Dean does look at Sam then, dropping his arms to dig his hands down into his pockets.

“We’ll be more careful about when we chose to go looking for trouble.”

“The world ain’t gonna wait—hell the fucking chompers sure aren’t— for your backside to be a pristine shade of lily-white again, Sam!”

“I like it, Dean… yeah, maybe I can’t afford downtime right now, but it’s honestly fine. Besides, this isn’t really about me…”
Eyes softening at the corners into melty brown pools that tug at Dean's heart, Sam just regards him steadily, imploring. "You've got to take care of yourself, too. You can't take care of me if you can't take care of you, right?"

"You're being frigging ridiculous. "Drop" or whatever... that's for subs. Not for—me. Not my deal."

"Call it top guilt, or whatever." Sam rises from the table, newspaper forgotten, and lays a hand on Dean's arm, towering over his brother. Dean swats his hand off.

"I'm fine, Sam. Gonna go out and get some pie and coffee. Fuck you later." Dean looks briefly scandalized at the Freudian slip, but flashes Sam a smirk that doesn't sit quite right and a two-fingered salute on his way out the door.

"Dean!" Fuck.

"I can't do it anymore, Sammy," Dean says later that night, staring up at the ceiling as birds trilled mockingly outside the window in the breaking dawn.

"If you can't, you can't, it's okay, Dean."

"Do you—" Dean licks his lips, stares at the wall. "Could you, you know, before—" Before I start jerking off thinking about what we do together because apparently even if it’s my damn brother, sex is still sex, I’m fucking pathetic— and I-I raped all those souls in Hell, please Sam, please just do as I say for once.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"For the love of Jesus and tiny babies, could you jerk off first?"

Sam flushes and his voice comes out very small. "You know it won't—" The despair and guilt in his brother's eyes threaten to destroy him, to shred all the calm control he'd regained after last night's session. He swallows around the lump in his throat. "Ok."

Can Bobby tell? Can he look into Dean's eyes and see the marks he's lain on his brother's skin? He'd felt like the biggest hypocrite in the world, lecturing Bobby on the "natural order" but if his stint as Death didn't bring weight to that gut feeling than nothing did. Bobby had sure as shit been dismissive. His ghost had poofed right out, vanished from the Impala in the space between blinks.

The old hunter hadn't missed much in life. Dean's uncertain how much he sees in death. Everything, probably, but we've got so much shit going down. It's no surprise if he's keeping it buttoned on our extra-curriculars.

Dean grips the steering wheel tightly on the ride back, clenching his jaw. He tries not to look over at Sam too much. There's nothing wrong with—we're both consenting adults, even if it's nine kinds of illegal in the continental u.s. For God's sake, it's not like I'm sucking his dick—Dean's eyes darken—or he's sucking mine.

The idea though, it settles heavy in his gut, weight dangerous. When Sam had been crying and shaking, pliant, needy, mouth open and legs spread.
It had crossed his mind.
How exactly he could silence his brother. Stop him from making those terrible noises that made his balls ache. They’ve been so busy, Dean hasn’t had any alone time to take care of himself in weeks. Something inside of him is fraying.

It was both better and worse after that. Sam was quieter, more relaxed during, but without such overwhelming evidence of his brother's pleasure, snakes twisted in dean's gut, there in the quiet hours.

Keeping his hands off when they weren't scening became harder. Particularly on days like these when crazy shit like Bobby going nuts and breaking some poor kid's arm was what waited after they pulled off that crazy shit getting into Frank's hard drive. And there's another person gone... it's almost worse, not seeing it happen. Because now Dean gets to imagine. His imagination is pretty frigging terrible to contend with after 40 years of Hell.

They've stopped in a motel on the way to Indiana.

Sam had been giving Dean those frigging eyes again. The “if I don’t get some tough love my head’s gonna float away like a balloon” look. In fact, those huge hands of his are twitching restlessly, fingers ever so slightly rubbing against the crotch of his jeans. Dean feels a headache coming on and the urge to hit something, which had been vaguely thrumming under his skin materializes as a throb at his temples and a red tint to his vision.

As they pull up to the cabin, Dean takes a deep breath and tries to unbunch his shoulders on the exhale. “Sam.”

“Y-yeah?”

“You’ve been really bad….” Christ, can’t believe I’m saying this, it’s like a shitty porno. “I think it’s time you had a taste of Daddy’s belt.”

Sam squirms in his seat and his hands are already going for the seatbelt, despite the car not being fully in park. Dean puts the car in park and gives Sam a small swat to the jaw. “What a bad boy, I know Daddy taught you better than that. Safety first.” With a smirk, Dean turns off the car and then unclips himself with exaggerated slowness.

Panting beside him, Sam’s gaze is a heavy weight.

Dean’s half out of the car before he ducks his head back down and mutters, “C’mon, get inside.” Sam scrambles to comply, and crowds Dean’s back while he’s opening the door.

Like a big dumb doofy golden retriever. With an equally big dumb hard-on. Goddammit.
Immediately when they enter, Dean points to the bathroom. “In.”

“Yes Sir.”

Dean follows shortly behind, his skin itching. “Strip. Fold your clothes and put them on the toilet lid.” Watching the long lines of his brother’s frame as he disrobes, Dean tries to even out his breathing. Calm. No hitting while angry. Calm. But it’s not working. Dean is pissed off about a lot of things, and the perfect target for his frustration is right in front of him.

