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soncnicaPART 1
The question was:
Do you know what you did?
The answer was:
Yeah, yeah I do.
The question was:
Do you know you'll be punished?
The answer was:
Yeah, Sam, I do.
The punishment was always something to do with the 'crime'; punishment to fit the crime. Sam was smart, inventive and had the control over the computer and thus the internet and wowzeee, the internet taught his little brother well. But knowing the kid, Sam probably went and read stuff in real, paper and hard cover books too. Or magazines, if such things existed, like hard core magazines. Dean didn't know if they could be bought at your average Walmart or a gas station though, so huh. But Sam was just like that; researcher, picking apart things - theoretical things - and putting them back together in practical ways.
To be honest, Dean was afraid a lot of times - scared out of his pretty little head about what the fuck Sam would use as punishment this time or that time. Because the shit that lived inside his little brother's head was scary sometimes. Very scary. Surreal even. Bizarre most of the time. Sure Dean would tease, say 'you watching porn again, little bro?' and Sam would blush slightly and look away all shy and embarrassed, but damn under that blush and embarrassed eyes, all kinda crazy shit was hidden.
But Sam - even when and if dealing out punishment - was a kind person, there was nothing on this planet and beyond that could or would ever erase that. Kindness and gentleness exist in someone, the same way as blood does. Or a heart. Or the brain. So, Dean wasn't scared of Sam, wasn't scared of what those strong, oh so familiar hands would do to him - he was scared of what Sam's brain would do to him, because let's face it (and Dean had a long time ago) Sam's brain was an encyclopedia of weirdness and to Dean's delight - and pissmypants fear - porn.
So, there were no questions and no answers beyond that. Sam asked, Dean acknowledged and it was just best to get it over with. No need to prolong the agony – the dread – in hope of a few minutes more of blissful nothingness.
Shit would go down, now or in three hours. 's just how it was with Sam. He never forgot, he never let things go.
It was Sam. It had always been Sam and love was a weapon his brother used well.
Been taught by the very best, after all.
A sound of paper wrinkling, cellophane and plastic - he couldn't really tell - penetrated his ears and he stood up straighter, back straight as an arrow, when he saw what Sam was holding in his hands. It came out of nowhere, as if Sam pulled it out of thin air, but damn it, it was there all right. Solid, long paper bag that only offered glimpses of something yellowish inside.
What. The. Fuck?
He'd ask, but this was a time of Sam asking and he answering. This was not the time to question anything his little brother was doing or wanted to do. This was his punishment; in that weird, long bag was his punishment.
He breathed out slowly just like Sam had taught him to do whenever he'd be nervous. Breathe in, hold, breathe out … rinse and repeat. He never put much on all of Sam's yoga crap, so he'd never admit to his brother that breathing really did kinda help.
He shifted on his bare feet, slid his big toe against the fake wood floor and breathed out again, concentrating on the feel of the cold floor beneath his sweaty skin. He knew he was sweating as if he'd just gotten out of the shower without wiping himself off, could feel the cold drops run slowly down his naked back, tickling down his spine. Tickling between his pecs. There was sweat forming in the hair under his armpits, and on his upper lip and he knew that if this was their "normal sex" time, Sam would be on him in a second, nosing into his armpit, breathing in and then licking the sweat right off with his warm tongue.
His knees began feeling weak just thinking of Sam's tongue, of Sam all around him, surrounding him like the warmest of blankets. His hands began to tremble just like they had when he held a gun for the first time … just like they had when he held Sammy for the first time, careful of the baby's head. Careful of the baby's warm, squirming body.
"Okay, c'mon, on the bed. On your back."
The muscles in his jaw twitched - it was an order concealed into a few words spoken really softly, as if telling a child a goodnight story and Sam looked big, huge and looming over him like a monster out of fairytales.
