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[personal profile] elohvee
in her glass was a bleeding man.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC. NC-17. Warnings for incest, language, evil!possessed!Sam, broken!Dean, D/s, prostitution. Set in the same universe as That Bite to Take, hereafter to be known as hurt!verse, and set after the events of that fic. I recommend you read that first. Written for and with the help of [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure, because she is amazing and I love her. Again, there is no excuse for any of this. Title from the Rolling Stones.

He doesn't feel defeated.

It's one of his first thoughts in morning, one of the last at night. It comes to him at random points in the day, mostly times like when there's a fresh burn blossoming on his skin or when Sam's just shy of breaking his jaw fucking his mouth.

He's not entirely sure its his own thought, really, and not just some observation his subconscious likes making, and he's not sure he wants to think about what it means. But doing this, being like this with... with Sam... it doesn't make him feel defeated. He knows he's lost something. He knows this isn't the way it should be, or even the way it could be. But he's settled into it, somehow, as much as Dean used to never think he'd settle.

And sometimes he wonders. Sometimes he worries. And then Sam kisses his forehead and smoothes his hand over Dean's bruised ribs, over his battered skin, and he says, Good. You're so good at this, Dean. I love it.

And that, there. That's almost as good as I love you.


He's standing under a freezing shower, shaking and clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, partly because the hot water's mostly gone, and partly because Sam won't let him touch the tap.

The soap slips from his hands for the third time and settles with a loud thunk! against the drain, and he curses and bends to pick it up. Watching him, leaning against the bathroom wall just outside the plastic shower curtain, Sam smiles.

"So I was thinking," he begins conversationally over the thrum of the water. "I was thinking that now that I can take you out—"

"Please, Sammy, why's it gotta be cold?"

Blurred through the curtain, he can see Dean inch back from the spray, his head bowed against it. His fingers tremble and shivers slither up and down his spine, and all Sam says, in a voice reserved for kindergarteners, "You know what the rule is about asking, Dean."

There's a pause, Dean's deep breath and the rustle of a nod on the other side, and Sam says, "Good. So what I was saying. Now that I can trust you to stay—"

please sammy please you can believe me i can do it whatever you want whatever you say i can follow through i know it

always the soldier. always taking orders. you're good at that, dean, so good...

"—I was thinking we could hit the town. Conduct a little business. Here, turn that off."

Sam's hand reaches and twists off the knob and jerks back the curtain. Dean steps out, thin and shaking and biting his lip to keep his teeth from clicking, so determined not to make a sound, to show Sam that he can listen and not interrupt.

He grabs for a towel and folds himself into it and says, "You mean like—" His eyes drop, almost like he's ready to cry. "Sorry. I know the rule—no questions. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Shh," Sam says smiles. "C'mon. Gotta get you all pretty. We're going out. Hustling up some cash; wallet's just about empty. That convenience store money can't keep much longer."

Ducking past Sam into the room, Dean says slowly, "I'm not sure I remember how to play pool."


"Shit, shit, shit, man, I—"

"Shut up. Harder. Do it harder."

Sam's voice comes from somewhere about him, more harsh than an order but not quite a growl. There's Sam's voice above him, Sam's fingers holding tight at the base of his skull, keeping Dean still, and there's the rapid, sliding pressure of some virgin college kid's cock on his tongue.

He thinks maybe he grew used to Sam. Maybe he grew accustomed to his brother and so this kid, who feels different and fucks different and sounds different, maybe Dean just has no room for him. But there's seventy bucks in Sam's pocket that says he'd better make room, and every so often Sam's hand relaxes just a little for a gentle stroke across the back of Dean's neck or around to his cheek, a soft rasp of calloused fingers over his skin, and he forgets to choke and forgets to hurt.

And then Sam says, Harder. Fuck him harder, and the kid starts babbling and following orders, 'cause he's fucking terrified, and it's all Dean can do to take it and wait for the next touch.

"Oh, man, he's crying, Jesus fuck. I gotta stop—"

"Harder." He sounds amused.

The kid's hips are jerking back and forth, erratic, and Dean's not entirely sure he can keep breathing like this much longer, not sure he could do it even for Sam, and—

"C'mon, Dean," says a voice in his ear. Sam, crouching beside Dean, Dean on his knees—"Come on, baby. I know what that mouth can do. Show him. I'm not sure he's enjoying himself. Can you hear it? Can you hear him? C'mon, Dean, your tongue, your teeth—show the boy a good first time." And then his voice drops even lower, so that only Dean can hear, and Sam whispers, "So fucking gorgeous, Dean. Do it for me. I want to see it. You look so good like this. So fucked up."

And it's that easy. It really is that easy.

The kid comes and can't scramble away from them fast enough, running back to a frat house full of guys who decided the best way to show they were supportive of a gay friend was to get him a whore, running away.

Dean spits on the gravel and touches a hand to his jaw, aching like he was punched, and he looks up at Sam like a puppy, like he's eager for praise or recognition.

Sam yawns and lets his back thump against the wall. He doesn't look down, doesn't offer any comment at all, except to say, "Get back in your pants. We're done here."


For six days, Dean is mostly ignored.

Sam gets up in the morning and goes out, comes back late, and every time, Dean sits stupidly where he is, sometimes with the TV on but mostly in silence, waiting, worried.

He spends his days sitting wherever Sam leaves him, and too often, he jerks off imaging Sam's voice, harsh and punishing in his ear, Sam's teeth and tongue, Sam's cock and his hands. He's seen those hands gentle, that mouth soft. He's felt it but he doesn't remember. It no longer matters.