No, not Sammy…. But it isn’t supposed to be Sam. This is supposed to be Sal, the ‘guy he beats up sometimes’. Dean’s fingers tremble as he slides his belt out of its loops. His hands are unsteady as he winds the belt around his hands. Sam is shaking in excitement, the deliberate stalling clearly making his anticipation even higher.

Dean licks his lips, mouth gone dry. “Kneel. Grab the edges of the tub.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be Dean that talked a lesbian through flirting with a man? Dean snaps the belt between his hands and watches the shiver ripple across Sam, sees his fine hairs stand up.
That’s right. You should be afraid. Dean rubs his fist and a bit of belt across the back of Sam’s neck.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I...I don’t know, Sir.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

“...I didn’t jack off first. But there was no time—”

Dean brings the belt down across Sam’s shoulderblades and watches him jump with dark satisfaction. “That’s right. You should always be ready for me…” Circling around, Dean comes to a crouch beside Sam. “Look at me.”

Sam turns his head and Dean pushes his chin up with the belt. They lock eyes and Dean slowly, deliberately licks his lips. He watches Sam’s Adam’s apple bob with a hint of smugness. “That thing… is disgusting.” Dean spits on Sam’s cock.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Sam flushes bright red, and drops his gaze down to the film on the bathtub. Dean digs the cock ring Sam usually uses out of his pocket and puts it on Sam himself.

“Revolting,” he murmurs into Sam’s ear, not being gentle in the slightest as he manipulates Sam’s flesh to get the ring on. Sam winces and bites his lips.

“No better than an animal… not Daddy’s good boy at all...and bad dogs get whipped.” Dean’s not making even the slightest bit of sense at this point but he doesn’t have it in himself to care. Sam’s obviously having a good time, so everything’s just peachy, right?

His mind goes blank as he straightens up and crosses back behind Sam. Kneeling in supplication, the long stretch from his shoulders to his hips forming a narrow taper, Sam paints quite a picture and Dean feels his own arousal spike.

I don’t want to fuck my brother. I don’t. God why is there never any time for a guy to take five minutes to jerk off in peace anymore? Yeah, Sam manages, but that’s only because he doesn’t care if I hear him. I just… fuck I want— Dean doesn’t allow himself to think anymore as he brings down the belt in a harsh blow. He follows it with another, and then another, while Sam moans weakly.

“De-Daddy…”

“Did I say you could talk? Dumb frigging mutts who’ll hump anything that moves including their own brother don’t get to talk.” Oops. “Shut—shut the fuck up.” Dean covers his gaffe with a small flurry of lighter blows that are already forming welts, staining Sam’s back a near dark wine red. It feels good, tormenting someone. Degrading them, when he feels so emasculated. In fact, it’s just like—

The sunlight streaming in from the high slitted window burnishes orange and Dean feels the temperature spike up, sees highlights that shouldn’t be there. Dean rolls up his sleeves and tunes out Sam’s squirming and whimpers.
Got a job to do.

“Please Daddy, more…”

“Such a bad, disobedient, spoiled brat… I don’t know why I always give you what you want.” Except Dean wants it too, and his cock is getting uncomfortably hard as he brings the belt down over and over again, alternating between harsh and light blows as his arms tire.

Minutes later, Dean stands there, panting. He rubs his thumb up along the ridges visible in Sam’s neck. Sam is right there, and he smells good, and it’s been so long since Dean got to... got to give anyone pleasure. Like the normal way. I’m not attracted to Sam. He’s just here. Look, I’ll prove it. Getting the bottle of shampoo, Dean clicks the cap open while Sam continues to kneel, red-faced and panting like he ran a marathon, covered in welts, turgid erection oozing clear precome.

The shampoo is slightly cold when Dean dumps a bit into his hands. Wordlessly, he rubs it to a slightly warmer lather before reaching down for Sam’s cock. Gently, he masturbates Sam with the shampoo, with glacially paced strokes. It could be anybody. Anybody at all. Sam is so hard his dick feels like rebar in Dean’s hand, and the kid is crying out and shuddering, tossing his stupid long girly hair as he bites on his lips to try to stifle his cries.

“De-De—”

Dean slides his hand all the way down and rubs the shampoo in around the ring. “Just a little reward. Take care of it.” His lips barely graze Sam’s neck and Dean can’t get out of the stifling heat of the bathroom fast enough.

Dean slams the door shut and stalks across the floor to the cabin’s kitchen where he spends a few minutes mindlessly washing his hands. He’s snapped out it when he hears Sam cry out. Dean sits on the bed with his head in his hands, heart pounding and dick throbbing.

After the session it's quiet save the sound of the shower and a long wait to do aftercare.

After care he desperately needs to give. The urge to run into the shower with Sam is nearly unbearable. He longs to clean away all evidence of what he's just done.

Look his brother in the eyes in clear lighting and see that he's really okay.

But this isn't about Dean. It isn't about how after losing Sam so many damn times, any excuse to hold him is a good one. It isn't about the sheer relief he feels, hearing Sam's breathing even out or how he no longer whimpers at night and wears all his clothes to bed.

