Right and Wrong
The characters depicted here belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I own nothing but the computer and the insanity that produced this fic.
Contains BDSM scenes.
"I think I've been had," Dean mumbles apologetically. The man before him twists the whip around his thick hand.
"You haven't been had 'til you've been had by the Chief!" the man goads, his eyes roaming all over the younger man's body. He suddenly seems to remember something important. "By the way, what's your safe word?"
"I-I don't have a safe word," Dean stammers, racking his brain for the sliver of an idea of how to get out of that place, and how to get back at the old magician who sent him here. His thoughts are cut short by nerves, as Chief saunters forward, much too close for Dean's comfort.
"Better make one up, then. You'll need it," he croons. Dean leans backwards in an attempt to put some distance between the big man and himself.
"Look, Chief…" he starts, trying to make his voice steady. "No disrespect, but I've… I've gotta leave. This is a mistake."
He makes a move for the door from where he had entered –never mind that he distinctly heard it shut from the outside- but Chief corners him against the wall. He is not touching Dean at all, but a python could not have a tighter grip on the hunter. He is undoubtedly and helplessly trapped.
Chief gazes at Dean for a long minute, until the younger man has to look away.
"I see how it is…" Chief speaks, his voice dangerously low. Dean braces himself, still musing whether it would be a good idea to try and make a run for it. Three seconds pass, and nothing happens. Dean risks a peek from beneath half-shut eyes.
Surprisingly, Chief has lowered his arms. He is still uncomfortably close, but somehow less menacing. It takes Dean a few seconds to pinpoint the exact reason, but then it becomes quite obvious. Even in the scarce light seeping into the room from the open basement door, Dean can see that Chief's eyes have softened way beyond what one would expect from a… well, whatever one calls a male dominatrix.
"It's not a mistake," Chief says soothingly.
"What?" Dean mutters, shaking his head in confusion.
"It's not a mistake, and neither are you," Chief repeats, his tone infused with a warm, caring something. Empathy?
Dean frowns as he tries to understand. Chief smiles kindly.
"Everyone's different in the bedroom, lad. Some folks like it nice and traditional, and that's okay. Some others find that they like it in a more peculiar way, and they're told that they are wrong and even sick for being more specific in how they like it. But they are not wrong. You are not wrong and you are not sick."
Dean scoffs. "Many would disagree." He doesn't add the 'starting by me', but Chief can see it in the young man's eyes.
"You are not wrong, my boy. What's wrong is to deny yourself what you need, what you crave. Look at you, so tense… when was the last time you allowed yourself any sort of relief?"
Dean thinks back to Anna, that night in the backseat of the Impala, and he briefly smiles at the memory. "Not as long ago as you would think."
"But there was something missing, wasn't there?" Chief asks, and Dean's smile falls. "There's always something missing, always been, and you know it, but you keep it quiet because you fear what others will say."
Dean bites his lip and nods almost imperceptibly, lowering his eyes. He can't bear to look at this man who seems to be able to read him like a book. Very few people can do that; most can only begin to guess when something's wrong –which is pretty much always- but he can count the times when someone else has voiced his feelings exactly with one hand. He feels Chief's hands on his shoulders, supportive rather than possessive.
"I can help you. I can help you try and find that missing something. And if at any point you really, truly, in your gut, feel that this is a mistake, you say your safe word, we stop everything and you walk away," Chief says. The offer hangs in the air for a few tense seconds.
"How much?" Dean asks at last. It is the one point he can never compromise on; any money he has is also Sam's money, and not to be wasted on a whim. Chief's eyes harden a little, back in business, and slightly disappointed that the moment has turned to cold, hard practicality.
"Five hundred," Chief replies. "I finish when you do and you can take as long as you need."
Dean considers it. Five hundred mean less money for important things like food and bribes and gas. He also knows that Sam will be waiting for him to carry on with their current job. He simply can't afford this…
No. He can. But he shouldn't, and he knows it, and he hates it. And he hates that he drove all the way to this dark, dingy part of town for nothing. And he hates that he is curious to see the basement from where Chief has emerged, the trapdoor tantalizingly open but half-hidden by dry ice vapors. And above all things, he hates that the prospect of what may happen in that basement is very, very appealing to him.
