Disclaimer: I own nothing...lucky them. A.N. So, I'm not pulling punches with this one. Then again, when you find a series of wincest prompts, and they say, "Yup, it's perfectly okay to combine prompts" and there are things like "begging," "buried" and "withdrawal"... Well, Demon Dean strolls in my brain asking if I called. XD Sadly, we don't have tags here. Which means that, since I don't wanna traumatize anyone, I'll put the unpleasantness here – in bold and capitals. If you still manage to skip reading that, and then are less than happy, I'll ignore your complaints. If I could, I'd put it in the summary, but it's against the rules here, so. EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT AT BEST. YOU MIGHT THINK SAM CAN'T CONSENT TO SHIT, WHAT WITH THE GENERAL SITUATION, BUT I SEE HIM MORE STOCKHOLM'S-SYNDROMED. COCK AND BALL TORTURE – A LOT. SEX WITHOUT LUBE AND WITHOUT PREP. VICTIM BLAMING, ALL THE TIME. PET PLAY. HUMILIATION. BLOOD ADDICT SAM/ "PUSHER" DEMON DEAN, WHICH MEANS ALSO BLOOD DRINKING. SAM BEING LEFT OUTSIDE FOR DAYS IN WINTER, DON'T DO IT EVEN TO AN ACTUAL BITCH. PURPOSEFUL NEGLECT IN GENERAL. BONDAGE (CHAINS). NIPPLE CLAMPS. SOUNDING. BASICALLY, DEMON DEAN IS AN ABUSER IN HIS RELATIONSHIP, AND HE STILL THINKS HE'S TOO LENIENT. WHO'D HAVE THUNK, HUH?
Bitch
Dean whistles to himself, re-entering the bunker. Life is good, finally. Well, at least for him. If he'd known how grand being a demon would be, he'd have knocked out Castiel and demanded to be brought down again to finish his transformation then and there. Or well, tried to.
Maybe it's better this way. Alastair couldn't grant him more than run-of-the-mill abilities, no matter how diligent a pupil he was. With the Mark of Cain, he gets all the extra perks – actual immortality included, no matter what happens.
Besides, before they didn't have a home. He really likes the bunker, even if he can see Abaddon's point in getting rid of the Men of Letters. Anyone who went down that easily, despite all the knowledge at their fingertips, deserved it anyway.
The place is lovely. Not just because he has his own bedroom, showers with perfect pressure and possibly infinite hot water, and a sparkly kitchen, if he's still in the mood to experiment. Just because he technically doesn't need food, it doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. No, the main reason is that it'd be much harder to keep his bitch if they were still bumming around, and Dean is really too fond of his favorite toy.
Not that Sam would agree with him, probably. But what Sam thinks, says, or wants, finally doesn't matter anymore. Dean is Dean's priority, for a change, and Sam? He has enough to make up for as it is. Ruined his life by being born, without even going into all the rest. If Dean's taking what he wants now, when he wants...well, he'd considered just putting the boy down for all his trangressions, but he finally gets it. The kid's too pretty for his own good when he's in agony (and Dean speaks with a marked degree of experience on the matter), and when he breaks... No wonder Sammy had hell and assorted villains fawning over him all his life, if they could taste it with even half the intensity he does.
Sam's own fault, really. If he were different, they'd all have grown bored of him ages may be a real worthy heir to the Men of Letters, though, because he went down ridiculously easy, too. Just like Dean was sure he would have.
When he'd finally had Sam cornered, the boy had pulled the demon knife. As expected, even if Abaddon should have taught him it was useless. He didn't quite have the guts to cut Dean's throat, too scared, or too gentle. So Dean had to do it for him, pressing against the blade until a thin dribble of blood had started to drip down his neck. Poor Sammy had been so obvious, pressing himself harder against the wall when he was already trapped, huffing once, staring at it with eyes blown wide.
"Come on, baby. Knight of hell – this has to be top shelf. Shame to waste it." He'd grabbed Sam by his nape, like an unruly puppy, and just tugged him down, against his own still slowly bleeding neck.