But Sam wasn't a monster, the eyes gave that away, if one looked really closely. Those hazel eyes, soft and gentle as they were, told a wicked, wicked little tale of just how much Sam was going to enjoy this and just how much Dean was going to hate it. Hate this, but never Sam.
And his little brother knew that very well.
"Come on, Dean, just lay down."
He clenched his fists by his sides, his nakedness strangely awkward and embarrassing compared to Sam's jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. He felt small, vulnerable, like the air itself could hurt him more than any knife ever could. Which was crazy, it was crazy. He and Sam fucked like bunnies over the weekend, and Sam had seen him naked more times than he'd seen the sun rise and yeah, he really shouldn't be feeling like this. Small. Observed. Undressed more than just his clothes.
Goosebumps washed over his skin - from legs to arms - and his nipples pebbled into hard nubs, but his cock remained limp, hanging down between his balls as if it knew that it was getting a slap on its wrist. He wanted to look down at it, call it names and say fuck you, big guy, you got us in this mess. But he couldn't look away from Sam. Couldn't look away from the damn bag thingy Sam held in his big paws.
Fuck.
But punishment was punishment, it wasn't something where he found pleasure. Sam explained that to him very well when they began this little wicked thing. Punishment was supposed to make him wanna crawl into a hole and stay there. Punishment was supposed to teach him to never, ever disobey Sam ever again.
And oh boy, did it work. He didn't get punished a lot, but when he did, when Sam's fuckin' genius brain came up with the most insane shit, the lesson stayed and he never strayed from it. He never wanted a repeat. Never.
He still woke up some mornings, his hands going directly to cup his half-hard dick, where the phantom pain of the nettle whipping he got a few months ago still haunted him. Haunted him stinging and damn, but that one had hurt. But he learned his lesson. The hard way, yes, but he learned it all right. Where Sam even got those nettles was a mystery to him, and he would never ask. He didn't want to know, didn't want to put any ideas into Sam's head. That one little nettle leaf that had laid on the head of his dick - its tiny steam pushed into his slit - for a few minutes still made him cringe and wanna howl whenever he saw a green leaf anywhere.
Or the time Sam left the biggest butt plug they had in his ass, along with three loads of Sam's come, throughout the night. Whenever he shifted the damn plug rubbed at his already rubbed raw prostate and he couldn't fart - which was damn uncomfortable - or lay on his back. That had been torture and he learned his lesson then too – he would never ever decline a prostate milking when Sam would suggest it. Never!
And he never ever wanted to think back at that fuckin' Tuesday when Sam massaged his prostate right to the point where he'd sort of finally start coming and then stopped, withdrew his fingers and walked away. That. No. Never again. Lesson learned. The end.
And he blocked the vibrating cock ring out of his mind. That gave him a serious case of blue balls and a sore dick.
So yes, to say that he was scared would be an understatement. But he wasn't scared of Sam, never of his little brother. He wasn't even scared of pain. He was just terrified of Sam seeing him … completely undone. See him beg and plead, see him be completely wrecked. Not even demons could ever get him as undone as Sam could.
And that scared him more than anything, because being at Sam's mercy like this, made all the carefully structured brick and cement walls he had built in his heart and his mind, fall apart. Shatter around him into tiny, tiny pieces and leave him so very vulnerable he was always on the brink of wailing like a baby. On the edge, but he hadn't fallen over it yet.
Sam … Sam stopped before that could happen. Sam … Sam with his raw, low, soothing voice, Sam with his sloppy kisses, Sam with his gentle touch, Sam with his smile, Sam with his penetrating eyes. God, right down to his soul. Down to his guts and up to his brain.
Sam. Just Sam.
Only Sam could ever do that to him. Only Sam could demolish the walls with one, one, right word. Or a right touch.
It only took one, to break him.
Only took one, to glue him back into one solid piece again.
He hated punishment. He really still couldn't say why he did the crime then.
