Chapter Text
DEAN
The man—Dean doesn’t know his name only that the stranger is a few inches taller, broader, with an obvious kink for leather—jerks his chin at the metal frame. Dean feels a cold sweat break at the back of his neck, but he ignores it, keeps his head down, pushes his feet forward, and locks his muscles as the man buckles him in. Arms straight out to the side. Ankles apart. He’s still wearing his black boxer briefs but feels completely bare. He concentrates on breathing. In. Out. He can do this. He’s done this before, visited establishments like this to find release when he was hunting alone and couldn’t fend off the solitude of the night. He tries not to remember that the last time was almost a half-century ago.
He curls his hand around the metal chains, tries to ground himself, but they bite like the sharp edge of a knife, cold and unforgiving. Goosebumps prickle his skin. Someone's speaking to him, the voice rising up telltale at the end; he absently nods in response to the question he didn’t hear. The nipple clamps are an electric jolt to his system, a sting to his already raw nerves; the chain between them is heavy and pulls with no relief. He shivers as the man whispers words of endearment—slut, cocksucker, whore—and he bows his head in acceptance; they’re already carved into his soul after all. He welcomes the feeling of familiarity, thinks he’s got a handle on it now, even though the tremors in his muscles and the chill in his bones say otherwise.
The first crack of the paddle nearly buckles his knees. The chain bounces against his chest, cruelly yanking his already sensitive nipples. His eyes water and he bites his lip as he tries to find his balance, find the head space that would turn this into pleasure, not agony. Crack. He tries to relax and give in to the sensation. Crack. He distantly hears a growled “slut…beg for it…let me hear you beg for it.” Crack. He tries to obey, but his mouth feels dry. His skin feels alien, resentful, and won’t obey any of his commands. Crack. He can tell there’s no broken skin or blood, but it feels wrong—all wrong. Crack. That one wrenches a cry from him, but the man takes it as encouragement and comes back even harder. He tries—crack—blinks away the moisture and the blackness at the edge of his vision, gulps down air that won't reach his starving lungs. He can’t. He can't. He doesn’t trust his body anymore, his mind. There’s a red haze everywhere he looks, the stench of rotting flesh in his nostrils, the piercing cries of the damned in his ears. Crack. Crack. Crack. He chokes out his safe word and instantly feels mortified.
The air is now still, but no less suffocating. Long seconds pass. A bead of sweat runs down between Dean's eyebrows to the tip of his nose and hangs there in anticipation. He can't see or hear anything from the man, and Dean's about ready to panic when the paddle suddenly clatters to the floor. The man stops, thankfully, but Dean can see the man's disbelief and disgust as he none-too-gently removes the bindings and walks out of sight through the heavy velvet drapes, all without a word of comfort or a shred of concern. Dean raises shaking hands to gently remove the clamps, and even though he knows what to expect, the bright pinpoints of pain still takes his breath away. Dean stumbles on shaky knees to the corner of the room where his clothes are piled, sucks in a harsh breath and tries to calm his racing heart. He wipes his shirt across his brow before yanking it over his head and jams his legs back into his jeans, trying to piece together the scraps of his dignity. He fingers the white ribbon around his neck, a symbol of an unclaimed sub, before yanking at the ties and throwing it to the floor. He’s so caught up in his misery as he steps through the curtains and back into the dimly lit club that he’s blindsided by the large hand that grabs his upper arm and drags him tripping and stumbling gracelessly through the back exit into the dark alleyway.
Instinct kicks in then, and he jerks away into the shadows. The hand lets go easily, and Dean whirls around ready to throw a right hook. But the man hasn’t followed him; he’s standing by the door, looking like the devil in a halo of red light, glaring at him with angry and accusing eyes. Dean tenses, waiting, until a familiar voice shatters the silence.
“What the hell was that, Dean?!”