No," Sammy whimpered, going down. But Dean didn't let him up, and crooned, "You know you want it. I'm giving it to you, baby brother. It's okay." He hadn't even finished, when Sam's eyes fluttered closed, and he was lapping up everything, eager, moaning in the back of his throat. Five years sober (that Dean knew; but he doubted that if that soulless husk had been guzzling demon's blood their grandpa would have left him unchained) and all he needed to throw it away was Dean's permission. Five fucking seconds and the great hunter was lost, reverting to the needy addict Dean had been so blindingly jealous about. Hey, he was the first to admit he'd been pathetic.
Leash firmly in place, his bitch had learned quickly how things were supposed to go. Dean still likes to give him frequent reminders. It helps to keep his brother behaving, and is an exquisite experience for him.
It's kind of disappointing that Sammy doesn't need the really harsh ones anymore. Last February, the idiot had waited until Dean was out, having fun on his own, to go for a run of all things. No, not run away entirely. Not rush to Lebanon and give someone the puppy eyes until he was allowed to borrow a phone to reach out to Cas, or Garth, or Jody, or anyone who might help "save" him. Enough of a junkie already to be unable to give up his willing source.
Just stir-crazy, despite the vastness of the bunker, going a little mad from being locked in for months on end. True, his access to many areas was restricted by a few spells Dean had learned, because he didn't want Sammy researching too hard and getting ideas. Besides, being bored out of his skull (sources of diversion in general had been removed from the places he was allowed in) made him even more eager to be the entertainment when Dean came by. Almost as needy for attention, a word, a touch, as for the and pitiful and gorgeous.
So technically Dean could have banned him from any room with an actual exit, if he'd really wanted to keep him. Buried alive in a vast mausoleum, so many comforts and despite it all no relief. Running was still a very, very stupid move of his bitch. Test failed. Dean had the only key to the bunker, of course. So Sam had actually left the door slightly ajar when he left. Anything could have got in. A rabid raccoon. Another demon.
When Dean got home first, he locked it behind himself, obviously. Then he got himself some liquorice and watched. Watched Sam come back, sweaty and exhausted. Knock and call out and beg, then whine, then settle at the door. His pet could have rested and turned tail. Decided to get help. Anything. But he was already broken, more scared of losing Dean than of anything else. He'd huddled near the entrance, shivering, pawing at it, pleading on and off in a ragged voice, for the full 3 days Dean had ignored him.
After he'd let the bitch back in, stumbling and starving and feverish, seeing him cower at his feet, almost too weak to moan at the well-deserved thrashing he got (as if Dean could have let such a thing pass) had been nothing short of orgasmic. He did give him more blood than usual after that, though. It fixed him right up, just as Dean had expected. Still, Sam wouldn't even set foot in the war room anymore, except if Dean dragged him in. He definitely wasn't about to even glance outside again, unless Dean ordered him to.
Now, Dean takes his sweet time putting everything he's bought in its rightful place. He's louder than he normally would be, lets cupboards bang without a care and keeps whistling, but he's gotta make sure Sam will hear him, from where he's chained. In the vast communal bathroom, because the Men of Letters were kinky fuckers, or maybe planned to wash the odd captive creature too, and once Dean noticed the – rather discreet, really, for all their strategical placement - bolted rings, well. It'd be a waste not to use them, right?
Luckily sounds carry well in the bunker, unless the room is soundproofed, so soon Dean gets what he wants. Sam starts screaming for him, all needy and desperate, panic rising into his voice the longer Dean lingers. Which is the only reason Dean goes to grab the laptop and watches a few shorts of the Three Stooges. They're the best to keep on mute, and he wouldn't interfere with the current soundtrack for the world. If he teases himself a bit during it...it's odd, but by far not the oddest thing he's ever done, and no amount of ridiculousness in front of him can entirely offset how hard Sam's pleading gets his cock.
