Work Text:
Title: I Whipped My Love Smartly
Beta: dreamlittleyo; all mistakes seen in this fic are My Own.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: up to and including S7, fic takes huge leap into AU/AR during S6 events
Disclaimers: I do not own these characters nor do I stand to make any profit whatsoever on their borrowed usage. All rights given to the CW, Kripke.
link to community as was a gift for AntiChristmas: The Sammessiah community on livejournal
+
The voice is thick, a rich textured blend of all the notes that ever mattered. They’re discordant, out of tune, underlying fear and loathing.
“Who are you?”
Such a simple thing, this single question asked of him. It’s not, and Dean mulls the words over, flips the many and varied responses through his mind as the question lingers, the threat in those three little words quietly harassing his nerves as they sing with pain.
It’s of no consolation that the night is a loss to him, the absence of Avalon’s sun only realized through the slight chill of the evening air. His sight is of no use, unable to see which species of Avalon are watching; Dean is blindfolded, cut off from the world, the fine silk secure over his eyes and knotted tightly around the back of his head.
His mouth is free, a singular mercy he contemplates no further than knowing it’s not meant as a kind gesture. Wasting no time, he gathers the excess saliva pooling along his gums, the moisture brought about with laced drinks forced on him and the succulent, meaty aromas of the nightly wooded feast that still linger in the air.
“No. No way in hell, like I told you before, but you,” the word drawn out as he prepares for the consequence of his back talk, “you must be getting off on this pretty hard, right, Sammy?”
He’s louder now, the quiet interlude between the violence frying his nerves, muscles singing with useless energy. “The whippings, damn,” pauses to collect himself, “you shoving whatever you can get your hands on up my ass.” Dean’s panicked, no more able to silence himself than he is to find a way out this nightmare.
“That it, man? You get off on controlling me, you soulless sonuvabitch?” Dean stops talking, diarrhea of the mouth, and fuckall if that’s not going to get him beaten to death. He strains to hear beyond his own frantic gasps of air, rewarded only with a silence as blanketing as his sight. Ten seconds pass, and his mouth officially loses any semblance of a filter. Unable to steady his voice, Dean yells into the night. “No! You hear me? It’ll always be no.”
The briefest of movements, a shuffle of linen rubbing no more than two feet away, prickles his skin - provides him no comfort.
“Your little bondage freak show won’t ever change that, Sam.” His words are mere whispers, his throat constricting as there are no further responses, and his muffled mind is a jumbled chaos of ‘what if?’ and ‘what next?’ Other statements, imagined words he forms like scythes – sharp and slicing, they fall short and die on his lips.
Dean is naked as the day he was born, his entire body slick with perspiration. The sweat runs in rivulets down each byway of sculpted muscle, and he’s pungent - his body odor sour-tainted with yet another surge of fear-spiked adrenaline. His outbursts remain unanswered, and the thought of repercussions, the many creative and brutal punishments that never end, they make him laugh out hysterically.
Stillness.
No huff of amusement, no laughing, and Dean is positive if he listens close enough, he’ll hear his own thigh muscles tremble as he strains against his bindings.
And it seems too much, not just his quivering muscles but the sudden burst of life surrounding him. It’s maddening, the light fabrics of the fae folk rustling off to his left, chimes tinkling in the distance from the gentle evening breeze, and the sounds of intimacy: moans and skin on skin, sticking together in soft glides. Worst still, making Dean’s gut clench, is the creak of the branch overhead from which he’s suspended.
Wooden pops and groans of aged timber sound out as a twined rope loops over the largest of The Oak’s branches, the limb six feet off the ground and grown sturdy over millennia, easily capable of taking a mortal’s bulk. The rope ends connect beneath him, tied off through the D-rings of a medium sized patch of leather - the same patch positioned under the small of his back.
Dean’s mind supplies him the unwelcome information - that he’s in a sling of sorts, the same one he’s been in for at least a day. The attached rope and patch are positioned so that he’s raised, bowed in the middle, his rib cage jutting up and abs quaking as much as, if not more than, his thighs.
His head hangs backwards, blindfolded eyes to the evening sky, as its weight is too difficult to keep lifted. His neck arcs obscenely, throat a mess of aching muscles. Time under The Oak, held here against his will, creeps by agonizingly slow, and he measures its passage in nights upon nights of excruciating pain. His body is drawn bowstring tight; twined rope fastened around four wooden stakes in the ground beneath him is corded through the D-rings on leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The soft bite of leather stings his abraded, wet skin. Each limb is carefully secured and pulled taut so that he’s displayed in a bastardized, spread-eagle position.
The position only allows for tiny gasps of breath, not enough air entering his lungs on each go, and the purpose of the blindfold is becoming moot. Red and yellow spots burst and dance behind his closed eyelids, the severe lack of oxygen giving Dean escape into a black abyss.
“One more time, then.” Such a large voice, it thunders through the silence, rips him back from the void. And he thinks, hazily, that he should heed the background warning in those words.
But it’s too late.
A triple-woven vine slices through the air, a whooshing sound preceding the sting of tiny needle-like hairs amplifying the pain on his outstretched throat. It’s dizzying, the impact of a Stinging Nettle whip, and it steals his voice. Tiny stickers embed in the skin of his neck then pull out, the vine now a fiery lash against his outstretched limbs.
Dean has taken worse, the Pit a fresh nightmare of memories. He endured decades of worse tortures before sliding off the table, his soul flayed and seeping hellfire. Here though, with no sign of rescuing angels and little means of escape, Dean knows this will be his finale.
Twenty strokes, his skin a mess of agony, and he attempts to twist in the sling. There’s sound – puffs of breath near his face – and the voice returns, mocking him and enunciating slowly in his ear. “Last chance, Dean. This will happen, is happening, so what do you say, hmm? Are you going to be a team player or am I going to get the chance to wring it out of you?”
Dean sneers, lips pulling back to show his upper teeth, as his name from this man, in this manner, lights off a residual spark of anger. It doesn’t matter that he’s lost - he needs to fight, yearns to punch at that voice and damn the consequences.
There’s a booming laugh in his ear, the sound strange and not Sam’s, not his brother’s entirely. There’s a tiny warning, the slightest of taps with the loop of the Nettle whip high up on the sweet flesh of his left inner thigh. Dean flinches, categorizes each moment in an effort to keep himself sane, and pretends it will be enough.
“Who…,” tap,
“…are…,” tap,
“…you?”
The answer doesn’t come, Dean’s voice locking up with anticipation and a pinpoint spot of rage. The skin on his neck itches like mad from the Nettle, confident he might piss himself, again, and he answers Not-Sam, “You’re not in you’re right mind. Stop…just stop for a second and use that huge melon of yours. It doesn’t have to be like this, Sam.” He stutters for a second, laughs to keep from throwing up and drowning, as Sam’s presence moves quietly away from his side. Dean tries to speak and musters a shout, a last hoorah before the inevitable.
“C’MON THEN!”
“Taunt, crack jokes, and yell all you’d like, Dean. Your problem - what you can’t seem to grasp with that juvenile brain of yours - is that I am finally in my right mind.” It’s a sigh, then a small laugh, followed by the worrisome sound of The Oak creaking under Dean’s weight.
The needled whip flies, the whoosh of it like a tiny gust of its own, and it strikes between his thighs. Ten strong licks of fire light on the tender patch of skin nearest his balls and limp cock. He screams this time, no longer able to grunt past the pain, and there’s no break to catch his breath before the whip steadily rains down more. It’s a constant barrage, the assault not ending anytime soon, and he screams until he can’t, until the abyss pulls him under as the dawning heat of Faery’s sun warms his cheeks.
+
Sam hadn’t made it out of the safe room that night, the night Castiel brought the whole thing down. Dean and Bobby kept him from biting through his tongue when the seizures started. Sam didn’t open his eyes that night, or the next, or even the two after that. He hadn’t stood up from the raggedy cot mattress that first evening, his body worn to the bone and clothes smelling of musty mothballs.
Sam wasn’t a hero that night, no waking from his cracked dreamscape, rushing to save Dean and Bobby from an out of control angel.
The two of them, though, they managed fine. Busted up, each of them scurried away wounded and scarred; both of them earned their fair share of serious injuries. From Bobby’s estimates, they racked up eight swollen joints, three black eyes, and a combined count of at least five broken ribs. Dean guessed they were lucky to be alive considering the Leviathan were loose, walking around as Cas while brutalizing Jimmy Novak’s meat suit.
Six days after the Leviathan escaped Castiel’s vessel and began their systematic take-over of the world, Sam woke up. No bells and whistles, no brother in the room to greet him, he simply opened his eyes to cement walls, and rejoined humanity.
To be exact, six days after the Leviathan tore loose, Sam Winchester woke up with no more than a pinch in his right shoulder from seizing, and he rejoined humanity – with no soul. If he were cataloging conditions, the fair assessment would be ‘soulless with mild sparks of humanity from the two head cases he…shot in the head.’
Sam Winchester awoke and found that he was most comfortable being methodical, the raw hunter inside his cracked egg finally freed from the persistent itch of the wall. First, he stretched, uncramping muscles that had been wasting away in useless sleep. Next, he needed to empty his bladder and last, a hot shower and a lava stone to wash off the stench and grime of basement and dusty, old home.
Sam climbed the basement stairs and walked towards Bobby’s living room, keenly aware of the light hazily filtering through a dirty window. He spotted Dean’s slumped form first, his brother looking haggard, wearing a ridiculous expression of sorrow and hopelessness. Dean sat at Bobby’s work desk, Sam spotting Bobby across from him, talking, both their hands placed on clouded tumblers filled to the lip with what Sam assumed to be rotgut whiskey.
He watched on as more than once the amber liquid sloshed over the brim of Dean’s glass, splattering onto his blue, long-sleeved shirt. The stain caused by it grew with subsequent spills, the increasing size, Sam noticed, equal to the growing volume and intensity of the conversation.
None of it mattered to him, not when he had needs that were more important. Sam couldn’t care less as to their level of intoxication or of what they were hashing out. None of it was relevant, despite the fact that his name and situation were the main topic. Of course his person would be an underlying issue to Dean, even with the major issues at hand, whatever they were.
Sam had no doubt that would be far from truth once Dean sussed out what the real deal was with his precious Sammy. The older Winchester was a big enough pain in the ass the first time Sam went naked without all his inner moral bits. That, Sam imagined, would pale in comparison to Dean’s emotional tailspin this time around, along with the inevitable crash and burn.
