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Entry tags:
SpN fic:Come The Night 5/?
Title: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3546
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: torture, rape, dubious consent, allegations of sexual abuse of a minor, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
This story I've been working on since last year. Writing, rewriting, and mostly wringing my hands. I've decided to post it and hope desperately to hammer the ending I have planned into something readable. But just so you know, unfinished, this bitch is 48000 words….
heed the warnings this section!
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two
three
four
icon by fragilecat@![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
a_random_mess
6
"Dean…do you remember what Dad's name was? I forget." Sam's lying on the fluffy bed; his head in Dean's lap and Dean is carding fingers through his thick mane, because Sam likes it when he does that. Sam likes it when he massages him, when he listens without talking. It's easy doing the things Sam likes. Most of the time.
"You forget? How can you forget?" He makes sure he says it softly, teasingly, so Sam knows it's not a criticism, he'd never criticize his brother…"It was…Dad's name was…" Dean searches hard, scrabbling through thready memories, tries to remember but there's nothing inside, just a blank wall. Empty sky, a well in the middle of his head. He tries anyway, because Sam asked him to. "Dad. I think…it was just…Dad."
Sam smiles, leans up and pulls Dean's head down to him. Captures his lips, kisses him, warm and slow, deep. His tongue moves like velvet over Dean's…he pulls back with a nip to Dean's lower lip and Dean shivers at the bright spark it sends straight to his dick. He licks up the pinprick of blood.
"Good boy," Sam says. He pats Dean's cheek, and Dean beams. It's a good thing when Sam feels good.
~o0o~
This has been a hard day. Dean has had a very hard day. Even the Doctor had stopped smiling at Sam's directions towards the end of his session. Something had made Sam angry, Dean thinks it's because he cried after being fucked…he can't help it sometimes. He knows that whatever happens is what he deserves for ruining Sam's trust but…no matter how hard he tries, he can't clearly remember the things he'd done to Sam, not really. He can't imagine doing to Sam what Sam did to him…but he must have. He had to take it, for penance, forgiveness, so Sam could learn to trust him again. For Sam's sake. He thinks about trust—tries to—as he limps along behind Sam, straining to keep up with his fast pace and longer legs. Dean's fallen while on the leash before and it wasn't fun…Sam turns and looks behind him, at some point past Dean's shoulder. Shakes his head.
Sam's tsking at the bloody footprints Dean leaves on the tile. Dean stops running, stops trying to keep slack in the leash. His mouth fills with sour spit and he shakes so hard his teeth clack. He can't move, even with Sam pulling on the leash now, he's too afraid to move…there's no way he can walk without tracking up Sam's floors. Sam smiling though, he drops the lead and takes Dean's hand. "Don’t worry, I'm not mad anymore. You did so well this afternoon, you deserve a treat," he says and lifts Dean's chin to kiss him.
Even though Dean sighs and leans into the kiss, there's a little shiver, deep, deep in his brain, an unhappy shiver. He's never sure what Sam means when he says treat…is he going to heal him, or fuck him, or just let him sleep in the bed untouched?
7
What sun gets through the curtained window warms the sitting room…today the walls are a pale sea green. Sam's sprawled on the black leather couch and Dean is at his feet, twisted so his head is on Sam's lap and he's kneeling on the white fur rug. He watches the trees in the prints on the wall. There's something caught up in the branches in one print. He didn't remember the trees having held fruit before. When they'd left the room that morning, the prints were identical, all gathered on the same wall. When Sam brought him back, the prints were scattered over all the walls—and in one, a tree now bears fruit. It's all very confusing on his best days let alone a day in which he'd had his eyes pierced.
"What about Mom's name?" Sam asks out of the blue, and slides his fingers in under the collar of Dean's white t-shirt.
He freezes. Has no idea what Sam means. The words are…meaningless. There's nothing inside his head to tell him, he digs around, looking for a 'mom', for a clue as to what that was, but finds nothing. "I—I'm not sure what you mean," he admits at last and cringes a bit.
Sam frowns, "Mom, your mother…what hell are you doing?"
He yanks the chain still attached to Dean's wrists. Dean uncovers his eyes quickly and blinks pink tears away. He smiles some more, because sometimes smiling distracted Sam, and sometimes, he'd heal him faster, after. If he touched him the way Sam liked, sometimes he'd heal all of him. So Dean cups his hands over Sam's knees, rubs small circles around them, up his thighs. "Let me, Sam, that other stuff's not important. You know how stupid I am, I forget things all the time."
