alastor🥀

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Rape/Non-Con (Actually doubt con)

Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005)

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

post series, POV Sam Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, rough sex, Objectification, possessiveness, light bondage, serial killer kink, marking kink, role play, knife play, light blood play, rape play, light Break Me!Sam¹, light Tamer!Dean, mention of cannibalism, mention of necrophilia, Incest

Okay, thats PRETTY dirty, one of the dirtiest things I ever wrote, but I enjoyed it a lot, so hope you guys enjoy it too.

Please read the tags and warnings before reading!

PS: I put it only to registered users because it's mature, hope this don't prevent anyone from reading

¹Break Me submissives in BDSM play with physical struggle, they resist if not restrained, appealing to physical fights and runaways, making the scene look like a rape

²Tamers in BDSM are doms that deal with disobedient subs and have to discipline them

Credits of the Moodboard:

Photo by Jon Tyson na Unsplash – Taxidermy Deer

Photo by Akinori UEMURA na Unsplash – Chains

The warehouse is a club called Heaven. Heaven is loud, hot, thick with sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder and dancing to the DJ’s techno drone. Concrete pillars rise up to a ceiling lined with metal pipes that look liquid, T-1000’s mimetic polyalloy shapeshifting in the strobe light glow. Dean says as much, the words spilling out of him in a blur so he’s not even sure what he’s saying as he says it.

“You're such a nerd,” is what he gets in response. A little part of his brain wants to argue back that that’s his line, but Sam’s cool breath against his ear makes Dean shiver and forget.

The way the room is all lit up in reds and smokey shadows reminds Dean of the pit, of being on the rack with his insides exposed and boiling in the heat. Dean’s in his mechanic’s coveralls, navy blue and covered in grease stains, the ones with ‘Singer Salvage’ embroidered above the breast pocket in white cursive. He’s got the sleeves rolled, pant legs tucked into his boots, unbuttoned at the top to expose his collar bones. A look Sam called slutty with a psycho-hungry shine in his eyes, but the pain memory of being downstairs makes Dean’s skin crawl like he’s naked under the knife again. He grinds his teeth and whimpers into the ecstasy rush, and the sound is lost to grimy industrial beats blasting through the speakers. He grips Sam harder against him (for comfort, for release, does it matter?) and rolls his body up along his brother’s, like how you dip your finger in the last specks of sugar on a plate so you don’t miss any of the sweetness. Edge to edge, gotta get every last bit.

And that’s how they fade into the crowd, just two more bodies trying and failing to eat each other whole. They can do that here, in front of God and everybody. Dean can run his hands under the white wife beater wrapped tight around Sam’s chest, drag his nails over skin and feel Sam's stomach muscles clench and sigh underneath. He can pull Sammy close by his belt loops, hips against hips, and let his eyes roll back at the friction. No one cares here because no one knows.

Dean has spent years chasing the brutal thrill of dive bar whores and good girls looking for a nasty time. Cheap perfume and the sharp sting of a woman’s hair against his face, bending himself into a shape that never fit. Every room the wrong size without his gigantic brother in it. He looks at Sam’s face, shining blood red in the lights and just as hot, and he knows. He knows it like an exorcism incantation, like stripping a gun. Without thinking. Next to Sam is the only place he’s ever belonged.

All Dean’s atrophied little pieces are touch-starved and Hell-stained, and all he needs is for Sam to kiss them better.

It’s a filthy bright weight in Dean’s veins, like he’s made of ribbon, like the music is curling through him and around him and he’s curling around Sam. Everything’s in shades of faded cherry red but he’s candy-colored when he sticks his tongue into Sam’s mouth, neon love filling him up so good.

Dean thought if he could pile on enough good, maybe it’d cancel out the darkness he brought back from the pit, where all his nastiest parts were thrown on the rack and peeled back for examination. John toeing lines with Dean, Dean obliterating those lines with Sam, hooking at truck stops for cash and scraps. Watching people die because he couldn’t save them until he held the knife himself and watched people die because of him. The guilt, the guilt, the guilt.