This time around, Sam would be there to pick up the pieces, only…not so much. His next thought wasn’t truly out of left field, not some random notion he’d just dreamt up. The scenarios of the older brother crumpling beneath him, those visions he’d merely toyed with the first time he’d no true compass tying him to Dean, now came rushing back full force.
It riled him, left him blind-sided with need, this idea of causing such a massive moral disintegration and an utter annihilation of his older brother’s carefully maintained, macho exterior. He twitched at the mental visage of a pathetic, needy little boy resulting from the aftermath. Sam’s dick stirred, thickened at the thought, and oh god…he wanted.
Sam knew the thought, no, the want for such a scenario would never leave him. He’d watched his brother for all of five minutes and in that short period, he craved Dean’s possession, to tear him apart and reshape him into the perfect pet.
The old Sam, Dean’s Sammy, would know that line of thinking was beyond taboo. Even as soul mates, when Zachariah had snapped them into being something other than brothers, even then, he and Dean had never consummated their bond. There were looks, the sounds of jerking off beneath crisp white motel sheets, but they’d never fucked or sucked, never enjoyed what they could truly be.
The new Sam didn’t feel perverted, wrong, or taboo. The new Sam didn’t feel too much of anything aside from basic, physical needs and desires. The cumbersome issue of Dean’s surefire, staunch resistance would be difficult but not impossible to overcome, and Sam looked forward to every blood-soaked minute of it.
Of course, that was when Dean saw him; his brother shoved his chair halfway across the room in his excitement, easily gravitated towards Sam and brusquely embraced him in a full body hug. They were a mess of flannel and cotton and tight squeezing - all allowed until Sam realized, again, his need to piss. When he said as much, Dean nodded and said, “Sorry, man, of course.”
Dean had smacked him on the back and stood aside, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck while cracking jokes about Sam’s Sleeping Beauty impersonation. Sam, in return, hadn’t tried to make the situation any less uncomfortable. He refused to play daft with the other hunter as he blew off the stupid jokes and flat out ignored the narrowed looks coming from Bobby. He gave a jerk of his head to the hallway, indicating where he was heading, and left without a backwards glance.
Twenty minutes later, Sam walked out of Bobby’s bathroom, his skin mercifully cleansed of old house stench and his hair free of grime. Dean was waiting in the guest bedroom, seated at the far end of the bed, dressed down to a black tee stretched tight across his back and biceps as he hunched over, staring at the ancient brown carpet between the vee of his legs.
Sam ignored the hopeful eyes following his every move as he stepped into the room, instead focusing on the minute twitch of muscle in his brother’s forearms as Dean rested them on his legs, hands fisted together in front of him. Sam glanced at the red LED of the side table alarm clock, allowing it to blink another two minutes past before acknowledging his brother.
Dean’s reaction to Sam’s sheer size and stripped down presence was interesting, and Sam silently considered the nervous edge shining out from familiar green eyes, the way a bit of pink tongue came out to wet Dean's lips. The corner of Sam’s mouth eventually crooked with amusement, and he wondered if Dean was even aware that he’d just licked his lips to the visual of his baby brother’s body - towel wrapped around slim hips, chest still slick with water.
He huffed at his musings as Dean’s face and mannerisms had always been an open book. As now, from the hurried way in which he sat up straight, un-fisted his hands and patted the bed: Dean wanted to talk shop, wanted to grab his baby bro up and pat him on the back before tossing him a beer. Dean wanted to get the specifics, get drunk, and start gearing up for the Apocalypse 2.0 with Sammy by his side.
Going to his duffel, Sam squeezed between the wall and the end of the bed, ready to grab a clean change of clothes. The side of his thigh brushed Dean’s legs on the pass, and he smirked to himself as the tiniest hint of an “O” formed on Dean's lips. It was too easy, catching his brother off-guard and toying with him, and Sam honestly felt a tad guilty for what he had planned before his brain kicked in gear.
Sam laid his clothes neatly on the bed then walked back toward the rounded corner, less than an inch away from where Dean sat. There were no apologies given as the cheap, over-softened towel slumped to the floor, exposing himself as had happened countless times growing up thanks to cramped spaces and close quarters. Only, Sam was filled – dick, thick and curved, slapping against his thigh as the towel caught and fell.
This time there was no running to the shower, again, to jerk off. This time, Sam stayed put, his hips and groin inches from Dean’s face.
Dean choked on the next swallow, fingers tangled in the blue cotton bedspread for a moment before he jumped up; ruffled by his near proximity to unexpected hard cock.
There were sputtered words, attempts to move past his embarrassment and saying, “How about you put the gun in the holster, Sundance, before you poke someone’s eye out,” and, “No wonder your giant ass never saw much action, whipping out your .12 gauge too early.”
Sam did nothing. He allowed an uneasiness to build as he scratched his elbow and stared in his brother’s eyes for a fraction longer than he should. He could almost hear Dean’s heart hammering, and saw eyes flicking to Sam’s fat erection. And still, Dean didn't storm away.
His entire response goaded Sam, giving in to his body’s reactions and smelling up the room with a dribble of precum. Dean knew Sammy never claimed to be a saint, the kid’s favorite sport had been spying on him, and Dean reverted to those times; he shuttered each reaction, defaulted to hardcore Winchester mode. Sam saw the change, understood his brother’s lock down. Reveled in the idea of Dean caught unaware of just who and what Hell had spit out.
What Sam’s mind kicked out was, 'prey.'
What he said, while pulling a white t-shirt over his head was, “Your lips are too dry. I was out for a couple of days and you let yourself go to shit, dude. Go on and find some ChapStick or some of that lip gloss I found in your bag back in Nevada. In fact, you’re starting to bleed...here,” as he leaned across the gnarled bedspread and rubbed a thumb carelessly across a tiny cut in Dean’s lower lip.
Dean, frozen in place, eyebrows furrowed in a single line and grimacing, let him. Pissed about it, sure. Bordering on knocking Sam flat, most definitely. He smacked Sam’s hand away and scrubbed a hand over his face, spat out, “Lip gloss my ass, you overgrown punk and…oh my god, man, you’re all poking at me while you’re free ballin’. What the hell?”
Sam laughed. He threw his head back and let loose a thunderous boom of it, genuinely amused at the disgust on his brother’s face. He offered his own, “sure, sure,” before sliding on a pair of black boxer briefs, bent over and watching Dean’s retreating back.
“Lip gloss, Dean. I bet that ‘cherry blossom’ color you had would look really, super awesome.” He heard a groan, perhaps a ‘fuck off’ or two, but the bathroom cabinets were opening and that was priceless.
A week or so later there was no more Impala, no more Bobby’s home in South Dakota and for all they knew, no more Bobby. They found a lead, found Bobby soon after, complete with a cabin hideaway overgrown with vines and utilities that barely functioned. They floundered, almost wound up knee deep in a Leviathan’s jaws, almost found themselves serving some serious prison time.
Less than two weeks later, they lost Bobby again – the bullet to the brain ensuring it’d be the last time.
Sam knew they had to go to ground. Dean was busted up enough for them to sit out the end of the world for a good two months or more. Thing was, Dean fought it, said they didn’t sit out the deal breakers any more than they did the kiddie rides so Sam picked Dean up, as in literally picked him up, and signed him out of the hospital. Easy thing to do, the nurse’s desk erupting into fits of glee over the sight even with Dean threatening to kick his ass. Trapped in a circle of onlookers, they played “pretend gay couple” until out the hospital’s automatic door.
Two rows over through the cars, Dean smacked Sam in the head, and Sam, tired of all the complaining, threw Dean's ass into the passenger seat of the rusted jalopy of a car he’d stolen. Dean’s ass no sooner hit the seat, before he cursed Sam out in every language their dad had taught ‘em then stopped, caught his breath, cracked his door and puked. Sam kept the car parked long enough for the last dry heave to end. Finally, Dean buckled in and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Sam was peeled out.
Recovery time in the cabin was rough. Losing Bobby was tough on Dean but losing the Impala, that was enough to make Sam’s life a living hell. Dean rarely mentioned Bobby before 10 a.m. bar time but openly moped about the damn car. Still, Sam knew exactly how to take care of his brother, clamored to be the head of their dysfunctional little family, waiting out Dean's misery while acting the part of supportive, grieving brother.
Sam listened, then cleaned with his IPod in when he couldn’t take the sound of his brother’s voice one more minute without shooting him with rock salt. He left to shop, stocking up on less and less of the high-fat junk Dean normally ate, buying them in small increments. Watched as his brother suffered loudly, face a mask of disgust as he ate his green vegetables – scarfed down grilled chicken with tomato and onion as he spouted off, “not like I have a choice, Martha.”
He sat with his brother in the afternoons, Dean’s leg propped on the couch, held up on a nest of ragged blankets. Sam let him drink his beer, sip on whiskey, watch Dr. Sexy on television. He wanted to sit and grill him on the Impala’s poor gas mileage, her uncomfortable seating, the look of a liver with cirrhosis, and the lack of proper music in their two-person household. Didn’t dare, as it would only increase the bitching and moaning tenfold.
Then, there was the risk of Dean’s hunter senses kicking in, the feeling that something with Sam wasn’t on the up and up, if he’d not already gone and figured it out. Sam shrugged off the sidelong looks, not willing to play the shrinking violet to Dean’s observation. He was stuck tolerating the cramped decay of the cabin, careful of his behavior, lying in bed when it was time to, even though he was wide-awake. Those nights he couldn’t take it, he snuck out of the cabin, ran the trail.
They stagnated, and Sam needed to keep his brother healthy and compliant for fucking once before he destroyed any chance of Sam obliterating the knock-off Ridley Scott beasts. Dean’s snapping and talking crazy crap about personal, brotherly feelings. So, Sam decided, decided for the both of them, that he knew best and that it was time to rein in the wayward son.
Just so happened that Sam’s impatience fell in line with losing any vestige of pretending who he was, when Dean lost his mind and in order: cut his cast off, used all the hot water in the shower, lied and told Sam he would bring home a decent dinner, then lied again and said he'd be back soon. He proceeded to tell Sam to cuff his ass to the kitchen sink if he started hallucinating Lucifer.
Sam told him to shut up and to gun her like Andretti because he was hungry and that really, Lucy was a sorry sack of winged bastard, no more threatening than a caged bird.
It could have been coincidence that he’d been sidetracked when Dean came home in the pre-dawn hours, Sam Google Earth tracking latitudes and longitudes trying to make sense of Bobby’s cryptic numbers. It’s what he might have explained to Dean, if he’d cared to and no, he definitely did not. That hiring the expensive prostitute, the one on her knees under the motel’s table, her perfectly colored nails digging crescents into his thighs, was spur of the moment and he’d been so bored.
It wasn’t.
