Pairing: Sam x Dean
Rating: 18+
Tags: A/B/O, Darkness magic, Alpha!Dean, Omega!Sam, Dub-Con (magic hallucination sex), Heat fever
Word Count: 3.3k
“Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I want to do the same for you.” Amara’s words are ringing in Dean’s ears, not making a lick of sense even though he’s repeated them about a hundred times. Well, I didn’t have to get exploded by a soul suicide-bomb in the end – I’m peachy, whatever the hell she was talking about, Dean thinks to himself. He’s always been a fairly simple man, if he’s alive and he’s got some food and some alcohol and Sam, then he’s good. Not much else out there I could need.
Dean knows that isn’t exactly true. Sure he ‘has Sam’. Sam is his brother, Sam would do anything for him, Sam isn’t gonna up and leave him – at least, he probably won’t, so long as Dean keeps his fat mouth shut about what he really wants, really needs, from Sam. They’d always had a complicated relationship as brothers, it was never sunshine and roses, especially considering how they were raised. More than often they had been at each other’s throats growing up, arguing about a hunt, or dinner, or Dad. But even through all those times, they never stopped needing each other. With Dad gone so much, all they ever really had was each other, and that suited Dean just fine, honestly.
And through the years, since Dean had collected Sam from Stanford in the dead of night, they’d had their fights, and bumps in the road, and apocalypse-level disagreements, but they still had each other. As much as one person could belong to another, they belonged to each other – in every way except one. Dean knew it was twisted, the way he wanted his baby brother to belong to him, and only him, but he’d passed the point of judging himself for it a long time ago. Now, it was just a fact of his existence that he did a pretty good job of burying in an iron box the majority of the time. But when Amara promised him ‘what he needed most’ before she smoked out of that garden with Chuck, that box creaked open, and let a chink of hope out into the open.
Could she really know about the Sam thing? Even if she did, what could she actually do about it? Short of mixing up some cosmic mojo and shoving it down Sam’s throat, Dean couldn’t think of a single reason his brother would ever give him what he truly needed – his honest to God soulmate, in every sense of the word. The force of his own feelings surprised Dean, maybe it was just that he hadn’t let himself linger on the prospect of Sam like this in so long, hadn’t let himself imagine Sam as his in this way.
Sex. Dean wanted sex. Dean wanted to fuck Sam so badly that sometimes it physically hurt to restrain himself from shoving Sam against a wall and claiming him. Well – he does the ‘shoving Sam against a wall’ part every now and then, but he’s never let himself take that next step closer to fully possessing Sam, occupying the same space, breathing the same breath. But either way – there’s no way that Sam wants the same thing as Dean, and he doesn’t want Amara waving some magic wand and forcing Sam into something he doesn’t want. That is, if this is even what she was referring to. For all Dean knows, she might think the ‘thing he needed most’ was a puppy or some shit. Amara hadn’t exactly stuck around to answer questions, so Dean resolved to just forget about the whole thing and get back to the Bunker – and Sam.
Sam wakes up to a throbbing white light pulsing against his eyelids. He tries to open them but they’re too swollen, and the light is too bright. Where is that coming from? Sam knows they don’t have lights like this in the Bunker – not even in their dungeon / torture room – but he’s been in enough bad situations in his life to recognise the feeling of interrogation lights, so he knows that he’s not in the Bunker anymore. Trouble is, he has zero memory of being transported from there to wherever ‘here’ is.
‘Ah, finally awake I see,” a pinched English accent addresses him from somewhere in the room. “I have to say, for such a big man you were surprisingly fast to go down.” Sam can’t see her smirking, but the smugness in her tone is evident.
“Where are we?” Sam’s question is hoarse, the words scraping against his throat like sand, hot and scratchy.
“Does it matter?” Toni, Sam remembers her name now, deadpans. He manages to raise his eyelids just a touch against the burning lights, and he squints enough to see Lady Toni Bevell standing just behind another woman handling a cattle prod.
“Just wondering how far I’m gonna have to walk back to town after I kill you,” Sam grunts, straightening in his chair despite the cuffs keeping him restrained and the burning pain in his gut that’s telling him to stay hunched over.