Sam's looking down at him, thoughtful, the look of vague interest that makes Dean's skin crawl because a thinking Sam is a creative Sam and creative usually hurts…he smashes the thought down. Sam's the one who heals him. Protects him, Sam's never failed at his job like Dean did….
"I've been thinking. About names. And forgetting names. Wanting to." He ignores Dean's startled, 'I never would' and goes on. "I think, maybe I'd feel better if you didn't say my name out loud. Memories, you know. Bad ones, you saying my name and hurting me." Sam's head tilts, his lower lip trembles delicately, his eyes are dark and his wet lashes catch the light like diamonds. "I'm trying, Dean, trying to forgive…forget…"
Drawing in a shaky breath, Dean tries to hide his face without using his hands. He knew this, this terrible, terrible, shame of his. He's forgotten almost everything but not this. He can't forget that he hurt Sam terribly, because Sam says so and if Sam says it's so, it is.
Sam makes a great show of being thoughtful, and says, "How about…instead of my name…" Sam bends his head and breathes against the soft circle of Dean's t-shirt collar, "instead of that, you call me…master?" Sam says in a whisper soft voice. With his finger, he draws little circles and stars and triangles on the smooth, clean, cotton of Dean's shirt, over and over. "Can you remember that?" His fingernail catches on the raised scars that circle Dean's neck, the stars and circles and triangles that Sam had ordered to be put there.
"Master? But that's—why? I mean--are you sure, Sa—master?" He winces—Sam's frowning, but it doesn't look dangerous so much as a bit impatient. Okay, it's creepy as fuck, but he can do that, only… "Can I ask, for how long?"
"Until I tell you different, Dean," Sam snaps, "Do you want to be healed?"
The threat sends cascades of ice through Dean, he's barely aware of shaking, gasping, "Oh, yes please Sam—I mean, master. Please."
Sam looks pleased, content even, and he ruffles Dean's hair, tugs at the t-shirt. "Then you know what to do, don't you?"
Dean nods, shifts to his knees and unzips Sam's pants. "I've got you, Sam, know what to do." He hears Sam's impatient sigh and the warning note in the 'Dean' Sam drawls. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and opens his throat and hopes he'll forgive him for the slip….
~o0o~
The master takes him out of the room and for the first time he can remember, he's not being led to the Doctor. He's wearing clean, soft jeans and a plain white t-shirt—what he wears whenever the master says it's okay. They walk down a hall that's very much like a hotel hallway: wide, thick mahogany paneling, heavily carved doors lining each side, bronze wall sconces washing the walls with amber light every few feet. The floors are covered with plush beige carpeting that feels so good against the soles of his feet he can't resist digging his toes into it. It feels so good, the thick, lush warmth under his feet, that for the long minutes they walk Dean thinks of nothing, notices nothing but the rare, welcome comfort, content to let Sam lead. He ignores the noises that leak out through the closed doorways.
They stop in front of a bank of elevators whose doors look out of place in the smoking-club decor. They're efficient, ready to turn back a bomb blast or a rebel army, or maybe just one pissed off angel. Compared to the elegant hallways, they're ugly, blocky, finished off with a highly polished and reflective steel surface. And for the first time in…an eternity, Dean sees himself. He knows it's him because Sam takes his hand and squeezes it, and in the door, the reflected Sam takes the other one's hand and squeezes it.
Dean finds himself…unfamiliar. He's not quite as tall as Sam, but taller than he'd thought he was. His hair is brown and longer than chin length and it doesn't look right. Seems—odd. His eyes are dark green and that surprises him. He'd thought his eyes were the same changeable hazel as Sam's…Sam smiles at him, squeezing his hand harder and Dean quickly drops his head, afraid that staring at other Sam with Dean might be a wrong thing. Master. He means master.
After a short ride, the master leads him off the elevator directly into a large room. Tall, wide windows all along the wall light the room, and through them is a beautiful, sun-lit view of a city spreading right to the horizon.
"Sit," Sam says and Dean drops down immediately. He's grateful that Sa—the master seems pleased. He pats Dean on the shoulder and turns towards the long black table that's pretty much the main feature of the room. The master's subordinates are sat on either side of the table. It's obviously an important meeting of some sort, considering the volume and tenor of the conversation, but Dean doesn't have to attend to what's happening, and his attention drifts. The same furniture that's in their suite is in the office, leather and glass and steel, fur rugs scattered here and there. There's art on the wall, what looks like leather…Dean peers closer and recoils. The leather is painted with bright patterns: roses, sparrows, snakes and skulls and knives and hearts…tattoos. His fingers curl tighter over his knees—so tight the knuckles are white. His blood freezes. Human skin decorates the walls in Sam's office.