That said, the woman had a mouth like a Hoover and big, beautiful tits like Hayek, and Sam wanted to hand her off to Dean as she was more his type. Damn, how he would’ve paid to watch Dean work his magic and fuck the bitch while he stepped in and fucked her face.
Sam wanted to step in and do all sorts of things with - but mostly without - the whore between him and his big brother.
The girl moaned around her mouthful as Sam unloaded another surge of precum just as Dean walked in, satisfied look of the drunk-and-just-laid variety and carrying an armful of taco dinner take-out.
Fact was, the cabin reeked of designer perfume, and jizz. Dean growled out, “Sam,” his jacketed arms stiff with white take-out bags hanging by his fingers. His name, in that voice, triggered a kneejerk instinct and Sam, giving his best innocent face, looked Dean square in the eye. Dean hadn’t even finished the ‘ess’ sound before Sam bucked up into the whore’s mouth, hand on her head smashing her flush tight against the skin of his balls.
The girl gagged violently on the length of him, and he lost it, shot his load straight down her contracting throat as he watched Dean, watching him.
Sam rode out his orgasm without the slightest trace of being overwhelmed, patting the tabletop with his free hand, and said, “Bring it over here, jerk. Told you I was hungry.”
Dean’s eyes briefly glazed over, slid down to where the girl’s throat pulsed, swallowing every drop of what his brother gave her. His gaze fastened onto the tears streaking down her pretty face, snapped out of his stupor when he imagined how she must have been wearing waterproof mascara. Out of his element, his eyes shot up to Sam’s when his brother cupped the back of the girl’s head, giant paw engulfing it, and pulled her off.
It was a go however, when Sam raised his eyebrows, jerked his head down to the girl and offered, “I have her for the night. She’s all yours if you want.” Dean was all purpose when he walked to the calmly forward, putting the food down on the table.
“Let’s go, sweetheart. Out.” He made his way to the cabin door, opening it for her, wearing a fake smile.
Sam grabbed the base of his dick, tapped the head of it on smooth, glossed lips to signal he was done with her tiny pink tongue licking him clean. Moving his chair from beneath the table, the girl yelped as strands of her hair were ripped from around the leather cuff he’d taken to wearing. Sam didn’t react, only stood to face Dean and tucked himself back into his jeans.
“You heard the man, sweetheart. Up.”
“Laura. My business card for you or you, or…both.” Laura stood, brushing off her black designer dress, dabbing at her streaked cheeks and eyes. Shrugging off her face-fucked appearance, she slid a matte black business card onto the table next to Sam’s laptop.
Sam paid her no mind, content in knocking off early with the whore. He’d no intention of hiring her again as Dean seemed uninterested, perturbed; he nodded towards her swollen mouth, the corners tilted, and handed her a wad of cash. Watched Dean hand the girl her black cardigan, caught up in the play of soft, knitted fabric that slid between his brother’s fingers, and Sam suddenly needed to know what those lean fingers would feel like - buried in him knuckle deep.
As soon as the door closed, salt lines checked, Dean became a rush of violence. He spat vehemence at Sam, shoved him away from the table to get at the food. Sam wished, not for the first time, advanced hearing was a part of his permanent condition, wanting to know the trip hammer tempo of Dean’s heart. He heard the questions, the statements regarding how things hadn’t been right since the wall came tumbling down, how Lucifer had gone all Aileen Wuornos by hitching on Sam’s ride.
Dean wolfed his soft taco down, verde sauce dribbling down his chin before he caught it on his forefinger and sucked the digit in his mouth. The action, calloused fingertip emerging from between generous lips, was the spark needed for Sam’s own mini-meltdown. Large hands slammed down on the tabletop, arm width apart and he was in Dean’s space, a breath apart.
“You knew, Dean. Screw you. You’ve known and you buried it deeper than the dead in that stubborn head of yours.”
“Screw me? No way, Sam. I was thinking I had him back, signed, sealed. And yet…here you are and you know, man. You know he was mine. So no, screw you.”
Sam couldn’t help himself. He wanted to trip the breaker and toy with the chaos.
“Your what, Dean? What was he, hmm? I know, I know. Dad gave him, gave us, to you. Long time ago, with the house fire and mom. So tell me, Dean, what exactly made us yours?”
The television in the room was suddenly interesting and then Dean was back, setting his balled fists on the tabletop, and he looked to Sam neither enraged nor shattered with what, who, was before him. In fact, Dean looked the part of a man who’d lived a thousand years - weary and calm. Sam scoffed at the idea of Dean anything of the sort, knew it would pass soon enough when he gave specifics of the wall come tumbling down, of his fractured psyche. Knew Dean’s rage would be epic and legendary when he realized how he’d lost his sniveling little bitch of a brother.
Dean readied himself to hear it: stood and hobbled over to a bookshelf to grab a dusty fifth of whiskey, limped over to the couch and flopped down, set his jaw, and croaked out, “The hell happened to my brother?”
*******
Dean wanted to take the cracked, asphalt back roads, ride the interstate where the speed limits allowed a driver to fly, and finally get their latest piece of shit vehicle back on the lesser known routes and byways. A thousand and some miles they had to travel in under two days, a hot mess of a case on their minds.
They’d researched a skinwalker going through families faster than his doggie kibble, not covering up his tracks. Dean hoped the bastard didn’t have rabies. Not-Sam, as Dean had taken to calling him again, hoped the opposite, as he’d love to get his hands on an infected victim’s brain. In all his time morgue diving, he’d never seen a human brain with the infection, and the Winchesters had seen a lot of grey matter. Sure, some if not most victims had Swiss cheese up top, which was boring and held no mystique.
For him.
Starburst memories of that little pussy with the soul would flare up at inopportune times, showed him there was a time he cared. Instead, he felt…squirmy inside. It was an overreaction and Dean sensed it. They were somewhere around hour five on the road when Dean smacked his hand away from the cassette player and said, “You’re sick, is what you are. Creepy, creepy, joy, joy vibes, asshole. It’s…it’s like you’re a ghoul, spottin’ a walking Happy Meal that’s dorkin’ off alone.”
Sam had given up trying to flip off the tape two miles back, but he’s letting the hair band riffs settle in and get him thoroughly riled. He stopped in his tracks when Dean tossed him a glance over his sunglasses, explained through a mouthful of Pepto-Bismol tablets, that since Not-Sam’s the son of a bitch who did a drive-by on Soul Sam’s psyche as well as on Burnt-to-Shit-and-Melting Sam’s psyche, he deserved every ounce of grief Dean could muster.
“Exactly how long are we looking at here, with this kicked-my-dog attitude? Are we talking, say Cullen lifespan long, or your last hook-up long? What was that, by the way? Seven minutes?”
Dean didn’t even swerve the stolen Mercury Marauder off the road, just sucker punched the side of Sam’s face before he could see it coming. The blow connected solid to his cheek, snapping his head into the passenger window.
“Don’t ever speak about that sparkly fanged, teeny-bopper raping piece of wannabe douchebag with my brother’s mouth ever again. Just…Jesus, you know what? Don’t ever talk to me about my hook-ups. Seven minutes, my ass.”
Sam said nothing, didn’t have to, as Dean sat stewing. His jaw throbbed with pain so he popped the cap off their knock-off ibuprofen and dry swallowed four. Tapped his finger on the dashboard and glared out the window, waiting for it…
“You know, that body you’re riding shotgun in isn’t getting any younger, either. Can’t judge a guy, Sam, especially a guy under stress. All this,” and Dean flailed his hand, imitating stress supposedly. Sam tuned out about a third of what he said on a good day. Right then, Sam had taken to watching the muscles in Dean’s neck flex in anger, his dick on board with the view and filled out fully.
“… and it’s no time to try some new age tantric crap just because an easy lay swears she can get you off three times in five hours, you know? Look who I’m talking to, Hell’s version of the Energizer Bunny. Seven minutes though, fuck you very much, Sammy.”
Sam let it slide, and yeah, Dean was angry but he called him Sammy, so his big brother was slipping into familiar behavior. He was wrong, Sammy was long gone and Sam wasn’t into role play unless he got to put his dick in something for sure, but he’d at least let it be. For the time being.
The road trip finished quick enough since one of them never had to sleep. Dean knew the soul issue, blocked it out and locked it up tight, choosing to be obtuse and ornery. He was depressed and grieving, praying at the drop of a hat for Cas or anyone to help him get Sammy back into his brother’s body, but no one ever answered.
They crackled in tight quarters, the energy and drama seething under their skin. Sam finding he cared little for it these days, the thrill that filled the empty hole where his soul should be. He needed Dean to shut up and deal, sooner rather than later, so they could start hunting like the stupid fucking professionals they were. He found that the more Dean resisted, the more Sam craved possessing him, keeping the idiot by his side, and beating the shit out of him until he moaned with it.
They both shut their minds down during the nights, Dean scrunched up and sleeping in the back seat, while Sam stood outside the car, watched over him. He fell into a humming cadence with the beetles flying past his ears, cleaned their weapons on a blanket placed on the hood of the car. He formulated a plan right about when the tree frogs started in; disassembled guns and sharpened knives to the plans of breaking Dean so completely he’d never abandon Sam, even in his soulless state.
Which is why it all went to hell, of course, outside of Bumfuck, West Virginia
It’s a goddamn pack, Sam had thought, as he shoved an injured Dean aside mid-fight, a torn shoulder and dislocated knee making him useless. Three skinwalkers instead of the one they’d figured on. The harsh shove caused Dean to stumble backwards, tripping over his own feet on the sloping, mountainside backyard and wound up smack in the center of a faerie ring.
Sam had the three skinwalkers in a circle of dead meat around his legs, sore over having to discharge bullets in public, when he spotted his brother. Dean and he locked eyes, Dean’s wide with fear, Sam realizing he was seeing something Sam could not. Sam’s eyes narrowing as he caught the reason in his peripheral…the ring glowing with the light of a fae and then his brother vanished.
Gone.
Sam cursed, drug the bodies into the woods behind Joe Blow’s house, and performed a quick salt and burn. Didn’t give a damn when Joe himself rushed out to yell at him, said he was calling 911 and would testify so that Sam received the death penalty for murder and arson. Sam was not amused, wrapping his hands tightly around the talking meat sack’s throat and lifting him three inches off the ground. Joe gagged, eyes bulging out of his skull. Sam threw him a good two feet away, riding high on endorphins after he’d felt the man’s windpipe crunch beneath his palm.
He booked it to where they parked the car, grabbing his special duffel hidden beneath the normal one. The new bag was packed lightly: a few essential items of bdsm gear, a ton of salt, herbs, and most importantly, written magics to bind and kill all species of fae.
