A/N: As usual, lots of violence. Also contains sexual content-pretty much noncon in this chapter. Sorry for the delay-real life's a bitch.
Restaurants and gas stations, diners and houses, strangers on the streets and those who had the misfortune to go to the bank at the wrong time; each kill brought the same rush of adrenaline, the same high of power, and Sam thought that he was going to explode from the satisfaction that satiated his mind and his body. His back healed within a few weeks, and Dean's punishment had struck a chord, lit a fire in them both that they had buried when Sam had left for college. Transgressions and stupidity were met with punishment; frustrations transformed into battles for dominance, and though Sam's throat and backside existed in a constant state of irritation—as did Dean's, he made sure—he felt stronger and freer than he had ever been. Dean was right; college had been a stupid mistake. He belonged on the road, responsible to no one and nothing except his brother.
Law school was forgotten. Sam had everything he needed, everything he wanted, off of killing and stealing to his heart's content. He felt more alive than he had all four years of law school. He had taken a half-hearted dip back into his profession, but found that it was so much more satisfying to kill his clients and strip them of their possessions without pleasuring them first, and quickly moved from soliciting clients to simply grabbing and killing random men and women out looking for a good time—and sometimes those providing the good time. Sam was not picky, and felt no kinship towards the sex workers who prowled the streets and truck stops in every city they passed through.
He could have gone on forever, reveling in the anonymity that came with being a traveling murderer and thief, had Dean not fucked up and gotten himself caught.
Sam was fast asleep in the run down motel room he and Dean had gotten for the night when he got the call. He frowned at the unfamiliar number, but picked up anyways. "It's five in the morning. What," he growled into the speaker.
"It's me." Panic lay under the cold, steady tone Dean was putting on. "Got caught out by the side of the road. I'm in some serious shit and I need you to get me out."
Sam sat up, instantly alert. "How much is your bail?" he demanded, pulling a jacket on over his bare chest and jamming his feet into his boots without bothering with socks.
"200 thousand," Dean replied grimly, voice hard. "I don't think we have that much, do we? Can you get it?"
"Got a better idea," Sam said, stuffing his clothes into his overnight bag, swinging by the bathroom to snag his and Dean's toothbrushes before leaving. "Sit tight, you fuck-up. Help is coming in an unconventional form."
"Yeah, well, get me out of here quick," Dean grumbled, sighing heavily. "And no stunts like with Dad! I'm not desperate enough for that sort of help yet."
"Yeah, I get you," Sam said, stuffing his bag in the trunk of the Impala. "It's going to take me a few hours, so go make nice with your jail buddies and hope that none of them want that ass of yours."
Dean hung up without another word. Sam cursed, checking his watch; only a few minutes after five. It was an hour's drive to Roadhouse if he sped, and if he gave himself an hour to steal a car and an hour to get back, he would be back in town by eight. He placed his phone, underneath the tires of the Impala and backed up, his phone crunching under the pressure of the car. He would get all his necessary contacts from Dean's phone before destroying it, after he was able to pick up another device—that would come after rescuing his brother. He sped off towards the direction of the Roadhouse—he doubted that Ellen or Jo would have opened the bar so early in the morning, but Ash might be there working away at another all-night project.
Sam was in luck; the door was open when he arrived. "Ash!" he shouted, stomping into the building. "It's Sam. I need help!"
"Sam?" Ash's head popped out from behind a tucked away door, his trade-mark mullet greasy and mussed, evidence of several long nights with little sleep. "Shit, man, I thought you dropped out of this op! What do you need?"
"Dean's been arrested," Sam said briskly, without preamble. "Got any spare rides floating around, or do I need to steal one?"
Ash shook his head. "Naw, man, nothing on us right now. Police have been cracking down like mad and it's too risky. They won't be around this early though, they start trolling at noon and end at four or so. Don't worry, I've fucked with all the cameras and bugs they stuck in this place," Ash assured him. "But it's not a safe hideaway anymore, so we can't keep cars and weapons stocks and shit here."
"Know anywhere that's safe to get one this time of day?" Sam demanded.