"Dean…"
Fuck, but sometimes he hated his own name. Hated how it rolled off of Sam's tongue like the sweetest of melodies, how it could sound beautiful and harsh at the same time. How it made him shiver, how it made him draw out his gun and take a shot, how it made him scream in pain or pleasure.
He nodded, bowed his head - resigned to his fate - turned around and walked to the bed, hoping that it was a good, solid bed, no squeaking or anything. They'd moved motels yesterday, had been in this room for a day and some change and they did take the corner room, so … they hadn't tested the headboard yet, if it banged at the wall and such. He wasn't sure if the room next to theirs was occupied, but well ... he didn't want any unwanted visitors coming to knock on their door. He knew Sam would handle that, or maybe Sam already handled everything.
Sam usually handled everything anyway.
"On your back, c'mon, Dean."
He wanted to punch Sam in that serious expression on his face and crush his pearly whites, and he would've done that, before. Before all of this started. Before he gave his life into his little brother's hands. Before, that kinda tone of Sam's voice and the look on Sam's face would make him run for the hills shouting 'fuck off, leave me goddamnit alone' after he'd punch the lights out of his brother.
But now?
Now he slowly walked to the bed, slowly laid down on it, slowly shifted up a bit so that his head rested on the pillow nice and comfy.
He relaxed into the mattress with a sigh. It would be all right. This was Sam. This was his little brother with a soft heart, huge brain and hands that were strong, steady and knew how to wring pleasure and pain out of his body. Sam wouldn't hurt him even when he was hurting him.
"Hands by your side, don't touch anything but the blanket, the pillows or the sheets, okay?"
"Yeah."
"Bend your knees, spread your legs, feet on the bed, don't move from that, all right?"
"Yeah."
It was always 'yeah', never 'yes'. 'Yes' was too formal, 'yes' made his skin crawl, because 'yes' was always accompanied with 'sir' and it was always meant for their Dad.
Yes, sir. Yes, sir Dad. Yes, Dad sir.
Made his skin crawl and he knew it made Sam's skin crawl too. So, yeah, they'd stay with 'yeah'.
He did as Sam asked, because 'no' was definitely not in the vocabulary right now. The word 'no' did not exist and if he'd say it and disobey Sam ... he didn't really want to know what the punishment on top of the punishment would be.
"Okay, 'm gonna place these pillows under your thighs, okay, so just lean your legs on 'em."
The pillows were, well, he wasn't really sure where Sam got them, maybe he asked the girl who cleaned the rooms or maybe he just stole them from another room. But they were soft and warmed up really fast when he leaned his thighs, knees and the upper part of his calves on them.
"Comfortable?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You're not sure?"
Fuck Sam with his eyes. Damn it.
He wiggled his bare ass a bit lower, adjusted the pillow behind his back and sunk his knees deeper into the pillows.
"'m sure."
He was on view like this. To no one but Sam, but it made his skin crawl already, trying to sink into himself, trying to hide himself with his hands and the pillows, pull up the sheet and roll in it until he'd be a burrito; completely concealing his core from his brother. Sam hadn't even done anything yet; was just standing there by the bed, with that damn bag thingy, the plastic crinkling, taunting him 'hey asshole 'm gonna be your downfall today'.
He breathed out.
Shit.
The room was warm, Sam made sure of that, 'cause there was no need for his dick and balls to go into hiding, 'cause well … Sam needed those to play with, right?
Yeah.
The light was a measly bed table lamp, but it made the room fall into soft, soothing browns and reds as it bounced on the red wall paper. Sam chose this motel, chose this room and well, Dean knew Sam chose this so that they could've gotten some rest after the last hunt had made them both sleepy and tired. He was almost certain that Sam did not know that the room would be used to punish Dean. Like ninety percent certain. Sam was smart, but he couldn't see the future. Well, anymore that is.
The curtains were drawn, the outside world shut out of the small room. This was for them only. Everything had always been for them only.
Then it began.