Those, the incantations, Sam sweet-talked out of an Indiana University professor specializing in the fairy lore aspect of mythology. The man, a literal genius in his field of study, just happened to harbor a secret interest in sociopaths. Mainly, those who held no qualms in fucking him within an inch of his life.
It took less than thirty seconds for Sam to retrieve the duffel and return to the backyard, chanting the entire way as he rounded the corner of the house to get to the faerie ring. Mrs. Joe Blow ran screaming towards him as he stepped through the toadstool circle, and the last thing he heard, before blinking away into another realm, was her body hitting the back porch, his shotgun warm from discharge.
*******
Less than five minutes in the realm and Sam had his bearings straight with the assistance of elves he stumbled upon through the portal. He bribed them, the two male wee ones nearly pissing themselves when handed shiny gold dollar coins. The real trick though, was in knowing all their names to Name for servitude, and in understanding Avalon was in the midst of her autumnal season and her harvest moons, magics there responding differently through the seasons.
The two elves dressed just as the ones he’d seen in the watch shop, those employed by the Leprechaun, with white linen blouses and working breeches. One turned his face far, far upwards towards Sam’s and spoke with amazement, “You’ve no intent, good or bad, t’all.”
Sam let the obvious statement slip by, pulling an ancient binder from his duffel, and threating to Name them. The binder a gift from a druid in Montana, mentioned to him by his satisfied professor, and the ancient pages filled with information on all the realms and species of fae. Sam quirked an eyebrow and said, “Stop shaking. I’m looking for someone special, someone who’s been here before. My brother.”
Sam recognized the lies as soon as the elves began, knew it the perfect time to practice the magics he’d memorized, the binder a crutch he couldn’t afford. After, when the elves were doubled over in pain, blood running from their eyes and noses, Sam knew their continued service was guaranteed.
He stopped frequently along their journey, Naming and discovering those who had harmed his brother on Dean’s initial visit. He treated his host elves to bottled cream and gold coins for their obedience. Fed their bellies with meats he bartered from Ogres along their path. The tales over the next eves spread, of a Mortal King, one who could bend them to his will, nurture and protect them, identify them all.
Other tales spread, ones such as the spriggans who crossed his path. How Sam drew out their thick, oozing sap and blood, torturing them over campfires made of birch wood, until they lay too damaged to beg for mercy. Rumors heard throughout the ballys told of a Mortal King pummeling and cutting down those who wronged his brother during the Lost One’s first time in Avalon.
That Sam Winchester could – perhaps - be just and fair, who never slept as other mortals did and spoke with both Seelie and Unseelie along his bloody path to the castle. The mortal brother of the Lost One confusing and astounding the fae.
He marched on, burnt down forests and ruthlessly hunted whenever the mood struck him on his journey; waged his own war on Unseelie fae such as the trolls who used the faerie portals to steal mortal children and elderly and in their place, sent changelings.
On occasion, when he was begged to show mercy by his elfin hosts, Sam shrugged, jacket tight against his shoulders, and moved on. Those who survived his melee surged forward with him, across the rugged terrain to Oberon’s palace, the wolves howling their progress.
******
In Avalon, the Seelie Court of Fae ruled.
The Unseelie Court beneath and around the realm were barely tolerated pests, and their supervised time to play amongst the Sidhe was strictly observed. In otherworlds, the Unseelie Courts reigned supreme over their fairy mounds, their marshlands, and their dank castle treasure rooms.
The Court’s healer began the story as always, spoken quite clearly in human tongue and meant as a soothing balm for Dean’s soul as he once again healed from the night’s festivities. She was the very Sidhe fey who found him two and ten eves past. Among Dean’s first lessons were that the healer served under Oberon, Fairy King of Avalon, as well as The Mortal King and her sole responsibility: to restore Dean’s health at all cost.
The dawn’s light fell on the healer’s hands as they skimmed over Dean’s features. He listened, eyes open in relief, a rarity he not be blindfolded, and for that small gift she wept in joy. He heard her voice in the octave that pleased him most, a gorgeous high alto, as she sang of him, the Lost One, returned so soon to Avalon. He cringed at a memory, his prior time in the realm a mess of confusion and anger.
The healer’s story continued whilst tenderly applying spearmint and herbal mash to his back; dove light kisses of her slender fingers worked effortlessly down Dean’s spine and between the crease of his ass toward his torn hole. Her dark brown ringlets of hair hung loose, tickling the patches of skin that weren't bleeding, draping over his upper back as she circled the slightly gaped furl. The healer was attempted to distract him as she needed to heal him inside as well as out, her tiny breasts and large nipples resting beside his head on his restraining table.
She was a delicious piece of fae, tight bodied, caring, and if this were any other situation, Dean would have loved to get lost inside her cunt. But it was not. For all her details, she was still the bitch who refused to knock him out as she repaired his broken body.
Dean tried in vain to remain oblivious, relaxed, only to have memories of the Pit surface and he was there, back on Alistair’s cross screaming. Crying as the healer’s magics seared poker-hot across his bruised ribs and deep within his inflamed and gaping ass. He screamed because he could, mouth freed as always at dawn from the varied ball and metal gags he wore at night. Dean now knew all the bondage implements used as per order of the Mortal King, to ‘sort out the obstinate consort.’
The healer allowed her entire body to drape him, her strength far more than her lithe form suggested. Even without magics, she and her kind could trick the eye with nothing more than their normal state of being. Were she allowed, given her allotted time with Dean, she whispered to him she would use her magics to fly his mind elsewhere, soaring above the clouds where no pain may find him.
But she would do no such thing now, the apples of her high cheekbones bloomed rusty pink with the thought of the Mortal King’s punishments; her kind keenly aware of all manners and disciplines utilizing the cows’ leather and the Brownies’ fabrics, showcasing how the mortal ruler kept such gloriously tight control over their Lost One.
She would be scourged, held high on The Oak as an ill-intent noble fae ought – wearing The Mortal King’s sigil-engraved wrist cuffs to dangle from the branches. Her body left tattered for the Unseelie upon a rare night visit granted them into the realm, to do with as they pleased.
Dean turned his head when she tensed, knew through countless morning sessions of her aroused state. He felt her murmur softly into the nape of his neck, how the treatments he endured to be made worthy of consort made her cunt clench; how she ached with restraint to not straddle his leather-mitted fists and grind out her release.
If this were any other woman, in his own universe, Dean would encourage her to do as she pleased. The leather mitts were shackled to the table using thick natural rope looped through D-rings and tied off at the table’s eyehooks. This position had him stomach down with arms bent at the elbow so that his fists were by his face.
The leg restraints were kept tight in the same fashion. The position allowed his bowlegs to rest comfortably flat against the surface. His dick – flaccid and to remain as such - and balls were wrapped tight in burlap, the pouch formed by twine tied above his balls. Dean hated this table, despised every bit of what had become of him, but the itchy pouch and the hole in the table for his bundled package to hang through, they utterly humiliated him.
All of Dean is off limits to the healer, so she called out for another fae to service her. An answering call sounded as a male fae claimed the job. Dean’s skin crawled as the creature unfroze from a statuesque pose held in a nook along the bathing room’s far wall. The fae’s full erection, long and slender, bobbed as he walked across the room to them.
The Mortal King’s dual rule with Oberon decreed that all male fae in the Seelie Court willing to remain were to voluntarily allow themselves to be tagged and restrained round their members with a thick leather cuff. They were to be ready to service anyone within the palace at all times, at either King’s whim. The few who chose to leave did so without fear, almost all eventually slinking back to request the monarchs’ permissions when word spread of their delicious treatments.
This male, an alabaster Selkie specimen in his human form, knelt behind the healer and waited. The healer tapped Dean’s cheek, offering to be watched if he so desired. Dean did not desire, was more than disgusted, and yet, couldn’t not look. He watched in morbid fascination as the healer angled her plush bottom, arms still holding onto Dean, and she spoke to the Selkie in his own tongue. He watched as the Selkie lifted his slender hips and sunk deeply into his sister, his black eyes hidden beneath long black bangs, attempting to avoid scaring the mortal.
The male fae indentured into palace service were allowed no completion in their pleasure. Dean’s lips formed a sneer at the thought, not believing that any creature – mortal or supernatural – would volunteer for such a thing. He’d been assured, the palace’s male fae eyeing him in reverence and lust, that it was an ultimate privilege to please, that they did so of their own free will.
The healer shivered at the intrusion, adjusting her thighs outside her Selkie brother’s own so that she could find purchase in caring for all of Dean’s body with ease. He could see very little, could hear only the faintest slap of her bottom against the Selkie’s lap as she sank down. When she cradled Dean’s face in her delicate hands he was forced to blink away tears he hadn’t been aware of; he jerked his face as far from her as he could manage when she plucked a delicate kiss on the rounded tip of his nose.
She resumed her story of Avalon as she rode her Selkie brother’s cock, told of her Mortal King and his consort in training, wiped away Dean’s tears and finger-painted more magics onto his pale and shackled canvas.
*******
The Avalon realm’s division of land was never particularly unique by fae standards. The lands were divided ‘fore and evermore so Oberon decreed,’ into counties, then smaller still, into townlands. Of course, the ruling courts of Sidhe in Avalon looked down on the word ‘townlands.’ Thus, they petitioned, influencing those throughout the counties and provinces to reinstate the term ‘ballys’ as appropriate. As fanciful even, of which even the stodgiest of the Seelie’s Court found humorous.
The inner kingdom, those much like the areas surrounding a human metropolis, are urban grounds. It’s there that homes are fashioned in the form of small huts for a rare, few Fae, but the ballys’ caves and earth mounds are home for the remaining majority, and it’s preferred that way. The living woods are kept unhindered as the most prominent glory of all the landscape, with rotund evergreens and deciduous plant life filling the forests.
In fact, there are thousands upon thousands of trees, hundreds of tall Oak, but only one is revered. The Oak towers a massive one hundred and ten feet tall, her sprawling branches as thick in circumference as the evergreen trunks in the realm beyond Avalon. She is not the tallest, nor is she the oldest, but she is the most sacred.
Under her shade, deities from other realms feast in celebration, winged sprites hold spring court amongst her canopy, and the gnomes garden her soil with such care that each sigil of Avalon is shown in perfect etching along her trunk’s base. There are fey lines leading from her to cliffs off in the East, allowing the Selkie to find their way. It’s known that pixies skirt up her trunk, the mating rituals sacred to them carried out amongst her knotted branches.
Even the Unseelie know her well, the court punished Seelie hung by their wrists and given over for pleasure in exchange for donations of their magics to her.
