Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. Warnings for incest, language, sex, angst, evil!possessed!Sam, bondage, torture, dubious consent. This is not happy slash. I should probably also warn you all that la_folle_allure got her way. She gets eternal love for the beta work and coding, but seriously, this is all her fault. Beyond that, I'm not even going to try to justify anything, because, um, there really is no excuse for it. *hides face in hands* Title from Metallica.
He remembers vicious first-grade recess games of tug-o-war when he was a kid. He remembers how his palms stayed red and rope-burned for almost a week once, the week after the day his team lost and they ended up falling in a mud puddle.
There's no mud puddle here. There's no first grade class. Just his wrists rubbed raw from the ropes binding his hands above his head, his throat aching with the effort not to scream and sore with the noises that did escape him. There are the bites on his throat and shoulder, his bloody lip and a scattered pattern of red hickies across his chest a stomach. There's a blistering round burn between two ribs, a smear of cigarette ash across it.
His brother doesn't smoke.
Most of all, there's the sick realization that he knew. From the fucking instant Sam kissed him—pushed him back almost gently into the mattress—there was something off. Not right. He's sure. But fuck, it had been so long. Four years and then Chicago, Sam's voice on a loop whenever Dean looked at him, Things will never be the way they were before.
And if never ends like this, with a lie, then that's fine.
That's just fucking fine.
It starts slow.
It starts with Sam back from the library at ten-fucking-o-clock and Dean looking up from the TV, saying something like, Dude, where the fuck—and then he stops.
Sam flicks the TV off on his way across the room. He doesn't pause when he reaches the bed. He presses his palm over Dean's chest and tips him back, pushes him into the mattress, and leans over Dean to bite at his lip.
"Sam," Dean says softly, and he really means it as a question. Suspicious. This isn't how he remembers it. It's fucking good, yeah, 'cause after all, it was Dean who taught Sam how to kiss in the first place—not that he needed a lot of teaching—but something's still wrong. Something's different.
But Sam only says, "Yeah. Fuck, Dean..." and Dean lets himself forget. For one fucking instant, he lets himself forget his better judgment.
And after all, wasn't this what Dad had always warned him about? Not this in specific, but... but this. Letting his guard down.
John always gave his best advice while standing with his back to Dean, watching a midnight rainfall outside the window. Once, with a hurricane outside their door and Sammy half a country away because he didn't want to miss school, John said to him something like, They know what you want. A hurricane outside and he never once turned around while he said, They know what you'd die for, son, and they'll give it to you. Before they hurt you, they'll give you everything you've ever wanted. And then they'll destroy it, and they'll break you. Don't let them.
And the one time he didn't listen... Fuck.
Yeah. That time was now.
He blacks out once all on his own, and he wakes up with his wrists still tied and a hand on his thigh. Sam's fingers are colder than his smile and it takes Dean a moment to mentally correct himself: not Sam. Sam would never... take pleasure in this. He's sure.
"Why?" says Sam's voice, his fingertips like ice chips drag across his skin to Dean's cock.
He doesn't mean to answer, but it's a distraction from the hand on his dick and from Sam's lips around another cigarette, from the darkness in his eyes, almost liquid black in the yellowed light of the bedside lamp. He says, "Why what?" and flinches at his own voice, hoarse and fucking broken. Pathetic.
The smile across Sam's face does not belong to Sam. It's less a smile than it is a leer—only that's not right either—and Dean's not sure there's a word to explain how hard it hits him in the chest, how deep he digs his fingernails into his own palms, how much he wants to punch that look away, but he couldn't, even if he had his hands free, because it's still Sam. Sam's body. And maybe Sam's still inside it.
And the fucking thing walking around in his brother's skin? It knows that, too.
A laugh that's not a laugh follows the smirk and then Sam's fingers take the cigarette from his lips and Sam's voice says, "Why do you believe he—I—wouldn't do this? C'mon, Dean, you're smarter than that."
There's a new burn and a new scar and the pain of a small, smoldering welt, high on his chest. He thinks he can see embers if he peeks downward. It happens again, another, just below that, maybe an inch or so. The contact makes him hiss, arches his back, and Dean curses aloud as much from pain as from the knowledge that he's hard under Sam's still-stroking hand. Painfully, achingly hard.
It just goes to show. He's so much more fucked up than he ever thought.
There's a small gash in his side and he doesn't know if it's from tooth or nail or something else by now. He doesn't even realize it's there until Sam digs a finger into the open wound. Dean groans and bites his tongue, squeezes his eyes shut. He opens them when the pressure disappears, just in time to see Sam lick and suck the blood away from his fingertips.
"Fuckin' twisted," he rasps, but there's no bite to it. It's nothing but an observation. Sam—who's not really Sam—smiles a smile that doesn't belong to him, and then he starts to laugh.
He bends down close and says, "M'not the one who let it happen." When he moves to kiss Dean, it should be harsh and angry and everything Sam wasn't—isn't, so that he can remember. He wants to remember that, wants to hold onto it. But it's Sam's body and it's Sam's kiss even if it tastes like copper.
And then, for one moment, he thinks Sam's control falters.
Sam says, "Dean," soft and normal and Dean makes this broken, desperate keening noise almost like relief. Sam smirks.
His hand drifts down Dean's thigh and reaches to grip his cock and he squeezes too hard and says, "Had you for a second, huh?" He licks down over Dean's throat, and then, "C'mon, baby. Not like you're not having any fun." He's wearing the not-smile and his hand starts to move and Dean forgets to fight it, forgets to hate it. Forgets everything.
He just forgets.
When he was seventeen, Dean fell prey to a sandman, and for a week, dreamed about burying his family, about gravestones carved with Sammy's name, with dad's.