Dean quickly turns away and focuses on the other side of the room. There's a high back, wide chair, upholstered in burgundy leather and set on a small platform. Looks like a throne, he thinks. Makes sense, considering… He doesn't let his gaze linger on the throne.
Above the ugly chair hang strange things, small black boxes, strung along the edge of the ceilings, and silvery screens edged in white flank either side of the throne. Static plays across them, and a muted hiss and what almost sounds like a moan play repeatedly, softly in the background….
There's something in one corner that catches his attention. Something about it draws him…he glances towards the meeting and Sam's not paying him any attention, so he edges over to the shape. The shape becomes a man, crouched on the floor, dressed in shapeless black rags that might have been clothing once. He's blindfolded, tangled up in thin chains. The man doesn't respond to Dean's presence, but there's definitely something familiar and…safe about the man, safe like Sam's never felt.
Sam catches him looking and he frowns, suddenly he's angry, very angry and jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over. The clatter when it hits the marble floor makes the man jerk and stumble into the wall.
Dean gasps, "Sorry, Sam—Master! I'm sorry!" He drops to his knees and crawls toward Sam, the scars around his neck burning, burning like fire.
The strange man snaps upright, flings himself forward in the chains, his hands held out in front of him, blindly seeking…something. "Dean? Is it possible…can it really be you? Help me find you…."
Dean jerks at his voice and out of the muddy swirl of his thoughts pops a name. Castiel. "Cas--"
Sam slaps Dean hard, splits his lip, and his minions surround Dean as if the bound man was a threat—they drag Dean from the room like a sack of potatoes and Sam snatches him by his neck and flings him into an elevator. Dean slams into the floor hard enough to crack bones in his wrist, but barely a second passes before he scuttles back to Sam, clinging to his legs. He's rubbing his face into Sam's crotch, mouthing at his thighs. Begs forgiveness, willing, promising anything, anything, and the demons around Sam perk up, hoping for a chance, a taste….
Sam's not having it. He grabs Dean by his arm and shakes him, shakes him so hard his head slams into the elevator wall, again and again. What Dean promises, what he begs for, mean nothing, they're worthless, Sam shouts, his promises mean shit. Sam finally stops when Dean's head leaves pink smears on the elevators walls. Some of the demons are inching closer, excited by the scent of blood and the mood in the elevator is tense, expectant, and Sam's so angry, Dean's afraid he's going to be thrown to demon council. Dean's faint with relief when Sam orders them off the elevator before going on. He drags Dean to his feet and shoves him against the wall.
"Get one thing straight—you can't promise me a damn thing. You can't give me anything," he snarls, an inch from Dean's face, "because you have nothing—you are nothing." He drags Dean around by his neck, throws him against the wall, towering over him. Dean crouches, as much as he dares, and expects the worst. Anything could happen, has happened. His hands clench protectively over his belly and he waits.
"You fucking forget him, you hear me? Forget him!" Sam's talking to himself now, Dean thinks, his gaze skittering everywhere but at Dean. "Don't worry, oh, don't worry, I can take that too, make it go away, fucking thing, why can't I kill it—kill you?" Sam grabs a handful of Dean's hair and yanks his head back, his throats exposed and when Sam opens his mouth wide, there's nothing human in his face--he looks like a wolf, red tongue, wet teeth and blazing yellow eyes…Dean closes his and waits.
The slap startles his eyes open, and he's looking up into the corner of the elevator, and for a second, he thinks Sam's damaged his eyes again but no. There really is something odd hanging in the corner--an eyeball, bright blue, wet, alive, set in a wreath of flesh and planted in a small black box. It watches them; long black lashes sweep down and up as it blinks. Dean watches it back, focused on it to the point that he's not with Sam anymore, and what Sam's doing. He's caught up in that blue, that cosmic blue, electric blue. That blue….
~o0o~
When the Doctor sends Dean back to Sam, he's bare of skin from his shoulders to the back of his knees. Sam pushes him down in the fluffy white bed, and it's like lying in a bed of barbed wire. Sam promises to finish healing him…if he does this one thing first.
