Whee, Bubbles! (wheebubbles) wrote,
Whee, Bubbles!

but there's a border to somewhere waiting.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. Warnings for incest, language, broken!Dean, references to evil!possessed!Sam, references to D/s, angst, and violence. Hurt!verse, set about seven months after the ending of That Bite to Take. Approx. 2,150 words. Beta and coding love to the immeasurably wonderful la_folle_allure. Title from Meat Loaf.

Dean's not too good with time anymore, but he thinks the silence must've lasted at least two hours. Quiet used to make him nervous, fidgety—part of the reason he always played his music as loud as he did, why he was always so careful to laugh.

He sits now, motionless, at the edge of the bed, watching Sam across the mattress. His brother hasn't moved. Sam stays still, even when he finally speaks. His voice sounds dry, scratchy, like he's not used to it anymore. Like since the demon or spirit or whatever it was took a walk in his skin, it doesn't fit like it's supposed to. Like a favorite old shirt that got stretched out of shape or shrank in the wash.

His eyes flick open to look at Dean, but he looks away just as fast. The rest of him doesn't so much as twitch. He sighs and says quietly, "How long?"

And Dean says, "What?"

Sam shakes his head slowly. "I... didn't always know what was happening. Time was different, I think. How long was I under?"

Dean wishes he could remember how to lie. "It's... it's December. I... I checked. Sammy, it's been over a year."

There's a pause: Sam calculating. He finally lifts his head and he stares, eyes empty and his mouth halfway open. "Fourteen months," he says roughly. Dean drops his gaze and nods.

"Yeah," he says.

"Fuck," Sam says, and Dean can hear his voice changing right then and there. "Fuck, Dean! Fourteen months of this, and you just let it happen?" He pushes off the mattress and the squealing springs sound the way Dean feels. "You just let that, that thing take my body and do those things to you for fourteen months?"

"It wasn't like that," Dean says, fingers twisted in the bedspread, squeezing tight. "Sammy, please, I—I didn't mean for it to—"

It's that laugh again, and for a second Dean's not sure if It's taken over again or not. Sam leans back against the wall and lowers his head into his hands. "Bullshit, Dean. Fucking bullshit. I could feel it, see it, almost everything—you begged it to, to—fuck!" One of his hands balls into a fist and slams back against the wall. "You wanted it! You couldn't have me so you let that thing just—"

"Sam," Dean says, helpless. He gets up to cross the room and stands there, not even sure what he's trying to say.

He doesn't remember Sammy being this tall. Maybe he's gotten smaller. Maybe he's just forgotten how much bigger Sam's anger can make him seem. When they were kids, it only ever made him smaller.

Sam's glaring at him, and his eyes slip downwards. Dean instantly wants to flinch away—he's a mess of bruises, burns, cuts, and he wishes he knew where his shirts were; the jeans, slung over the back of the chair, were the only thing he'd been able to find when Sam untied his hands.

He tries again, "Sam." His hand shakes when he reaches, fingers trembling when Dean snakes a hand around the back of Sam's neck and steps forward. Leaning his forehead against Sam's he whispers, "Please, Sammy." The kiss is more tentative than gentle, but it's still different. Sam doesn't move, but Dean sighs, relaxes. "I just wanted... I wanted us—"

Maybe he doesn't remember as much of his training as he thought. This time, he doesn't see it coming. This time, Sam's punch knocks him over.

From the ground, Sam looks even taller. He's staring at his hand, and the only sound is Dean's breathing, heavy and... and not pained. Sam lowers his hand and focuses on his brother, on Dean's face.

It's somehow different to see it like this. To know that Sam did this, that it was really him. Dean's staring at him, and he looks willing—god, just so open and willing—and he's just... asking for it. Not aloud, but Sam knows. He can remember everything Dean said before, panicked, desperate whispers: please sammy please hurt me fuck me please do it whatever you want sammy please. Everything Dean's thinking now.

And Sam says, "You called it my name. You called him Sammy." Dean just stares, so small, terrified, broken, and Sam, shaking, turns on his heel and walks to the door. "Fuck this," he says, almost whispers, but he knows Dean heard it. He doesn't turn back around to say, "Don't follow me," and he doesn't doubt anymore that Dean will listen. That he'll follow orders.

He slams the door behind himself and for thirty minutes, he doesn't even look up to see where he's going.


There are parts of... of that time that Dean doesn't remember. Long, black spots, like there are supposed to be if you're going crazy or have a split personality or what the fuck ever. There are times he just doesn't remember, because there's no way it was fourteen months. No way it could've been that long. That short.

He knows part of it was the drugs, the blows to the head. He thinks maybe early on, for some of it, he just shut down. Blocked everything out. He's just not sure he knows why, now.


Sam comes back. The first time, the second time. The third time he leaves Dean, disgusted and frustrated, he stays gone for two days. Dean sits where Sam leaves him and doesn't move, and when his brother finally comes back to the room, he yells and tries to get Dean to shout back, but he won't. He can't. It's like there's just no fight left in him.

When Sam hits him, Dean goes down fast and hard and he makes no effort to hold himself up at all.

Vulnerable. That's the word. Staring at Dean on the ground, his mouth bleeding his chest heaving, he's like a broken little rag doll and Sam doesn't know he's ever though of Dean as anything less fearsome than the warrior their father made him, that he used to be. At least not until now.

