Cathartic Cauterization

Title: Cathartic Cauterization
Author: ClarySage
Pairing: Dean/Sam, of course
Rating: Utterly nc17, no ifs, ands, or asses about it.
Category: Slashy, slash slash
Word Count: 2417
Spoilers: Not really
Summary: Dominant Dean and Submissive Sam.
Sam opens his mouth one too many times about things he cannot change, and Dean can’t take it any more.
Notes/Warnings: This was an answer to a challenge from Barbed Edge, the challenge was “Non-con, preferably Sam/Dean... hurt/comfort...” two things I never write ^_^’
They are however both in here in their own special way…hopefully.


It was an hour from the diner they’d eaten dinner at when Sam started complaining and didn’t stop. Words tumbled from his mouth in heaps of jumbled emotions, torn little flaps of pain. His whisper carried throughout the Impala, beneath the music but loud enough to make Dean grit his teeth and clamp his hands harder on the wheel.

What had brought on the bout of self-flagellating spillage had been a blond waitress; her hair neatly pulled back, a painfully familiar face. She could have been daughter to their mother, a sister to Jess. Instead, she’d been the cause of nearly an hour of Sam growing steadily more self-pitying. Dean snapped at last when he heard -

“If I hadn’t left her…if only I hadn’t been born.”

The Impala’s tires screeched in protest as it was pulled over sharply, dirt puffing from beneath it as they rocked to a halt beneath some trees at the side of the road. Without a word Dean bolted out of the car, slamming the door and rushing over to the passenger side. His fist came through the open window, unclenching and grasping Sam’s collar, as he unceremoniously flung open the door and yanked his brother out.

With a small grunt he threw open the back door and shoved Sam inside, crawling in after. Sam didn’t even put up a fight, limply allowing himself to be maneuvered. The back door slammed shut, and still Dean did not speak.

His fists clenched and unclenched on his thighs, it was the only other sign of his anger besides the spitting of his breath. At last, and almost gently, he reached out a hand - uncurling the fist - fingers coasting above Sam as if petting his aura. Sam’s breath hitched, a hiccup of air, and Dean’s hand tangled into the unruly hair at the back of his head, tightening.

“You want what you deserve, Sammy?” he asked in a dangerously low voice, and again his fist within the hair at Sam’s nape tightened and loosened. Clench, unclench, constrict, caress. His breath hissed out, and without thought he found himself pushing his brother down against the seat, forcing his face into it, a calm rage flowing through him. “You want punishment?” he questioned so softly it was barely heard above the near audibility of his own thrumming heart.

Sam did not nod, nor shake his head; instead and with a trembling sigh, he gave in to the push of the hand, relaxing the tensed muscles of his shoulders and arms. His own hands moved slowly, curling backwards against his spine as if waiting, fingers open and relaxed.

It was like watching a flower of a delicate nature wilt before his eyes, and it served only to make Dean one step angrier. He wanted the fight, wanted his rebellious brother back, wanted so many things that used to be and no longer were. The frustration had been building for years, that hopelessly helpless feeling of impotence every time he’d thought of Sam.

He used his free hand to stroke a knuckle down Sam’s ribs, stopping at the angular hip and coiling around it, pressing his thumb into the indent where back ended and hip began. For a long moment his fingers caressed the smooth belt threaded through the loops of the jeans Sam had on; then he was reaching around, unbuckling and yanking the belt from its moorings.

Quickly, before he could think overly long on his actions, he wrapped the belt around Sam’s wrists, two times, three times, once more and he tightened it, slipping the needle into one of the holes - the buckle clicking into place with a rattle. His fingers lingered on the leather and then drifted away.

Only then did Dean curl around his brother, dissolving over him like so much sugar in a glass of water, his hands tugged at the layers of shirts Sam wore, slipping beneath, and curving comfortably around the planes of chest and stomach. His breath slipped past an ear, ruffling the shorter hairs there. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, sighing as he pressed his cheek to the warmth at the back of Sam’s neck. He nuzzled there for a long time, sliding his face slowly back and forth in a mesmerizing rocking motion.

Night had long ago descended, outside the car no other traffic slipped down the darkened road. Fingers of light descended through the trees above, shedding a blue and black glow over and within. Dean mouthed soundlessly against the familiar neck and then there were words, low and ruthlessly uttered, “maybe you do deserve it.”

He abruptly pinched hard at a nipple, twisting it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, nearly growling when Sam began to quiver at the sensation. “Maybe you deserve to be punished?” it came out a question, even though he hadn’t meant it to be. There was no response.

Dean recalled times that seemed so far from them they could have been another lifetime. Soft times, times of rare relaxing within an existence that allowed no rest. There again had been a different life, one in which he was allowed to touch Sam, memorize patterns of muscle and bone contained by the slim body of his only sibling.

He’d missed this bond, longed for it without words for the emotions it reaped. Now it all began to spill out, as if someone had come along and poked pinprick holes in the dam that held it inside. At first it was just a gasp of breath, and then he couldn’t stop the flood, powerless to plug the trickle of words. “You left,” it came out a bitter hiss, followed by a groan of longing.