"If you make it good, I'll make you feel good. Everyone wins." Sam smiles and opens Dean's mouth and slides his dick in. "You're beautiful this way, so pure, pure Dean. Open wider, let me in." Dean's face runs wet, blood and tears staining his pillow pink but he doesn't know why. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the slide of Sam's dick, over his tongue, heavy, hot, filling his mouth and somehow, it comforts him. Sam's muttering something, pushes in deeper, and strokes in and out faster. Dean opens up and takes it, pretending that what Sam's murmuring is about good, and want, that he values his brother….
Later when he wakes, the bed is clean, and so is he. The sun has shifted out of the room; the walls are a darker green. The prints have shifted again and the sky above the tree with fruit is the faintest, palest, shade of blue.
8
It feels like Dean's forgotten something but what it is, he doesn't know. He remembered the Doctor, and Master, and. Pain. He remembered that. The master will fix it. He's sitting on the floor, staring out of the window at the sky, a pale blue sky. He's been staring a long time, he thinks. A slow blink wets his eyes. He tries to find other memories but it's hard…they skitter away like eyeballs on a plate. Dean remembers his name…and he remembers that there's something called Cas, because no matter how much the Doctor sticks his fingers in and swirls things 'round, he can't seem to forget that—but that's a secret gift he's able to keep to himself.
"Where's my little roach?" a voice rings out and he turns to face the room and puts his head to the floor. The master strokes a smooth hand over his back, lower, lower, until he's cupping his ass. Strong fingers squeeze hard, until Dean's biting his lip to keep silent. "What's my little roach doing? What are you thinking about, hmm?" The master looks thoughtful, and Dean shivers.
~o0o~
The master has a knife and the edge is very sharp…it feels like fire when he draws circles and stars and triangles in his flesh. Master's teeth worrying against the shapes makes his stomach swoop uncomfortably, it draws in with each biting suck the master takes. The room smells of semen and blood, and shadows grow on the walls. The master taps his knee and he spreads his legs wide. Fear makes his skin prickle—there's never any preparation for this kind of pain. The surprise is that the fingers that enter him don't hurt, they don't cut skin or scrape sensitive tissue, they don’t hook painfully into flesh…the glide is smooth and warm and he finds himself responding quickly…blood rises, fills his dick, he feels the warm rush of a blush in his cheeks, across his chest. The master is patient, taking his time to make it feel good and when he slides inside there's no burn, no pain, just little shocks of pleasure where his dick opens him, a full feeling that builds and builds, it shocks him with how good it is. The master rocks slow and steady into him—the master's hand on his dick moves the same way, warm and tight and steady, a little twist that makes him gasp, a little squeeze that brings his shoulders off the bed and a groan shuddering out of his mouth and all the master does is smile, and stare into his eyes as he does. It's not long before Dean's quivering on the edge of coming, begging for it, eyes on master's face. He's so close but Dean knows not to, he waits for permission. The master smiles, and fists his dick faster and tighter. "Brother," he drawls, "tell me your name and I'll let you come."
It startles Dean out of his haze. He blinks, slow and fuzzy, he tries to focus on Sam. "What? My name? I. You know it."
The master shakes his head. "I have a new name, a perfect name for you. I'm going to call you Roach. You like it, don’t you?"
"But no, I have—my name is, um, Dean…right?" It's too hard to think; he's too close, afraid to come, but needing to desperately and he can't think, can't think, can't….
Sam shakes his head, his nose wrinkling, dimples showing. "It's Roach. I like that better. Suits you."
It's not a name for a man, he wants to scream. It's not my god damn name. But he feels it slipping into his bones, greased by fear. The master rolls his knuckles over Dean's stomach, slides his fingers through the sweat.
"Do you ever wonder, Roach, what I'm doing? Wonder about the rest of the world? Do you think at all?" Dean whimpers, hopes he doesn't really have to answer. "Don’t worry. Nothing's going on. Nothing at all." Sam speeds up the pace, faster, tighter and Dean's hips arch off the bed, his breath catches and heat floods him, he grows hotter and tighter and then—Sam makes a satisfied little grunt. "Say your name, and you can come."
"Roach—" Dean groans, and he comes hard—it feels so good, like the fluffy bed is empty, like he's alone, like he's far, far away from everything, everyone—and then fear shatters the calm. The master hasn't come; this must have been a trick, a test….