Two hours later, he gives up and finally goes to visit his boy. Sam's stark naked, iron collar tight around his throat, chain just long enough to let him go from the toilet to the sink (he's been in here a couple days; he deserves a few sips of water) but not to get into one of the shower stalls. It wouldn't do for him to get too comfortable. Goosebumps cover him, exactly like Dean wants, and yes, he is perfectly aware that Sammy hates being too cold since having Lucifer under his skin. Frankly, it's half the point. No matter what he does, Sam better be fucking grateful. It's not like he doesn't know in excruciating detail how much worse things could be.
His brother's hands are ziptied (in the front, he doesn't hate the bitch that much), and his legs tremble uncontrollably with the strain, forced apart just a little more than can be easily endured by the spreader bar connecting his thighs. The last touch is the cock cage, a ringed structure rather than a complete covering, so that some teasing is still possible. Still, no matter how long (six weeks, not that he's counting) has gone since the boy's balls emptied last, he highly doubts that he was in the mood to play with himself during his captivity.
When Dean walks in, he finds Sam already on his knees, fevered, suppliant eyes raised to him. He licks his lips before offering a raspy, "Please." Dean's cock goes from interested to painfully hard in seconds. That's why he does this in the first place. Why he locked his bitch up when he was on the cusp from 'tension headache, actually every single part of him is tense with the need for the next dose' to 'proper demon blood withdrawal'. Oh, he'd never, ever actually let Sam get clean. He's experimented, and never lets him even get to the 'tossed around like a ragdoll' stage. Gives him just a little taste of what it would be, if Sam decided again to do something eminently stupid like curing him – and succeeded. It's a kindness, really, to keep him in here. The bitch has all he could need. If he had food, Dean doubts he'd be able to stomach it anyway, not with the way his body is self-destroying with the need for blood.
"Do you think you deserve it, baby?" he croons.
Sam has learned his role well. He shakes his head violently – he damn well doesn't deserve shit – but tears slip from his eyes, pain, exhaustion (Dean highly doubts he's managed to sleep a wink) and cravings too overwhelming to control. He's made the mistake of answering "yes" to that exactly once. His owner had turned around and ignored him for another three hours, no matter how he apologised, pleaded, or what he offered (it turns out that the boy has a wild imagination).
"That's right, you don't," Dean replies, tone poison sweet, and Sammy just cries harder. "You're so lucky that I treasure you." Fact is, he doesn't even think he's lying. He loathes the kid, sure. But if that was all he felt, he'd have killed him, or ripped him apart, or any of the options that didn't cause him to see that damn face over and over again.
Sam's breath hitches, and his pretty mouth falls open when Dean bares his cock. That's the right way to feed the bitch. Dean takes a small knife from a pocket, and slashes across his left hand. There are a ton of nerves, but pain and pleasure have blurred together for him long ago, and it's the most practical way. He teases himself again, slathering his cock in as much blood as Sam can be trusted with.
Not that the bitch has ever tried to attack him with his pretty powers – no sense in squeezing him, or whatever that was back then, burning through his dose all the quicker. Dean would be back to himself before Sam could subdue him long-term, he thinks. But best not give him too much of a top-up and make the temptation to turn the tables too high.
The bitch's drooling, eyes almost as black as his master's, but he's not moving, except the full body shudders he can't seem to contain. A few online videos of well-trained dogs gave Dean that idea, and my, was it fun to teach Sammy to wait for the go-ahead, no matter how desperate for a dose he was. Much shorter restraints, and Dean standing right there, all bloodied and deliciously tantalizing, stepping out of reach whenever the hungry bitch tried to lunge or even move at all...it's a minor miracle the boy still has enough of his sanity to recognize and follow commands.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" the demon sneers, and Sam's on him, swallowing him to the root, tongue lavishing every inch in a frenzied attempt to get everything off him before Dean decides he'd rather play a different, harder game...The bitch's choking himself on his cock, gagging and sucking like he was made for it.
He can feel the way Sam needs air, but he won't relinquish his prize yet, not yet, because he needs the blood more. Because he needs Dean more, and in some fashion, all the ways he's tormented the bitch come down to the same thing: make sure Sam won't ever dream of leaving anymore, make him depend on his brother, ache for him, be totally fucking gone on him the way human Dean had been on his baby boy. Fuck the bitch and his heaven, not that he'd get anywhere close to it ever again – Dean would make sure of it. It was his turn to be pathetic, needy and desperate.
