CHAPTER 2: KISSES OF FIRE ON MY SKIN (HE HIT ME, AND IT FELT LIKE A KISS)

"He Hit Me (It Felt Like A Kiss)"

Song title from song writers Gerry Goffin & Carole King

PART I: BAG OF TREATS

Something was different.

After weeks of tiptoeing around him, and melting into corners to get out of his way, Sam was suddenly everywhere; sliding close on the couch when he was trying to watch TV, crowding him when he tried to put some distance between them, staring all the time.

It was unnerving, and Dean quickly started feeling like a cornered animal, with no room to escape. He could always go out for air, but he refused to let Sam run him out of his own room on principle.

He limped back from the kitchenette, an ice pack pressed over his purple cheek bone and bumped into Sam once again. He waited for his brother to make way, but Sam just stood there, taking up as much space as he could, until Dean finally cracked.

"What are you, friggin' stalking me now?" He was almost shaking, he was so sick of it. He felt uneasy, under siege. He used to feel so at home around Sam... "Move," he warned.

Sam didn't. He even took one step forward, standing so close, Dean was forced to look up. He was hit by the pain he saw in his brother's eyes, and when tears started rolling from the hazel pearls, the sweetness of a forgotten emotion started spreading through his chest, fluttering like the broken wings of a tired butterfly trying to soar to the sky again.

He squashed it back into the darkness, and hardened himself almost immediately. He used to be a fool for those eyes. No more. He wanted to remember the disdain clouding them, when Sam was kneeling over him with his hands around his throat, and right before he walked out of the trashed honeymoon suite. It would keep him from stepping over his pride, once again, to beg for scraps of a love he wasn't sure he ever truly had. It was the reason he had stopped looking at Sam, after those eyes had turned pleading. He might not be Stanford-smart, but, unlike his brother, he was not that easy to manipulate.

"Move," he growled.

More tears rolled down the baby smooth cheeks. "You're going to have to move me yourself," Sam replied.

"I don't have time for this."

Dean tried to brush past Sam on the left; Sam blocked the access to the living room. Incredulous, Dean tried again on the opposite side, only to collide into a tower of flesh and muscle. He moved backwards, chest heaving, struggling to hold on to the last few strands of his self-control. What did Sam think he was going to accomplish going Glenn Close on him?

"Move now, or so help me, God…"

What? You'll beat me into the ground, like I did you when I was hopped up on demon blood? Do it. At least it'll give me something to work with. Anything's better than sitting around, watching you slip away, because I can't even make you mad enough that you'll take a second to look at me.

Sam took a courageous step forward. He was treading on thin ice, and he would keep walking until it broke. He took two more steps, and it happened. Dean swung his fist, punching him once in the face.

Sam did nothing to protect himself. He simply stood up straight and placed himself in the exit path, like a human road block again. Dean's shoulders slumped.

"What do you want from me?"

Sam remained speechless for a moment. At last. It was more attention than he had received in weeks, and it was almost too much to take. His improbable plan to coax his brother out of his passive-aggressive lethargy by getting on his last nerve, was working. Sure, Dean's response didn't exactly qualify as positive, but Sam knew that anger was so much closer to love than indifference would ever be.

He wiped the blood that was trickling from his mouth and replied, "I want you to look at me. I want you to talk to me." Dean snorted but he continued, "I want you to tell me what you're thinking. Yell. Say something. Anything! At least I'll know you still give a damn!"

"You have some nerve, asking me to do anything, just so you can feel better."

"This isn't just about me." He put a hand on Dean's arm. "You think I don't see how miserable you are?"

"Get your hands off me," Dean hissed; an unmistakable hint of menace in his tone.

Sam opened his arms wide. "Do you want to take another swing? Do it, if it makes you feel better. 'Cause you have to let it out, somehow, Dean. Or it'll grow inside of you, and fester, and we'll never have a chance to get back…"

"Who says I want to get back to anything? You think you're just going to take a few slaps and we're going to be all good?"

"No, I don't. I know it's not going to be enough, but I'm ready to do whatever it will take."

Sam finally moved out of the way. He went to open his bedside drawer, pulled out a draw string bag, and handed it to Dean.

Dean studied the navy blue bag suspiciously. He noted it was heavy, and his eyebrows shot up when he recognized the brand discreetly printed on a corner, a harmless looking dog paw he had only seen while surfing x-rated websites.

"Where did you get this?"

"Bought it this morning, a little shop not far from the mall."