“Sorry about all this nastiness,” Toni cringes in obviously shallow sympathy. “See, you’re dangerous – to others and yourself – but if you answer my questions, you walk right out that door. Promise.”
“Pass,” Sam scoffs.
“Sam,” Toni tries to placate him but Sam is way past any kind of mood to negotiate. He just said goodbye to Dean – his last real family, his brother – a few hours ago, and nothing this woman could dream up would ever hurt him more than that final moment they’d shared before Dean went off to sacrifice himself.
“You can ask me any kind of question you want,” Sam huffs defiantly, chest heaving with the effort. “The answer’s gonna be the exact same – Screw you. You want to get mad? You want to get mean? I’ve been tortured by the Devil himself,” Sam smirks, his cavalier disregard for the danger he was in apparent in his features. Dean’s gone, so what the hell does it matter what this bitch does to him now? “So you, you’re just an accent in a pantsuit. What can you do to me?” he sneers.
Toni frowns disappointedly and nods sagely to her accomplice, who turns on a hose positioned directly over Sam’s head. The gush of cold water is shocking, initially, but after a moment Sam finds it oddly soothing. He has been so hot under these lights, that the water is actually refreshing, not torturous at all, and he laughs scornfully. “A cold shower? That’s your play?” he shakes his hair out of his face arrogantly, smirking at his captors. If this is all they conjure up, Sam has nothing to worry about.
It’s not all they can conjure though. After hours under the constant stream of freezing water, Sam’s begun shivering, whatever heat he was suffering from earlier completely neutralised under the relentless pounding of the stream from the hose. Toni asks again if he’s ready to cooperate. “Screw you,” Sam chatters, every bone in his body shaking with the cold.
“Well, if the cold won’t get to you, shall we try a new tactic Ms. Watt?” The woman holding the button for the hose down, who must be Ms. Watt Sam surmises, drops it to the concrete floor, and reaches behind her for a new implement. The blaze of the torch shoots experimentally into the chill air of the basement as she tests the flames’ strength and distance, and if there had been any colour left in Sam’s face, it drained away when he saw the next torture he was to endure. For the next while, all he can feel is burning, and all he can hear is screaming.
Dean bounds through the door to the Bunker eagerly, impatient to find Sam and toast his not being blown into stardust. At the bottom of the stairs he calls his brother’s name, expecting to see him barrel around the corner – either from the hallway or the library – but after a moment’s silence there’s no sign of him.
“Sam?” Dean calls out again, hand drifting behind him to the gun tucked in his waistband. He draws it at the sight of blood on the floor.
“Dean.” The sober voice behind him gives Dean a start and he spins with his weapon brandished, but it’s only Cas.
“Hey,” Dean breathes with momentary relief before his worries about Sam’s whereabouts kick back in.
“Sam’s gone,” Cas states plainly and Dean’s brow furrows, waiting for further explanation. “I was banished, she must have taken Sam once I was gone.”
“Who?” Dean growls incredulously.
“She was English, I think, and she knew magic.”
“So, a witch?” Dean presses.
“Maybe,” Cas tilts his head to the side quizzically, staring intently at Dean. “Something is different about you.”
“Yeah,” Dean scoffs, unimpressed with Castiel’s skills of observation. “I’m no longer a soul bomb, and I’m down a little brother, so a lot’s changed in the past few hours.”
“No, it’s not that,” Cas muses, stepping into Dean’s personal space, and reaching out as if to place his fingers on Dean’s temple.
“Can you lay off on the weird angel-mojo for a minute and maybe help me find Sam?” Dean snaps, marching to where Sam had left his laptop open on the table – another sign Sam hadn’t left willingly, he always shuts this thing off first, Dean thinks – and pulls up the external surveillance systems. “Now, when was this?”
Cas supplies what details he can remember, and Dean finds a speeding SUV running a red light not far from the bunker on the county traffic violations database. It’s not much but it’s a lead, and Dean’s found Sam on less before.