Dean's hands twist in too-long hair, tugging harshly to control the pace, forcing Sam to slow down, then to still completely. Take what he's given, however it pleases Dean to give it, and nothing more.
There's no experience quite like fucking with abandon a throat already raw because it's been screaming nonstop for you, if he can say so himself. Dean squeezes that beautiful, beautiful column, shuddering at the double sensation of touching himself through it, and the way it constricts like a vice around his cock. His thumb casually pets the sigil he carved there, twin of the one now hidden by the bitch's hair, on top of his head.
Crowley had been a boastful drunk, and when he'd learned that the king of hell could fully disconnect an angel from angel radio, if he so chose...Well, it had been natural to ask if he also knew how to stop a human's prayer from being heard upstairs, no matter how loud he was or how hard he longed. Not that Dean really thought anyone would have cared about the demon-blood-drinking abomination (Castiel hadn't minced words in his early days). But Cas had grown into a wild card, and just in case...Sure, the bunker was warded against everything in existence, but the point was that Dean was free. Sam wasn't. If Dean had to be concerned anytime he stepped out, the fun stopped. Crowley had looked at him like he was a genius (which was true), put his R&D department on it, and explained the solution they'd found.
When he's on the brink, Dean draws back, wanting to make Sammy feel it. His mouth flooding with his brother's come, salty and bitter and sulphurous, having to actively swallow over and over and over, because he wouldn't like the result if he wasted it.
Afterwards, the demon leaves him empty, and stares down at him. Sam's not as pale and drawn anymore, his trembling has vanished for the moment, and of course, that's when the cock cage starts being really fun. Dean had a hunch, given Ruby, but now he's seen it over and over and over. The blood gets to Sam's cock dizzyingly fast, and the poor thing strains against the metal. Unyelding as the structure is, it's also incapable of completely fighting against the supernatural influence compelling his brother. It's trying to explode out of it, even tamed over and over, and there'll be welts on that monster cock whenever Dean takes pity enough to free it. Dean drags a heavy boot against it, and Sam screams, wrecked, his eyes rolling back.
"You know how it goes, pup," the demon says, tsking, "you can have some relief. Or you can have another top up of blood in a little while." Most often, Sam will opt for extra blood. Dean's a stingy pusher, and having to plead for – or earn – his next dose is something the wretched creature will put off as much as possible.
"Blood" Sam had gritted out two weeks ago. That session was so awesome, Dean has everything handy for a precise repeat, even if usually he likes to mix things up and keep his toy on his toes. Then again, getting a rerun when you expect something new qualifies, doesn't it?
The wicked sound, long enough to press right against Sam's prostate, large enough that the bitch can't even dribble around it, much less dream of cumming. It's unevenly ribbed, some lining against the cage's rings, so the abused, overstretched flesh can find no respite at all, inside or out; others pushing swollen skin well into the cage's slits. Dean fucked him for hours with it on, delighting in the bitch's pained whimpers and broken pleading, making sure to hit his prostate every other pass. Even blocked, all that stimulation had forced orgasm after soul-wringing orgasm from Sammy... only, instead of out, his semen kept helplessly shooting right into his bladder. With a month's worth of denial to be played with, it was slightly bulging at the end...feeling it was what had finally broken Dean's control and made him fill Sammy's ass.
The plug had come afterwards, short but obscenely wide, pressed in so there'd be no risk his bitch would lose his gift and earn himself a punishment. The next part...well, he couldn't have done it without his demon powers, and fuck, is it awesome. Dean had pressed hard on that protruding bladder, forcing its content right back into aching balls. Sam had screamed like he was being gutted at the unnatural rush, and Dean couldn't help himself – didn't want to. He came all over his boy again, fully untouched.
