Deanâs always been the one to tie Samâs ties. Doesnât matter if he can do it- Deanâs âbig brother,â and âbig brotherâ ties your ties.
But, when he wraps the satin around his thick, scarred fist, waiting, impatiently, in front of the mirror for Sam to slot into position up against his chest, the youngerâs mind tends to wander.
Sometimes he thinks about it being tied behind his head, gagging his mouth so heâs forced quiet- a drooling mess, soaking the fabric dark. Sometimes itâs fastening his wrists together, tight and biting, hands immobilised above by knots not even Sam can wriggle out of. Other times he thinks about the tie looped over his eyes- black, black, black is all heâll see as heâs left blinded and vulnerable to brotherâs whim. Others, itâs a collar Dean uses to yank him about, tightening it up when Sam does something he doesnât like.
Samâs eyes widen as Dean, jokingly, snaps the tie like a belt. He chuckles to himself, before grabbing out at Sam and tugging him in tight.
Deanâs chest is warm through their matching white shirts and Samâs red-faced and twitchy in the mirrorâs reflection.












