Part 2

[soncnica]

PART 2

The tube slid down his dick smoothly, Sam used enough lube on the slit and on the catheter, so that was okay. It pinched a bit when the tube had to bend a bit, because his anatomy was just wired like that. Fucker.

But it was all right. Compared to the nettles on his dick, this was a walk in the park. He'd been in hospitals, he'd had a catheter shoved down his dick a few times, sure he'd been unconscious when it had been done, but still. He knew how it was.

But … watching his brother on his knees between his spread legs, wearing white latex gloves that enveloped his long fingers, bringing out every dip in the skin was … strangely fascinating. Even just watching how Sam held his dick very carefully, but still tight enough so it wouldn't fall down and pinched the head to widen the slit was … all kinds of weirdly fascinating. And it felt damn good; tingly and hot.

His brother had skills. Mad skills and he wondered if Sam had practiced doing this. On himself? Just the thought alone made him shudder and Sam look up at him.

Those eyes, hiding behind the hair, those goddamned eyes that could strip him bare even if he was wearing ten layers of clothes. One look, one rightly placed look and there was no escape. He was pinned down like an insect on a board.

Sam didn't say anything, just bit his lower lip and went back to slowly and carefully sliding the tube into his bladder.

He had no idea what kinda punishment this was, because it surely wasn't feeling like any.

Yet.

He knew there was a huge, huge, like envelop the universe huge yet there, because Sam and punishment? Yeah … little brother was an expert at that.

"'kay, good?"

Sam's whispered words startled him; there was just something very wrong and mesmerizing in watching the yellow tube hanging out of his limp dick.

"Uh…"

"We haven't even started yet and you're already speechless, wow."

"Wha'?"

Sam was pushing water into the small balloon that was in his bladder now with a syringe and whoa, that was …

… Sam had given him shots before, yeah, shit to numb pain whenever he needed to be stitched together or had a bullet pried out of him, but this was strangely … so … fuckin' … hot. Shouldn't be, really. It was a syringe and he'd seen those a million times before, but this time, here and now … held with Sam's sure, long, latex covered fingers, so close to his dick, so damn close …

… he couldn't take his eyes off of the tube sticking out of his slit; he could see Sam fiddle with something at the end of it, some more tubes and stuff, but the pressure and the press of everything inside of him was taking his attention and making him run with it. He didn't care what Sam was doing, didn't want to know really.

"All right, Dean?"

This was a really weird punishment.

"Hey, Dean!"

Fingers tapped the base of his dick; warm, slick and smooth latex against his sensitive skin and he turned his eyes up to look at his brother.

"What?" he snapped and then closed his mouth, because uh-oh, you do not snap at Sam at punishment time. No. Bad Dean.

"'m gonna let that slide, okay, but listen. Rules."

"Okay?"

"You don't touch anything, but the sheets or the pillows. If I touch you, that's different. But you do not touch anything but the sheets or the pillows, all right?"

He watched as Sam pulled off the tight latex gloves and threw them to the floor somewhere. Wouldn't be needing those then. All right.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah."

He could do that. Sure. Even if his hands sometimes had other plans, like touching Sam whenever they could, because touching Sam was a lifeline. Touching Sam was what praying was to other people, touching his little brother was making sure Sam was still alive, was breathing and had a heartbeat. Touching Sam was like touching the sun and the moon and the stars and the ocean all mixed together into … Sam. Touching Sam was what made his dick so hard sometimes he probably could actually cut diamonds with it. Touching Sam made sparks between his palm and Sam's skin almost visible. Touching Sam was what he wanted to do all the time, any time.

But he could do this. He could control himself; this was punishment and touching Sam would probably hurt really, really bad at the end, because Sam was a burning sun. Beautiful and bright and full of pain if touched.

"If you want to speak, you can only say my name. All other words, and I'll just make this last longer, okay? And believe me, you do not want this to last longer."

"Yeah."

Sam's name. Sam. Sammy. Sam. Sam. He'd been saying his little brother's name all of his life, for years in every and all variations. Even Samuel. His little brother's name was sometimes the only word between his life and his death. Something to hold on to, when Sam wasn't there. Something to mumble when pain was trying to take him under. Something to hold on to, when darkness was descending and there were no other words that he could use to hold onto the light. Sam.

He could do that too.

"You have your safe word, use it. Don't … don't make me find out you didn't use it 'cause you were bein' a jerk, all right?"

"Yeah."

Fuck, yeah. He didn't want a repeat of that punishment. He would use his safe word the second it would need to be used.

He could do that.

"You know what you did wrong?"