Finally he'd taken away the cage, at that point, and then the sound, even if it kept 'accidentally' slipping from his hands to plunge a little deeper into tortured flesh. The poor thing had sobbed all throughout, blabbering his thanks. Then Dean moved him to curl on his side, sitting by him, letting the boy pillow his head on his owner's lap. A lazy hand played gently with Sam's hair, and that's when the demon's temper had flared again. Because he knows the difference between "exhausted fainting", "forced stillness, to avoid a monster's attentions" and "sagging relief," intimately. Especially in his brother. And that? That had been the third. The "Dee's here, everything's gonna be okay" that a lifetime has conditioned into his brother and months of torment hadn't managed to undo yet. Dean dragged the other hand through his own cooled cum, fed it to the bitch, fingers pushing deep and harsh, and Sam suckled it from him, obedient, without opening his eyes, not a flinch. Trusting. Being good for Dean because it's Dean, not because Sammy was wisely terrified of him, and if that level of dumb doesn't make you want to tear your own hair out, or kill something, why not?
Knowing nothing would have helped anyway, Dean remained still for a hour, allowing his pet some rest. After all, Sammy had asked for more blood...and that was what woke him up. Throat full of (much less, now) bloody cock again. Hands tight in his hair, stopping him from going for air, now that the agony of withdrawal subdued and the spasm of his deprived lungs felt too much to bear. Sam had settled back, docile, enduring. Taken his "reward", and then watched, without making a sound except some understandably noisy panting, when Dean went looking for the toys for the new round.
Five clamps, all sharp-toothed and brutal. The first two snapped around his balls, ripping a tortured howl from his abused throat. Fingers went to pinch, twist and stretch the boy's nipples, before applying the second pair, but despite the pain, Sammy barely reacted to that. The last one clenched right behind his cockhead, deep red and throbbing with the second dose of blood, and the bitch's whole body had seized, his scream barely human. It'd been glorious. Dean needed more.
Twin, heavy weights were soon hanging off each clamp, but the pain was already too much to draw more than half-sobbed whimpers from him. His eyes, though. Oh, these kaleidoscopic eyes asked what Sam did wrong to deserve this. Not that Dean would tell him. Anyone who was stupid enough not to get it couldn't understand anyway, and certainly not when so distracted.
Iron bands had closed around his ankles next, and thin, light chains were threaded, connecting them to the bitch's collar, his bound hands (so maybe Dean got a little headstart on preparing a remake of last time) and all the clamps. Just to make sure it all worked to his satisfaction, the demon tugged on one of the chains, viciously. The full-body shudder and sobs were delicious, but disappointingly, Sam got them quickly under control, to avoid making things worse for himself.
Dean swapped his plug for a different one, thinner and longer, settling it just shy of his prostate. The tail attached to it was long and plumed – like a gazelle hound's. Dean could research when it was fun, and - hunting dog, fastest over long distances, ancient line, way too fucking pretty for their own good (even he could recognize it, and he was not a dog person), cannot be fucking trusted to return to its owner when off-leash? It checked out far too well. Dean had just learned to tie Sam down in a way the bitch couldn't shrug off. He smirked while turning it on. The relentless vibrations magnified his pet's helpless, frustrated arousal, and the fake hair swinging around kept brushing rhythmically against his aching, oversensitive balls. Sam probably didn't even register it right now. The longer it went on, the more it'd feel intolerable, even (especially) compounding with all the rest. Last came the leash. Rough hemp rope...crossing over and over on his crimson, unnatural erection, knots in a pretty pattern. Instinctively, the bitch had tried to close his legs when his brother's hands had started working on him. Another sharp tug made him rethink that, but Dean thought the spreader bar might be an useful addition.
The demon had lead him through the bunker for hours afterwards. The bitch was on all fours, obviously. He tried to move carefully, in tiny increments, but to no avail. Any movement at all set off his chains, coldly tugging at everything. A high, lively chime counterpointed near continuous whines Sam couldn't control. And that was when Dean indulged him. Every now and then, he'd get bored with the coddling. Lengthen his stride, and yank on the rope, hard, to make Sammy keep pace. His boy howled in agony, stumbled, but obeyed. If he sobbed, and his heaving chest made things even worse for him...well, tough luck. When his last yank had seen Sam go to the floor, helpless, teary, incapable of getting back up even when Dean had threatened to just drag him round like that (and he could have)...It stopped being entertaining. The blood high had to have gone out of him anyway. Dean had kicked him – once, in the stomach, boot tangling with chains – for cutting the fun short. But then he'd knelt down and taken everything off him. Listened to his broken thanks while he carried him to a bed, made sure the boy had some food in him. He didn't want Sam actually dead, after all.