Sam blinks wearily, floating on the edge of consciousness, wanting to let himself succumb but wanting to show this bitch with the blow torch that she can’t break him, even more. He hears the creak of the basement door and the clunk of heels on wooden steps but can’t find the effort to peel his eyes open and check who the newcomer is. After a moment he no longer needs to, as their hushed whispers still carry enough for him to overhear in the empty room.
“No one can take that much pain and not break. No one,” Sam hears his torturer say. He smirks to himself. He told them they didn’t stand a chance of getting him to talk.
“What are you saying,” Sam hears Toni, she must have been the one coming down the stairs. He hadn’t realised she’d left.
“I… Th– Ma’am. If you want him dead, then I’ll slit his throat right now.” Be my guest, Sam thinks bitterly. “But if you want to take this to the next level, you need to make the call. Bring in Mr. Ketch.”
“I don’t want that psychopath anywhere near me,” Toni hisses vehemently, and that worries Sam slightly. These women were insane, and they were calling this “Mr. Ketch” a psycho – Sam had a feeling he didn’t want to meet the guy.
“So?” the other woman presses, clearly her capacity for creative torture had been exhausted.
“So,” Toni muses, “we stop trying to break his body. We break his mind.”
Sam does not like the sound of that.
–
The next time he wakes he’s unbound, curled on the floor, and he feels feverish again. Everything is muddled and he thinks he hears voices on the fringes of the room but he can’t see anyone there. A bright pain is prickling across his skin, and his stomach is clenching with every shiver that wracks his body. He can’t feel his foot, but he can see the bandages and the dark edges where blood is seeping through the cotton, and he decides to count the numbness as a blessing.
For the longest time it’s all he can do to lay still, and not pass out again. He fights it by trying to pick out the voices that are flitting around him, but he can only catch little words, small sounds, nothing he can distinguish or hang on to, until he thinks he hears a voice that could be Dean’s. Sam, it’s whispering – Sammy. Sam clings to it, pulling himself along the ground to where he thinks the voice is coming from. He finds himself at a basin, the pipes beneath it exposed and rusted. He reaches for them clumsily, and pulls himself up against them, slowly bracing his weight on the sink and forcing himself upright.
“Sam.” He hears Dean’s voice more clearly now, but the other voices are louder too. Crying and wailing and setting his brain on fire, their words burning him worse than the blowtorch. Your fault – Dead and it’s your fault – Everyone, your fault. “I’m dead Sammy,” Dean’s voice rings mercilessly in his ears. “I’m dead ‘cus of you. All of us – shoulda been none of us. Shoulda been you. It’s your fault, so why aren’t you dead, huh? You’re the freak, so why don’t you die Sam?” Dean’s right, of course, Sam thinks. It is his fault that Dean’s dead. It should have been him. But maybe he can fix that, maybe he can find Dean and apologise. He had the overwhelming need to see Dean, to be with Dean, and his body is way ahead of his mind, grabbing for a shard of glass in the sink. Staring calmly into the broken mirror, and imaging he can see Dean behind him, waiting, Sam cuts.
–
It was a decent plan, Sam thinks to himself as he collapses on the bottom step of the rickety staircase, if she didn’t have that damn cattle prod. Who knows what method of torture they’ll go for next, probably something even more horrible, now he’s tried to escape. They’ll be more eager to break him.
–
Sam slams his hips harder and harder into the small woman beneath him. No matter how fast he fucks into her it’s not fast enough. She’s moaning and whimpering each time he sheaths himself inside of her tight heat, and her sounds spur him on, but nothing is touching the burning need inside him, nothing is getting him close enough to his edge. He growls in frustration, straining to push himself as deep inside of her as he can go – it’s still not enough.
She rakes her nails down his back, clawing angry red trails into his skin, blazing a pathway down his burning frame to lodge in the muscles of his thighs. Sam groans, letting her urge him along, grinding forwards into her body and backwards into her nails. This pain is somehow closer to what he needs, and he’s grateful that she seems to understand that. She pulls her hands along his flesh, up the insides of his thighs and into the crevice between his cheeks. Her fingers slip against his skin, which in the back of his mind, Sam still has the barest capacity to find odd, and her nails skate across the tiny furl of his entrance.