It is one of those secrets he will take to his grave… his actual, real, final grave, marked by salt and fire. He has already told Sam of his less-than-holy deeds and of the pleasure he obtained from hurting others –so many that he no longer remembers specific people, just the general silhouette of a face contracted in hatred towards him. But he has kept silent the fact that, once the novelty of pain and fear wore off, he had actually liked being hurt. It was a strange feeling at first, and the doubt of whether or not he was enjoying the slashing and hacking and general carnage inflicted on him had nearly driven him completely insane. But after a while –a very long while, maybe three or four years- he found himself looking forward to seeing his torturers. Pain provided a distraction from the horrors around him, from the screams and smell of people being burnt alive beside him, the baying and howling of hellhounds hunting down half-starved souls. And after pain, there was the heavenly sensation of healing. It was the only good thing down in the pit, the only light amidst the empty darkness, and Dean had craved it constantly, even if it meant enduring torture to get it.
He hates it, yet a part of him shrugs as he makes up his mind. He can afford to hate himself; he has for many years.
"Okay," Dean tells Chief finally. The big man smiles and nods, and his eyes shift entirely back into character.
"Move, then," he orders, guiding Dean roughly through the trapdoor, down a few steps, and into the main room.
It is roughly the size of a large classroom, though its actual dimensions are contorted by the strange red-black lights. A red neon-light banner on the far wall reads "Safe. Sane. Consensual". Dry ice fumes coil and uncoil themselves like snakes, floating near the roof, shrouding large sections of the room in a thick burgundy haze. The corners of the room are very dark, and though Dean feels many pairs of eyes on him, he cannot see anyone save for in the brief, fleeting passing of a shadow.
"Make yourself comfortable," Chief says gruffly before disappearing through a side door. Dean remains where he was for a few moments. Part of him wants to make a run for it, part of him wants him to be brave and stay. Above the thumping music, he thinks he can hear judgmental whispers coming from the shadows in the corner.
"Don't be stupid," he chastises himself, facing the wall and shrugging off his jacket. He tosses it over to a nearby leather couch. The jacket is soon joined by his shirt. Dean stands there, half-naked, debating whether or not to take off his jeans. He was told to get comfortable, but he isn't quite sure he's comfortable with being sky-clad in a room which may or may not be full of whispering spectators. He is still pondering his options when he suddenly feels someone push him against the wall. Instinctively he struggles, but the other is stronger. Dean's hands are maneuvered above his head and into a pair of thick leather straps hanging from the wall.
"Thought of your safe word already, boy?" Chief's gruff voice sounds in his ear. Dean relaxes ever so slightly; at least it is someone he recognizes and not some faceless creep.
"Boggart," Dean replies surely. He half-expects Chief to ask why he would choose the name of a spirit that feeds off fear, but the older man just nods and repeats the word to memorize it. Part of Dean is not surprised. His scarce knowledge on the scene includes that safe-words range from city names and car brands to fruits and household objects.
Dean waits for something to happen, but nothing does for a long moment. He is about to turn around –never mind that the straps are on tight enough to forbid much movement- when he feels hard blows raining on his back all at once. It is as if someone threw a handful of rocks at him.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelps. He feels the slap of the cat-of-nine-tails again and he gasps.
"Mind the language, boy," Chief orders harshly, striking the air beside Dean so fast that he can hear the whip whistle past his ear. Dean gulps. Chief chuckles in satisfaction.
"That's more like it," he croons, and he lets the whip fall again, a bit more lightly, as if rewarding Dean. And then a sharper, more punishing slap that makes Dean strain against his bounds. He can feel hot blood running up to meet the skin of his back. It is an odd contrast to the cold dry ice fumes, and he shivers at the sensation.
Chief lets the whip dance on Dean's skin a few more times, with just enough strength not to draw blood just yet. His blows are always a little softer after Dean reacts to them –a grunt, a yelp, a half-repressed groan at one point- but harder when the hunter remains silent. Soon enough, Dean allows himself to be vocal, and the blows begin to feel almost like caresses. Goosebumps rise on his arms, but it's starting to be not enough. The novelty of the pain is wearing off, but there isn't enough pain to trigger the endorphins (Sam's nerd words are starting to stick to him).
"H-harder," he dares to say. His plea is followed by a hard lash; the hardest Chief has given him yet. It makes his knees buckle and only the straps on his wrists hold him up. He feels something warm run down from his right shoulder blade all the way down. He pointedly does not wonder whether it is blood or sweat.
"You do not get to make requests, boy. I'm Chief. I call the shots," the older man states. But the next blow is a bit harsher, and Dean knows that this man actually listens to what his clients want, what they need. He shudders delightedly at the sting of air on his freshly opened wounds.
The blows stop, and Dean almost whimpers at the loss of sensation. Chief's huge shadow on the floor moves closer to the trapped boy. He is looming over Dean, speaking close to his ear.