He's been daydreaming of this for...well, for the whole past week, really. And now he gets to have it again. Or should, only Sammy breathes, "Relief."
"What?" Dean asks, unconvinced. Sam doesn't want a blood top-up? The fuck? Did he get too much of it on himself the first time around?
If he was smart, Sam'd backtrack, but he insists,"Relief, Dee, please," all puppy eyed and whiny, and Dean could tell him no. But he did give the kid the option to choose, and maybe he's been around Crowley too long, but bait-and-switching on him doesn't sit right with him. Oh well. There's always another time. There will be years and years of other times.
"You little slut," he says instead, no warmth in it but not any real contempt, either. Just a statement of fact. Sam ducks his head, flushing bright, and frankly it's ridiculous he cares what Dean says when he'll let him do anything. It's been so long since he's heard a no from him that the demon almost misses it. Not that it'd stop him, but still. At least Sammy could have said he tried.
He kneels behind the bitch, and smirks at the way his pet tries to follow him out of the corner of his eye. Not fully turning around, just the tiniest tilt to anticipate what'll happen. Maybe Sam does dread the possibilities, at least a little. He's not completely crazy yet.
He rolls the boy's balls in his hands, contemplative, feeling their weight. After six weeks without release, they hang low, obscenely full, no doubt already oversensitive. The bitch moans, long, loud, and deep, pushing into his hands. Already fucking desperate, and they haven't even started. That, obviously, can't be condoned, so Dean squeezes, vicious. Unrelenting. Moans turn to screams, then to hitching sobs, and finally Sam retches. Dean plays with the idea of keeping it up until he's thrown up his dose, but stops. Mostly because he needs time to decide if it'd be funnier to make him lick the blood back up, or make him go without, and for how long.
Sam has crashed on his forearms midway through, in too much pain to stay just on his knees, and now is panting his way through the aftershocks. Dean teases his caged cock with a single finger. His blood is miraculous, really, because the poor thing tries valiantly to swell back up, despite the agony he just endured and the metal encasing it.
"Still needy for me," Dean rumbles, and the near-imperceptible nods he gets makes him grin. "Good."
The index finger of his other hand enters the bitch's hole, dry and careless. Sammy whines a little, high in his throat, but doesn't try to move. Dean's all business, zeroing in on his brother's prostate with an insistent, rhythmic, offhand rub. His trapped cock starts leaking, plenty of precum at least, but soon it's actual semen, splashing slow and thick out of him in fat drops, all pleasure stolen from the experience. Arousal keeps simmering under his brother's skin, slipping out in full-body shivers and broken moans, that interrupt a chant of "Dee" and "need" in a loop so tight Dean suspects even Sammy isn't sure what he's saying at any given time.
"Useless" he rumbles into Sammy's ear, and yes, he's speaking of the bitch's encased cock, which he keeps teasing relentlessly anyway– one finger to two to a loose fist and back. From the heartbroken sob he gets, he's not sure Sam got that. Then again, he has something of a right to be dumb now.
Still, it's a sluggish process, and there's only so much boredom Dean will tolerate. "Want more?" he offers, and Sam's yes turns into a drawn-out whine.
Well, then. Dean grabs the bitch's hips with both hands, hard enough that there'll be bruises later. Maybe it was the pleading, maybe how helpless Sammy is, but he could pound nails again. There's no reason to not pound Sam's overworked prostate instead. He doesn't give him the favor of opening him – it's not like the bitch hasn't had worse – and instead enjoys burying himself into the too-tight hole. The only thing that ever hugged him snugger than Sam who just had one finger inside him is completely unprepared Sam, but it's still awesome. The boy asked for it, after all. And the hoarse scream ripped from his throat is an even sweeter music to Dean's ears than his pleading.