"Relax," Master chuckles, groans quietly and Dean feels warmth inside him, feels the twitch of master's dick as he comes. "See," he says, and gives Dean that slight, sideways smile. "I can make it feel good, or…" he digs his nail into the still bleeding shapes, "not. My Roach."
six
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3546
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: torture, rape, dubious consent, allegations of sexual abuse of a minor, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
This story I've been working on since last year. Writing, rewriting, and mostly wringing my hands. I've decided to post it and hope desperately to hammer the ending I have planned into something readable. But just so you know, unfinished, this bitch is 48000 words….
heed the warnings this section!
one
two
three
four
icon by fragilecat@
a_random_mess"Dean…do you remember what Dad's name was? I forget." Sam's lying on the fluffy bed; his head in Dean's lap and Dean is carding fingers through his thick mane, because Sam likes it when he does that. Sam likes it when he massages him, when he listens without talking. It's easy doing the things Sam likes. Most of the time.
"You forget? How can you forget?" He makes sure he says it softly, teasingly, so Sam knows it's not a criticism, he'd never criticize his brother…"It was…Dad's name was…" Dean searches hard, scrabbling through thready memories, tries to remember but there's nothing inside, just a blank wall. Empty sky, a well in the middle of his head. He tries anyway, because Sam asked him to. "Dad. I think…it was just…Dad."
Sam smiles, leans up and pulls Dean's head down to him. Captures his lips, kisses him, warm and slow, deep. His tongue moves like velvet over Dean's…he pulls back with a nip to Dean's lower lip and Dean shivers at the bright spark it sends straight to his dick. He licks up the pinprick of blood.
"Good boy," Sam says. He pats Dean's cheek, and Dean beams. It's a good thing when Sam feels good.
This has been a hard day. Dean has had a very hard day. Even the Doctor had stopped smiling at Sam's directions towards the end of his session. Something had made Sam angry, Dean thinks it's because he cried after being fucked…he can't help it sometimes. He knows that whatever happens is what he deserves for ruining Sam's trust but…no matter how hard he tries, he can't clearly remember the things he'd done to Sam, not really. He can't imagine doing to Sam what Sam did to him…but he must have. He had to take it, for penance, forgiveness, so Sam could learn to trust him again. For Sam's sake. He thinks about trust—tries to—as he limps along behind Sam, straining to keep up with his fast pace and longer legs. Dean's fallen while on the leash before and it wasn't fun…Sam turns and looks behind him, at some point past Dean's shoulder. Shakes his head.
Sam's tsking at the bloody footprints Dean leaves on the tile. Dean stops running, stops trying to keep slack in the leash. His mouth fills with sour spit and he shakes so hard his teeth clack. He can't move, even with Sam pulling on the leash now, he's too afraid to move…there's no way he can walk without tracking up Sam's floors. Sam smiling though, he drops the lead and takes Dean's hand. "Don’t worry, I'm not mad anymore. You did so well this afternoon, you deserve a treat," he says and lifts Dean's chin to kiss him.
Even though Dean sighs and leans into the kiss, there's a little shiver, deep, deep in his brain, an unhappy shiver. He's never sure what Sam means when he says treat…is he going to heal him, or fuck him, or just let him sleep in the bed untouched?
What sun gets through the curtained window warms the sitting room…today the walls are a pale sea green. Sam's sprawled on the black leather couch and Dean is at his feet, twisted so his head is on Sam's lap and he's kneeling on the white fur rug. He watches the trees in the prints on the wall. There's something caught up in the branches in one print. He didn't remember the trees having held fruit before. When they'd left the room that morning, the prints were identical, all gathered on the same wall. When Sam brought him back, the prints were scattered over all the walls—and in one, a tree now bears fruit. It's all very confusing on his best days let alone a day in which he'd had his eyes pierced.
"What about Mom's name?" Sam asks out of the blue, and slides his fingers in under the collar of Dean's white t-shirt.
He freezes. Has no idea what Sam means. The words are…meaningless. There's nothing inside his head to tell him, he digs around, looking for a 'mom', for a clue as to what that was, but finds nothing. "I—I'm not sure what you mean," he admits at last and cringes a bit.
Sam frowns, "Mom, your mother…what hell are you doing?"
He yanks the chain still attached to Dean's wrists. Dean uncovers his eyes quickly and blinks pink tears away. He smiles some more, because sometimes smiling distracted Sam, and sometimes, he'd heal him faster, after. If he touched him the way Sam liked, sometimes he'd heal all of him. So Dean cups his hands over Sam's knees, rubs small circles around them, up his thighs. "Let me, Sam, that other stuff's not important. You know how stupid I am, I forget things all the time."