But really, Dean’s not even trying that hard for redemption. How can he be when this is what he wants? No matter how many lives he saves, no matter how many times they stop the world from ending, no amount of good will ever be enough to absolve him of this incessant need to fuck his brother up the ass. It’s a poison under his skin that itches and itches but won’t let up.

And this thing’s always been rotten to the core, sour-soft and collapsing in the middle. Like hell can Dean say no, though. They’d have to do more than draw and quarter him to keep him away from Sammy.

Sammy, his baby, grinding against him in time to the dirty bass beat.

Sammy, his baby, unzipping Dean’s coveralls so they’re half undone and Sam can slip them off Dean’s shoulders, tying the sleeves around his waist and leaving his arms and chest bare. Sammy always needed to be close, to be touching, even as a kid. Skin to skin, all tangled up in each other in Baby’s backseat and crummy motel beds. Dean is covered in a slick sheen of sweat and Sam runs his hands through it, spreading the wetness around and squeezing Dean’s skin tight, reminding him that he’s here and he’s safe and he’s wanted under his brother’s calloused palms. Dean is vaguely aware of the burn mark on his shoulder, hand print shining shell pink against the rest of him, still so new Dean’s shocked each time he sees it. Sam slides his fingers over it, tracing the outline so gentle it makes Dean’s toes curl inside his boots.

He’s overheating from the X and the memories, rolling so fucking hard and it’s too much pain and pleasure mixed together, the wires all crossed and it’s making Dean short circuit. Sam reads Dean’s signs like they’re a book he knows by heart and leads him through the crowd, out the heavy doors and into the night, giving him what he needs when Dean can’t ask for it himself. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything so good as the dry Santa Ana winds blowing over his fever-hot skin, free from the stink of dancing bodies and too much synth.

Outside, Dean’s light like Kansas cottonwood fluff floating along the breeze with his eyes closed shut. He senses his balance is off, but in a secondhand way, like it’s not really his body that’s falling.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Sam laughs, and Dean slow blinks past the chemical bliss when he feels Sam’s hands on his shoulders, propping him up against a fence like a tire that’s about to tip over. The wire on his back makes him shiver in the heat.

“Why aren’t you as fucked up as me?” Dean slurs, cottonwood fluff in his mouth this time. He rolls his head back, and the fence rattles around him.

“I am. I’m just better at taking drugs than you,” Sam says, as if being a druggie is something to brag about. Dean’s about to say it but then Sam’s trailing his finger down the curve of his neck, throat pulled taut with his head thrown back like it is, and Dean’s brain blanks.

“Jerk,” is all he can choke out.

Sam pulls out a beat-up pack of cigarettes from his jeans, must’ve nicked them from somebody inside with his sticky witchy fingers, and sticks one in his mouth. “No, you’re the jerk, I’m the bitch,” Sam says around the cigarette. He pats his pockets and comes up empty, then gropes around Dean’s coveralls for his Zippo. Dean loves the familiarity of Sam touching him like this, casual, no thought, no barrier to entry where his brother is concerned. They’re all one piece, and Dean counts himself lucky. Everybody craves closeness like this, but few get it.

The flint click-pops a metallic burst in Dean’s ears, and Sam blows out a cloud of minty smoke. Dean takes a deep breath in, coming back to himself a little bit.

“Kools? Really?” Dean says when Sam pockets the green soft pack. Sam assures him that ‘it's a thing.’

“Menthols are good on ecstasy,” He says. Probably another druggie trick he learned at Stanford. Vick’s VapoRub was mentioned, but Dean said fuck no to putting that shit under his nose.