Just like Dean had, after Hell. What Lucifer had done to Sam—Dean can barely even begin to guess. But he knows all the signs. Because he'd been there himself.
Sam was raped, repeatedly, for like 180 years on top of all the other torments he was put through, and Dean had only lasted thirty years of that before picking up the knife and sticking it to others, in both meanings of the word.

It makes Dean want to puke, blow his brains out, or hold onto Sam and not let go, or all damn three.

Cas took Sam's madness and it made him, a fucking angel, a vegetable. He doesn't understand how Sam is walking and talking, working cases.

Walking into a house where kids are getting shredded. Where that stupid psycho ghost had nearly dementored his damn soul out. Walking right back in and seeing Annie had bit it, and wasn't that damn well depressing? Soldiering right on anyway, not even missing a beat. Tracking Frank. Watching Charlie in over her head. Dealing with Bobby turning into a fricking funhouse mirror of himself.

All with a clear head.

Except he does know how Sam keeps it together. Because it's his hands on Sam that are responsible.

A brief dizzying wave of power renders Dean drunk and panting. They really don't have time for this. Any moment, Sam will—

Dean wraps his hand around his cock, jerking it in punishing sharp strokes—he'll know. Sam will know what Dean was doing to himself. A hot spike of lust flares through him and his legs fall open as he gasps, lying back against the headboard.

Sam will watch him, probably still deep under, and look at him like he's God. Like he's Sam's God.

Dean's vision goes hazy around the edges and he screws his eyes shut as the pleasure jolts through him, and he's nearly there. Right on the precipice—it was sick and wrong, getting off on Sam's faded hero worship of his big brother blowing up like that, but here we are. No putting the damn evil back in the box.

He bites down on his lip, as with only vestigial surprise, he feels a hot breath fluttering over his leaking dick.

"S-Sammy, no—" his token protest is useless, he cracks one eye open just in time to see that wide mouth swallowing him down and his orgasm rips through him violently, leaving Dean cursing, swearing, shouting, hands buried deep in his little brother's hair as shoves his dick down his throat. He'd meant to push Sam away, and yet—

When his thighs have stopped trembling so much, Dean sits for a moment, orgasmic haze broken by the rattling rasp of Sam trying to breathe through his nose around Dean's half-hard dick.

He forces his eyes open and regards Sam, whose eyes have turned into a riven flat mud brown, like shadows of fissures in the earth coated with morning dew.

With a violent yank, Dean pulls Sam off of him, sounding a wet pop.

A thin trickle of Dean's semen is escaping from one corner of Sam's mouth, and Dean hauls him in for a greedy slide of mouth and tongue that's too sloppy and desperate to be called a kiss, chasing his own taste out of every crevice of Sam's mouth, claim total.

Panting, they break apart, and things crash into Dean.

His hand jerks away from Sam, tearing out a few strands of hair with them. He grasps the sheets instead, white-knuckled, and looks anywhere but at Sam, eyes uselessly tracking random corners of the room.

"We can't do that again."

"Dean—"

Dean licks his lips, jaw working. "That was fucked up, even for us."

"You can't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

"No. Just, no, Sam. That kinda shit isn't what I signed on for."

"Didn't stop you shooting your load down my throat."

Dean's eyes snap to Sam then, and he flushes hot. "Yeah. So what? I was down so fucking deep—" Dean licks his lips, gaze skittering away again. In a low even tone, he mutters, "No means no, Sam."

With fumbling fingers, Dean trucks his now soft cock back into his jeans.

"I—Dean—"

"We ain't got time for this." He scoots down and gives Sam his back. "I need some frigging shut-eye."

Sam's silence hangs thick in the air until a soft barely muffled sob wrenches out of him.

It knocks the air straight out of Dean's lungs. "C'mere," he mutters gruffly, patting his hip. Sam's huge limbs wrap him up and his cries taper off to fine tremors before they stop.

For once in his life, Dean is the little spoon. Their rest is dreamless.

Dealing with Meg was never a good time; Dean still has no idea what made Meg—who wasn't even a witch before she died—a prime pupil for Alistair's tutelage. What was worse was seeing how close she and Cas had gotten.

Seeing Cas again had been nerve-wracking. The confident dauntless angel he'd known was prone to rambling now. He'd been able to tell when Sam had been talking to angels. What else did he know? Dean was sure what he'd been doing with Sam was written on his skin in some kind of invisible ink only angels could see. Cas can surely tell Sam is covered in fading bruises, but for all he knows it's just from regular work, right?

"Dean, it's your move," Cas had said, and the rage, helplessness and frustration had just boiled over. His move? What part of any of this was really his play? He'd nearly flipped a table on the poor guy, who was clearly not all there. And you know, liable to say damn near anything.

Part of him had really wanted to ask Cas if he still did that mind-reading thing. He was pretty sure he didn't, but who fucking knew anymore?

Then those dick angels had come in, well actually it was mostly Hester being a bitch—she said Castiel was lost the moment Dean touched him, that Dean's touch corrupted absolutely. He's not sure how much she can tell of what's going on, but from her sheer disdain it's clear it doesn't inspire warm and fuzzy feelings.

Back at the cabin, Dean overhears Cas saying taking Sammy's madness helped him feel like he atoned for some of that crap he pulled with the purgatory souls, and tamps down on a simultaneous flare of affection and jealousy all mixed together.