Central to The Oak is Oberon’s castle, built thousands of eves ago. Placed to be a mere hundred yards from the tree, it is situated in perfect proximity so that now, even The Mortal King may witness those fae to be punished by the Fairy King.
The palace is as the woods are, perfectly in sync with Avalon’s earthen atmosphere, her creamy exterior and interior stones overtaken by climbing vines and flora, jewel encrusted stones to mimic the caves near the Eastern border. In decorating, Oberon begged audience with the stag, asking that they might stamp into wet mash foundation slab. The hardened, hoove-imprinted slabs were placed randomly throughout the palace guest rooms, kitchen, and bathing rooms.
The Gnomes who wore green jackets were seen beside themselves, 'ever and more herding the dewy-eyed does from the spectacle. After which, the Gnomes went about helping the red-tailed squirrel collect pinecone to decorate the castle’s outer crevices. They assisted the robins and red-throated grosbeaks in lining much of the castle’s rocky base, spindled turrets, and the Fairy King’s own bedroom windowsills with Irish moss.
Ogres were employed with bribes of trout and cream, of black bear steaks and hearty mead. They hollowed out canyon boulders, made them suitable for the palace’s exquisite bathing rooms, and carried them to the palace. Sprites and Pixies conferenced with the bees and carved their gifts of beeswax into candles that lit the entire palace.
All the while, their brother Brownies kept the palace swept free of any dust or dirt during and after construction, mending work clothes of those employed, and coveting their own rewards of cream and immaculately clean corners of abode.
One bright star lights and heats the realm, bathes the land in hues of the lightest pinks, teals, and oranges depending on Fae’s seasons. Before the Lost One returned, before The Mortal King followed and ravaged his way across the realm, there were nightly celebrations at all Oak. Entertainment often came from the rare species of animal seen only in the mortal world or from the mortal children taken by trolls and brought to the Court when too old for the Unseelie to tolerate.
Finally, there was the arrival of The Mortal King, and the other Oak became scenes of spilt blood and the Naming of names - the result of fae refusing to speak of where his lost mortal was kept. The grand tree herself, once again became the center of Avalon by sheer necessity. The fae refugees who survived the Mortal King’s torturous inquisitions were haggard. They were many and they were Fae of all species.
Terrified.
The Mortal King had Avalon on her knees within three eves of his coming, methodically defeating them, beating them down, and killing them with his own magics and iron weapons in order to find his brother Dean.
Within six eves of his arrival, The Mortal King was shown to The Oak by a leprechaun, the wee one exhausted from the counting of two jars of salt spilt over two eves. The giant mortal stormed the inner kingdom’s palatial gardens where Oberon waited in his finest armors, surrounded by his finest magicians and elfin warriors. By the end of the sixth eve, the dawn of the seventh day, Samuel Winchester, younger brother of the Lost One, was crowned.
By the early afternoon of the seventh eve, he had the court bound in servitude of their own volition. He feasted with them in The Oak’s shade during the earliest hours of the night, waiting for his mortal brother to be prepared, then he stripped the noblest of them all.
In the light of Avalon’s moon, the Mortal King tied his older brother, the Lost One named Dean Winchester, to lowest of her branches. Bound him belly down, arms stretched forward and tied downwards towards wooden stakes in the ground beneath. He was bound at the wrists with natural rope as were his legs in equal condition.
Dean was made to watch the Fairy King’s punishment, as Oberon was responsible in the plunder of his mouth and channel. The Lost One was quieted with a ball, cow leather straps held it in place and buckled tight around his head, while his brother spoke to all in attendance that he was the only being permitted to lay hands on their beloved Lost One, ‘ever and more.
After his decree, the youngest Winchester beat Oberon with a heavy Oak paddle ‘til his buttocks turned red, then shades of purples and blue. Between rounds of five and ten smacks, he stopped to have the Queen Titania, kneel in front of her dangling lover’s groin. She was to service the Fairy King with her mouth until he was erect and leaking then discontinue as he was beat again, cycling until Oberon was gone with pain and need.
Titania’s punishment cycled as well, pulled off her lover’s cock, her mouth a jeweled shade of red, and her upper body was pushed to bend forward as a cat. Her arms were braced on the ground, slender thighs wedged apart on the width of the mortal’s boot. She was made to suffer a whip fashioned from knotted leathers, the tip tapered. Her cries of horror a terrible sound as the whip repeatedly found its mark on the outer lips of her pussy and on the pink furled hole of her ass, spilling crimson onto the clover beside her knees.
Oberon’s climax came not from her lips but from the iron grip of Sam’s hand around his cock. He was jerked twice, painfully, and his release splattered his chest in thick ropes as the mortal’s thumbnail delved and tore into his slit. The queen’s lover was stolen from her and by the second eve past, Queen Titania lay on her death bed of a broken heart and wounds she refused to heal. Her lover bid her his goodbyes and when the Mortal King entered her chambers and demanded he leave, he fled without a parting kiss.
One eve past the Queen of Avalon’s death, Oberon sat beside Sam at The Oak not as a lover, but as a dual monarch in title only, at the complete mercy of his mortal counterpart. Sam diligently welcomed the mortals who stumbled upon Avalon, whether through deals with the brethren Leprechaun or by ignorance of faerie rings. He wiped the blood of the newcomers' lashed backs onto their faces, painted them with sigils, protecting them from Unseelie, and garnering their good will and submission to the Seelie Court of Fae.
They were sent with the most loving of local fae, species not an issue, as long as it be known that the mortals were to be treated as equals. There was no tolerance for slavery in the kingdom, both kings simply too uninterested in the distrust and the wars the practice invariably produced. Those in the real who submitted voluntarily were treated the same as well, fae and mortal alike. They were loved and allowed their freedom at a single utterance of their say so.
The healer finished there, story complete. She ended her recollections, picking up an Ash wand of healing properties and groaned, the Selkie fucking her having changed to a slower tempo. She collected herself, passing the wand over Dean’s lashed and bloodied back right as her climax hit, internal muscles clamping down on the Selkie’s shaft.
She shushed him as the magics seeped through the mortal’s skin, allowing her orgasm transferred to him and he convulsed in disgust as the sensation slammed into him, his long legs vibrating, fine blond hair of them startling against restraints holding him taut. Her only gift of escape and he fought it, saddening even her brother Selkie as he slid out of her cunt, looking on with furrowed brow.
She chided her brother this worry, tutted the lust he held for Dean, afraid if he was not back upon his mantelpiece and far away from the consort, The Mortal King would have her brother’s seal skin peeled and hung in his place.
She doesn’t know that another two and ten eves will pass until all see the beautiful mortal naked in Avalon’s moonlight, ready to accept his role as consort, agreeing under duress. The moon will see Dean plead in agony and she will herald his answer to the accompaniment of the sprites’ fluttering Gossamer wings.
All in attendance will sing and dance, accustomed to the states of bodily undress The Mortal King’s brother has worn over eight and ten eves. Reds running in rivers down the Lost One’s legs and back, robin egg blues and plum purples painting Dean’s lips and cheeks as he shivered from the pain, and greens, blacks, and tans from the varied restraints and toys wrapped round him and shoved deep within him, and on that four and twentieth eve…
********
After the great Palatial Garden War, the Beating of Oberon, and the Death of the Queen Titania, a massive celebration was set to take place. The Sidhe fae arrived at The Oak in their finest silk and linen garments whilst the gossamer wings of sprites were polished to reflect the dancing lights of the fireflies. Sprites, lovely and petite as the beetles and bees, took great pride in their appearance and nudity. With no need for fineries, they and the pixies set about as The Oak’s decorators.
Pixie fae were far more mischievous than their kin, males and females who were unabashed in their nudity as well. Unlike the sprites, they were without wings, and they used shiny mineral powders made from the ore of Avalon’s caves to make themselves sparkle. Golds, silvers, blues, and occasionally deep emeralds lit the branches above the feast as the pixie danced and sang in tinkling bell tones, songs of their new alliance to be with The Mortal King.
Oberon sat on a knotted root as his fine, furred robe hung about the shoulders of the bound and seated mortal before him. The Fairy King wore a white peasant blouse, the golden embroidered monogram of his late Titania’s initials on the left breast. His breeches were soft cotton riding pants, and he wore the finest of cow leather riding boots. His blonde hair was mussed, short and a bit curly about his head, and his face was slim as all the species fey possessed.
Oberon’s skin was sun-darkened, days spent nude and cuffed in Sam’s tanned leather restraints. He hung from the rafters of the King’s chamber, placed directly in the sunlight pouring through the open windows. Those in the palatial gardens had great opportunities to see him in such state, knew of his submissions, and of the oral pleasures he performed with the lesser fae species for Sam’s entertainment.
Now, at the beginning of the late afternoon of the fourth and twentieth eve, the Fairy King sits among them, nervous. Sam had brutally punished hundreds of Avalonians in the name of his soon to be consort, his brother, and the King, well-versed in Sam’s ministrations, had no desire to be next.
Sam scowls at the scene upon arrival, finding he cares neither one way nor the other of the fineries and pretentious display. The fae are infamous for it, despite the fact that most lived in earthen mounds and stunk of body odor due to their disdain of antiperspirant and deodorant. He tolerated the term Mortal King, deserved of the title, in hopes to bring the ancient fae up to speed on modern dress, even if he had to cane them all with iron rods to do so.
Tonight’s celebration would be a different affair, more than a demonstration of his consort’s perfection. Many had seen their Lost One in pain, his tears when plugged with ginger root, anal plugs of metal and glass, and twice on Sam’s fist. Sam had been stunned with the tears he could prompt from the stoic hunter. He had ample opportunity to explore this facet of Dean while explaining to him, voice thick with want, that Dean was incredible, worth worshipping in manners such as crying while Sam flogged his dick, stuffed full with a steel sound.
Sam had experimented further, finding the best success in breaking his brother’s spirit had been in removing all of the man’s senses. Sam used many awe inspiring, natural gear in the realm: hand-spun silk straight from the silkworm, used to fashion fabric into blindfolds; noise cancelling earplugs of plain beeswax; fallen logs at desired heights serving as restraining horses; and cow leather patches with head harness and buckles to muzzle Dean’s face and mouth. Most importantly, Sam simply forbade any physical or mental contact.
The deprivation exercises fascinated him, made him ecstatic at the results as he was the only one to re-establish touch, waiting for hours upon hours until Dean was near seizing with the need for any form of outside stimulation.
Sam knew to coddle Dean in those first minutes, gently removing and unclasping each item. He knew to tell him what an amazing brother he was, playing a role Lucifer had shown to him in the cage a million times over. He knew they had many more eves to go when Dean cursed him out, his choked voice threating to kill the monster wearing his brother’s face.