Sam's looking down at him, thoughtful, the look of vague interest that makes Dean's skin crawl because a thinking Sam is a creative Sam and creative usually hurts…he smashes the thought down. Sam's the one who heals him. Protects him, Sam's never failed at his job like Dean did….
"I've been thinking. About names. And forgetting names. Wanting to." He ignores Dean's startled, 'I never would' and goes on. "I think, maybe I'd feel better if you didn't say my name out loud. Memories, you know. Bad ones, you saying my name and hurting me." Sam's head tilts, his lower lip trembles delicately, his eyes are dark and his wet lashes catch the light like diamonds. "I'm trying, Dean, trying to forgive…forget…"
Drawing in a shaky breath, Dean tries to hide his face without using his hands. He knew this, this terrible, terrible, shame of his. He's forgotten almost everything but not this. He can't forget that he hurt Sam terribly, because Sam says so and if Sam says it's so, it is.
Sam makes a great show of being thoughtful, and says, "How about…instead of my name…" Sam bends his head and breathes against the soft circle of Dean's t-shirt collar, "instead of that, you call me…master?" Sam says in a whisper soft voice. With his finger, he draws little circles and stars and triangles on the smooth, clean, cotton of Dean's shirt, over and over. "Can you remember that?" His fingernail catches on the raised scars that circle Dean's neck, the stars and circles and triangles that Sam had ordered to be put there.
"Master? But that's—why? I mean--are you sure, Sa—master?" He winces—Sam's frowning, but it doesn't look dangerous so much as a bit impatient. Okay, it's creepy as fuck, but he can do that, only… "Can I ask, for how long?"
"Until I tell you different, Dean," Sam snaps, "Do you want to be healed?"
The threat sends cascades of ice through Dean, he's barely aware of shaking, gasping, "Oh, yes please Sam—I mean, master. Please."
Sam looks pleased, content even, and he ruffles Dean's hair, tugs at the t-shirt. "Then you know what to do, don't you?"
Dean nods, shifts to his knees and unzips Sam's pants. "I've got you, Sam, know what to do." He hears Sam's impatient sigh and the warning note in the 'Dean' Sam drawls. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and opens his throat and hopes he'll forgive him for the slip….
The master takes him out of the room and for the first time he can remember, he's not being led to the Doctor. He's wearing clean, soft jeans and a plain white t-shirt—what he wears whenever the master says it's okay. They walk down a hall that's very much like a hotel hallway: wide, thick mahogany paneling, heavily carved doors lining each side, bronze wall sconces washing the walls with amber light every few feet. The floors are covered with plush beige carpeting that feels so good against the soles of his feet he can't resist digging his toes into it. It feels so good, the thick, lush warmth under his feet, that for the long minutes they walk Dean thinks of nothing, notices nothing but the rare, welcome comfort, content to let Sam lead. He ignores the noises that leak out through the closed doorways.
They stop in front of a bank of elevators whose doors look out of place in the smoking-club decor. They're efficient, ready to turn back a bomb blast or a rebel army, or maybe just one pissed off angel. Compared to the elegant hallways, they're ugly, blocky, finished off with a highly polished and reflective steel surface. And for the first time in…an eternity, Dean sees himself. He knows it's him because Sam takes his hand and squeezes it, and in the door, the reflected Sam takes the other one's hand and squeezes it.
Dean finds himself…unfamiliar. He's not quite as tall as Sam, but taller than he'd thought he was. His hair is brown and longer than chin length and it doesn't look right. Seems—odd. His eyes are dark green and that surprises him. He'd thought his eyes were the same changeable hazel as Sam's…Sam smiles at him, squeezing his hand harder and Dean quickly drops his head, afraid that staring at other Sam with Dean might be a wrong thing. Master. He means master.
After a short ride, the master leads him off the elevator directly into a large room. Tall, wide windows all along the wall light the room, and through them is a beautiful, sun-lit view of a city spreading right to the horizon.
"Sit," Sam says and Dean drops down immediately. He's grateful that Sa—the master seems pleased. He pats Dean on the shoulder and turns towards the long black table that's pretty much the main feature of the room. The master's subordinates are sat on either side of the table. It's obviously an important meeting of some sort, considering the volume and tenor of the conversation, but Dean doesn't have to attend to what's happening, and his attention drifts. The same furniture that's in their suite is in the office, leather and glass and steel, fur rugs scattered here and there. There's art on the wall, what looks like leather…Dean peers closer and recoils. The leather is painted with bright patterns: roses, sparrows, snakes and skulls and knives and hearts…tattoos. His fingers curl tighter over his knees—so tight the knuckles are white. His blood freezes. Human skin decorates the walls in Sam's office.