It was a relief, in a way, to have this thing with Sam. To have something he at least had the illusion of control over.

After the dust-up with the alpha vampire and how totally Dean was suckered by his "special girl", Dean just wants to roll over and give up. But while there's many items on their "to do" list, dealing with Dean's crap ain't one of them.

At least they'd got that kid returned to his family and the alpha vamp's blood. That's two in the win column. Well, minus a reluctant tweaked out prophet. And everything that wasn't rabbit food turning you into a zombie. Well, maybe they'd just about break even, or get a step ahead if only that dick Crowley would pony up.

They lay low in Montana for a couple days after that. It's just him and Sam at Rufus's cabin, and Dean can't deny his skin feels itchy and too tight. But this isn't his deal. He's waiting on Sam.

"What do you feel like today, Sammy?" Dean calls across the room, purposefully vague.
He's sharpening the knives, the shrruk shrruk of the whet-stone sounding loud in the room.

"Dunno. I'm pretty tired. Not in the mood for c-rations, we got any mac 'n' cheese?"

Dean's smile is tight and doesn't reach his eyes. "You bet your sweet ass we do."

The pause before Sam answers is just a little too long. "Okay." Sam sits on the edge of the bed, brow furrowed in thought. Dean, because he is an idiot, takes a sip of his beer as Sam continues. "Of course, there's no real point in eating if your dick is just gonna make me gag it back up again."

Sputtering and choking on his beer, Dean turns bright red. "Sam—" he wheezes.

Sam smirks. "Don't worry. I know you can get it up for me. Just have a little faith."

"N-no," Dean chokes out, knife falling out of his hand.

Swiftly, Sam strides across the room and picks the dirk up from where it fell on the table. He runs his thumb along the newly honed edge and hisses. His face turns into a near parody of his puppy-dog look and he puts the knife down as he crouches in front of Dean, lines of consternation on his forehead.

"Big brother, I got an owie. Can you kiss it better for me? Please?"

Dean is frozen as Sam pushes his thumb to his lips. Out of reflexive nerves, Dean swipes his tongue out, getting a little hit of copper.
"Sa—" Ignoring him, Sam pushes his thumb further into Dean's mouth just before it closes on the "m" of his name.

He cups Dean's jaw and Dean dimly notes that his heart is racing and his dick is hard. Son of a bitch. Why does Sam have to be right about something now, of all damn times? Just a little more of Dean's control slips, and he swirls his tongue around the digit, getting another taste of blood. Sam, damn him, moans. Dean's eyes slide closed and he wills himself to be anywhere else.

Dean's little brother continues to ignore every boundary Dean has set, all the rules they'd set up so Dean could be an (admittedly poor) dom and not eat a bullet over it.

Well, it's not like he hadn't waltzed across the line first, rubbing around the base of Sam's dick with that shampoo at the end of their last session. But Sam had not said to never touch him. That had been Dean giving into his own weakness. His own curiosity about how Sam felt there. His own need to have evidence that what they were doing together felt good. Sam's using it against him, and damn if that isn't a weapon of choice.

Sam strokes his hand down Dean's face, trails it down his chest, settles on his crotch and squeezes. Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, the first words of a prayer to Cas flitting across his mind.

No. This is my damn mess. Dean nips at the pad of Sam's thumb, teasing more blood out. He opens his eyes and locks gazes with Sam as he picks the knife back up. A shudder ripples through Sam.

It's always like this: give Sam an inch and he wants to take a damn mile. You want to be a bratty sub? I can damn well teach you a frigging lesson. Hell, I'll put on a damn clinic.

Snatching Sam's wrist, Dean rises to his feet, twisting his brother's arm up behind his back in one smooth motion.

"Dean—"

"Dale," Dean says with a dark tone. "You don't get to touch me. You don't call me by that name. You wanna be bratty? You want me to keep you in line? Okay. But it's on my damn terms."

Sam whimpers and twists a little, bringing the knife Dean's holding to his neck, dangerously close to his ear.

"Dean..."

"You don't get to fucking touch me. Wanna do this the hard way, we'll do it the hard way. Take off your belt."

With fumbling hands, Sam complies, gathering it looped in shaky fingers.

"Good. Just for that, maybe I won't cut off a hank of your dumb girly hair." Dean draws the flat of the dirk along Sam's cheek—cold metal whispering against stubble—and orders, "Don't. Move."

Carefully, Dean inserts the tip of the blade between flaps of where Sam's shirt is buttoned. He draws down, severing the thread, button after button popping off and skittering across the floor.

"I—I liked that shirt."

"Yeah? Well maybe you should've thought of that before you decided to be an asshole to the guy sharpening knives." Dean taps Sam in the temple with the butt of his dirk, just enough to hurt. Sam starts panting.

"Yeah? You like that? How 'bout this?" Dean jacks Sam's arm up, making the hold more painful. He speaks low into Sam's ear. "I know you know how to break this. But you're not gonna, are you?"

Sam whines as the sharp point of the knife comes to rest just over the thin skin between collarbone and neck. The belt falls from his numb fingers.

Dean growls, "Are you?" nicking Sam.

"Sir, no sir."