Ash smirked. "Yeah, there's some used car dump a mile or so down the road. I'll drop you off there and you can take whatever you need." He squinted at Sam. "You and your bro still driving that nice, distinctive Impala?"
"Yes—"
"Gimme the keys," Ash said, holding out his hand. "I'll swing by Jo's. Her new boyfriend's a real champ, arms dealer who covers buying parts by running a mechanic's business. Fuck up your car a little bit and no one will question it being out in his lot."
"You're a real fucking miracle," Sam complimented him, fishing the keys from Ash's pocket and handing them over. "You'll take us to pick up the car when I've got Dean?"
"Yeah, not a problem," Ash said, leading Sam out to the lot. "Got a tarp?" he asked, moving to the front of the Impala.
Sam nodded. "Pop the trunk," he ordered, leading Ash around to the back. He dug out an old tarp, one that would not be missed, and handed it to Ash. Ash laid the material down in front of the car, lifted a booted foot, and kicked the front left headlight. The glass shattered onto the tarp, and Ash moved to perform the same action on the other headlight. "Bundle that up, dump it in the sewers," he advised, opening the driver's side door and climbing in. "Well come on, you want to go pick up a car or not?"
Wordlessly, Sam climbed into the passenger's seat. Ash did not bother with a seat-belt, so Sam did not bother with his own. It was a quick drive to the used car lot; Sam left the car and opened the trunk, stuffing his pockets with knives and ropes, arming himself well with automatics and semi-automatics, and attaching a few grenades to his belt for good measure. He slammed the trunk shut and saluted Ash. "Hey, don't get caught," Ash advised, before speeding off in the Impala.
Shaking his head, Sam spotted a used, rusty truck that had probably been red at some point in the middle of the lot. It was an old car, making it easy to pick the lock and hot-wire the vehicle. Sam sped off down the road, glancing at the beaten, nearly invisible clock. 6:30. Not bad on time, then. Now, first things first, to find a grade school in the area…
High schools started the earliest; Sam remembered rolling out of bed at 6 to get on the bus by 6:45, whenever he and Dean had . He drove, eyes searching, until at last he came to a high school with a full parking lot. Taft High, he read, driving into the parking lot and parking up next to one of the school's side doors. The stately brick building was new, no doubt the pride of the run-down community. Sam grinned; he would be honored to be the first gun-man in this school.
Gathering up his weapons, Sam made for the doors. It seemed that first bell had not started, they opened easily, unlocked. Sam marched in and cocked one of the three guns he had brought in with him, a semi-automatic, tame in contrast with the two automatics he carried slung around his shoulders. "Everyone, shut up if you want to live!" he roared into the crowded hall. The chatter died down instantly; sullen faces and cheerful expressions froze, stunned, as he took a few steps forward. Sam glanced around and seized a short, brace-faced girl, a freshman by the looks of her, by the neck of her T-shirt. The girl let out a short scream as he pulled her close to him. "Everyone, in that classroom," he ordered, firing a shot in the air. "You try to escape, she dies and I pick another one." There was a brief moment of mass hesitation. "Now!" Sam roared. Almost in unison, students and teachers alike hurried into the classroom, several hundred bodies jamming themselves into the confined space. It was a classroom on the inner portion of the hall—no windows, no closets, Sam was relieved to see. He shot the inner handle, and wrenched the remains off the door, closing it as the last teacher scurried in.
Sam's hostage was weeping soundlessly, tears rolling down her round face. Sam felt a rush of bloodlust, the desire to shoot her repeatedly until he ran out of rounds, but he knew that he could not kill her yet—not unless the police refused to cooperate with him. Instead, he dragged her by the neck of her shirt, following the generic layout of the school until he found the main office.
Dramatically, Sam kicked the door open, shoving the girl in ahead of him. The receptionist looked up, gum falling out of her mouth in shock at the sight of a gunman in her school, holding onto one of her students. "Save your whimpering," Sam ordered as the woman let out a frightened whine. "You are going to call up the police station, and you are going to put the phone on speaker. If you've got cameras, you are going to turn them on and allow the cops access to your system. You leave this room, you die. You help anyone else out, you die, and so does this." He shook the student for emphasis.