This fourth and twentieth eve, Dean is on the precipice of losing himself for the final time, the weight of the end of the world plaguing him, again. The issue already heavy on his mind with the knowledge that he’d finally lost the brother he’d loved his entire life. It was too much, thinking on that year when Sam dove into the Pit and now – well, now.
Dean knows the monster in Sammy’s clothes watches him in curiosity, is the one who violates him every day, confuses him with terms of endearment, tells him he’s good and worth something. Soothes the aches, jerks him off, and reinforces that he and Sam, they’re all that matter. It goes on and on, through spankings, through the internal explorations with anal scopes, through beatings.
Dean’s lost count.
On the fourth and twentieth eve, Sam is beyond ready to have his older brother verbally and mentally acknowledge his position as consort. He wants assurance that Dean could be a thousand miles away in any realm of Fae and still remain safe under his protection. Sam’s life requires a special kind of diligence, one in which the victims of mortal world hunts are a liability to be ignored. He needs Dean complacent, ready to accept Sam’s rule over the fae realm as well as to hunt with him in the mortal world with equally cool indifference.
Past the onlookers and under his favorite tree limb, Sam focuses on Dean seated ramrod straight on a small wooden stool, pert ass hanging off the edges. Dean’s body is svelte with lean muscle, not an ounce of fat on him as Sam maintains his strict dietary intake and exercise regimen. This discipline isn’t easy, considering it’s Dean however, the good had thus far outnumbered the excruciating moments. One time, just once, Dean fought back so resolutely against Sam’s ministrations, adamantly refusing to eat, that the punishment shocked and delighted Sam to no end.
It was sometime in the middle of Dean’s training, Sam disgusted with Dean’s childish antics, memories of brotherly squabbles involving personal responsibility and leaving, and Sam fought back. Nothing could have prepared Dean for the terror of that night, of Sam holding him completely still against his chest, his mouth kept open with a ring gag, and a tube shoved down his throat. The pain accompanied by his gag reflex didn’t let up as mashed food slopped straight down his esophagus.
After, he was spanked by hand, then with brush, then hand over several hours that eve. Face down over Sam’s lap, Sam fingered his hole, plugged him with ginger root followed with ice chips so that his bowels burned and swelled. He was oiled deeply inside with what he would swear on his life was the cook’s turkey baster, then hand spanked again.
Sam’s own dick, fat and obscene against Dean’s abdomen remained in his trousers, as always, but this punishment had Sam’s hips jerking up, voice tensed as he threatened to let the wolves at Dean’s ass for his behaviors. Dean had begged, snot flowing down his face onto his brothers breeches, traitorous ‘pet’ cock fully erect and trapped between Sam’s thighs.
Sam spoke with pride, saying how pleased he was with the punishment, Dean cursing him as Sam rubbed crushed mint into his welts, twisted more ginger root into him and against his gland on each pass, until he came so hard he blacked out.
This eve, Dean's skin smells of peppermint and hints of rosemary, light brown hair now darker and wavy as Sam prefers it an inch longer than the military cut Dean usually wore.
Dean’s arms are positioned sharply behind his back, bent at the elbow, forearms resting one atop the other. Sam bound him from his elbows down to and around his clasped wrists with a tanned cowhide strip modified with buckle closures. His ankles are in leather cuffs, an oak dowel spreader bar separating his legs three feet apart, and his chest and his groin, unwrapped from his burlap cock pouch, are shaved baby smooth.
Sam walks to him, kneels and cups his brother’s face, feeling the strong jaw tense for a fraction of a second before utterly relaxing. Dean doesn’t give more than a flinch when Sam jams a thumb into his mouth, rubbing a bitter powder over the top and bottom gums. The foul taste of toadstool powder makes him want to vomit.
The powder is fast acting, Dean’s pupils contracting even before the toxin sets in. He has learnt not to shake his head, so instead he mumbles, “s’mfabitch. N’t Sam,” and then his pupils dilate, the black of them quickly engulfing moss green.
“Earth to Dean?” Sam stays kneeling, engrossed in what is being set in motion as the chattering of gnomes and sprites picks up intensity.
Dean is speechless, merely cutting his eyes to where Sam kneels before him. Sam’s sick of waiting, begins the celebrations by motioning to Oberon to come join them. The Fairy King settles on his knees beside Sam and lowers his gaze to Dean’s groin, flaccid cock nestled on top of his balls. Dean will not get his relief for a while, the toadstool toxin working against the possibility of arousal, exactly as Sam had hoped.
It’s a scene, this celebration is. A glorious mindfuck…one that’s been thirty years in the making.
Sam rubs his thumbs over Dean’s eyes, administering the toadstool powder there as well, while nodding to Oberon as he mutters an incantation. Oberon looks to be stunned, completely focused on the Lost One’s eyes, how glossy they’ve become. No longer able to sit up straight, Dean’s own body weight and bound hands have him tilting forward, straight into Sam’s embrace. Dean feels Sam’s chest rumble with quiet laughter, only to cease suddenly so he looks over to find a cloud of lust forming in Oberon’s gaze, watches as Sam grabs the back of the Fairy King’s head.
By the time he’s removed his hand, Dean senses that something is very wrong, that he’s in a whole new ballgame. He turns his head from where it’s buried against a warm, muscled chest and gasps.
“No. No...no. No,no,no.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
*******
Sam’s insides tighten with the word as Dean sees who he thinks to be his father, right here in this piss hole of another universe…alive. He wonders out-loud whether Dean thinks he’s in Hell again, that dad never escaped from the devil’s gate and is still there. He wonders, and Dean muffles his cry of shock against Sam’s shoulder.
Sam spared no expense in making Oberon’s shift into his father spot-on. The face every fae species sees is of a mournful John Winchester. Dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, grizzled black and white scruff, and the smell of gun oil all designed to hit his brother in the gut.
Dean’s mind is this: he’s so fucking tired and his father is here. Here, in this godforsaken place and then, that too changes. One moment, he’s bound up tight, outside and surrounded by creatures he’d no sooner befriend than squash like bugs and the next…he’s in a ramshackle cabin out in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina, eating breakfast with Sammy on his left and his dad on his right.
Sam unbinds Dean’s hands and arms, kisses the skin as it’s revealed, then positions him seated perfectly upright, allowing the hallucination to play out. Wherever Dean has blinked himself to, he’s relaxed, carrying on with his father, the corners of his eyes crinkled in happiness. That is until he jerks, when Oberon or rather, John Winchester, reaches a hand out and lays it atop Dean’s thigh. Dean whispers concerns, spouting off a dialogue on what he’s imagining.
“…you all right, dad?”
He mumbles more, tells Sammy that ‘dad’s hand is solid, that he feels connected, and fuck, how he’s missed hanging out, the three of them.’ Oberon has access to all of John’s idiosyncrasies, knows how the man worshipped his sons – told Sam in practicing the spell that he was in awe of John dying in place of his son.
It’s that particular trait that Oberon zeros in on, Sam giving him limited express permission, and Oberon finds himself absorbed in the Winchester father’s persona.
“Fine, son, I’m doing fine.”
Dean’s eyes roll to the left and right in his drugged delirium, his body sagging forward again, limp against Sam’s chest and unaware he’s nuzzled the top of his head tightly under Sam’s chin. The silly action however, sparks the possessive instincts in Sam’s psyche.
Sam knows that Sammy wasn’t the best of friends with his father, knows that dead part of him was equal parts in love with John as much as he hated him. Loved that his father could protect them, hated that he didn’t. Loved that his father cared for them, hated that John’s failure was taken out on Dean both physically and mentally. Therefore, Sam’s through with it, has no qualms with this surviving part of him killing off Dean’s relationship with John for good.
Unaware of the turmoil in either brother’s head, John leans over to where Dean’s resting, begins to circle his hand along his son’s thigh, inching it higher. He pats the inner area, squeezes the soft give, the flesh goose pimpled with his ministrations.
“What do you see, Dean?” he asks, eliciting from the Lost One a description of a long-forgotten summer cabin their dad had rented, needing to recover from a broken clavicle.
John had been a prickly bastard that summer, the three of them cooped up in the little two-bedroom rental, so Sam stayed away, time spent swimming in the community pool three blocks over, skin turning dark brown from the summer sun. Dean, ever the soldier, stayed pasty pale waiting on their dad hand-in-foot, worried his father would overdose on his pain meds and his fifths. So worried, Dean surprised them all as he declined many a Friday night back-seat quickies.
He was nursemaid and everyone’s cook, bitching the whole time, but he stopped at doing chores. Those were Sammy’s, the younger brother often hearing, “go clean the shitter, bitch,” or Dean with his face in the pillow, “Too tired, dad needs you to go mow the lawn. I’m sick of the rats in the house without ‘em paying rent.”
Unable to be happy about a damn thing, unable to give Dean one iota more than a, “good job, son,” John sank further into his bottles. The memories of that time cause Dean’s mumbling to take on a rough edge, miserable that his father’s decline was his fault, that he was eighteen and ought to know how to take care of his family, the house, maintain the weapons, and to up his training. Ought to, but day by day, Dean shattered in the wrong ways – their father to self-absorbed in his own revenge to notice.
Oberon – John – stops him, cups his face and pats the cheeks with giant Winchester paws, the ridiculously massive set of hands Sammy inherited.
“Yeah, about that. I’m so sorry, Dean. Is your brother home, son?” Dean’s about to answer but feels his father’s other hand move up his left leg, leaving a wake of scorched nerve endings crawling with something odd.
“He’s…yeah, Sammy’s right here, dad.” John makes a grand gesture, turns his face towards Sam’s and nods in acknowledgment.
“Yeah, Jesus, too much of the good meds. Sorry, Sam, but you wanna do your old man a favor?”
Sam sinks into the role play, calls up bits of memory on that summer, his catalogue of emotions telling him that his younger self would’ve been suspicious if his dad sent him to do something on his own.
Perfect.
“By myself?” As John nods, he slowly slides a finger near Dean’s mouth and his other hand slips a millimeter shy of Dean’s sack.
Dean’s discomfort shows, “What?” And Sam wonders on his memories of the Pit being more prevalent than he lets on as Dean utters, “Alis..” cuts off then…
“Seriously, um, dad? Sammy’s fourteen, the pool’s one thing but d’ntcha think I should go with him on errands to town?” Technically, it’s a valid query as the town center was a good five miles west of their cabin.