The bitch's back arches, not even trying to hold still, but Dean lets that pass, because he's not in the mood to interrupt the fun. Dean prefers using his new strength to manhandle the huge, restless puppy. He laughs at the way he tries to meet his thrusts, no amount of agony capable of defeating the unspent lust driving him. He's back to pleading, a broken babble that Dean ignores, keeping his pace slow, even and relentless. The pool under his caged cock grows and grows, and the demon decides Sammy'll clean up after himself. With his tongue. In a few hours, though, just to drive home how very obedient he's turned. The mental image makes him come on the spot.
"Don't stop, oh God, don't," Sam whines, balls still near half-full, and that's going entirely too far.
Dean slaps them, open-handed and sharp. "You. Don't. Get. To. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. Capiche?" Each word is punctuated with another hit, his other hand holding onto the bitch so he can't even try to escape. A half-sobbed litany of sorry and yelps answers him. He keeps going, entranced by his own rhythm, until they're bright red, swollen and hot under his touch. "Maybe I'd have finished you myself if you'd kept your mouth shut, you greedy little slut. You just had to misbehave, didn't you?"
Sam flinches, and the demon grins. Yeah, that's right. Bastard's incapable of being good, but at least he knows how to regret it.
Dean goes to a drawer, gets the hound-tailed plug, and this time is careful to set it right against the boy's prostate. He turns it on, at the highest setting, and watches the fluffy tail swish against reddened balls. The bitch keens, high in his throat. Dean credits his own blood with the fact that he still can. On a whim, he unclasps the chain from his pet's collar, letting it fall to the floor. He turns his back on Sam, and the plaintive"Dean," he hears makes him wonder if maybe he needs another lesson already.
Instead, he snaps, "Stay" - no brownie points for listening if he couldn't disobey – and goes back to the kitchen. There are cameras everywhere in the bunker now, and the whole system is hooked to Dean's laptop, of course. He watches, fixing himself a snack, because the exercise made him kinda hungry. The bitch pants, open-mouthed, whimpers with every swaying of the tail, but obeys, not even trying to escape his torment. From the intensity of the puppy eyes, Dean wonders if Sam knows he's watching, and teasing himself along. (One of the many perks of demonhood: refractory period? What refractory period?)
Eventually, the steady drip from his bound cock stops. Dean continues to ignore him, revelling in the fact the oversensitivity has lost the side effect of slow, torturous, but still yearned for relief and is nothing but agony. The plug isn't that big. Sammy could try to get up and let gravity free him from his punishment. He knows better, though. Or maybe the demon blood is still singing through him, lustful and irresistible, because he shudders and grunts, riding the feeling until it must circle back to pleasure. It's not long then till every trembling muscle locks up, undoubtedly in an awesome dry orgasm. Dean follows along with one of his own.
He finds Sam splayed on the floor, incapable of even staying on all fours. Kicks him lightly, and the bitch gets the hint and rolls around showing the way half the lake of his cum is now stuck to his stomach – and the other half undoubtedly in the process of staining his back right now. Forces him to arch a little, full body shaking, so he can take the plug off. Yes, it would have been easier when the bitch was half-presenting in the first place, but where would be the fun in the that?
Dean's own cum dribbles out of him, and Sam tenses, trying to keep it in. Dean retorts to his rudeness – you don't waste a gift you begged for – by grabbing his pet's balls again. He rolls them around, almost meditative, feeling how much lighter they are, but still swollen, this time with punishment and overstimulation. Loves the way his insistent rubbing draws a helpless gasp from Sam's lungs, and the inhuman keen when he squeezes again – hasty and brutal.
It doesn't help Sammy keep himself under control, the way Dean would prefer (well, his control, ultimately, but still, Sam's gotta learn some self-restraint), but he's so gorgeous that the demon decides Sam might be in for a treat. Sorta. Besides, keeping him confused helps. He won't even dream of outthinking his brother if he can't even figure out what mood he'll be in two minutes later anymore. Dean grins at his boy, and finally takes the cock cage off, too. The welts are deep and bruised, but his cock, never sated, still fills completely and stands, throbbing and aching. It's the most fucking beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. "Want some help with that?"he growls, suddenly craving himself.