Hands shaking, the woman reached for the phone and hastily dialed 911, putting the phone on speaker. "911, what's your emergency?" a smooth voice on the other end said.
"Listen closely," Sam thundered, enunciating every syllable with care. "I have Taft High School. This place is mine. I've got more ammo than your entire police force combined, and all the students and teachers secured." He fired a shot into the air for emphasis; both the receptionist and the student hostage screamed and threw their hands up to their ears. "Put the police chief on the phone or this kid dies. What's your name?" he demanded of the round faced girl.
"A-Aya Yamamoto," she whispered, voice barely audible.
"Aaah, Aya Yamamoto, aren't you precious," Sam sneered, stumbling slightly over the unconventional name. "Police chief, now, or little miss Aya gets a pre-mature death via bullet in her skull."
There was some shuffling, and a woman's voice came through the phone. "This is police chief Sanders. What are your demands?" she asked, steady and deliberate.
"Your people arrested someone last night," Sam replied coldly. "You arrested a man last night out by the side of the road. I propose a trade; give him to me and let us go and these kids get to keep their lives. If you're that desperate to keep him, well, I have all the supplies I need to take out every one of these little bastards."
"We arrested several people last night by the side of the road," the chief answered calmly. "Could you describe the man you're looking for?"
Sam growled. "Upwards of six feet tall. White. Blonde. Green eyes. Freckles. Have him here in half an hour or I start shooting. One officer; no more. I see any officers without him, or more than one officer with him, I shoot them, and one kid for every extra. Got it?"
"We'll have him to you presently." The line went dead; Sam grinned, triumphant.
"Looks like you might just get to live, little miss Aya," he crooned, taking it on himself to torment the girl as a way to pass the time. "Aw, don't cry! I probably won't have to shoot you!" The girl only sobbed harder. Sam's eyes hardened and he placed the barrel of his gun against her throat. "I just told you to stop crying."
The girl gulped, trying to silence her sobs. Sam smiled cruelly. "There, isn't that better?" he asked, tilting the gun against her skin. "You like school, Aya? Have fun flitting around with your friends? Do your teachers and parents tell you that you have a bright future if you just work hard and apply yourself?"
Swallowing hard, the girl nodded once. "Awww, isn't it sweet how our loved ones lie?" Sam's face hardened. "You have no future, girl. You want to know something? I was top of my class. I went to Stanford. And yet here I am, in your little piss-pot of a school, holding a gun to your throat. That is true success, true power." He smiled, reaching out and patting her on the head, laughing as she flinched. "Maybe you'll grow up to be just like me. Now, wouldn't that be something?" he asked, snickering.
The front door swung open, and through the office window, Sam watched a young officer walk in, hand wrapped around Dean's bicep. Dean grinned cheerfully, waving at his brother. The officer held up his free hand, coming up to the office door when Sam motioned him forward. Sam opened the door and smiled tightly at the officer, who bristled with ill-concealed fury. "All right, you have what you want," the man spat bitterly. "Let the kids go."
Sam snorted. "Please. Do you think I'm that stupid?" he asked. "You are going to go and wait in your car. We are going to take several students with us, as insurance. We will let them go when we are satisfied that you're not following us. You will wait until we are out of sight, and only then will you enter the building to get the other students out. If I find anyone—anyone—following us, even if they are not police, even if they are police from another town, the kids die. You're going to have your hands full finding them, so I suggest you focus on that rather than searching for us." Sam smiled brightly at the officer. "Off you go! Go sit in the car and think about what happens when you touch those close to me!"
"You're a sick, sick man," the officer seethed, releasing Dean's arm and backing out of the office.
Sam ignored him, turning to Dean. "We'll talk about this later," he muttered, slapping his brother solidly. "Let's go. We'll take another couple kids with us as insurance. I have room for three in the back."