Dean quickly turns away and focuses on the other side of the room. There's a high back, wide chair, upholstered in burgundy leather and set on a small platform. Looks like a throne, he thinks. Makes sense, considering… He doesn't let his gaze linger on the throne.
Above the ugly chair hang strange things, small black boxes, strung along the edge of the ceilings, and silvery screens edged in white flank either side of the throne. Static plays across them, and a muted hiss and what almost sounds like a moan play repeatedly, softly in the background….
There's something in one corner that catches his attention. Something about it draws him…he glances towards the meeting and Sam's not paying him any attention, so he edges over to the shape. The shape becomes a man, crouched on the floor, dressed in shapeless black rags that might have been clothing once. He's blindfolded, tangled up in thin chains. The man doesn't respond to Dean's presence, but there's definitely something familiar and…safe about the man, safe like Sam's never felt.
Sam catches him looking and he frowns, suddenly he's angry, very angry and jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over. The clatter when it hits the marble floor makes the man jerk and stumble into the wall.
Dean gasps, "Sorry, Sam—Master! I'm sorry!" He drops to his knees and crawls toward Sam, the scars around his neck burning, burning like fire.
The strange man snaps upright, flings himself forward in the chains, his hands held out in front of him, blindly seeking…something. "Dean? Is it possible…can it really be you? Help me find you…."
Dean jerks at his voice and out of the muddy swirl of his thoughts pops a name. Castiel. "Cas--"
Sam slaps Dean hard, splits his lip, and his minions surround Dean as if the bound man was a threat—they drag Dean from the room like a sack of potatoes and Sam snatches him by his neck and flings him into an elevator. Dean slams into the floor hard enough to crack bones in his wrist, but barely a second passes before he scuttles back to Sam, clinging to his legs. He's rubbing his face into Sam's crotch, mouthing at his thighs. Begs forgiveness, willing, promising anything, anything, and the demons around Sam perk up, hoping for a chance, a taste….
Sam's not having it. He grabs Dean by his arm and shakes him, shakes him so hard his head slams into the elevator wall, again and again. What Dean promises, what he begs for, mean nothing, they're worthless, Sam shouts, his promises mean shit. Sam finally stops when Dean's head leaves pink smears on the elevators walls. Some of the demons are inching closer, excited by the scent of blood and the mood in the elevator is tense, expectant, and Sam's so angry, Dean's afraid he's going to be thrown to demon council. Dean's faint with relief when Sam orders them off the elevator before going on. He drags Dean to his feet and shoves him against the wall.
"Get one thing straight—you can't promise me a damn thing. You can't give me anything," he snarls, an inch from Dean's face, "because you have nothing—you are nothing." He drags Dean around by his neck, throws him against the wall, towering over him. Dean crouches, as much as he dares, and expects the worst. Anything could happen, has happened. His hands clench protectively over his belly and he waits.
"You fucking forget him, you hear me? Forget him!" Sam's talking to himself now, Dean thinks, his gaze skittering everywhere but at Dean. "Don't worry, oh, don't worry, I can take that too, make it go away, fucking thing, why can't I kill it—kill you?" Sam grabs a handful of Dean's hair and yanks his head back, his throats exposed and when Sam opens his mouth wide, there's nothing human in his face--he looks like a wolf, red tongue, wet teeth and blazing yellow eyes…Dean closes his and waits.
The slap startles his eyes open, and he's looking up into the corner of the elevator, and for a second, he thinks Sam's damaged his eyes again but no. There really is something odd hanging in the corner--an eyeball, bright blue, wet, alive, set in a wreath of flesh and planted in a small black box. It watches them; long black lashes sweep down and up as it blinks. Dean watches it back, focused on it to the point that he's not with Sam anymore, and what Sam's doing. He's caught up in that blue, that cosmic blue, electric blue. That blue….
When the Doctor sends Dean back to Sam, he's bare of skin from his shoulders to the back of his knees. Sam pushes him down in the fluffy white bed, and it's like lying in a bed of barbed wire. Sam promises to finish healing him…if he does this one thing first.