Three years ago, he was weaponless and alone in a fight with a whole family of demons. He woke up in a hospital room with a few pints of donor blood in his veins and a good Samaritan in the chair next to his bed.
It doesn't make sense that the hardest thing he'd ever have to do is say, No. Sammy. No. Even when it's not his brother.
It's not Sam. He has to keep telling himself that, too. And still, he can't. The words won't come.
At first, he fights the bonds and he curses up a storm, fuck you and shit, shit, damnit, but later, he realizes that he never once said no.
The demon in Sam's skin fucks him with not enough preparation or lube, fucks him with eyes closed and his fingernails digging purpling crescents into Dean's skin.
He whispers, "Your brother's still here, you know. He can see everything, hear it, feel it..." Dean cries out and nearly bites through his tongue with the effort not to do it again. "He wants to hate it," breathes Sam's voice. "He hates you, and he wants to hate fucking you, but the only thing he can think is how good you look like this – tied up, fucked up. So helpless, Dean, God, he wants to know how you can love this as much as you do, how you could let us do this to you and like it."
Dean moans, jerks his bound wrists halfheartedly, but he gave up on getting free hours ago. He doesn't recognize himself when he whines, "Sammy, please, please."
He even he's not sure what he's begging for anymore.
He loses count. There's needles sometimes, drugs, to keep him asleep because every so often he'll end up moved from one place to another, just for a change of pace. Eventually, inevitably, he always ends up back where it started, and slowly, steadily, he's not sure he remembers what it was before. He's not sure he wants to.
And then there's the day he wakes up with his hands loose. He sits slowly and stares at the bruises and dried blood caked along his wrists, turning his hands over, as if seeing them the first time.
"You look like shit, man," says Sam in monotone, and Dean's head snaps up, his eyes wild, realizing for the first time that he's not alone, that Sam's sitting in the corner chair and has been all along. He says, "You're gonna have to take a shower first, if we're going anywhere."
Dean frowns and touches two fingers to the inside of his left wrist, uncertain. "Going where?"
Sam waves a vague hand. "Out. About. Come on, get up."
It sounds like a suggestion, but it's really an order. They both know. And he was born and raised a soldier, right? Follow orders or people die. Or you die.
He shifts to the edge of the bed and slowly sits up. His spine pops in three places, at least.
The bathroom is tiny and cramped and the shower is worse, but Sam squeezes in behind him anyway, takes the bar of soap from Dean's hand without so much as word, and drags it slowly across the skin of his back. Into the hollow of Dean's throat he murmurs, "Good?"
Dean closes his eyes and sighs. "Yeah. S'nice."
A kiss to his shoulder and then Sam's hand on the back of his thigh. "Spread," he says, and Dean does it without question. He braces himself on the tiles, and his hands slip whenever he tries to get a solid grip.
The sunlight hurts his eyes. That's the first thing he notices. The next is that his clothes are too big for him, probably malnutrition, but he hasn't been paying much attention.
He can only imagine what he looks like to passerby, bruised and broken, careful not to drift too far from Sam, until Sam turns to glare and Dean realizes they're bumping shoulders with every step.
They walk. They end up in a public park. It's a nice day, autumn, and he can't remember the last time he was outside. He has no idea how long it—this—has been.
Two teenaged boys throw a football back and forth while a mother watches them getting precariously close to her picnic, her four children seated around her on a big blanket, ducklings all in a row. A young couple feeds birds by the pond, and the girl squeals and laughs when one comes too close.
"Here," says Sam suddenly, waves his hand at a bench. "Sit."
Dean does. The bench creaks under their combined weight. They sit and they watch happy families and after what could be an hour, Sam stands up. Dean moves to follow, and he shakes his head. He says, "Stay," and turns to walk away.
Around four-thirty, this kid chases a ball under Dean's bench and once he captures it, he looks up at Dean slowly, with a sort of awe.
Maybe ten or eleven years old, he says, "What happened to your face?" in that way kids do, like you owe them something. Dean frowns at him.
"You know what the first rule of fight club is, kid?"
The kid shakes his head back and forth, back and forth, and clutches the red rubber kickball closer to his chest. Dean nods. "Yeah. Yeah. Run back to your mom now." The second the words are out of his mouth, there's a panicked mother waving her son over. The boy zooms back across the park like he's a fish on a hook and she's reeling him in.
At nearly eight, two girls start making out under one of the trees across the bank. Dean doesn't think they even saw him watching. High-pitched giggles carry over the water. He remembers a time when he would've whistled or walked over to suggest tequila and a threesome.
He doesn't move from his bench.
A clean, white moon is in position high up overhead by the time Sam comes back. He sits down next to Dean and waits a while before he asks, demands, "Why didn't you leave?" He stretches an arm out and lets his fingers play over the nape of Dean's neck gently, but his hand tightens and his nails dig in while he waits for an answer.
Sam's voice is almost a growl, just this side of disgusted, when he says, "You could've left."
Dean just barely shifts closer and lets out a breath. "Yeah," he says, and Sam's hand slips away and down his back. Dean can feel his nails raking over the notches of his spine through his shirt. It got too hot in the afternoon. He never moved to put his jacket back on.
When Dean looks, Sam's smiling. "Good," he says, and he stands up. Dean tilts his head up, questioning. It's almost begging.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Come on. Let's get outta here." He sighs, licks his lips and says, "Wanna fuck you standing up. Mark you. Fuck you raw." He stops walking long enough to look sideways at Dean and gauge his reaction.
Dean just nods and wonders when this feeling, turned into relief.
ETA: Now available: a shiny, angst-filled outtake! Hurrah!