Now. Now is different. Now is Dean all but begging him for fucking weeks, writhing in his bed, gasping and open-mouthed while Sam fucks him, but always talking, rasping in Sam's ear, harder. faster. make it hurt, sammy, oh god, please, make it

More often than not, Sam does it his way. Takes it slow enough, gentle enough, even though it's not slow or gentle at all. More often than not, he finishes and leaves Dean in a pile of dirty linens, still hard and sweating and saying, please. please, i need it. i need you to do it. please.

And he won't listen when Sam says, no. i can't. i won't. fuck you, man. no.

And now. On his knees, cock straining his jeans and his eyes wide, he looks so fucking pitiful. Beautifully broken and so willing, and it's pathetic. Dean's face is bright and just shy of hopeful and he licks his lip and swallows and says, sam, please. do it.

Like all he wants Sam to do is just break him a little bit more. Hurt him just a little bit worse. Nails digging into his palms, Sam watches, tries to ignore his own dick, and he just wishes he knew how the hell they got here. And when.


It's in Nevada that things break down completely.

Along the highway in the desert, there's a trail of bloodied bodies that trace to a flock of harpies with matted feathers and steel claws. They limp back to their motel at four in the morning, battered and bruised, and they take turns licking their wounds.

Sam's hands are cold as he bandages a slice across Dean's abdomen. He avoids the other marks, the burns fading now to scars. They both pretend not to notice.

Pressing the last bandage into place he says, "Okay?" and Dean nods.

"S'good. Thanks, man."

He moves to sit up, and Sam splays his hand flat across his chest and pushes him down. "Stay," he says, starting to smile. He trails past the gauze and hooks two fingers in Dean's waistband, his other hand on the zipper. He says, "Dean?" and Dean sighs, grateful and says, "Yeah, Sammy. Yeah."

Sam slips a hand into Dean's jeans and leans to kiss his brother, his left hand cradling the back of Dean's head. He never used to do this. He never used to be this careful. Dean remembers that much from before. Now, Sammy's tentative, always asking questions, asking for permission. He kisses like he'd kiss a girl, maybe like he kissed Jess. Careful pressure, conscious of every little thing, every tiny hitch or shift.

Whenever Dean tries to ask, Sam interrupts him with his lips and tongue. Whenever he tries to beg, whenever he says, please. i, i want—i need you to—Sam puts two fingers over Dean's mouth and whispers in his ear, shh. it's okay. i know.

It's not that he doesn't know. It's just that he won't listen.

Dean pushes his hips up and into the pressure of Sam's hand, and he says, breathless, "Sam, Sammy—please. I want—fuck me, please. Do it."

Sam's breath shudders out of him and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, all right. But slow, Dean. I want to, I want it slow."

Dean bites his lip white but nods, nudges Sam with his hip. "Yeah. Anything. Just—just do it."

Sam nods and kisses Dean's throat once, then starts to pull back. "Lemme—lube's somewhere in my bag, gimme a minute."

And Dean, trying to hurry his way out of his jeans, makes this anguished noise in his throat and says, "Don't need it. God, just do it. Please, Sammy—you never used to bother before."

And then he stops. They both do.

Sam's fingers clench and his eyes go hard, dark. Angry and hurt and he breathes in once, exhales slowly.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck, Sam, I—I'm sorry. Forget it, I didn't mean—" Dean looks terrified. Sam grew up knowing that Dean hardly ever looks terrified.

It's like a blow to the stomach when he realizes. Dean really does want this. Dean really is getting off on it. This isn't behavioral conditioning or the aftershock of whatever the fuck that thing in Sam had done to his brother. It's just Dean. And whatever that thing was, that thing that wasn't Sam, he misses it. He still wants what it could give him.

His eyes are wide, his mouth open and his lips wet with blood and spit. In the light from the bedside lamp, the bruises fade to a sickly grey-green. Down further, his dick is hard and dark, curving up toward his stomach.

"You..." Sam begins, eyes widening, and he doesn't even know what he means to say until it just comes out. "Fuck," he hisses, watching Dean's eyes and his chest, rapid breaths making it rise and fall. The scars on Dean's skin are still pink. Sam was still cleaning that last, lingering burn two weeks ago.

It's easier to think of the marks as something done to his brother when he's not looking. It's easier to pretend that they were inflicted, that Dean fought with everything he had but he suffered casualties. Sam saw it, heard it, felt it all, remembers Dean begging and pleading with that thing, anything if it would just—

He still can't imagine it really happening, except when his brother's like this. And that only makes him angrier.

Sam tightens a hand on Dean's shoulder, digging his nails into Dean's skin until he feels the break and the sticky-wet of blood against his fingertips. Dean almost whimpers, and this time, watching, Sam sees Dean's cock jump again.

"Goddamnit," he growls, and then: "Get down. Fucking get on your knees."

The look on Dean's face is just—no. He's not even going to think about that.


For the first time in over a year, Dean looks peaceful as he sleeps. His lip is split and still bloody, he has fingernail gauges on his shoulders and back and tearstains down his cheeks. He's curled close to Sam, fucked out and fucked open. He's got new bruises, Sam's teeth in his shoulder and Sam's hands digging into his hips.

And it makes him happy. It makes him relaxed. Sam doesn't know what to do with that.

The clock blinks two thirty-six. Three-oh-nine. Four twenty-two, and he still hasn't slept. He gave up trying to make himself look at Dean somewhere between one forty-three and now.

Silently, Sam dresses. His bag is still packed by the door, and he manages not to slam it shut.

It's five miles to the nearest bus stop, and then another fifteen to get to the airport.

He starts walking.
Tags: devil's dance, fic, sam/dean, slash, spn
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