Sam hands the cigarette to Dean, but it takes him a few tries to grab it. His hand-eye coordination is shot. Sam leans on the fence facing Dean and holds it, filter-side first, to Dean’s mouth. Dean opens his lips to take a drag and lets his tongue lick the salty pad of Sam’s fingertip. The smoke and skin light Dean up from the inside and make his jaw ache from the pleasure of it all. Sam says he’s peaking. Once Dean has a firm grip on the cigarette, Sam flops over so his back rests on the fence. More rattling, and Dean spaces out on the sound for a minute before remembering he’s got smoke in his mouth. He puffs it out minty-cool and looks over at Sam, sharp-jawed with glitter on his cheeks that flickers sliver under the moonlight. His hair is getting long, fuckin’ hippie, it’s sticking up in a hundred directions with sweat and grease. Dean loves him more than he’s ever loved anything. He loves Sam so hard and so deep, it drips down to his mutilated core, and it’s almost enough to make him whole again.

He wants Sam to feel how he feels, a cunt hair away from perfection, so he reaches up with the hand that’s not holding the Kool and scratches Sam’s scalp, and he swears, it’s almost like he’s doing it to himself, the way his eyes roll back in his head at the soft feel of Sam’s mop tickling the insides of his fingers, where the skin is so rarely touched.

“I can feel that in my cock,” Sam moans, low like it pains him, but Dean keeps going ‘cause there’s good pain and there’s bad pain, and he knows this is the good kind.

Two years from now, it’ll be Sam’s turn to go to Hell. Dean will grieve and again he'll stuff himself into a mold that doesn’t match his shape, hoping that maybe this time, maybe this time he’ll shrink to match. And when Sam comes back with his own special brand of fucked in the head, Dean will do his best to protect him the way he always has, mind, body, and soul, only it won’t matter. Won’t even touch all the ways Lucifer messes Sam up during his extended stay in the pit.

But here, half-past four against a chain link fence with the California heat sticking warm to their skin, they share a cigarette. Sam rests his head on top of Dean’s and Dean curls his fingers through Sam’s. They’ll walk twenty minutes to Venice Beach and watch the sun rise over the Pacific, all baby blues and bright golden yellows coming over the horizon, edge of the world and no red in sight.

Sam whimpered around the stretch of Dean’s cock, throat clenching as he tried to breathe through his nose. His eyes were glossy, watering at the corners, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. Slobber pooled at the corners of his lips, trailing down his chin and soaking into the denim bunched around Dean’s thighs. His nose bumped Dean’s belly every time Dean tugged his head forward, forcing him all the way down to the base.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean hissed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second too long. “You’re such a fuckin’ mess.”

Sam moaned, the sound thick and desperate, sending vibrations down Dean’s shaft. His fingers curled into Dean’s thigh like he needed something to hold on to — but Dean wasn’t in the mood for mercy. Not tonight.

“You gonna swallow like a good boy?” Dean’s voice was rough with affection and control. “Or you want me to paint your face and send you into the gas station like that?”

Sam choked slightly at the image — or maybe it was the warning twitch of Dean’s cock on his tongue — but when Dean came, Sam didn’t hesitate. He sucked greedily, throat working as Dean spilled down his throat, groaning brokenly with his hips locked in place.

Once Dean had finally let go of his hair, Sam collapsed against his thigh, breathless and dazed. He didn’t even flinch when Dean’s large hand palmed between his legs, cupping the obscene bulge in his jeans.

“Aww, look at you,” Dean crooned mockingly, fingers pressing down just enough to make Sam jerk in place. “All worked up from suckin’ your brother’s cock?”

Sam moaned — high, humiliated, turned-on beyond belief — and Dean grinned, cruel and slow.

“You wanna come, Sammy?” he asked, voice syrupy-sweet as his hand began to move, rubbing circles through the denim. “Then hump it. C’mon. Rub that pathetic little cock off on my hand like a fuckin’ mutt.”

Sam made a pitiful noise, but obeyed. Grinding awkwardly against Dean’s palm, breath shuddering as he worked himself up like a dog in heat. Dean didn’t even have to look down. He could feel the desperation pouring off him — the tension, the guilt, the need.

“That’s it,” Dean muttered, shifting gears with one hand as he pressed harder with the other. “Make a mess for me.”

And Sam did — hips jerking once, twice — coming in his jeans with a strangled sob, his face buried in Dean’s thigh and the smell of his brother’s come still thick on his tongue.

Dean smirked and brought his hand back to the wheel, casually licking his fingers.