Sam lets out an embarrassingly lewd moan, and presses back into her grasp, praying she’ll take the hint without making him ask for what he so desperately needs all of the sudden. To his immense relief she begins to draw small circles around his hole and quickly pushes a finger inside him. It goes easily, pleasantly, and Sam needs more. He must have said words to that effect without realising because soon the finger withdraws to be replaced by two, and then three soon after that. Sam is drowning in the heat of his pleasure, fucking himself back onto her fingers, his cock all but forgotten as he slips out of her and simply ruts between her legs. His hair is matted down with sweat and everything about his body is slick on top of her and the glide of their bodies together and her fingers playing inside of him, right against a spot he never knew existed, sends him tumbling blissfully into his climax, spurting hot and wet between them.
When he’s finished he collapses, only just missing the woman beneath him and landing on the bed to her side. He drifts off quickly, enveloped in a warm post orgasmic cocoon, but on the edge of his consciousness he thinks he hears the woman mutter in a put-out British accent, “Well, that was unexpected.”
When Dean and Castiel pull up outside the ‘heavily warded’ farmhouse in rural-ass Missouri, Dean immediately knows it’s the right place – Sam is here.
“The warding prevents me from sensing who might be inside,” Castiel assesses gravely. “There’s a chance this is unconnected to Sam’s kidnapping and it’s just another safe-house.”
“He’s here,” Dean grunts, slamming the car door, caution be damned. Sam was the most important thing right now and he could feel him, so close by. He almost felt like he could smell him. Something about this place just reeked of Sam, like his aura was all over it, or something. Dean had never been more certain about anything in his life – Sam was inside, and Sam was in pain. Sam needed Dean right now – maybe even more than Dean needed Sam.
Cas can’t come with him past the property boundary but Dean barrels in regardless. He’s almost thankful when the sigil drags him inside, because inside is one step closer to Sam. And once he’s inside he really can smell Sam, though he isn’t sure how he knows that the overwhelming aroma of incense, charcoal, cedar wood, and parchment burning into his lungs means Sam – fact is, he just does.
“Sam,” Dean chokes out his brother’s name through the heavy air of the cellar as some blonde bitch shoves him down a set of splintering stairs. “Sammy.”
“Dean,” Sam blinks incredulously up at him, like he can’t really make Dean out, or he doesn’t believe he’s really there – like he’s some sort of mirage shimmering on the heat of the air in front of him. Sam is flushed and damp and bloody, and Dean feels himself growl with the fury the sight wakes in him.
“What the hell did you do to him?” he hisses at the woman standing stoically behind him.
“What was necessary,” she clips in her hoity-toity accent. “Although, it’s good you arrived when you did. With this fever that’s come on, I’m not sure how much longer he’ll last.”
Panicked, Dean rushes to Sam’s side, and the woman doesn’t stop him. Sensible of her, he thinks, or else she’d already be dead – not that she wouldn’t be dead soon for what she’s done to Sam. He reaches out his hands, still bound, and cups Sam’s face. His skin is on fire.
“Dean,” Sam sighs the second Dean’s skin touches his. “De, you’re alive,” Sam’s voice is strained in disbelief. Dean can tell it’s hurting him to speak, but the need to make sure the other is alright has always outweighed any pain they were feeling themselves.
“I’m here,” Dean reassures Sam, combing his hair back off his forehead, petting down his cheek, his neck, his chest, and resting his hands over his brother’s heart. It’s beating worryingly fast. “What the hell did you do to him,” Dean shouts at the woman behind him, but his eyes never leave Sam’s, which are drifting in and out of focus now.
“He fell ill a few days ago. Absolutely nothing to do with me, I assure you. From the little spell-work I tried to determine the cause, it seems like something is changing his physiology. His molecules were unsteady, in flux.”
“Listen here, witch bitch,” Dean flings himself at her and backs her against the tattered wall of the cellar, “you got magic? Then you put him right – you fix this.”
“I tried,” she shrugs, “I can’t. Whatever’s happening was triggered by forces far more powerful and far more dark than I.” Dark and powerful – Amara, Dean realises. Amara did this to Sam.
Write The Life You Want 