"You have a lot more skin that I haven't punished yet. How about I rid you of your pants, eh?"
The offer sounds crass, but Dean recognizes it for what it is; a rather badly veiled request for consensual validation. Chief sounds awkward as he speaks; he probably has never really asked his subs for consent other than at the door. Dean guesses that the man is being the most understanding that he has been in his whole career.
Dean nods, and utters a whispered "Yeah", just in case it's not clear enough. It is, and Dean soon feels Chief's expert hand undoing the button and fly of his jeans. Two tugs on the fabric lower the jeans down to Dean's knees and free his arousal a little bit, though he is still clad in his underwear.
Chief does not touch him yet, but rather moves back to appreciate the fresh expanse of skin.
"I think I want to use something else here… I'll be right back," Chief tells Dean, and his great shadow disappears again. Dean shifts uncomfortably, not only out of nervousness (what does Chief mean by something else?) but also because now that pain is not constantly raining down on his back, the endorphins are starting to kick in, and it feels very, very good. His whole body stirs with the chemicals that rush to every inch of his skin and raise goose-bumps where before there were only wounds. Dean watches as Chief's shadow returns, and though he's clearly holding something in his hand, the thing is either very small or very thin, because it does not cast a shadow. Dean turns as far as his bounds will allow him.
"What's that?" he asks.
"This is a willow branch," Chief replies. Dean's eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise.
"An actual willow branch?" he asks. Chief lets out a throaty laugh.
"Of course not. It's just the name we give it," Chief replies. Dean wants to ask just exactly who "we" refers to, but he has no time before he feels the bite of the willow branch on his legs. This instrument is extremely thin and flexible, so it curls around Dean's legs as it strikes. The blow is sharp and cuts instantly, a superficial but painful gash about the width of jewelry wire. Dean hisses as the skin, far more sensitive than the skin of his back, breaks. But he cannot deny that the pain shoots almost instantly to another area of his body and turns itself into arousal.
"You like that, eh?" Chief coos, giving Dean's legs another tap with the willow branch. Dean groans as he nods despite himself. Yes, damn him, he likes this. Chief's next blows climb their way up until they're hitting Dean's ass over the cloth of his boxers, which now feel much too tight. Dean squirms in a weird mixture of pain, discomfort, and undeniable lustful pleasure.
Chief notices. Within a second, his enormous body is wrapped around Dean's, warm against chilled, battered skin. The boxers soon travel south and join Dean's pants at the hunter's knees. Dean feels a calloused hand running down his spine, further and further down, until…
"Woah, woah, woah!" Dean exclaims. "Boggart, boggart!"
The contact instantly ceases. Chief takes a step back, leaving Dean again without anything to shield him from the cool air that makes his wounds throb.
"Yes?" Chief asks in an out-of-character voice. Right now, he is taking requests from Dean. The safe word gives the hunter that power over the big leather clad man. Dean takes a moment to compose himself after the initial shock. Memories of what happened in the pit threaten to leap up and grasp at his throat and choke him, but Dean manages to push them back to the recesses of his mind. He is most definitely not allowing those memories to resurface.
"Not there. Anywhere but there. I am not doing that," Dean says in a harsh voice. He doesn't add the "yet", but he very nearly does so.
"No knocking on Heaven's door, then?" Chief asks with only a slight pout in his tone. Dean makes a face as he tries his best not to think of the song, lest he should hear it in the car and get a random boner in front of Sam.
"No. And please don't call it that. In fact, don't mention it, don't refer to it," he adds.
"Noted," Chief answers with a squeeze just above Dean's fleshy behind. His caress soon turns harder as he returns to character, and he focuses his attention on the broad, untouched expanse of Dean's chest. Dean has to fight himself not to use the safe word again. The thick, solid contact is very different from the fluttery touches of women, and it is alien, though not entirely unpleasant; especially when it lands on the sensitive, slightly ticklish skin of his inner thighs. Dean moans and rocks his hips involuntarily, wanting more contact. Chief does not let him have it right away. A large hand lands on Dean's abdomen to steady him and muffle his movement a little.
"Patience is a virtue," Chief chastises in a sing-song voice. Dean huffs out a laugh that is half derisive, half pained. Whatever virtue he had, he had lost down in the pit.
No, not lost… it had been stolen from him, taken when he was tied down and strapped to the grill, at the mercy –or lack thereof- of demons that enjoyed nothing better than perpetrating souls until they broke, then letting them heal, only to destroy them all over again. How many times had he been destroyed while down there? How many times had he been in pieces? A hundred? A thousand? Why was he putting himself in this vulnerable position –tied up, virtually naked- all over again? And voluntarily, too!
