The Abyss Gazes Back
"Just do it," Dean says, holding his arms out in front of him, wrists pressed together, rope dangling from his fists. "Tie me up."
Sam does a good job. There's no way Dean's getting out without being able to reach the knife in his boot, or a good half-hour with no one watching to make sure he doesn't wriggle the ropes loose.
When it's all over, and Dean opens his eyes, Sam's lost the tie, but maybe that's what's stuffed in Dean's mouth.
"Ghost got lippy," Sam says, as he steps forward, reaching out, as if he's about to pull away the gag, but his hand stops in midair.
It was stupid. Dean knew better, but in the moment, with a ghost possessing his body and a brief moment of strength to push it deep and warn Sam, Dean had to trust him, soul or no soul.
The job's done. Salt and burn, a handful of blackened teeth still smoking on the floor, but here come the consequences.
Dean can see it in Sam's eyes. Possibilities. A curiosity, and an emptyness. No conscience, no remorse. Not evil, but not good, either.
"Let me out," Dean tries to growl, but all that comes is a strangled, muffled groan. He bites at the gag, wet silk going stiff between his lips, and struggles, the legs of the chair banging and scraping on the floor, but he doesn't have the momentum to tip it.
"Stay there," Sam says. He bites his lip, turns away for a moment, turns back with his cellphone in his hand. He lifts it, takes a photo, and Dean growls and rocks again.
"Asshole," he wants to say, wants to start throwing punches, can't do either.
Sam tucks his phone away and drops to his knees. There's a smear of ectoplasm on his collar. "There's no hurry," he says. "There's nowhere we gotta be."
Dean's eyes search the room. It's just a motel. All their gear is half packed up, they were about to clear out after a routine salt and burn, when Dean lost control of his body and had to watch from behind his own eyes as he lifted a machete and made for Sam's throat.
The fight to get it back, to stop the ghost from hacking what's left of his brother into little pieces, well. He almost regrets it now, because Sam's looking at him like he's on the menu.
"If I take the gag off, promise you won't yell?"
Dean nods, lifts his chin to help. Sam turns his back, the sodden tie hanging from his hand.
Dean yells.
There's weapons spread everywhere, the remnants of a small fire on the carpet. Dean doesn't care. He keeps yelling.
Sam turns, and the last thing Dean sees is his fist, right before it hits.
His head hurts, and his mouth is full. The same silk tie, stuffed in and held with a bit of rope, tied at the back of his head. He's lying on his back, on a lumpy mattress, and when he opens his eyes, it's the stained ceiling tiles of the same motel.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
Sam's voice is conversational, calm. Almost friendly. His hands are pressing down on Dean's bare thighs, so he's taken the liberty of stripping Dean naked while he was out, and when Dean tugs, both his arms, and legs, are bound. He's naked and spread-eagle on the bed, and his brother—the thing that used to be his brother—is hovering over him, and Dean doesn't need a whole lot of imagination to figure out what's coming.
"You probably want to ask why," Sam says. "Or maybe if you could talk right now, you'd try to tell me how wrong this is, because we're brothers, right?"
Dean blinks. Just once.
"Yeah." Sam slides back, off the bed, from where he's been kneeling between Dean's thighs, and he starts to unbutton his shirt. "Thing is, I recall you telling me that I wasn't your brother." His shirt falls to the floor, and he starts to unbutton his pants. "So what I'm about to do to you, there's really nothing wrong with that at all."
Dean watches in horror as Sam's pants fall, to expose him, naked, and hard. He lifts his eyes, wide with alarm, uses them as much as he's able to plead with any part of Sam that's still there. He tries to scream through the gag, but all that comes out is a strangled moan.
"If you can't keep quiet," Sam says, as he climbs back on the bed, "I'm going to have to knock you out again."
For a second, Dean shuts up. But then Sam slides his hand up the inside of Dean's thigh, tucks his fingers beneath Dean's balls, and presses against his hole. It's not the sensation that makes him yell.
It's the look on Sam's face. Hunger. Lust.
And through the gag, Dean screams and screams and screams, until Sam's expression shifts to annoyance, and again, the last thing Dean sees is Sam's fist, and this time, he's thankful for it.
This time, when he wakes, he's short of breath.
His face is pressed against the mattress, and he can't see anything but the wall on the other side of the room. There's a heavy weight on him, alive, moving. Huffing out short, sharp breaths.
All Dean can do is moan, deep, primal, and clench, because he's full.
Sam feels massive, huge, Dean feels like he's stretched almost to breaking point. It should hurt, but it doesn't, like without consciousness, there was no fight, he couldn't resist, and because of that, he missed the worst of it.
He's grateful for that. Now he's just got to wait until it's over.
Sam moves slow, easy. Rocking gently into Dean's body. His hands press Dean's shoulders into the mattress, his hips and the weight of him hold the rest of Dean's body down. "Knew you'd love it," he murmurs, driving his cock against Dean's prostate, over and over. "I knew you'd be into it, if I just showed you."
All Dean can do is moan and writhe beneath him.
He's hard. His cock is trapped beneath his body and the mattress, but Dean can feel how wet it is as he leaks precome onto the sheet. He could come from this. He will come from this, if Sam keeps it up. And it's horrifying, but Dean's got to admit, even to himself:
It feels good.
The loss of control Dean feels is complete. He's tied, still spread-eagle, but face down. He pulls against the ropes and twists his fists into the sheet. His toes curl, involuntarily. And Sam's weight, his slow, steady thrusts, drive Dean's cock into the mattress over and over again.
"Let go," Sam says. "I wanna feel it. Wanna feel you come."
Dean's furious. He's gonna kill him. He's gonna kill his brother for this. He'll never forgive Sam for doing it, but he'll never be able to forget how good it feels, to be so full.
That's the worst of it. That he's being forced to confront the fact that it is good, that despite the horror and the disgust, the physical sensations are beyond anything Dean's experienced before.
He can't deny it, not to Sam, not while the shell of his brother slides a hand beneath him, finds him hard and wet. He can't get out of this, can't make it stop, so he doesn't try.
"Make me," he says, thankful that the gag is gone, unlikely to scream because the worst has already happened, and he can't be found like this. "Make me come."
Sam curls his hand around Dean's cock. "I'm close, Dean," he says. "Come with me. Come on."
There's nothing between them, Dean realizes. Nothing at all. Sam's going to come inside him. Bile rises, but he can't fight the physical stimulation, and he starts to come even as his throat burns.
And on top of him, Sam drives himself inside one more time, deep, hard, and Dean can feel it, the pulse, each jerk of his brother's cock as he spills inside Dean's body.
Sam unties him after. Shrugs and wipes it away when Dean spits in his face. Doesn't see it coming when Dean throws a punch, grief and shame and humiliation behind it.
Sam goes down.
Dean leaves him there. Pulls on his clothes and gets in the car and drives, with no destination in mind.
He just wants to get as far away as he possibly can.
fin