"I know."

Fuck but does he know and it would never happen again, so help him God that's not there, because the bastard abandoned his children and the world a long time ago.

"Let's start then."

There was a click then, and another one, but his focus was entirely on Sam. On how his little brother made himself comfortable sitting between his spread legs wearing clothes that he wore to get them a six pack and a pizza four hours earlier.

He'd laugh if he could afford it. He didn't know what Sam would do with laughter, because it wasn't Sam's name, yet it wasn't words technically either, so … but best not risk it.

But he was bored. This was an unusual punishment, just … laying there really.

Huh.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Sam?"

And then Sam smiled … like the damn Devil and moved up his body like a predator moves before it strikes its prey dead.

"You wanna know what's goin' on?"

The words were damp, warm air against his lips and he sucked the moist air from his brother's lips into his mouth before he nodded. Sam tasted like salvation, smelled like soap and purity, even if he rode on the morning star for a while.

"You'll see soon, all right, just trust me."

"Sam."

He trusted his brother. With his body, his life, his heart, his soul. Even if Sam would one day have to kill him, or decide to kill him, there wasn't a hand he'd rather die under. He trusted Sam.

"Okay, then."

Then Sam's lips caught his and time slipped away from him. Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty. Kissing Sam was like getting lost in space; a vast place where all the stars lived. But then his brother moved those spit shiny lips down his chin, down his throat, licked his neck, kissed his collarbone, sucked on his nipples until he had to arch his back to get Sam's lips off or harder down on his nipples, he wasn't really sure because that tongue, that soft and warm and slick tongue felt so good. Sam felt so good, always did. Always.

He moaned when his brother left his nipples coated with spit for the air to cool it all down and dry the saliva. But then Sam settled for kissing and licking the hard plane of his chest and the tensing stomach and that felt so good. Better than the burn after a shot of Whiskey.

It was an unusual punishment, because damnfuckholyhell did it feel good to have Sam's hot mouth leave even hotter kisses all over his front.

He was arching up, moving his hips in weak twitching motions, scared to move more, but needing Sam to go lower, go upwards, go sideways, fuckhim go anywhere, because Sam's mouth and tongue were magic. Pressing hard down onto his skin, or just giving small, kitten licks around his ribs or in the dip between them.

He had to close his eyes; watching Sam losing himself in this moment, watching his little brother dip down to suck, to touch, to lick, to kiss, watching and feeling Sam's silky hair slide down his skin … if he'd spent another second watching Sam's tongue work on his stomach and chest, he'd lose it and touch Sam to bring that mouth closer to his.

But no touching. Sam said and what Sam said went. Especially right then, because one wrong move, one wrong word and Sam … well, there was no telling what Sam'd do.

He whined. Couldn't swallow down the sound fast enough, maybe didn't even want to, because all of this felt too good, too much, too close and not close enough. He wanted Sam to stop this and he wanted Sam to never stop this. He wanted to wrap his hands around Sam's broad, muscled body, tuck him close to his chest and hold him until Sam would be the one to lose all control. He wanted to wrap them both in a blanket, wrap them around each other and stay like that. For ever and ever until someone would find only their decaying flesh or bare bones.

"Sam …" he breathed out and squirmed, hopelessly trying to push his groin closer to Sam's body. He gripped the pillows near his bend knees, wanting so bad to touch himself, wanting to grab Sam by his hair and pull him up to his mouth, or push him down to his dick or just hold him still.

Something. Anything.

"I miss your amulet …"

The words were whispered directly into the spot where the amulet always made home for itself.

He missed it too. And the punishment he received from his brother after … Sam had taken away his smell, his sight, his speech, ability to touch. Sam had taken away all of his senses and left him on the bed for three days. Lost in his own head, lost in thinking about what he'd done. After, Sam had simply said: "This is how you made me feel when you threw it into the trash."

It hurt. All of it hurt, but he wouldn't have done it differently.

The cooling spit Sam was leaving all over his stomach and in an almost puddle inside his navel was making him shiver until his brother came back down the same path and added more fresh warm spit.

He was moving his pelvis right and left raising up his hips, the movement making his lower belly tense up, muscles getting a good workout, but he needed, he wanted, he hoped for more contact, for Sam to at least touch his balls, maybe his dick, but he wasn't sure if he could come with that tube sticking out of him. But damn he needed something or he'd die.

"Sam…" his voice was hoarse already, oh fuck.

He clenched his eyes shut tighter, knowing, so help him, that if he opened them and looked down at Sam, he'd lose it and grab his brother to push him down to his dick and demand that the little bitch made him come.