"Nice plan you had there," Dean said in answer, grinning, unfazed by the slap. Sam snorted and led him out of the room, still dragging Aya by her collar. He threw open the door to the crowded classroom. "All right, which two of you fine boys and girls want to take a ride with me and my brother?" he shouted into the room, which had frozen upon his appearance. "No one? Oh come on, do I have to start shooting everyone who doesn't volunteer?"
One of the teachers began to step forward. "No, not you," Sam said, training the gun on him. "Students only. Don't really feel like taking teachers out on a ride-along right now, eighteen and younger only!"
There was a moment's pause, and then a tall, dark skinned boy stepped forward, his rail thin body trembling. "That's one, can we get another volunteer? Another, or I start shooting!" Sam sang, casually letting the gun roam around the room.
A slightly pudgy girl clad in all black stepped forward, her face pale with fright under dyed blue hair. "Always can count on the alternative kids to step up to death," Sam said mockingly, gesturing for her to stand with the tall boy and Aya. "All right, not to fret, the police will be here soon to get your pitiful asses out!" he crowed, herding his three captives out of the room and locking the door. "You, keep a hold of these two. Sit with them in the back, and I'll keep miss Aya up in the front with me," he ordered Dean, shooting his brother a challenging glance.
They herded the kids into the car with little trouble, their hostages too frightened to disobey. Sam placed his automatics in the trunk, but kept the grenades and semi-automatic safely on his person as he climbed into the front seat. "I don't even know how to articulate how pissed I am with you," he growled, settling in and starting the car. "Really? Really! You went out without back-up? What the hell did they catch you doing?"
"It was an accident," Dean replied snappily. "I wasn't planning on killing anyone, but this asshole at the bar tried to cheat me out of the money I won at pool, so I lured him out and killed him. They caught me burying the body."
"At the side of the road?" Sam demanded furiously. "Jesus Dean, how fucking stupid can you possibly be?"
"Okay, I'm sorry! I fucked up, I get it! It's not like I had the car to find a suitable back lot!"
"Well, you know what happens when one of us fucks up," Sam snapped, livid. "But we've got to dump these first," he said, nodding at the students around them.
"How are we even going to pull this off?" Dean asked with trepidation. "The cops know what we look like now."
"Not we. Me. Doubt they paid two fucks attention to your face. And we're gonna have to go pretty damn far," Sam growled, speeding onto the open road. "Look for exits. Tell me when you see one that looks like it goes to a fairly deserted place."
"Got it," Dean said, leaning back, his arm brushing against the tall boy, who stiffened noticeably. Sam laughed harshly, driving until Dean pointed out the first promising exit. Sam drove onto the exit and followed the road until he reached a small, fairly deserted neighborhood.
"Watch them," Sam ordered, tossing the gun to Dean, who caught it. Sam got out of the car and dragged Aya across the seats, out through the driver's side door. "Make a noise and I will snap your throat," he warned, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a roll of twine. The girl whimpered, but was silent apart from that. Quickly, Sam bound her wrists behind her back and secured her to the speed limit sign at the edge of the road. He pulled his pocket knife out from the front of his jeans and sliced off the bottom half of her shirt, binding it around her eyes. "Pleasure to meet you. Try not to die of exposure," he offered, grinning, before hopping back into the car. "And now onto the next one!" he exclaimed. "None of you have had to die yet, so your chances are looking pretty good," he said by way of small talk. He drove for what felt like hours, though it only took half the time that it seemed, before he found another suitable town, where he left the other girl. Doubling back a bit, he headed northeast; it was dark before he found a town to leave the boy. Sam drove to the next town over, where he left the car parked in a resident's driveway as replacement for their comfortable minivan, which he and Dean climbed into silently. There was no question of going to Roadhouse to pick up the Impala tonight; Sam was exhausted. He drove, silent, as Dean sat awkwardly in the passenger's seat, apparently unwilling to start the conversation about how many ways he had screwed up.
Sam drove until they reached a seemingly deserted rural road. Several miles in, he pulled into what appeared to be a vacation house; at any rate, it was empty and quiet, devoid of neighbors who could call the police if Dean screamed too loud in response to his punishment. Then again, perhaps Sam would inflict some sort of silent punishment on him, just to minimize their chances of getting caught.