SAM
Sam’s thankful for the darkness in the club that gives his large and not-exactly-inconspicuous frame plenty of places to hide. Although, with the way Dean’s been acting lately, he doubts his brother would have noticed him even if the room had been lit by the sun. He tucks himself into a corner and keeps his eyes trained on Dean. Most of the club’s patrons who wander by seem to sense his mood and stay away. He scowls at the ones that don’t; the Doms smirk in amusement while the subs just scurry away.
There’s a boiling in his blood that he doesn’t want to acknowledge as he watches his brother. Dean sits in the center of an oversized lounging bed in a mound of crimson pillows, knees folded demurely under him. Unsurprisingly, he’s being courted by a couple of Doms; more circle waiting for their chance. Dean is the prettiest sub in the room by far, even in his plain gray tee and ripped jeans. He doesn’t have to do up his face like any of the other subs around here; his bright green eyes, long lashes, and lush mouth are tantalizing enough. The only decoration is the white ribbon around his neck in lieu of his usual necklace. It’s a beacon in the dark and a clear invitation to Doms who want to play.
Dean’s received a few offers already, whispered words in his ear, but he has yet to accept any; those who don’t know Dean might call him an attention whore or a teasing bitch, but Sam can tell his brother is nervous by the tight smile on his face and the one hand clenching and unclenching unconsciously by his thigh. With each suitor though, his brother seems to relax a fraction, until finally he nods at one man’s request and follows him toward the back rooms.
Sam follows. The stranger is about Sam’s size, wearing leather like a glove from brawny neck to burly ankle, and Sam hates him immediately. He’s grateful though when the man chooses the covered alcove at the end of the hall where there’s practically no foot traffic. Once the two men have disappeared inside, Sam flattens himself against the wall next to the curtains and pushes aside the velvet to peek in.
The music and chatter is less overpowering here, but still loud enough to thwart Sam’s attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation. He’ll have to make do with body language and reading their lips whenever he can. Already, he doesn’t like the way Dean just nods at everything the Dom says as he gets undressed and strapped in, his own lips practically sealed shut.
Sam’s had twenty years of extremely close quarters to learn Dean’s tells. And it’s obvious to him right now, even with just a view of his brother’s back, that Dean is struggling to fall. He can see the effort in the too-stiff neck and white-knuckled grip on the chains. Sees the way Dean’s body leans away from, rather than into the blows. Sam knows that the more Dean tries to claw his way into subspace, the exact opposite will happen. He doesn’t know who he's angrier with, Dean for stubbornly soldiering on or the Dom for missing the cues. When Dean cries out, loud enough to overcome the music, with nothing but pain, it strikes Sam like a physical blow. His rage is boiling over. Just when he’s about to barge in and put an end to this mess, everything comes to a grinding halt. Sam forces himself back against the wall and waits. The man has lowered his striking arm and is just standing there, unmoving. Sam doesn't get what's happening, until the Dom finally circles around, looking put out and annoyed as he hastily removes the cuffs and huffs out the doorway, leaving Dean barely upright and completely alone.
Sam’s anger manages to go up a few notches when the pathetic excuse of a Dom exits the room, muttering “lousy sub” under his breath. He almost slams the man up against the wall, imagines painting that face red: Did you learn anything about your sub before jumping in with the paddle, dick? It looked like a one-sided conversation to me. And leaving a sub in a state like that? Fucking selfish asshole.
Sam pushes down that physical urge though and watches the man walk away; his brother is more important right now. When Sam peeks in again, Dean is putting his clothes back on with angry jerks. But Sam can see the anger for what it really is—shame. To underscore that, Dean rips the white ribbon off his neck, trampling it on his way out. Dean’s always been bigger than life to Sam, the perfect picture of confidence and swagger, but he looks small right now, head hanging low as he pushes blindly through the curtains.
Dean takes a step towards the main room, and all Sam can think is Hell no before grabbing his brother’s arm and unceremoniously dragging him out the back door.