Dean pulled the strings open and quickly viewed the contents. "What's all that for?" he asked, trying not to jump to outlandish conclusions.

"I'm sure you have some idea, Dean."

Okay, so much for hoping there was a logical explanation. "What is this?" Dean asked. "Fight Club in leather chaps? Have you lost your mind?"

Sam didn't answer.

"This… this is crazy. I can't-"

"Really? Tell me the thought of using all of this on me doesn't tempt to you. Tell me you didn't feel a little better, when you…" Sam waved his hand at his split lip.

"Why would you let me?"

"Because, I want us back; and it's never going to happen if we don't find a way to get past this." Sam looked down, dejected. "It hurts me when you act like I'm invisible, but I don't think it's helping you feel any better. You're as angry today as you were three weeks ago, if not more. At least with this, you'll feel free to punish me the way you really want to, until you're satisfied I learned my lesson, and, maybe, we'll be able to move on."

Dean looked at his brother as if he had grown another head, but, somewhere inside, he was admitting to himself that Sam had a point. He was filled with resentment, way too pissed for the touchy feely couple's therapy crap to work, and, even if he knew that his tendency to get belligerent when words failed him was one of his biggest flaws, he couldn't deny that he always felt better when he was able to let some aggression out; but he didn't want to let it out on Sam. Or did he? The idea would have repulsed him a year ago. The fact that it no longer did, showed they had almost reached the point of no return.

The last time he had spoken with Sam about their situation, he had told him that there was nothing Sam could do to repair their damaged relationship. He had obviously underestimated his little brother's commitment and resourcefulness.

"How long?" Dean asked, barely believing he was actually considering it.

"As long as necessary."

Sam turned the page of his book and looked at the tacky sun-shaped clock hanging on the wall. Already 10:33 pm, and still no sign of Dean. After their discussion, he had gone for a walk to give Dean some space to think. When he had come back, the room was empty, and he hadn't heard from Dean since.

He replayed their confrontation in his head. He thought he had finally managed to get through to his brother, but he wasn't so sure anymore. He had rocked the boat, forced Dean to make a decision, and now Dean could always decide that he wanted out, for good.

What if he had pushed too far? What he was suggesting was far removed from reasonable and appropriate behavior between siblings; but they weren't like everybody else, and the tangled web of knots, blood, anger, and passion, that was their relationship, had broken the neat and too-tight boundaries of 'normal' years ago.

Beyond that, the reason he was willing to go to these extremes, was because he understood what Dean was really angry about. It wasn't the powers, the dark blood he had been cursed with when he was a toddler, and certainly not his part in a scheme that had been cooking since Creation. It was her, everything he had given to her that belonged to Dean: most of which, his loyalty and trust.

Sam knew a thing or two about the mechanics of revenge. If he truly wanted to even the scores and go back to the way things used to be, he had to find a way to give back, to his brother, everything Dean felt he had lost due to his little tryst with Lilith's right hand woman.

He had allowed Ruby to jerk his strings like a marionette. It was only fair that Dean be afforded the same privilege. At least, this time, Sam would be a willing puppet. He would let Dean play with him, break him, and glue him back together as many times as he needed, until the satisfaction of retribution healed the space that was left ravaged by the betrayal. He would take everything his brother had to give, the bitter with the sweet, and hold his cries, while Dean scratched every stain left by the other off Sam's skin, until he recognized the boy he had pretty much raised and cherished above all else.

"Please give us a chance to fix this," Sam prayed aloud.

His phone rang and relief poured over him when he saw the name on the caller ID.

"Dean, where are you? I've been worried sick."

The voice that cut him off was cold. The tone, demanding.

"Let me tell you how this is going to work. You don't discuss orders. You don't get to make decisions. You do whatever is asked of you. From the moment I say "start", it doesn't stop until I say "over". There's no turning back, no safe word, and no breaks. Do I make myself clear?"

Sam's heart thumped in his chest. He nodded. "Yeah."

"I will tell you how to speak, when to speak, how to behave. I won't tolerate disobedience, and you will be disciplined every time you break the rules. This is not open for debate. Take it, or leave it: Yes or no."

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yes."

"Good."

Dean hung up the phone and Sam stood still, struck by the enormity of what he had just agreed to. His heart was beating hard against his chest, racing with a mix of fear and excitement. The phone rang again.

"Start."

Sam closed his eyes and drew in a stuttered breath. Life as he knew it had just ended and he had no idea for how long.

Part II – The Master's Pet