And then …

… ahh, ow, fuck.

"Sam?"

He wanted to ask so damn much what the fuck was that, but he was not allowed to and even lost in the pleasure and now a pinch of pain, he wouldn't disobey. Disobeying would just make it hurt more, Sam said so.

But he did open his eyes and looked down his front to see a wide grin – white teeth and spit dripping down Sam's lower lip and running down his chin to drip directly onto his left nipple – and oh shit. That grin was never not trouble.

"Ss-sam?" he stuttered and sunk lower into the mattress when Sam crawled up his body, fingers gliding against his ribcage and went straight to his ear: "I know you want to know, Dean," a lick on his earlobe, "but I only want to hear my name, otherwise, " a kiss on his earlobe, "all I'll hear'll be begging an' I don't want that. Just my name, all right?" the words were spoken softly into his ear, followed by a kiss on the shell and more kisses down the side of his neck that left him shuddering at how damn good Sam was at that.

Fuck. And double fuck, because he wasn't sure he'd get any answers from his brother about what the hell was even going on.

But his bladder felt like he needed to go, kinda like it felt after a beer. Just a little notice of 'hey, buddy, nudge, nudge, think you'll need to go piss soon'. Nothing he couldn't handle really, because being on the road as much as they were, having a bladder that could hold its liquor was just something they both had. And hustling at bars, well one couldn't just leave for the toilet at any given time, one had to finish the scam. So, yeah. This was nothing he couldn't handle, but it still made him uneasy, because wasn't the whole point of a catheter to take piss out? 's what always happened when he was in a hospital … huh.

He could ask Sam, but nooooo-oooohoooohooo, that would be the dumbest idea he'd had since that waitress in Tulsa.

Sam's chuckle though, when his brother finally made his way back down to his stomach, didn't make him feel any better. It was evil, pure evil. That bitch.

But he really could handle this; it was just a slight pang, an invitation to go take a leak, but he could ignore it. The feeling was slightly frustrating, because damn he needed to go, but he could handle it.

He took a deep breath and relaxed back into the pillows.

"Yeah, 's it, just breathe through it."

He wanted to grab his brother's hair and pull him up to smash their lips together and make himself choke on Sam.

But he couldn't do that, wasn't allowed to touch, so he closed his eyes again, because watching Sam roam his big hands up and down his chest and tight belly, following the same path with his tongue, was out of the question. He'd lose it if he'd watch that. Totally lose his sanity.

But it felt sooo damngood; even if his bladder was poking at him, making him fall into sort of annoyance at it, Sam's touch soothed it all away. His brother's palms were callused, rough from handling shovels and guns and blades of all kinds. And they were wide, with long fingers that could push in between his ribs or on his nipples, or ohfuckingfuck into his bellybutton and that was too much, especially when the sensation went straight to his bladder.

It made him fidget, squirm which made his dick swing left and right and move the tube with it and oh, okay … that felt strange. But he couldn't stop fidgeting. It felt like something was slowly inflating his bladder from the inside and fuck. He looked to his left and saw a bag filled with translucent liquid hanging on a coat rack.

Oh fuckin' fuck.

"Ss-sam?" if he'd be allowed to use any other word he'd say 'Sam, fuck stop, what the hell?' but well, he would have to somehow convey his thoughts through just one word. Piece of cake. No problem, wasn't as if they never communicated with just their eyes before. They were brothers, secret language was just a given. All right. So: "Sam?" his voice was shaky and his chest was heaving so much, Sam had to place his big hands on top of his pecs and whisper: "Settle." to get him to calm down. It worked a little bit, 'cause it was an order and orders were meant to be followed. But Sam's voice was husky, and damn if that didn't make his breathing pick up even more.

Voice. Touch. Smell, ohfuck, the smell; Sam smelled of soap mixed with beer and peperoni pizza and he wanted to lick into Sam's mouth and search for that meal between Sam's teeth.

Sam's hands were curling around his hips, thumbs brushing ever so slightly over the bone, such a gentle caress it was maddening until those fingers started tracing the V of muscles leading down to his groin and it stopped being maddening, falling into fuuuuuuuuck. He pushed his head deeper into the pillow which raised his lower belly right into Sam's mouth and he hissed when Sam's tongue swirled in the hair around his dick.

"Doin' soooo good …"

The words made him whine and a wave of shame surge through him – he was too open, too exposed, too close to Sam, too close to breaking. He let his lower body unstick itself from Sam's mouth and fall back to the bed, because uh-oh, this was so far from being over. There were a lot of things he could handle, really, but praise? No. Because he wasn't good, he wasn't nice. He was covered in blood and the blood was saying 'son of a bitch, you murderer.' He wasn't a good person.