The place was nicer than any motel that Sam or Dean would have been able to afford; damn rich people and their money, throwing it away on houses they didn't even use. Were it not for the fact that their faces were doubtless plastered all over the news in several states, if not nationwide, Sam would have been determined detonate his grenades in the morning, or if they stayed longer, before they left; however, it looked like the streak was over. It was time for them to lay low and regroup, not to continue their spree. Sam sighed; and to think that it had been going so well until now.
"Dean," he started coldly, looking down at his brother. "You know you fucked up. Why don't you list off every way that you screwed things up for us?"
Dean glared at him. "I killed a guy without backup. I buried him in a stupid place. I got caught. What more do you want from me, Sam?" he demanded, spitting the words out vehemently.
"You killed a guy without backup," Sam said, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, marking down a tally. "You didn't call me to help you dispose of the body. You buried him in a stupid place. You got caught. You let them arrest you. You dragged me in to pull your ass out of this. You got both of our faces out to the media as criminals." He shook his head in disgust. "That's seven transgressions. Go fill up the bathtub, Dean."
Dean's face went white. "Sammy—"
"Now," Sam snarled, backhanding him sharply. Neither of them had used this punishment since they were kids; it was terrifying, it was risky, the chance of an accident was much higher than a simple beating, or a hard fucking. As far as Sam was concerned, Dean had properly earned this one.
Face white and set, Dean looked around the house for a bathroom with a tub. Sam held his breath, hoping that the place had water. It did—damn rich people who could afford to keep water running in a house they were not using—and Dean slowly turned the cold tap onto full, before turning and giving Sam a pleading look. "Sammy—"
"On your knees," Sam said quietly, cutting his brother off. "You deserve this. You know how much you fucked up. Now don't fucking question me, or I'll double your sets."
Body tense and resolute, Dean knelt, stripping off his shirt. Sam whipped off his brother's belt, binding his arms to his body; he used his own belt to bind Dean's hands together behind his back. "Take a deep breath," Sam ordered as the bathtub filled steadily, menacingly. "One," he started, placing a knee on Dean's back and shoving his face into the water. "Two. Three. Four."
Sam counted to sixty and wrenched his brother's head out of the water. "Breathe!" he shouted, slamming Dean's head back in as he sputtered for breath. Sam counted to sixty again and pulled Dean out, again shouting "Breathe!" before shoving him back under. Only when all seven transgressions had received their minute did he pull Dean out for good and check his pulse, weak but still there. Dean coughed pitifully, a small stream of water spewing from his lips.
Sam did not bother to untie Dean. He hastily pulled his brother's pants down. "You fucked up good, Dean," he growled, seizing a cylindrical bottle of shampoo and lining it up between Dean's ass cheeks. He shoved, forcing the object in without preparation. Dean screamed, leaning forward and heaving up water into the bathtub, struggling to keep his head up out of the water. Sam reached forward and seized Dean's head by the hair, wrenching his neck back to keep his brother from drowning. "Apparently you can't be trusted by yourself anymore. So I'll make it so you can't even walk without my help!" He kneed Dean's backside, forcing the bottle in further. The sound of ripping flesh alerted him that Dean was bleeding, that he had succeeded in cutting him open from the inside. With his free hand, Sam hastily undid his pants, and then slid the bottle out of his brother. The sound of Dean's screams, the flow of his blood, the weak helplessness that his bonds and near-drowning incited—all of these combined left Sam ready, wanting, needing. He lined himself up and thrust into his brother, reveling in the feeling of torn flesh, slicked and ready with blood. "God, yes," he groaned as he ripped into Dean's already torn flesh, blood pooling around his shaft, trapped inside Dean's completely filled passage. Blood was the best lubricant; the sheer sensation of power that came with fucking into someone with their own life force was enough to nearly send Sam over the edge. He wrenched Dean's head back even further, pulling his brother up to his knees with the force of his grip, and pounded into him, soaking the bathmat and floor with Dean's blood. "Beg me to stop," he whispered, biting sharply into Dean's ear, gnawing at the cartilage until he finally broke the skin.