“He can hold his own. Taught him yourself. You’re all right to hike it, aren’t you, kiddo? Besides, I know how to father my boys, Dean.” It’s a harsh reprimand, one that Dean’s body recognizes. He’s so intent on performing like the good marine that he barely notices John’s send off to Sam.
Sam is gone and Dean isn’t aware until his head isn’t resting anywhere and he’s falling forward. The warm smell he’d been inhaling is absent and then another hand catches him, straightens him on the stool.
John talks to him, kneads Dean’s thighs into pliant, jelly-like limbs, speaks with an authority that forever saw Dean begging at the man’s heels for more. John asks Dean about his drills, tells him, “Keep it up, boy. Helping me keep track of your brother, right?”
Dean is half out of his mind with not being able to shake his father’s hands off his body; he can’t understand, can’t see what the hell has his arms feeling as if they weigh a ton each. He shrugs his shoulders but it’s fruitless, his arms dead weight. Asking about them as his father tends to his hips now, and that’s - that is so much worse.
John’s closer to him now, kneeling between Dean’s thighs and not only is this the beginning of a bad ABC afterschool special but Dean needs to make sure Sammy doesn’t come home early, walk in and see dad fucked up like this.
He must have called out for his brother because John leans forward into his space, their chests touching they’re so close, and shushes him saying, “Son, we sent him to run errands.”
Sam stands a mere two feet from his drugged brother and the Fairy King, who looks and sounds like his late father, but touches and handles Dean in a way that John would never. It’s another moment for Sam, something beyond an experiment, his primitive emotions seeping outwards, and he knows for sure he hates the sensation.
Observations include Dean’s posture being near perfect as John massages the muscles in his hips, the slide of calloused fingers down the middle of Dean’s abs. John’s pointer finger traces a smooth path where the light brown trail of hair would normally begin from his navel.
Sam is about to yell, “stop,” or perhaps, “foreplay is over,” not sure of which one he means when John breaches the taboo and lets his fingers hit the root of Dean’s dick. The impact of the touch shows immediately, Dean’s face morphing into anger, confusion, and most importantly to the younger Winchester, an utter lack of desire.
Sam takes great joy in knowing that John’s use of his brother is going to be entirely against Dean’s will. He wants to interrupt, to slap his father on the back, and salute him with ‘well done’ for shaping both his boys into these sad, emotional screw-ups. He wants to praise their father for raising them to be so dependent on one another, that where John fails to have Dean get it up, Sam’s going to have him coming untouched.
Dean rears backwards in an attempt to get away from his father. His eyes reel, sneering at the man between his legs, he says, “Christo.”
“It’s me, son. Just me.” John picks up a tumbler and a flask with a cross on it, repeats the blessing and pours. He’s no sooner slammed it back than he’s picking up a silver knife on the table and slicing his forearm, letting the blood drip down into Dean’s lap.
Sam spared no expense with the scene’s possible outcome, the tools laid out in the grass, the substitute of sugar for salt. A good thing, as John continues his trials by pinching a small bit between his fingers, and says to Dean, “…and this,” as he rubs the ‘salt’ into his wound.
Dean lets out a sob, his mind coming apart in waves with what’s before him, too many tricks. The fae, he remembers them, and Sam – Sam and the way he kept him safe and yet touched him wrong, wrong, wrong. Dean’s stretched thin, back of his mind whispering that he can’t keep up with the lies, the truth flown away with the angels, deserting him.
Pipe dreams, hunting with dad ‘til he died and it fucking meant something, that’s what it was. Ready to beg for mercy already, as something’s got inside his father, making him this ugly piece of shit. Dean’s head groggily rolls downwards, his world crusting over in nightmare tones.
John’s hands, the same hands that held baby Sammy, the same fingers that stitched Dean’s organs back in place more than a time or two, these are the same hands now encasing his prick, fingering the large vein on the underside.
Dean inhales deeply, shuts his eyes - neither action stopping his urge to vomit. He dry heaves, brings up a bit of bile when his dad palms his scrotum, squeezes the sack hard until the tears run freely down Dean’s face.
All movement around the three of them has ceased as even the goblins invited to the celebration are overwhelmed at the destruction of the Mortal King’s consort. A few well-meaning fey weep, tears and sounds engulfed as they soothe one another. Sam looks on all the Fae attending, stands tall, shoulders squared, arousal bulging the front of his linen breeches.
“Ohhh, god.” Dean’s form crumples in half, stopped by his father’s head. John engulfs Dean, mouth opening wide and taking both flaccid cock and balls, vacuum tight. He grunts, once, twice, spitting up more bile as his traitor body attempts - fails - to harden due to the suction. He curses his hips when he jerks to seek more of the warmth as John pulls off with a loud pop.
“I gotcha, boy, let dad make it right for once.” John spits, the mess landing on the seam of Dean’s sack, and he thumbs it around the loose skin, then lower towards his hole. Unable to wet the correct area, John sits back on his haunches, grabs his son’s legs by the spreader bar and lifts, ducking under so that he’s able to pull Dean forward off the stool and into his lap. Dean yells at the move, attempts to take advantage of the situation by making to head-butt his father.
Only John’s ready for him, false experience and muscle mass on his side. He laughs at the curses, the struggling son - mortal - rubbing his bare ass all over John’s tented breeches. Moans at the sharp friction, “So good for me, boy. Should’ve used you like the bitch you were born to be, missed your mom so much, look just like her.”
Dean’s frantic from the words, using any leverage he can muster to lean forward and bite the horror he called a father, thinks it’s a trick. His arms are weighted, not knowing the toadstool poison renders them useless. His dad would never, ever…except.
And John catches his pause, knows what his son is remembering as Sam placed the specifics there for Oberon to see. Real events from Sammy’s perspective - stolen moments hidden around corners, the preteen watching Dean and their dad interact. How dad’s eyes would gloss over, drunk, and offer his older son his extra attention. Their father would never have placed a finger on either of them, but those stolen moments…John had inner demons long before Yellow Eyes rode him to hell.
So this John, Dean’s father in the here and now, he’s going to be all that John Winchester could’ve been – he’s going to let his oldest son in on his finest secrets.
“What, Dean? Didn’t think I’d be the man you needed me to be?” He grabs the back of Dean’s head and smashes his lips up against Dean’s ear.
“You knew didn’t you, son? I know you heard me, in the bathroom after you’d come inside, sweet little body covered in grease and oil from working on the Impala. Last Tuesday, even, when you creamed your pajama pants watching that crappy sci-fi flick with Sam, I had to jerk off twice that night. Smell of your load stuck in my nose.
“Such..” kiss
“A..” kiss
“Whore.”
It’s the last word John speaks, Dean’s dick mashed between them, soft but still dripping from the friction against his father’s abs. John takes Dean’s face in his hands, brings their lips together. Dean would sob if his mouth were free, his eyes dancing back in his head as John slips his tongue between his older son’s lips and plunders.
Wet heat, gives Dean the taste of his own prick – salty, earthy. John kisses him until Dean is shaking his shoulders and moaning into the kiss, trying to grasp for air, to escape. John pulls off, keeps Dean in his lap but carelessly pushes him backwards. A scream permeates the air, sharp pain emitting from it as Dean’s limp arms connect at odd angles with solid ground. The sight ramps up John’s desire, has him freeing his dick in a rip of fabric and string ties, fisting himself in an urge to mark, the plum head’s slit leaking at the sight of Dean’s now dry, flaccid cock.
When the first spark of orgasm pulls John’s balls tight, close to his body, he warns his son, “It was always this, Dean. Always this.”
And as ropes of thick come find purchase on dry, cracked lips, the woods and all of Avalon hear a mournful sound, low and gut-wrenching. Dean is broken, shattered, and at the mercy of the man who tore apart the Fae otherworld to find him.
*****
The Oak is silent, the fae of all species ceasing their mutterings and flapping about and Sam Winchester - not the younger brother, not the pathetic Sammy – had no more patience with Oberon playing in the remains of an older brother Sam had come to…enjoy. Those ugly remains were to be treasured, and Sam wanted to polish them all, stitch and create.
The core is there, the Dean that bitches and moans, the man who would sooner eat his own salt can than let Sam stick a finger up his ass, much less the entire bare fist Sam had worked deep into his channel less than two eves ago. Big brother is still there, and Sam wants, needs to see the refusal beneath the worded acceptance and bodily responses.
Dean is cradled, arms gently placed in his lap, with Sam kissing every bit of skin he can reach. His legs are free of the spreader bar, muscles kneaded of tension, and he is blissfully enveloped in Sam's space. Both brothers six solid feet of large plus, Sam sits to accommodate the grown man in his lap and wrapped tight in his arms. Patience, he had it in spades when the outcome was precisely this.
Whispers seek out Dean’s conscious, his system finally free of the toadstool’s toxin and he jerks in the embrace holding him. Startled green eyes fly open, locking on hazel ones peering down on him, and the corners of his mouth cramp inward. A grimace.
“Where is he?” Dean’s voice was strong, a lie.
“Gone. For now, at least.”
“What the hell, Sam? What…that was dad.” The strong voice warbles on the word ‘dad’ and makes Sam’s heart burst with satisfaction. Good, he thinks, good and let it be a constant reminder.
Sam sighs dramatically, keeps himself wrapped tight around Dean’s body, and lets a free digit run across an expanse of skin near his brother’s neck. Dean doesn’t fidget, only sign of discomfort the scrunch of muscle along his brows, and it melts to nothingness before Sam is able kiss it away.
“The Fae let him in. You remember, they have access to the Pit, to Heaven. I still haven’t figured that out yet.” And that was truth, the unknown access and the last bit at least. Enough of it in his voice to convince Dean that what he said isn’t a bald-faced lie. That Sam hadn’t drugged him, that he and Oberon hadn’t just raped Dean's mind and body, and that Sam was truly worried about John escaping heaven.
Dean stays silent, allows himself to be held and petted, accepts the soft kisses to the top of his head. He tenses then relaxes his body when the younger lowers, eyes zeroing in on his brother the entire time, even as their lips touch. Sam whispers ‘consort’ repeatedly against the plush mouth.
Ready to rebuild on top this new foundation.
“Let me. Let me be what I’ve asked you, man. The Fae, I hunt them and they still worship us…” Sam silences the hint of rebuttal, the next sentence a protest about morals, about what they were never meant to be.
“No. They should. I’m good at this, exactly what the realms need. We can hunt the fae who harm the mortals and rule over those who are decent. I won’t do this without you. I can but I won’t so enough of the protests. With me, right where you belong, Dean. It’s my turn to make you mine.”