"That's right," Dean practically purrs. "You're gonna be a good boy for daddy, aren't you Sa-Sal."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Parade rest, joker." Dean lets go of Sam's arm, and Sam clasps his hands behind his back, legs spread about a foot apart. Dean circles in front of Sam and strokes a few strands of bang off of Sam's forehead with the flat of his blade.

Eyes huge and liquid, Sam whimpers again. His gaze flicks down to Dean's lips, much to the latter's unease.

Looking away, Dean allows himself a longer than usual blink, steeling himself. It's what Sam wants. What he needs. Gotta look after my brother. Showdown at Dick HQ soon, need him focused.

Dean turns the blade in his hand, watches the lust grow on his brother's features while he watches the blade refracting light.

So many ways this could go wrong. Dean's an expert with a knife, maybe even more than with a gun, but this is still dangerous as hell. He swallows around the lump in his throat.
"Still. Not a muscle."

Sam nods and Dean backhands him with the butt of the knife.

"What did I just say?"

"Not... not a muscle." Sam trembles, visibly restraining the urge to rub at the bruise starting to blossom on his cheek.

"Ok. We good?" Frigging better be. This is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.

"Yeah. Got it."

"As you were." Follow the damn rules, Sam.

Sam resumes standing with his hands clasped, staring ahead, weight balanced equally on both feet. Dean grabs his t-shirt by the front and cuts down the middle. Whining, Sam bites down on his lip, shivering.

"Good... good boy." Dean sticks the knife down under his belt, then closes his hands over Sam's biceps. Gives his shoulders a squeeze. A moment passes where they look each-other in the eye. Sweat slides down Sam's forehead and he blinks. The moment his eyes open, Dean grips the fabric under his hands and violently rends Sam's shirts off of him. Sam moans, pupils heavily dilated as Dean flings the rags onto the floor.

"Doing good. Doing so good, baby boy. Just keep staying still." Dean slowly, carefully cuts Sam's jeans off of him, other hand trailing along his leg in the knife's wake. Despite his best effort, Sam gets cut a little anyway, particularly around tricky areas like his knees and the swell of his calf.

"Dean—" Sam whimpers, hard and exposed to the air. Dribbling a little, in fact.

"No," Dean growls, straightening up in a swift motion, yanking Sam's hair at the back of his head, exposing the long column of his throat.

"You just refuse to learn, to be a good boy. You make me sick." Dean cuts off the clump of hair and watches the strands flutter to the ground.

"You don't wanna be good for me? Thought that was the point..." Dean waves the knife around, "of alla this. Kid gloves are off, little brother. Give me your damn belt."

Sam is completely naked, vulnerable, shuddering, head hung low. Dean slaps him in the face.
"Give.Me.Your.Belt." Sam retrieves the strap of leather from where it fell and shoves it into Dean's hand, eyes downcast.

Pushing the tip of the knife into the sensitive area under his jaw, Dean forces Sam to look him in the eye. Dean swallows, bolt of his jaw working as a thin trickle of blood runs down Sam's neck. "Take out my cock."

"What?"

"I'm not telling you twice."

With slow clumsy hands, Sam complies, taking a couple of agonizingly long moments to do it. Dean struggles not to make a sound at the feel of his brother's hand on his dick. "Oh, so you can listen, huh? Alright."

"Dean—"

"You've said that so many fucking times, there's only one thing left to be done for it." Dean gestures with the knife. "Kneel."

With wide dark eyes, Sam is giving him that fucking look again. That it's suddenly Christmas look. But this ain't gonna go down how he wants, oh no. Dean puts the knife aside and strokes a hand through Sam's hair with shaking fingers.

With Sam in position, Dean loops the belt around his neck. "Choke on it, Sammy." Sam opens his mouth wide and Dean shoves his hard dick inside, a giddy thrill going through him. He tightens the belt, choking off Sam's air and feels him moan around his dick.

I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince anymore that we're not like this. That I'm not like this, a sick fuck who wants to control his brother in every way so he can't fuck up and leave me alone again. That I’m not a terrible dom because it pisses me off that no one could be there for me like this, and I take it out on Sam.

Dean throbs inside that hot mouth and slowly keeps pushing. Past the hitch of Sam's epiglottis until he settles deep in his throat. Sam looks up at him, that addictive, maddening, drunkening look like Dean is his god. All who worship live forever within me, Dean thinks hysterically.

He uses the belt to control Sam, to fuck himself on Sam's throat and shudders. Sam swallows, velvety inside, fluttering around his hard as nails dick. He gives a few deep jabs and withdraws to just the head as he feels Sam retch. "Oh yeah, baby boy, that's the good spit," Dean murmurs.
"Fuck, you feel so good." Dean uses his free hand to card through Sam's hair. This turns into a punishing painful grip as he slams back down, forcing himself down Sam's throat until Sam's nose is smashed flat against Dean's pubic hair.

They continue on that way for awhile, Dean occasionally letting an increasingly drunk looking Sam gasp for air, until Sam starts swirling his tongue up Dean's shaft and curls around the head as he fucks in and out.

Snarling, Dean comes then, and Sam swallows it all.

Dizzily, Sam stumbles to the shower afterwards, though it took Dean slapping him in the face a couple of times for him to get to his feet and work past the ache in his knees and the burn from the cheap carpet. Dean had been silent beside him, shoulder underneath his armpit.

"Dean, Dean that was—"

"Don't, Sammy. Just don't. Not talking about it, okay?"

