Deanās always been the one to tie Samās ties. Doesnāt matter if he can do it- Deanās ābig brother,ā and ābig brotherā 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 youngerās mind tends to wander.
Sometimes he thinks about it being tied behind his head, gagging his mouth so heās forced quiet- a drooling mess, soaking the fabric dark.
Sometimes itās 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 heāll see as heās left blinded and vulnerable to brotherās whim.
Others, itās a collar Dean uses to yank him about, tightening it up when Sam does something he doesnāt like.
Samās 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.
Deanās chest is warm through their matching white shirts and Samās red-faced and twitchy in the mirrorās reflection.