"If you make it good, I'll make you feel good. Everyone wins." Sam smiles and opens Dean's mouth and slides his dick in. "You're beautiful this way, so pure, pure Dean. Open wider, let me in." Dean's face runs wet, blood and tears staining his pillow pink but he doesn't know why. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the slide of Sam's dick, over his tongue, heavy, hot, filling his mouth and somehow, it comforts him. Sam's muttering something, pushes in deeper, and strokes in and out faster. Dean opens up and takes it, pretending that what Sam's murmuring is about good, and want, that he values his brother….
Later when he wakes, the bed is clean, and so is he. The sun has shifted out of the room; the walls are a darker green. The prints have shifted again and the sky above the tree with fruit is the faintest, palest, shade of blue.
It feels like Dean's forgotten something but what it is, he doesn't know. He remembered the Doctor, and Master, and. Pain. He remembered that. The master will fix it. He's sitting on the floor, staring out of the window at the sky, a pale blue sky. He's been staring a long time, he thinks. A slow blink wets his eyes. He tries to find other memories but it's hard…they skitter away like eyeballs on a plate. Dean remembers his name…and he remembers that there's something called Cas, because no matter how much the Doctor sticks his fingers in and swirls things 'round, he can't seem to forget that—but that's a secret gift he's able to keep to himself.
"Where's my little roach?" a voice rings out and he turns to face the room and puts his head to the floor. The master strokes a smooth hand over his back, lower, lower, until he's cupping his ass. Strong fingers squeeze hard, until Dean's biting his lip to keep silent. "What's my little roach doing? What are you thinking about, hmm?" The master looks thoughtful, and Dean shivers.
The master has a knife and the edge is very sharp…it feels like fire when he draws circles and stars and triangles in his flesh. Master's teeth worrying against the shapes makes his stomach swoop uncomfortably, it draws in with each biting suck the master takes. The room smells of semen and blood, and shadows grow on the walls. The master taps his knee and he spreads his legs wide. Fear makes his skin prickle—there's never any preparation for this kind of pain. The surprise is that the fingers that enter him don't hurt, they don't cut skin or scrape sensitive tissue, they don’t hook painfully into flesh…the glide is smooth and warm and he finds himself responding quickly…blood rises, fills his dick, he feels the warm rush of a blush in his cheeks, across his chest. The master is patient, taking his time to make it feel good and when he slides inside there's no burn, no pain, just little shocks of pleasure where his dick opens him, a full feeling that builds and builds, it shocks him with how good it is. The master rocks slow and steady into him—the master's hand on his dick moves the same way, warm and tight and steady, a little twist that makes him gasp, a little squeeze that brings his shoulders off the bed and a groan shuddering out of his mouth and all the master does is smile, and stare into his eyes as he does. It's not long before Dean's quivering on the edge of coming, begging for it, eyes on master's face. He's so close but Dean knows not to, he waits for permission. The master smiles, and fists his dick faster and tighter. "Brother," he drawls, "tell me your name and I'll let you come."
It startles Dean out of his haze. He blinks, slow and fuzzy, he tries to focus on Sam. "What? My name? I. You know it."
The master shakes his head. "I have a new name, a perfect name for you. I'm going to call you Roach. You like it, don’t you?"
"But no, I have—my name is, um, Dean…right?" It's too hard to think; he's too close, afraid to come, but needing to desperately and he can't think, can't think, can't….
Sam shakes his head, his nose wrinkling, dimples showing. "It's Roach. I like that better. Suits you."
It's not a name for a man, he wants to scream. It's not my god damn name. But he feels it slipping into his bones, greased by fear. The master rolls his knuckles over Dean's stomach, slides his fingers through the sweat.
"Do you ever wonder, Roach, what I'm doing? Wonder about the rest of the world? Do you think at all?" Dean whimpers, hopes he doesn't really have to answer. "Don’t worry. Nothing's going on. Nothing at all." Sam speeds up the pace, faster, tighter and Dean's hips arch off the bed, his breath catches and heat floods him, he grows hotter and tighter and then—Sam makes a satisfied little grunt. "Say your name, and you can come."
"Roach—" Dean groans, and he comes hard—it feels so good, like the fluffy bed is empty, like he's alone, like he's far, far away from everything, everyone—and then fear shatters the calm. The master hasn't come; this must have been a trick, a test….
"Relax," Master chuckles, groans quietly and Dean feels warmth inside him, feels the twitch of master's dick as he comes. "See," he says, and gives Dean that slight, sideways smile. "I can make it feel good, or…" he digs his nail into the still bleeding shapes, "not. My Roach."
six