"S-ssam?" he hated the tremble in his voice, hated it, but couldn't do anything about it. There was a strange click in his throat whenever he swallowed down whatever he could scrounge up of saliva and he couldn't control sounds and the way they were coming out of his wide open mouth.

"Easy, doin' so good …" followed by a nibble of his hipbone, as if Sam wanted to devour it.

Ohfuckinghell, it tickled, but it felt so good it made his dick twitch, but oh wow, couldn't get hard.

Huh. Shit then.

Maybe it was from all the conditioning they'd been through – don't get hard, don't get hard, Dean don't get hard, no! – or maybe it was from the tube up his dick.

Huh.

He was so screwed.

And when Sam scratched his blunt nails down the hard peak of his right nipple, brushing the tips of his thumbs around the areole, he flinched as his bladder sent more pangs of urgency up to his brain.

"Sammmm..."

His brother's chuckle send warm air into his spit-full navel and his whole body shook when that made his bladder clench. It was an involuntary thing, his muscles just did it without consulting with the brain and he hissed through gritted teeth, because ooooooooh ow! Not good.

"Your bladder's right on the edge right now, huh? You feelin' it?" he sure could feel it when Sam's sweaty, big palm rubbed right over the damn thing, "Right on that edge between empty and full enough to be able to last a little bit longer. You wanna go so bad, it's so frustrating, the pain, hmmm? You're all fidgety, sweating, wanna rip your hair out it's so annoying, ain't it? It aches so bad, hmmm?"

Oh God, oh God, ohgodohgodohgod he was so screwed.

He heard himself moan; whenever Sam gentled his touch as he caressed the middle of his sternum, as if trying to touch every freckle there.

He heard himself groan; whenever Sam gently, softly pressed the pad of his finger to one – or both – of his nipples and wiggled the finger. If Sam hadn't followed that touch with his tongue later, Dean would've screamed himself hoarse, the sensation too much and wired directly to his bladder that was swelling up like a huge balloon.

He heard himself whimper; whenever Sam moved his hand near his slightly raised belly, where his bladder was already filled so much that its curve could actually be seen from the outside. That curve on his belly was Sam's favorite place to touch. Of course.

He heard himself pant; whenever Sam ran one of his hands over the bladder, cupped it as best as he could and dipped a finger of his other hand into his bellybutton.

He heard himself sigh; whenever Sam finally came up and kissed him. Kissed him with such need; all little brother mixed with the taste of sweat.

He heard himself keen; whenever Sam ran his thumbs under the hard nubs of his nipples, and then down in a spiral towards his navel and lower down to press them into the sides of his slightly raised bladder.

He heard himself murmur things, whispers that weren't actual words, just impressions of words that he knew shouldn't come out of his mouth. His lips were trembling with restraint; he wanted to say so many things, so many words tried to spill out of him … moreneedyesfuckcomeon – let me touch you, Sammy.

And the more he tried, the less he could stop those noises, not even with his mouth dry and his lungs barely getting any oxygen in them.

He could feel himself arching of the mattress whenever Sam's hands came so close, so close, so very close, but not close enough to the base of his dick, his slender fingers spreading over the bulge and his teeth snagging the hair there and pulling.

He could feel himself writhe whenever Sam gripped his hips to hold him down and ran his fingers where he was most ticklish. He all but came off the bed, when Sam did that the first time and Sam, the bitch that he was, just chuckled and blew some air on the tip of his cock; but never touching.

He could feel himself raise his hips up and to the sides, digging his toes into the sheet, trying to curl up into himself to escape, but Sam splayed his fingers over his sides and tsk: "Settle, easy …"

He could feel himself clenching all of his muscles whenever his brother dipped his tongue into his navel and ran his hands up and down his flank, and then under, to run his hands up and down the sweaty skin of his back.

He nearly sobbed when he heard Sam mutter: "You're so good, so good Dean. Doin' so good, so beautiful."

The last two words were mumbled into his mouth, but he heard them anyway, felt them over his tingly lips. Beautiful? He wasn't beautiful; he was a man with so much blood on his hands, so much death, so much Hell … Sam was obviously blind.

Maybe they should look into it, Sam would look hot with glasses.