Then Chief touches him with firm, gentle experience, and Dean remembers. Pleasure. In his sick, twisted mind, being hurt comes along with feeling good. And maybe it has always been like that, even back then when pain meant the burn of alcohol in his throat or a hangover migraine and not the tearing of his skin. Maybe he has always been insane enough to enjoy what any normal human being would shy away from. Maybe he has always been a freak. But he hasn't noticed before because he is so good at lying, at hiding things, even from himself.
But not now; he can't hide anything from Chief, from himself, from the hidden eyes that watch him from the shadows. Everything he is feeling right now is bare upon his skin, as evident as the sweat and blood and cum that gush out of him, eager to escape a body that is much too full of demons and ghosts that can't ever be exorcised.
Dean cries out in a primitive reflex, and he can't quite pinpoint what it is. He doesn't really care. Name be damned, it is intense and demands his complete attention. He turns himself over to the sensation, only vaguely registering Chief's hand bringing him to completion. Time stretches itself out as it did in the pit, and Dean thinks, for a fleeting moment, that he has always lived like this, in this moment, at the very peak of something that is neither pain nor pleasure but a mixture of both that fills his body and clouds his mind.
And then, as quickly as it started, it's over, and Dean begins noticing other things: the straps around his wrists are beginning to chafe, and the throbbing from his cuts has become merely annoying. He turns his head towards Chief, but the man has anticipated his thoughts and is already untying him.
"Well done, lad," Chief croons as he gently eases Dean's underwear back to place. "Sure this is your first approach to the scene?"
Dean snorts noncommittally. "Not exactly."
Chief leads Dean to another room, much better lit, much smaller, and more clinical-looking. It smells strongly of antiseptic. A subordinate brings Dean's clothes and promptly exits. With calculated, mechanized movements, Chief begins tending to Dean's injuries. He does it so well that it doesn't hurt at all, but it certainly is awkward; Dean is not used to clean cotton and sterile gauze and micro-pore tape. It just doesn't come in the hunter first aid kit.
"You might as well become a doctor, you know?" Dean comments as Chief applies some sweet-smelling ointment to the shallower cuts on his legs. He hopes the smell fades away before he has to reunite with Sam. Sam… was he wondering where Dean was, why it was taking him so long, why he wasn't answering his phone? Dean feels the sting of guilt in his heart, the one place he can never quite reach to heal. No one, for that matter.
Chief chuckles. "I don't take responsibility for what other people do to themselves, only for what I do to them. But I must say, for a beginner, you have quite tough skin."
As he puts his clothes back on, careful not to upset any bandages, Dean waits for the inevitable question –what do you do that has toughened your skin so much?-, but it doesn't come. It's just a comment, nothing more. Chief is not going to pry into the hunter's business. They're past that moment when Chief saw through Dean as clearly as if seeing through glass. Their commercial transaction is finished. Dean only has to pay up, and he can get out of there.
Dean fishes out his wallet from his pocket and takes out the cash. Wordlessly he hands it over, and wordlessly Chief takes it.
"Let me escort you out," Chief orders rather than offers. He shows Dean to a passage that leads to the street. He remains at the threshold of a discreet door and waits for Dean to get out.
"I'm not sure what one says in this kind of situation," Dean admits sheepishly.
"Thanks will do. And next time you're in town, or you feel like coming," Chief winks at his own joke, and Dean tries to make his grin not look like an uncomfortable grimace. "You come to me. See you around, lad."
Dean knows it is a fat chance he'll be back in town anytime soon. He's pretty sure that Chief knows it too. But he still nods at the man as he returns to his business. The light and music are muffled by the thick door, and Dean is left alone in the dark, quiet street.
As he walks back to the Impala, Dean pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. He has a number of missed text and voice-mails, all from Sam. He rolls his eyes. The kid is such a worried girl at times. But he knows there is nothing else left for him here; he has to leave. He takes a final glance at the place before starting the car.
Inside, he sighs. He knows that he won't ever tell anyone of his experience here; another secret he will bury deep inside until he himself is buried –or salted and burned, whichever. And he knows why he won't tell. How can he put into words the battle going on inside of him right now, a battle so loud he has to blast Deep Purple just to try and drown it out? Because part of him knows that what he has just done is wrong. Very wrong, twisted, sick. And yet… some tiny part of him revels in the not-quite-there, not-quite-gone pain and the leftovers of endorphins that make him feel right. Oh, so right.