All truth, Sam lets the words tumble forth without gagging on the sentiment. He pulls one arm loose, rubs his free hand up and down Dean’s left side, chest to thigh, chest to buttocks, chest to inner thigh. The attention is met with no violent reaction, no yelling or cursing, not even a sign of desperation. Dean simply takes it, molds himself into his younger brother’s body.
The willingness to be held, clinging to safety in Sam’s arms causes Sam a rush of adrenaline. He breathes, “Open,” and Dean's legs spread like springs.
His brother was stretched and oiled earlier, yet Sam wants to work Dean over until he’s begging for it. He calls out again, this time to a pair of sprites near to where he sits in the grass, “You, oil decanter. And you, the rope.”
Sam needn’t do anything but hold his hand out as the trembling sprite lifts the ancient decanter, pours a generous amount of peppermint oil onto the waiting fingers. There’s the slightest hitch in Dean’s breathing, but Sam kisses through the objection, a cry of pain that allows his tongue in right as he breaches Dean’s ass with two fingers.
Sam’s consort needs to know punishment and the static noise of pleasure that will follow. Sam is going to employ such delicious combinations of the two on this hollowed out man beneath him. Already, the objections start to fade, and while Dean is limp beneath Sam’s tongue, his hips move to sink onto a third finger. Sam crooks his fingers, encourages Dean’s vigorous humping down on the digits as they press against the spongy gland inside his ass.
Sam’s laughter is home, of familiarity, as he withdraws from the kiss, Dean lost in grunts as he chases the pleasure. Sam chides his brother, “found your little clit, baby,” and Dean’s hole squeezes tight on the fingers inside him. He stops thrusting, and looks bewildered, up towards…
“The Mortal King, Dean, that’s what they call me. And I can protect you from all of them. I’ll be the one to keep you safe, take care of you even knee-deep in a hunt. Your Sundance, remember, Dean?”
Dean’s hips pump wildly, his mind vaguely aware of the sprites closing in on them, butterfly wings fanning away the perspiration dripping down his and Sam’s necks. His prick is fat and long, slit wet like a girl, but his eyes are searching, darting from side to side. The pixies chatter proudly, having rigged the claiming branch of The Oak with ankle and wrist restraints.
“All you have to do, Dean, is say it. Who you are, were born to be. Say it and you and me, we’re going to raze the earth and all the realms of the otherworlds to keep you safe. After, I’ll find him. We’ll find dad and make him pay however you want.” He whines the last, brings out every shade of Sammy his scorched brain can muster, the world on a platter and crystal fucking clear if Dean would only give.
Dean’s body freezes at the onslaught, his channel’s muscles locked so tight, Sam would have to rip his fingers free. Whispered mentions of love, of being together, soothes as Sam doesn’t want to stop. He wants the man pliant, wants him completely aware of what he answers. Sam wants to cleanse Dean of his supposed wrongs, free him the only way Sam will allow.
He waits, time in Avalon moving along in its own leisurely way, and nuzzles his nose into the tight cords of Dean’s neck. He licks at the salty skin and bites, worries at the tendon and muscle careful not to pinch or break the skin. Sam begins again, a slip-slide of his three fingers along Dean’s inner walls, scissors his fingers to loosen the furl until the air is thick with squelching sounds, refuses to add a fourth despite the delicious sounds of begging.
Sam waits, the bells of the palace chime and tinkle, the pixie delirious with lust. “Your answer, Dean. Safety, a home with me, these creatures allowing us sanctuary. To leave, when you need to set foot on asphalt. Just answer the question.”
He starts to pull away, wants to make note of the creased lines of a thousand worries forming across his brother’s face. Starts to reason, again, as he can wait…
“Yes.”
And if this were Dean, the man as a whole, and this were Sam, psyche infused with the soul of a younger brother, there would be a pause; there would be questions and reassurances. But those men are no longer, one’s soul scattered across the universe while the other’s is a scrambled mosaic, retooled, forged in the design of the younger’s perversions.
Sam is motion, fluidity and grace as he heaves himself up, Dean in his arms and seated on his fingers. The mortal brothers are bulk and muscle in the moonlight, Avalon’s evening hues of blues, greens, and silvers shimmering off their skin. Dean’s ass glistens with oil, on full display as Sam lays him atop the prepared bough of The Oak, the branch smoothed of bark and splinters. The fae of all species clamor, nervous with excitement.
The width of the branch is enough to support Dean's back, a small convenience in the wake of what's sure to follow. He’s secured with natural rope to keep from thrashing about or falling, to prevent unnecessary injuries. The first restraint - rope about the bough to secure his upper chest an inch above his nipples.
His arms are stretched over his head, straight and together as Sam clenches Dean’s hands, balls them into a fist. A restraining rope ties off through D-rings in his wrist cuffs and loops around the branch while a leather strap wraps several times around the clenched fists.
Imps scamper about, fussing over their sister nymphs writhing on top one another, and the beasts sniff amongst the foods and libations. The feast explodes into celebration, music from all sides of the man tethered, their Lost One smart enough to be still…and good.
His ass is lifted, legs splayed wide and bent slightly at the knee as rope restraints tie off through the D-rings of his ankle cuffs and secure each raised limb to separate branches above. Cotton slings are placed under each knee, attached further up the branches supporting Dean’s leg restraints. Sam thinks it frilly, but he tolerates the pampering - the support of his brother’s knees not a worthy issue.
The placement of his exposed body, the anticipation of his torment has Dean panting, steadying himself as a slivered piece of Dean Winchester fights through the melee. Sam spots it immediately and wastes no time in leaning in, biting through the skin surrounding a swollen nipple. He laps at the welling blood and cracks a joke to the newcomer persona about kinky bastards and what’ll make ‘em show up to the party.
Dean Winchester shines through, holds back the tears and the pain and retaliates with a joke of his own, voice ripe with pride, “Who you calling kinky, you freak?”
Sam stands and pats one of the restrained legs as one might a pet, keeps his eyes on the original Dean Winchester as this is the persona he'll need in agreement. This is the one who’ll burn the whole lot of them to ground if Sam doesn’t offer up the proper argument. This is the one he is going to cherish beating and fucking.
“Go ahead, Sam, and yeah…I know who you are. Flirt those puppy eyes all you want, Robo boy, but I'm no longer a blushing virgin now, am I?”
The sound of a willow bark whip slices through the air, Sam’s wrist snapping the whip back the second before impact to cut and sting. The initial sensation is similar to a bee sting, quick and painful. The second sensation a roar of pain smashing through Dean’s body. Sam doesn’t halt in his excitement, high on making Dean bleed, utilizing extreme precision and lashing out twenty times before he gives pause. The bound man’s torso is a screaming bright pink, a pattern of horizontal welts from below his roped chest restraint down to his quivering abdomen.
“C’MON THEN!” It’s still Dean and the only thing keeping Sam from coming in his linen breeches is sheer determination.
Twenty more lashes, the green whip finding it’s mark every time; twenty horizontal cuts welting up from Dean’s abs onwards to his filled prick. There’s a moan as the tip of the whip is scratched across his cut and swollen scrotum, pain thick in his voice as he talks himself through the trial. Sam sees the change, senses Dean Winchester letting go and accepting.
"No other way is there, Sam?”
The answer a tap of an apple tree sucker against his raised heels, the branch striking ten times across each foot, each stroke followed through on impact. Dean’s sounds are animalistic, his yelps and cries carrying across the palatial gardens, causing the beasts to rustle with renewed energy. The fae are punch drunk on the sounds and sights such as the blood that drips down the Lost One’s feet and legs. The Oak’s energy is a buzz in the air, tangible with each stroke of the apple branch across hips and thighs, each thud against solid muscle intoxicating.
The sprite are so numerous that Dean shivers, his lips bleeding from his biting and blue from the cold. He keeps his head back against the safety of the bough, eyes blinking away moisture, chest rising in a panic. He’s been here before, beaten and torn from the outside-in, but it’s never felt this way; he feels correct in this, the proper thing to do.
The whipping ceases, fingers inside him now, those of a mortal monster intent on bringing the world to its knees.
Dean grunts, the sting of a nettle branch rubbed across his cock and of four fingers pushed inside him. He hiccups from the fear, of being fucked not with the cold detachment of Oberon, not with varied toys as those are one thing, but this…this is Sam.
“Shh, you and me, Dean. There’s no other way and I think you know don’t you, baby?” With no further warning, Sam is between his legs in a whole new manner. None of the punishments led here. There is the feel of Sam lining up and then he pushes the tip of himself in, breaches Dean’s hole.
It won’t ever be okay. Dean will swear to the gods and goddess that getting off on his baby brother – the man he is now – fucking into him is horrid, an abomination. But these pieces of him, jagged slivers coursing through his veins and cutting off his circulation…
When Sam bottoms out, straddling the branch with Dean’s swaying ass on his lap, Dean swears and the imps and tiny fae flutter close around him and press kisses to his cheeks, lilting voices speaking, “shh,” and “sacred,” in his ears and along his chest.
When Sam pumps and thrusts, reaches in front on him and palms the underside of Dean’s dick, already standing proud on its own, Dean apologizes to Mary – begging her forgiveness as he’s desperate to withstand her youngest’s aggressions as well as his enormous cock for the sanctity of being possessed, of never being left.
Sam leans over and kisses him breathless, dick angling just so to strike that perfect spot. Dean shakes with it, chokes on the sensation of being more than simply stuffed full on Sam’s cock.
Sam keeps the angle, thrusts erratic and powerful enough to lift Dean’s back off the bough. The bastard smiles against swollen lips, “Your clit, Dean. Just between us. Need one more thing to get us there, baby.”
And Dean’s eyes water as that’s Sam’s fingertip prying into his wet slit, and that’s Sam’s other hand digging into the patchwork of welts painted across the sole of his foot. Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening, infuriating him, has him chasing his release and finding none. He can’t…simply can’t until Sam speeds up with brutal thrusts, the actions creating a dirty soundtrack of his brother's balls slapping against his cheeks.
Wet heat fills his ass as Sam’s movements stutter, unloads deep within him, and only then does Dean lose his restraint. His own orgasm chases up his thighs, squeezing his sack to his body and white strands of runny come paint their chests. Sam is protection and sheer adoration hovering above, and a pulsing column inside. The hounds of the realm howl out, the feast in full swing and Sam wears a king’s smile for Dean that’s more blinding than the Earth’s own sun.
It’s a simple question, spoken out loud, and it will be the death of millions and the beginning of them.
“Who are you?”
The voice is thick, a rich balm soothing Dean's heart, and he knows the answer. The voice carries the weight of the world, for him. Dean can hear the realm crack wide open.
Or maybe, maybe that’s just him.
“Yours. I’m yours, Sam.”
*******