"I came. You didn't even have to touch me—"

"I got eyes. Get in there." Dean helps him into the shower, and then stays silent, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, expression closed off and stormy.

"Are you okay?" Sam mumbles after spitting out a mouthful of water.

"Are you? Don't slip in there, alright?"

Sam glances over and sees Dean scrub a hand down his jaw.

"Yeah." As the warm water cascades over his body, Sam can't decide if he feels more hot or cold. He's got this sleepy buzzed feeling going, like he's taken a really huge hit of weed. He relaxes into the water and lets his mind float with it, blank, as a feeling of satiety enfolds him like a blanket.

The next day, Dean prays for Castiel. He just feels so weak, powerless, fucking twisted into knots. He doesn't know who he is anymore. What he gets is—

Cas, naked, on the car, covered in freaking bees.

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas! Where are your damn clothes?"

"I sense you are disturbed. Communing with nature is very soothing. Just watch the bees, Dean."

The bees do not make Dean feel soothed. They make him feel the very opposite of frigging soothed.

Dean hangs his head, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until the sound of buzzing stops. When he looks up, Cas has disappeared.

"I might not make it out tomorrow."

"I'll go with you."

Dean's heart swells; this is the Cas he remembers, the doggedly loyal, head-strong scrappy survivor from millennia of familial fall-out, and he's choosing Dean again.

"Cas—" Dean puts a hand on his shoulder—"come Hell or high water, it's you and me, buddy. I'm not gonna leave you behind ever again."

"Dean—"

"You spent the past year out of your gourd. You gave up your damn self for Sam and me. I ain't gonna forget it. For a long time now, you've been like a brother to me, and in this family, no damn man gets left behind."

"Strictly speaking, I'm not a man—"

"Shut up. You're as good as a Winchester now, everything else don't matter anymore."

Cas puts his hand over Dean's and Dean realizes he's trembling.

"Cas I've—I've done things. Things I'm not proud of. But they were necessary. Most of 'em, anyway." Dean shuts his eyes and tries hard not to think of how the last session with Sam had went.

He'd totally, completely lost control of Sam and it'd been full-on incest and self-indulgence.

"I see inside your heart, Dean—you shine as brightly as ever, despite the tears, cracks and tarnish."

Startled, Dean looks at Cas wide-eyed. "St-stop it with the angel x-ray, dude. Shit's private."

Tilting his head like a bird seeking the magnetism of the poles to adjust its flight path, Cas continues "Possibly more beautiful in your suffering than ever before."

Dean lets go of Cas's shoulder and ducks away from his hand. "You don't know when to quit—"

"I could relieve you of your burden." Cas brings his fingers up in that familiar two-fingered gesture.

"What, make me forget like with Lisa?"

"I can tell the extra dimensions to your relationship with Sam have left you heart-sick. It would be nothing to erase those memories from you both."

"No. I don't want you to eternal sunshine me, Cas."

Silent then, Cas studies Dean's face for a long time. Dean glares back for awhile before flattening out under the intensity of his gaze.

"It makes you feel powerful."

Dean scoffs. "No. It shows me I'm weak." His face is on fire, but Dean plows on. "Can—does it leave a mark? How, what, can tell what... what me and Sam have been doing?"

Cas closes the distance and squeezes his left shoulder then, another familiar comforting gesture. "I can only tell because I know your souls so intimately. But Dean—my offer stands."

Dean grits his teeth, flares his nostrils. "I said no, Cas. There was a time, you got how important that was."

Withdrawing, Cas sighs. "Apologies. As you wish. Do you require... help, with Sam?"

His head shoots up at Dean glares at Cas. "Are you frigging kidding me right now?"

Calmly, Cas continues. "As much as it pains me, the idea of hurting Sam, after... knowing intimately just what he's been through, I understand his desires well. I could simply activate his pain receptors, without physically damaging Sam in any way. Simulated electrical torture."

"No. My brother, my problem. Besides I... I think Sam really needs the hands-on approach."

"As you wish. Offer is open, if he is agreeable."

It is tempting. Blindfold Sam and leave him at their only remaining trustworthy friend's mercy. If things go south, Cas can just heal Sam if it goes too far. But no. This was the same guy who showed up naked except for freaking bees, just the other day. And how bitter of a pill is it to swallow that Cas is offering to his brother the very thing he wants the most? It makes Dean nauseous.

"Not that I don't trust you, Cas, I just think it's not the best idea ever right now."

"Alright. Dean, you've been so strong and brave... If I can offer you any comfort at all... please let me."

Dean blinks back tears at the angel's gaze, huge blue eyes extra wide with earnestness and sincerity. He blinks rapidly at the prickling sensation up in in his nose.

"I.... thanks man. But no, I—I'm good." Dean swallows thickly. "Promise. Let's punch some dick tomorrow." Offering a wobbly ghost of a smile, shaky at the edges, Dean puffs up his chest, squares his shoulders.

Cas claps him on the back, tactfully not mentioning Dean's shaking legs, and Dean tries not to feel drowned, stand against the tide, as the need to be pulled into those arms overwhelms him.

Cas accepts me. he doesn't care. He wants to help. he's always, always, wanted to help. I—I love—

Not allowing himself to finish the thought, Dean strides away, turning his back with a two-fingered salute.