PART 2
The question was:
Do you know what you did?
The answer was:
Yeah, yeah I do.
The question was:
Do you know you'll be punished?
The answer was:
Yeah, Sam, I do.
The punishment was always something to do with the 'crime'; punishment to fit the crime. Sam was smart, inventive and had the control over the computer and thus the internet and wowzeee, the internet taught his little brother well. But knowing the kid, Sam probably went and read stuff in real, paper and hard cover books too. Or magazines, if such things existed, like hard core magazines. Dean didn't know if they could be bought at your average Walmart or a gas station though, so huh. But Sam was just like that; researcher, picking apart things - theoretical things - and putting them back together in practical ways.
To be honest, Dean was afraid a lot of times - scared out of his pretty little head about what the fuck Sam would use as punishment this time or that time. Because the shit that lived inside his little brother's head was scary sometimes. Very scary. Surreal even. Bizarre most of the time. Sure Dean would tease, say 'you watching porn again, little bro?' and Sam would blush slightly and look away all shy and embarrassed, but damn under that blush and embarrassed eyes, all kinda crazy shit was hidden.
But Sam - even when and if dealing out punishment - was a kind person, there was nothing on this planet and beyond that could or would ever erase that. Kindness and gentleness exist in someone, the same way as blood does. Or a heart. Or the brain. So, Dean wasn't scared of Sam, wasn't scared of what those strong, oh so familiar hands would do to him - he was scared of what Sam's brain would do to him, because let's face it (and Dean had a long time ago) Sam's brain was an encyclopedia of weirdness and to Dean's delight - and pissmypants fear - porn.
So, there were no questions and no answers beyond that. Sam asked, Dean acknowledged and it was just best to get it over with. No need to prolong the agony – the dread – in hope of a few minutes more of blissful nothingness.
Shit would go down, now or in three hours. 's just how it was with Sam. He never forgot, he never let things go.
It was Sam. It had always been Sam and love was a weapon his brother used well.
Been taught by the very best, after all.
A sound of paper wrinkling, cellophane and plastic - he couldn't really tell - penetrated his ears and he stood up straighter, back straight as an arrow, when he saw what Sam was holding in his hands. It came out of nowhere, as if Sam pulled it out of thin air, but damn it, it was there all right. Solid, long paper bag that only offered glimpses of something yellowish inside.
What. The. Fuck?
He'd ask, but this was a time of Sam asking and he answering. This was not the time to question anything his little brother was doing or wanted to do. This was his punishment; in that weird, long bag was his punishment.
He breathed out slowly just like Sam had taught him to do whenever he'd be nervous. Breathe in, hold, breathe out … rinse and repeat. He never put much on all of Sam's yoga crap, so he'd never admit to his brother that breathing really did kinda help.
He shifted on his bare feet, slid his big toe against the fake wood floor and breathed out again, concentrating on the feel of the cold floor beneath his sweaty skin. He knew he was sweating as if he'd just gotten out of the shower without wiping himself off, could feel the cold drops run slowly down his naked back, tickling down his spine. Tickling between his pecs. There was sweat forming in the hair under his armpits, and on his upper lip and he knew that if this was their "normal sex" time, Sam would be on him in a second, nosing into his armpit, breathing in and then licking the sweat right off with his warm tongue.
His knees began feeling weak just thinking of Sam's tongue, of Sam all around him, surrounding him like the warmest of blankets. His hands began to tremble just like they had when he held a gun for the first time … just like they had when he held Sammy for the first time, careful of the baby's head. Careful of the baby's warm, squirming body.
"Okay, c'mon, on the bed. On your back."
The muscles in his jaw twitched - it was an order concealed into a few words spoken really softly, as if telling a child a goodnight story and Sam looked big, huge and looming over him like a monster out of fairytales.