He fists his cock trying to conjure the taste of Sam. But the mental image isn't enough. He bites his tongue and digs the nails of his free hand into thigh skin, leaving marks for days after, but it's not enough. He never can come.

Sam gets up in the mornings and leaves, comes back at night and sleeps. He's left Dean like this before, once for three days and Dean hardly moved, but by Sunday he's terrified. By Sunday, it's enough so that in a crazed, desperate moment, he grabs for Sam's wrist, bracelets it with his fingers, and he tries to find the words to beg.

Most families in this town are sitting down to Sunday brunch by this time of day, prim and proper and dressed in fresh, pressed clothes and the women all with their make-up perfected, the boys with their hair combed and neat. They aren't one of those families.

Dean kneels in a jumble of sheets and blankets and drops his hand from Sam's wrist, eyes widening when he realizes. He's not allowed to ask.

Sam looks at him, almost smiling, but something like a warning signal flits through his eyes, always so dark now. They used to be green, Dean thinks. Or maybe brown. He can't remember.

"Yeah?" Sam puts two fingers under Dean's chin and tilts his head up, staring hard into his face. "You want something?"

Dean drops his head, bites his lip, like he's ashamed of being insolent. "Nothing," he mumbles. Then again, louder, clearer. "It's nothing. I'm sorry."

Sam's voice is quiet, dangerous, but he might be laughing. "You wanted something. Tell me." And when Dean doesn't move, harder: "Now, Dean. Tell me. Tell me and I'll give you whatever you want."

Six days alone in a stuffy, dusty motel room. Alone and scared and confused, unable to think and unable to come and he realized. He realized that he doesn't remember where they started. He can't remember where they came from, who they were. He knows things. He knows John Mary Dean Sammy. He knows they traveled and killed and fucked in bathrooms and dark alleys and by-the-hour beds like this.

Six days and he didn't even want to remember. He just wanted to be.

He looks up at Sam and he can only imagine his face, flushed and shining, so scared and small when he says, "Why won't you touch me? Why haven't you—did I do something wrong? Sam, please, I want to know—tell me. Please. Tell me."

There's a moment when Sam doesn't move. And then he leans back against the headboard and links his fingers behind his head and says, "Do you think you've done something wrong, Dean?"

Like he's talking to a child.

"I don't, I don't know—"

"Yes, you do. You always know if you've fucked up."

God, he's so close to crying. So close to breaking down completely. Dean bites at his lip to steady himself, hard enough to shock the tears away. "I'm sorry," he whispers miserably, and he takes a quick, shuddering breath and keeps talking before Sam can order him to elaborate. "I'm sorry about the college kid, Sammy, so sorry, I didn't mean for it to be bad, I wanted. I wanted you to be happy but I couldn't make him happy and I wanted. I don't know, Sammy, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just. Fuck me, Sam, please. Make it hurt, make it a punishment—make it all better, please, Sammy, please."

He exhales and his shoulders round and sag. He drops his head and stares at the ground, and he just waits for Sam to talk.

Except Sam starts to laugh. Cold, like his hands and his body and his eyes. Cold like everything, all the time now. "You want to be hurt, Dean?" his voice is soft, tender, and Sam's fingers seek out the curve of Dean's jaw, his thumb stroking over Dean's lower lip. "You think that would make me happy?" He presses a finger into Dean's mouth and Dean takes it, eager, closes his eyes and sucks and bites, gently, until Sam pulls his hand away.

"You think hurting you would make this all better? What if I'm just bored, Dean? What if you're just too fucking pathetic for anything to ever be right again?"

Sam's grip on Dean's jaw hardens, jabs bruises into the skin. He nudges Dean's face upwards, until his eyes meet Sam's, and he shakes his head. "Fucking pathetic," he breathes again.

Then, "Get undressed."

He nearly whimpers in relief. "Thank you, Sammy." His fingers fumble numbly as he tries to pull up his shirt and slide off his jeans. "Thank you."

Sam doesn't look at him while he undresses himself, precise and coordinated, fingers deft with his own zipper, slipping out of his own shirts, one two three, because he still wears so many fucking layers, always. Even when it's hot out, but Dean's not sure what the weather's like. He doesn't remember when he went outside last.

Sam folds his clothes slowly, calmly, lays the shirts one on top of the other on the chair in the corner of the room. He folds his pants over the back of it and doesn't turn around to say, "Lie down. Put your hands up over your head and spread your legs."

With his arms stretched above him, he can see the sprinkling of injection scars, like freckles. Like he's a fucking drug addict, but Sam hasn't had to put him out for a long while. Not since that day in the park—since he realized that he could trust Dean. That he could leave him and know he'd be back.

Not since Dean proved to Sam that he's good, that he can be good.

"Hey." Sam's hand, too cold on Dean's leg. "You with me?"

"Yeah," Dean groans. "God, yes." He hears the jangle of metal and opens his eyes, sees the light catch the cuffs in Sam's hand. He moans, helpless. "Please, Sammy—don't need them. Don't need anything. Just, just fuck me. I'll be good, I promise. Just do it."

There's a click, a snap, and there's cold metal tight around his wrists. He can't move his hands. Sam bites softly at his thigh and Dean can feel him smile. "So pretty when you beg," he murmurs. "Gonna make you scream."

"Please," he agrees.

It comes out eager, breathy, pitiful. And still, even like this, he doesn't feel defeated.
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