Sure, maybe Sam knows better than to tell him no by now, but he didn't have to add that little thrust of his hips to his soft, "Please." Slut.
He goes slowly, tongue gentling abused flesh, teasing and worshipful. At the same time, his fist closes around what he hasn't got to yet, just a little too tight, thumb digging into fresh stripes. Sammy moans anyway, brokenly, tries to thrust again – deeper, more – even knowing that his brother could stop him with nothing more than a thought. Dean lets him, indulgent (sometimes the old, annoying habit of letting the bitch get away with murder resurfaces); he even eases his fist until he's sure nothing but pleasure is coursing through him. Of course, he gotta let most fall from his mouth and scrape the boy's cockhead with his teeth one second later.
Sammy keens, but still thrusts again. Even when Dean makes sure to let him feel teeth all the way. If he sucks too harshly for long-punished flesh to feel pleasant, or not at all, if he takes Sam deep in his throat or hovers, so his exhausted lover can't get more than the very tip in... The bitch still, always wants. Groans and begs and tries to use him, driven by mindless urgency. Yeah, Dean's wires aren't the only ones that crossed ages ago. Finally, another orgasm seizes Sammy, and the word feels particularly accurate. Dean's tongue stabs his slit afterwards, driving one last grunt from him, but the boy has absolutely nothing to give. Dry as the desert.
The poor thing is just laying there, all soft and near-passed out, but the bathroom is no long-term dwelling. Couple days, sure. Couple weeks, no. So Dean grabs him (by the shoulder, this time), drags him to the shower and cleans him briskly. He even uses hot water, because he's not entirely heartless. Sam's quiet and pliant, and his eyes are soft.
Once he's bundled into a robe, Dean carries him to his bed. Like a bride...or a sacrifice. Bed that he'd happily upgrade to a decent one, if Sammy asked, but if he doesn't, who's he to interfere? With his brother all snuggly under the covers, he sits on the side of the bed, and almost shakes his head when the bitch slightly curls around him. This kid. Unbelievable. So he ruffles damp hair, and says casually, "You've been a terrible disappointment today, you know?" All his lovely, much-anticipated plans, ruined.
Sam flinches again, honest to God, and mumbles, "Sorry." Sounds like he'd be crying if he had the water to spare in him, but maybe that's because his throat went through a lot, too.
Dean pats his flank. "Don't worry, you'll make it up to me. As soon as I decide how." He goes to leave, and the bitch leans a little, as if he wants to keep or maybe just beg him, but falls back down. Either too exhausted or figuring out how much of a bad idea it is.
Dean's back almost immediately, with a tray he leaves on the side table. Water, Gatorade, crackers, peanut butter cups, and even a cup of fruit salad. Whether he wants to snack before or after napping, that's going to keep. Ok, the fruit salad might be not as good (is it ever good, really?) in 3 or 6 hours, but if he knows Sam (and he does) he won't let it go bad. "Don't go around telling people I don't spoil you," he says, and laughs at his own joke. Who's Sammy gonna tell?
Of course, the kitchen's open - and now stocked – whenever his pet wants an actual meal.
Sam nods, with a tremulous smile, and opens the fruit salad. (Yep, he knows his boy.) And then mumbles, "Will you be here?" When I wake up is a lot of unnecessary words he doesn't try to say. Dean understands anyway.
"Who the fuck knows, Sammy? 'Cause, not me." He shrugs. Sometimes the mark is so enthusiastic after one of their sessions that it stays quiet for a few days. Sometimes it seems extra pissed off they haven't finished him – again – and Dean has to find some poor soul whose life he can feed it with, one hour later. Honestly, the thing has more mood swings than all his conquests put together. And Dean knows better than to make Sam, of all people, promises he intends to break. "Definitely see you soon, though." He's immortal and has a knight of hell's powers. What's gonna keep him, huh?
Sam smiles again, a little steadier. Possibly at the peaches and whatnot, though. Yup, Dean's baby brother is completely fucking insane. Better leave him to his nap before he catches it.
