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Dean blows his cheeks out on a slow exhale. Squirms in the high-backed, sturdy chair Sam’s put him in. Vinyl sticks to his bare thighs and the steel frame makes him shiver. His cock leaks, strains against the contraption Sam’s tied around his root and between his balls.
“You okay?” Sam rumbles.
“Peachy.”
Sam’s footsteps whisper in a circle. Dean balls his fists in his lap, tense-and-release, tries to will his heart rate down.
Sam’s arms snake around him, breath steams against his ear. “We don’t have to do this. I’m serious. We can stop—”
“I know, I know. Say Montana if I can’t take it.”
“If you don’t like it,” Sam insists.
Being blindfolded deprives Dean of shooting Sam a look. He hopes his contrary head-tilt gets his point across.
Sam kneads his shoulders, jams his thumbs right in the knots and makes Dean hiss. “Try to relax.”
“Says you,” Dean rolls his neck. Sam massages rough as hell but he gets results. “That tension’s all that’s holding me up.”
Sam chuckles. Pets and strokes Dean’s neck and arms. Dean sits still for him. Concentrates on his breathing and Sam’s movements. Bumps of Sam’s knuckles, ridges of his fingerprints. Sam cups his jaws, traces his ears. Runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and mumbles, “You’re doing so good, Dean.”
Sam’s praise slithers down his spine and makes his dick jump. Heat springs to his face.
“You ready?” Sam asks, once Dean’s… sufficiently loose, he guesses.
“Hey, this is all you man,” Dean blusters. “I’m game.”
Sammy didn’t give him any details, but Dean knows those Limey bitches did something to him.
Rage bubbles up Dean’s throat.
Raped him.
Sam takes Dean’s hands, guides them behind him.
And Dean would rather jerk off forever than add any more to Sam’s baggage.
He kisses the knob of Dean’s spine, sparks a riot of goosebumps. Dean can feel Sam’s smile against his skin.
“Thank you,” Sam exhales.
“Thank me with a blow job later.”
Sam huffs, circles Dean’s left wrist with a warm, dry hand. All confidence, he loops a length of rope around—pliable and soft.
“That’s… not our usual stuff, is it?” Dean had thought it while Sam trussed up his ankles; now he’s sure.
“Uh, no.” Sam clears his throat, “I-uh…”
“Bought this special for me, Sammy? I’m touched.” When he’d suggested, What if you tied me up? he’d been fucking around, trying to lighten the mood. But Sam’s eyes went dark and his cheeks flushed—first time he’d looked the least bit horny since those whores had ahold of him—and Dean made a point to not wonder if this was a new thing or if Sammy’d been nursing these 9 1 / 2 Weeks tendencies all along.
He makes quick, neat cuffs, snug at Dean’s wrists. Dean tries not to squirm, though he can’t stop one leg trembling. Sam connects the ropes to each other, then to the chair. Dean tests—well-worn reflex—as soon as Sam moves away.
“How’s it feel?” Sam rasps like he’s gargled sand.
“Solid,” Dean says. “Almost like you had world-class training.”
“Keep being a smartass and I’ll gag you.”
Dean snaps his jaws shut.
Sam gets still. If he’s moving, he’s—well, he’s hunter quiet. Silence coils around Dean, more constricting than the ropes. Blood rushes in his ears; his nuts ache. He could probably scrunch his nose, work the blindfold loose enough to steal a peek. He grimaces. They didn’t talk about any kind of punishment if Dean broke the rules.
He gasps when Sam lays hands on his thighs. Groans from his marrow when Sam’s velvet mouth engulfs his dick. He fights to keep his ass pinned to the seat. Sam bobs on him, slicks him with spit and jerks him. Licks the line of cord holding Dean’s balls apart. Traces the ring. Dean’s head falls back, mouth opens wide as he sucks for air against his seizing chest, sizzling nerves. Sweat pours off his neck, trickles down his spine and multiplies the overstimulation. Sam hums like a power line and lights Dean up. Takes him until he chokes, tongues at Dean’s slit, nibbles with his lips and squeezes with his fingers.
Dean writhes against his ropes, so sensitized his eyes are watering, too far gone to even contemplate begging. All his flailing scrapes his chair along the floor, and Sam bails on him, leaves him shivering and fucking air. He barely gets the chance to settle before Sam hits him with a handful of lube. Stroking, feeling up all Dean’s sweetest spots. Dean spirals, spasms. Black obliterates his vision and he’s sure: if his balls weren’t bound, he’d have shot a load already.
Then Sam’s climbing in his lap, crouching over him, smearing Dean’s chest with precome as he leans in, reaches back and steers Dean’s dick into his hole. Dean howls. Sam’s slick but he’s barely stretched. Dean’s cockhead compresses as he breaches Sam. Twin groans rise. Dean moves and Sam sighs, cups Dean’s jaws and kisses him, slips him tongue but keeps it sweet. Dean breathes Sammy into his mouth. Sam changes angles, sinks. Spears himself like Dean’s a dildo on a chair.
Dean wishes he could see.
His wits leave him once Sam gets into a rhythm, crashing down on him again and again. Grunting, higher in pitch as the pace picks up, Dean buried deep. Sam burns around him, leaks lube on his thighs.
“I’m close.” And the knot Sam tied around Dean’s cock and balls must’ve been some kind of a quick-release, highwayman thing, because Sam slips a hand in, where they’re joined, and flicks and tugs and Dean blows. Surges inside Sam, pumps him full. Not even thrusting, just twitching underneath him, jaws locked tight and damp collecting in his blindfold. Sam screams. Scalding spurts coat their stomachs and send Dean for another round. Sam grinds on him, grips with his insides. Draped over Dean, caging him with arms and knees and breath.
Sam doesn’t let him up until he softens and slides out. He takes Dean’s blindfold, kisses his eyelids and moves to unbind Dean’s ankles. Lifts each one to inspect the rope marks. Dean trembles; Sam’s every touch zings across his skin, makes his cock twitch, spent and helpless. Sam frees his arms then, mouths where he’s surely bruised and mumbles something into the tender spot inside Dean’s wrist. Sam rises behind him, tips Dean’s head back for one of those Spiderman and Mary Jane upside-down kisses.
“Shower?” Sam asks at last.
“Oh my God, yes.” He’s coated in sweat and slick, mixed jizz drying flaky on his thighs.
Sam offers a hand and Dean takes it. Stands on shaky knees, but he hides that. Sam doesn’t look all that steady himself.
“You okay?” Dean asks, and Sam favors him with a nuclear smile, full crescent dimples and a creeping blush.
“Yeah.” Sam bites his lip, and Dean marvels for the millionth time at his giant, naked, killer little brother’s gift for looking innocent. “Are you?”
“I got a blowie and a full-service lap dance man; I’m fuckin’ great .” He curls a hand behind Sam’s neck and draws them together. “You did good, Sammy.” Their lips brush. “Fuckin’ cowgirl —wish I could have seen you. Next time, we gotta tape us. I saw a VHS camcorder at the pawn shop in town—”
Sam’s frozen in his arms, and Dean clocks what he just said.
“I mean.” No take-backs. “If you—”
Sam kisses him. Clobbers him, honestly. Dean gives back like it’s a contest, figures it’s answer enough.