The night prior to the raid, despite the intense waves of jealousy/arousal it made him feel, Dean had told Sam about both of Cas's offers.

"Tabula rasa, you me, this whole fucked up sex thing."

Sam clasps his hands between his knees, chewing on his lips, forehead heavily lined.
"Is that... something you want."

"Fuck no. Go through this whole mess all over again?" Dean takes a deep breath, struggles with keeping still.
"No."

"Okay, Dean, listen. I know things have gone pretty far—"

Dean shudders in revulsion, staring down at a hole in his jeans. "The only thing I haven't done is bend you over, Sammy. I'm..." Dean bites his lip, eyes shuttered and dull. "I'm scum."

"Dean, no—" Sam gets up and crouches in front of his brother, giving him the full on frigging dewy puppy dog eyes.

"I asked for it, loved every damn minute of it." Sam glares up at his brother, squeezing his hands, willing him to look.

"Begged for it, pushed you—"

Dean does look up then. "Doesn't matter. 'S my fault."

"The hell it is! This is all my damage, remember?"

"Yeah Sure. But I'm older—"

"Pfft. I spent like 130 years more in Hell than you, or did you forget?"

"Whatever. It didn't..." Dean takes a deep shuddering breath. "It didn't mean I had any damn right to like it." Tearing his hands out of Sam's grip, Dean gets up and starts pacing.

"We'll work on—whatever our "new normal" is when this leviathan crap is over."

"Dean—"

"Not talking about this right now, Sammy."

"It's okay, Dean. to like it. It's better for me, if you do."

Dean thinks back, remembers all the breakdowns he's had post-session. "I'm a bad dom. I know I am. I can't keep you in line. fuck, can't even control myself. I don't know which way to jump on this, but sum total is, it ain't good."

Dean clenches his hands into fists as another wave of self-loathing crests over him. I'm no good.

Sam sighs. "I'm whistling in the dark here, too. I've taken advantage of you at times. I know... it can't have been easy, given how it can't seem much different from torture. I know it must've dredged up memories, like Hell memories, and you did this for me, anyway, did the best you damn well could. "

Dean scoffs, stops and hangs his head. "For what it's worth."

"It was worth a lot to me, worth everything. You kept me safe."

Scrubbing a hand down his jaw, Dean replies, "Sure. From everything except me."

"Oh for— what part of it I liked it did you not understand?"

"The part where you liked it. I'm your damn brother. It's gross."

"So I'm gross?"

”Sam—" is Dean's strangled reply "No. of... Of course not. You gotta do what you gotta do to save the world one more frigging time."

"So? So what does any of it matter? Can't you see you're applying a double standard?"

What double standard? Because I need you to be me? And so I did all that crap? And part of me felt like I was back in Hell and all I wanted was for someone to do it to me, instead? "You don't hurt or force anyone—"

Sam barks a laugh. "Except for you, you mean? Let's not kid ourselves. I know I'm not. You really think I never noticed? I'm a bigger monster than you are. I wanted it, I needed it, and kept going."

Paralyzed, trembling, time seems to stop for Dean as Sam says, "I've gotten it up for you since I was thirteen years old—"

"Sam, I don't—"

"You think I couldn't tell? That I can't always tell when you're hiding something? I got to have everything I ever wanted and was too weak to say no or stop." Sam takes a deep breath and continues evenly, "I've been in love with you since dad died."

"Sam, I can't—I can't do this, Sammy, I just can't."

With shock, Sam notices tears are rolling down Dean's cheeks. "It could be the end tomorrow, and—and if it is, don't. Don't look for me." Adam's apple bobbing, jaw clenching, Dean strides to the door. "I gotta—I can't. I'm out."

Sam's knees give out and he watches Dean go. Too far. Finally pushed him too far. Well cards on the table, I played the hand I was dealt.

Dean curls up in the back of the Impala and nurses a bottle of jack until he falls asleep. He doesn't let himself pray to Cas.

The stars twinkle down through the Impala's windows, mocking. The rich velvet of the night sky only makes him think of leviathan goo.

It was rough, saying that final goodbye to Bobby, almost as tough as seeing their gruff—but steadfast and loyal—father figure warp into a twisted revenant full of hate and rage.

The old hunter had always been the one to de-escalate things, to talk the brothers down from whatever dumb bull-headed crap they've let get between them.

No dad. No Bobby. No Ellen. No Rufus. Everyone I looked up to, all the old hunters, gone. Is it any damn wonder me and Sam have gone so far off the map? I hope Sammy can forgive me.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, bringing the cool bottle to his forehead. I didn't mean for things to shake out like this. to go so far. I don't know how to unfuck this.

Maybe I should—maybe I should talk to Meg. She was a star pupil of Alistair's, too. I dunno she's a freaking demon. I doubt she feels anything bad at all. No guilt.

Dean takes a long pull from the bottle.

Must be nice. She'll probably just laugh, tell me I was already damned, just take the last step with Sam, anyway.

I just—I don't want it. Leaving aside morals and all that crap, it's not something I ever wanted. But does Sam? It'd make him happy, I guess. maybe—

The jack sloshes uneasily in Dean's gut.

No. No. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I gotta live with it. And I'm not sodomizing my little brother, dammit.