"S-sam…"

He needed to piss, he needed to go, fuckinghell but yeah he needed to go. He squirmed a little and gripped the pillows tight, trying to push his toes and heels into the rumpled sheets, needing to fuckin' go piss; his bladder was beyond bloated sitting heavy in his middle. But when Sam moved up and kissed him silent, he knew that his brother wouldn't allow him to go anywhere near a toilet to relieve the swollen feeling in his bladder anytime soon. While Sam's tongue mapping out his mouth was a distraction, it wasn't nearly enough to make the feeling of fuckin' frustration, urgency, desperation go away. He whined, but his brother wouldn't let go of his lips, sucking on them like they were the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

Dean knew how that felt.

He really wanted to raise his hands up and slide his fingers into Sam's hair, pull on it and get himself lost in the feeling of touching Sam, but his brother had said 'do not touch', so he wouldn't touch. But it was killing him, it was making his insane, making him anchor himself into nothing but the feel of needtopissnow that was pressing on him like a rock.

And then Sam slowly slid down his body again, leaving his lips coated in spit that he licked off and tried to at least get lost in the taste of Sam.

Didn't work though, because his brother's mouth was slowly making its way down his neck and chest, hands roaming across his ribs, smoothing down his stomach, fingers spread as wide as they'd go, spanning almost around his whole middle, until Sam's index fingers met right at the center of where it hurt the most and pressed down.

"Sam!"

He screamed and pressed the back of his head into the pillow when real pain shot from his bladder up his spine. That was a familiar feeling too; it was a warning of 'one more sip and then ruuuuun to the toilet or you'll be walking around wetwetwetdripping'.

But he couldn't do that here, now. There was no escape from here. No escape from his brother's hands, tongue, teeth, lips. Eyes.

No escaping the liquid filling him up, extending his bladder and making sweat run down his face in rivers, because this was just too much.

Sam watching him come apart like this, it was too much.

Sam seeing him come apart like this, it was too much.

Sam feeling him come apart like this, it was too much.

Sam making him fall apart like this, it was too damn much but there was no way to bend this pain. There was nothing he could do to run away from Sam's eyes that were burning him, dragging him into that abyss. The soft light from the lamp was making his little brother's eyes look as if they held all the colors of the world … bright, shiny and warm.

He could feel it all over his skin, making it turn red and boiling from the intense stare Sam had on him no matter what his brother was doing. His brother's eyes were on his face through it all. Watching, observing, staring, seeing.

He was burning up, he was fading, he was falling. He looked into Sam's eyes and could see that love and darkness really were one and the same.

"Sam!" he screamed and sobbed, because now … now it was getting too much. Now the pinches and pains were starting to turn into a pressure that was starting to drive him absolutely mad. If he'd be standing right now, he'd be doing the 'pee-pee dance' and then run to the bathroom like the Devil was on his ass.

And the little bastard of his brother even left the bathroom door open so that his salvation, the white porcelain of the toilet was right there, in front of his eyes whenever he turned his head to his left.

Fucker.

He wanted to ask just how much was in his bladder right then, just how much liquid was stretching it at that moment, because it felt like a lot, like a damn pool had been pumped inside of him.

"Sam…" the word 'please' was on the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn't say it. Saying it would make him lose Sam.

He didn't want to lose his little brother, but he was drowning. He was drowning and his brother was the one pushing his head under the water. There was desperation so raw cursing through his veins, his muscles were locked tight one second and relaxing the next and he was drowning.

His back came off the bed whenever the desperation pinched like a needle in his brain and relaxed back down when he could breathe again.

"Easy Dean…"

Sam's touch was driving him insane, driving the desperation higher and higher and he'd burst. He would explode under Sam's hands and Sam's tongue and all the pieces of him would float until Sam would sew him back together.

Even Sam's breathing, ragged and harsh exhales that ruffled the hair that had fallen onto Sam's forehead whenever his brother bowed his head and dived tongue first on his stomach. Even just that was making him shudder and a feeling of warmth spread over him because this was affecting his brother just like it was affecting him. They were both suffering, but he was suffering more because he couldn't touch Sam, couldn't feel those strong muscles rippling across Sam's back ... and his bladder was howling in pain, filled up and expanded pushing out on his lower belly.

Fuuuck

He whined when his brother circled the pad of his index finger around the opening of his navel. Around and around and around and around and fuckhim, but he raised his lower back off the bed and hit Sam's forearm with the slight mound of his bladder.

"Saaa-hm…" he hissed, and dropped down to bed, because oh-oh-oh lesson learned there. No putting pressure on his bladder. No.

"So beautiful like this, just like this underneath me, spread like this, just like this. Being so good, being mine. Just mine."

Always Sam's.

PART 1 _II_ PART 3