Dean groaned in response, shuddering against Sam's chest. "Please," he whispered hoarsely. "Please, no more Sammy, no more—"
Sam wrapped his free arm around Dean's torso, holding him tight against his chest, and released his hair, wrapping a large hand around his brother's mouth. "Yes more, but that was very good," he whispered, rocking back and forth lazily, his motions limited by the change in position. "But I'll give you a little breather, does that sound good? Like it gentle like this?"
Dean gasped, his arms struggling weakly at the belts that bound him. Sam whispered soothingly in his ear, nuzzling the side of his neck as he rocked slowly back and forth. Pleasure sparked through him as he moved, purposefully avoiding Dean's prostate—he could allow his brother a breather, but pleasure would destroy the punishment entirely. "You gonna fuck up again?"
Dean whimpered and shook his head, his short hair brushing against Sam's temple, his mouth opening slightly against Sam's hand. Sam groaned, and pulled out halfway. "Then get your legs in order and turn around," he ordered, pulling his hands away from Dean's body, slick with water and blood.
Dean cried out, voice weak and hoarse with pain. He struggled, shifting weakly to turn without pulling away from Sam—Sam grinned, knowing the pain his brother feared if he denied him. It was rare that he could put true terror onto Dean's face, but the occasions when he did were so sweet, every last one of them was seared into his memory. This moment could go to join them. With Dean situated facing him, legs shaking with the effort, face contorted with fear and pain, Sam could barely contain himself. His body screamed at him to come, to release and beat Dean bloody, but Sam stilled the urge, tenderly pushing Dean down so that the back of his neck rested on the edge of the bathtub. "You ready?" he asked, leering at Dean as he reached forward to stroke his twisted, bruised face.
Dean shook his head frantically, green eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. Sam slipped a hand under Dean's head, cradling it gently, using his other hand to grip his brother's shoulder with bruising force. He squeezed Dean's shoulder, savoring his pitiful cry as he shoved forward, pounding into Dean's blood-slicked body. He panted, trying to think of words, of hateful, spiteful things that he could say to drill this lesson into his brother's brain, but his mind was blissfully blank, and the only thoughts he could hold onto for more than a fraction of a second were more, need, more, faster, more! He dug his nails into Dean's shoulder, tense limbs shaking with need as his brother flopped weakly beneath him.
With a victorious cry, Sam orgasmed, spilling into Dean's body, continuing to thrust away as he did so. "Fuck, he gasped, pulling out and dragging Dean backwards to the floor, glistening with water and sweat, his own blood matting into his hair. "Fuck. I almost hope you didn't learn your lesson," he mumbled, lying down next to his brother and kissing his bloody head.
Dean moaned softly in reply, before coughing up the last remains of the water in his lungs. "Sam, please," he rasped in a whisper. "Not that one again. I can't do the bathtub again, not ever, please."
Sam shushed him and kissed his neck tenderly. "No promises, Dean," he murmured, stroking the blood on his brother's face. "No promises. It's all on you. Don't fuck up this badly again, and I will never have to do anything like this to you again. You know you deserved everything you got.
Dean nodded weakly, unable to even lift his head off the floor. Sam smiled and rose to a crouch, undoing the belts from around his brother's body. "Come on, Dean. Let's get you cleaned up and off to bed. Don't you worry about clean-up, I've got it. We'll go get the Impala back tomorrow, and you can heal on the road."
Dean groaned in reply, weakly clutching at Sam as the taller man picked him up. Dean's face was beautiful, contorted with pain as it was, and Sam wished that he had a faster recovery time so that he could take his brother again—but no, no, he needed his rest and with the working over Sam had given him, that might well kill him. Sam shrugged, laying his brother down on the couch and heading back to the bathroom to scrub out the blood and burn the bathmat. Evidence erased, he wandered the house until he found a bedroom and collapsed on the bed, sated and satisfied. He had his brother back, the punishment had been a success, and while they were now constricted by a potentially federal investigation, he could live with the wait, he thought.