The next day is the raid on HQ, and it goes to show how far out of control this whole mess is, that things are kicked off by fricking Meg crashing his baby.

Things go to hell in short order, and the two brothers split up almost immediately. Crowley shows up and makes off with Meg. Then it's all chaos and Dicks everywhere until finally, it's him and Cas and the real live fake Dick Roman, mano a ángel a leviatán.

"Castiel, thanks for the ride into paradise," the daddy of all leviathans smirks, sharklike gaze spearing straight through the angel.

Dean thinks of Cas exploding black into water and disappearing; of Cas naive and guileless, a stranger; of Cas with red shot through his arms and eyes, falling comatose; of Cas playing Twister by himself; of Cas all fumbling good intentions and guilt and anxiety: what a bitter irony it is to call Earth paradise considering the angel's last few months on it.

This all flashes through Dean's head in a mere instant; his mouth and body work on auto-pilot then, as he and Castiel make a perfect team. Just like they always have when the chips are down.

Blackness swallows them then, a bizarre mirror of Cas in the reservoir; this time it's Dean who is along for the ride.

There's sickly grey light everywhere and towering redwoods, scrub pine and brush. The next thing Dean notices (after taking in how caked with goo his new leather jacket is) is the red eyes in the darkness, closing in on all sides. And that he's minus an angel.

"Cas? Cas?" Fuck! Those goddamn things are going to eat me! Gotta move, gotta move... fuck, where is that jack-assed son of a bitch?

As Dean fights off monster after monster to an interminable passage of time, his goal becomes narrower and narrower. He has to find Cas. He has to find Cas and get him topside and have him erase all that awful crap from Sam's head. They're gonna get out and everything's going to go back to being as normal as possible. A fresh start. He's just got to find the angel. Cas, please be okay. I'm going to find you, we're gonna get out. Dean prays that and many other things, every night.

"Where's the angel?" Another... day? Week?

Then maybe... maybe he and Cas can be together. Sammy will forget all about that ridiculous (years long) crush (hopeless one-sided love) he has for Dean. Cas is going to save him. Going to save all three of them.

"Where's the angel?"

Dean doesn't even know what he's just killed anymore. His body is singing. He is dancing to death's tune. Those little love taps with Sam? They were child's play. This. Now this, was what he was good at. Covered in blood, viscera, and God only knows what substances, that was when the vampires found him.

Of course, they were of little consequence once one barged in and fought the others off. Dean and Benny quickly become brother-in-arms, and even faster still, brothers-in-spirit. It's different than with Sam. No guilt, just the blood and the hunt and watching each-other's backs to bind them. Even though Benny was a monster in life, down here he's clean, and Dean is sure once they get top-side he'll stay that way.

The self-loathing and the burning need for revenge Dean occasionally glimpses in his friend's eyes are all too familiar.

It's easy to not think about Sam down here. Here, he feels alive. In perfect control. His body is a weapon and his mind is the only thing down here more dangerous than Dean with a blade in his hands.

Finally, they find Castiel. After some weeks of fighting where Dean has to keep the angel and vampire from each-other's throats, Benny leads them to the exit and Dean barely bites back a swear at the weird (hot, nauseating, buzzing) sensation of carrying a vampire soul within his arm.

"Cas! Dammit! Come on!" The portal out is rapidly closing, the iridescent blue scar in the sky slowly winking out. Cas's grip is cold marble in contrast to the fire of Benny's soul in his arm.

"Cas! I got you! Hold on!"

"Dean!"

"Hold on!"

"Dean! Go!"

I can't. I can't go anywhere without you. There is no going home without you. There is no home. Just a still-crazy little brother and guilt and this giant hole in my heart where you're supposed to be.

Dean is deep in the woods again, aching, light-headed, feeling nearly dead; but it's night. True night. The sky is nearly black. God how he missed the stars. There's no time to think about it though. Or about how he lost Cas, again.

He has to return Benny to his body and find Sam. Then they can work on a way to find Cas, to get him out of that (cleansing, purifying) shit-hole. Maybe then, things will be settled. All those memories of crossing the line, Hell, obliterating it, gone from Sam. All the crayon markings erased and back inside the lines. Just like that.

Saying goodbye to Benny is tough, but at least it worked. Proof that he could’ve gotten Cas out, too… but Cas isn’t here now. He has to find Sam and then they can … they can get Cas and fix this whole mess. Somehow. Dean can’t think about how he failed him, yet again.

Of course, when Dean finally catches up with Sam again, it’s at—where else—Rufus’s cabin in Whitefish. After going through the usual gamut of tests and listening to Kevin’s voicemails, they get on the road.

It’s later, when they’re at a motel about to turn in for the night that the whole truth of why Sam left Dean to his own devices and quit the family business comes out.

Sam says, “Listen, I know this is gonna sound crazy to you. I don't even necessarily need you to understand. But...you need to know. I didn't just drop out, Dean. I found something. Something I've... never had all my life.”

Dean leans against the wall for support. Yeah. Of course you did. All you needed to find the relationship you want with a real domme was for me to be out of the way, to not be dragging you back into hunting over and over. Well, tough. Kevin was our responsibility and we let him down!

“Yeah, what was her name?”

“Amelia.”

Days go by, and Dean thinks nothing of using Amelia as a distraction when Benny needs help.

Things are never the same between Sam and Dean again.