But Sam wasn't a monster, the eyes gave that away, if one looked really closely. Those hazel eyes, soft and gentle as they were, told a wicked, wicked little tale of just how much Sam was going to enjoy this and just how much Dean was going to hate it. Hate this, but never Sam.
And his little brother knew that very well.
"Come on, Dean, just lay down."
He clenched his fists by his sides, his nakedness strangely awkward and embarrassing compared to Sam's jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. He felt small, vulnerable, like the air itself could hurt him more than any knife ever could. Which was crazy, it was crazy. He and Sam fucked like bunnies over the weekend, and Sam had seen him naked more times than he'd seen the sun rise and yeah, he really shouldn't be feeling like this. Small. Observed. Undressed more than just his clothes.
Goosebumps washed over his skin - from legs to arms - and his nipples pebbled into hard nubs, but his cock remained limp, hanging down between his balls as if it knew that it was getting a slap on its wrist. He wanted to look down at it, call it names and say fuck you, big guy, you got us in this mess. But he couldn't look away from Sam. Couldn't look away from the damn bag thingy Sam held in his big paws.
Fuck.
But punishment was punishment, it wasn't something where he found pleasure. Sam explained that to him very well when they began this little wicked thing. Punishment was supposed to make him wanna crawl into a hole and stay there. Punishment was supposed to teach him to never, ever disobey Sam ever again.
And oh boy, did it work. He didn't get punished a lot, but when he did, when Sam's fuckin' genius brain came up with the most insane shit, the lesson stayed and he never strayed from it. He never wanted a repeat. Never.
He still woke up some mornings, his hands going directly to cup his half-hard dick, where the phantom pain of the nettle whipping he got a few months ago still haunted him. Haunted him stinging and damn, but that one had hurt. But he learned his lesson. The hard way, yes, but he learned it all right. Where Sam even got those nettles was a mystery to him, and he would never ask. He didn't want to know, didn't want to put any ideas into Sam's head. That one little nettle leaf that had laid on the head of his dick - its tiny steam pushed into his slit - for a few minutes still made him cringe and wanna howl whenever he saw a green leaf anywhere.
Or the time Sam left the biggest butt plug they had in his ass, along with three loads of Sam's come, throughout the night. Whenever he shifted the damn plug rubbed at his already rubbed raw prostate and he couldn't fart - which was damn uncomfortable - or lay on his back. That had been torture and he learned his lesson then too – he would never ever decline a prostate milking when Sam would suggest it. Never!
And he never ever wanted to think back at that fuckin' Tuesday when Sam massaged his prostate right to the point where he'd sort of finally start coming and then stopped, withdrew his fingers and walked away. That. No. Never again. Lesson learned. The end.
And he blocked the vibrating cock ring out of his mind. That gave him a serious case of blue balls and a sore dick.
So yes, to say that he was scared would be an understatement. But he wasn't scared of Sam, never of his little brother. He wasn't even scared of pain. He was just terrified of Sam seeing him … completely undone. See him beg and plead, see him be completely wrecked. Not even demons could ever get him as undone as Sam could.
And that scared him more than anything, because being at Sam's mercy like this, made all the carefully structured brick and cement walls he had built in his heart and his mind, fall apart. Shatter around him into tiny, tiny pieces and leave him so very vulnerable he was always on the brink of wailing like a baby. On the edge, but he hadn't fallen over it yet.
Sam … Sam stopped before that could happen. Sam … Sam with his raw, low, soothing voice, Sam with his sloppy kisses, Sam with his gentle touch, Sam with his smile, Sam with his penetrating eyes. God, right down to his soul. Down to his guts and up to his brain.
Sam. Just Sam.
Only Sam could ever do that to him. Only Sam could demolish the walls with one, one, right word. Or a right touch.
It only took one, to break him.
Only took one, to glue him back into one solid piece again.
He hated punishment. He really still couldn't say why he did the crime then.
"Dean…"
Fuck, but sometimes he hated his own name. Hated how it rolled off of Sam's tongue like the sweetest of melodies, how it could sound beautiful and harsh at the same time. How it made him shiver, how it made him draw out his gun and take a shot, how it made him scream in pain or pleasure.
He nodded, bowed his head - resigned to his fate - turned around and walked to the bed, hoping that it was a good, solid bed, no squeaking or anything. They'd moved motels yesterday, had been in this room for a day and some change and they did take the corner room, so … they hadn't tested the headboard yet, if it banged at the wall and such. He wasn't sure if the room next to theirs was occupied, but well ... he didn't want any unwanted visitors coming to knock on their door. He knew Sam would handle that, or maybe Sam already handled everything.
Sam usually handled everything anyway.
"On your back, c'mon, Dean."
He wanted to punch Sam in that serious expression on his face and crush his pearly whites, and he would've done that, before. Before all of this started. Before he gave his life into his little brother's hands. Before, that kinda tone of Sam's voice and the look on Sam's face would make him run for the hills shouting 'fuck off, leave me goddamnit alone' after he'd punch the lights out of his brother.
But now?
Now he slowly walked to the bed, slowly laid down on it, slowly shifted up a bit so that his head rested on the pillow nice and comfy.
He relaxed into the mattress with a sigh. It would be all right. This was Sam. This was his little brother with a soft heart, huge brain and hands that were strong, steady and knew how to wring pleasure and pain out of his body. Sam wouldn't hurt him even when he was hurting him.
"Hands by your side, don't touch anything but the blanket, the pillows or the sheets, okay?"
"Yeah."
"Bend your knees, spread your legs, feet on the bed, don't move from that, all right?"
"Yeah."
It was always 'yeah', never 'yes'. 'Yes' was too formal, 'yes' made his skin crawl, because 'yes' was always accompanied with 'sir' and it was always meant for their Dad.
Yes, sir. Yes, sir Dad. Yes, Dad sir.
Made his skin crawl and he knew it made Sam's skin crawl too. So, yeah, they'd stay with 'yeah'.
He did as Sam asked, because 'no' was definitely not in the vocabulary right now. The word 'no' did not exist and if he'd say it and disobey Sam ... he didn't really want to know what the punishment on top of the punishment would be.
"Okay, 'm gonna place these pillows under your thighs, okay, so just lean your legs on 'em."
The pillows were, well, he wasn't really sure where Sam got them, maybe he asked the girl who cleaned the rooms or maybe he just stole them from another room. But they were soft and warmed up really fast when he leaned his thighs, knees and the upper part of his calves on them.
"Comfortable?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You're not sure?"
Fuck Sam with his eyes. Damn it.
He wiggled his bare ass a bit lower, adjusted the pillow behind his back and sunk his knees deeper into the pillows.
"'m sure."
He was on view like this. To no one but Sam, but it made his skin crawl already, trying to sink into himself, trying to hide himself with his hands and the pillows, pull up the sheet and roll in it until he'd be a burrito; completely concealing his core from his brother. Sam hadn't even done anything yet; was just standing there by the bed, with that damn bag thingy, the plastic crinkling, taunting him 'hey asshole 'm gonna be your downfall today'.
He breathed out.
Shit.
The room was warm, Sam made sure of that, 'cause there was no need for his dick and balls to go into hiding, 'cause well … Sam needed those to play with, right?
Yeah.
The light was a measly bed table lamp, but it made the room fall into soft, soothing browns and reds as it bounced on the red wall paper. Sam chose this motel, chose this room and well, Dean knew Sam chose this so that they could've gotten some rest after the last hunt had made them both sleepy and tired. He was almost certain that Sam did not know that the room would be used to punish Dean. Like ninety percent certain. Sam was smart, but he couldn't see the future. Well, anymore that is.
The curtains were drawn, the outside world shut out of the small room. This was for them only. Everything had always been for them only.
Then it began.
PART 2