Dean leaned back on his knees, hands slipping out of Sam’s shirt and beginning to clench once more. “You left me,” and now his tone shifted into accusing. His fist lifted, unfolded, stroked gently down Sam’s spine, slid around to the front and grasped at the button of the jeans. It unsnapped with a soft ‘pop’, the zipper loud in the hush.

“You left me, like you left her,” he was heartless at how much it stung as it hit, both hands moving to Sam’s hips, snagging on the loopholes of the jeans and scraping them downwards. A pair of faded boxers came into view and he tugged those as well, bringing everything down to Sam’s knees in a puddle of cloth. He could feel the shiver that went through his brother as the air hit his naked flesh, a small shake of his head accompanying it.

Dean paused before he went any further, leaning close again, “Do you deserve it, Sammy?”

A soft, “no.”

“Do you want it?”

A tremble and then another broken, “no.”

“I think you do,” he nodded to the shadows as if they were the judge, jury and executioner, “I think you deserve everything,” he murmured as his fingers coasted over a bare thigh. “Everything that happens you deserve, don’t you Sammy? It must be god’s great plan for you, to make you suffer. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

Then again, maybe the plan was to make them both suffer, to question the reason of their very existence. Maybe they deserved what they got, and that was the thought that infuriated Dean more than any other.

A solid smack echoed in the car, Sam’s whimpering gasp the only other sound for a long, cold minute. Dean watched hypnotized as his handprint slowly disappeared from Sam’s pale backside, caressing the recently darkened skin, before slapping it again, hard. He shifted position and brought his hand down on the unmarked side of Sam’s ass, and then he couldn’t seem to stop, furiously striking his brother, his hand like a whip as it bruised and reddened the monochrome skin.

Suddenly Sam cried out, writhing and bucking, as if he’d only just noticed what was happening, had only awakened recently to the realization of where they were and what they were doing. “No,” he moaned, earning another slap, this one against the side of his face, and then his cries were drowned in the black vinyl of the backseat once more, unshed tears wavering on the edge of his eyes as Dean pushed him down.

“Sshh, Sammy. I’ll give you want you need, I’ll hurt you,” Dean crooned, belying the petting hand that stroked his brother’s tensed jaw. “I’ll heal you,” he whispered, and then the hand turned angry again, smacking sharply against the side of Sam’s head in an ugly parody of a faith healer. It clawed its way into the soft hair at the nape of his neck and tugged sharply back, forcing him to bend awkwardly into his brother’s embrace. Dean couldn’t keep his other hand from pinching, jabbing, scratching, marking up skin and leaving bruises in its wake, it had a life of its own.

He could feel Sam’s bound hands between them, long and bony, fingers he’d dreamed about. “Maybe Dad left because of you, maybe that’s all your fault too, huh, Sammy?” it didn’t matter that it was a lie because the next words admitted it, “I told him, I told him what we did together.” His arm went around Sam’s neck, loosely at first, forearm tightening as he continued to speak, “He cried, Sammy, our father broke down and cried, wept for his lost sons.”

“Do you know,” he said almost conversationally as Sam began to make choking sounds, “that was the first time I’d ever seen him cry for something other than Mom.” Dean abruptly released his grip, letting Sam crash in a heap against the far door, idly pushing at his spine to force his head down and ass upwards.

In the liquid shadows there was another soft ‘pop’ of a button, the scrape of a zipper. Dean shoved his pants down; his cock had been hard for what seemed hours now, strangely thrilling as he flung each venom filled word at his brother. It was almost painfully filled to rigidity, an angry red, and spontaneously leapt towards his belly in jolts as he spoke once more in a hushed whisper. “We were both bad sons then; I fell like the devil to hell, in his eyes,” another harsh slap to Sam’s ass, “that’s your fault too.”

He hurriedly fumbled beneath the front seat, leaning over and grasping the hard plastic handle of the first aid kit, cracking the case open and feeling around before pulling out a small tube of antibiotic ointment. His teeth shone Cheshire for a moment as he opened it, applying a thin line along his hand. He fought back a strangled groan at the touch of his own hand, peremptorily slicking himself up before letting go with another long drawn sigh. Dean stilled as a crescent of moonlight slid along Sam’s face, dancing with the motion of the trees from above.

Sam was biting his lip, eyes closed, the wet stripes of tears tracked across his exposed cheek. He started sobbing gently, turning to hide his face.

“Oh no, we do this with eyes open,” Dean chided, yanking his chin from the side until their gazes met in the grey moonlight; Sam’s eyes were the black empty lakes of a soul being broken apart. They expanded in alarm as Dean pressed forward, one hand slapping at his inner thighs to force his legs to spread wider. And then Dean was over him, pushing into him, halting, and biting down on the back of his neck. Another tiny thrust, however Sam was too tense, his whole body strung tight, locking up in a paroxysm of doubt and self-loathing.

“We can do it the hard way, Sammy, I don’t mind,” he grunted against Sam’s neck, leaned back; pulled out the inch he’d gained, and then slammed against Sam, forcing his way in so hard it took both their breath away. They came back to it gasping, and Dean repeated the action, refusing to stop longer then a second, he did it again and again until Sam was writhing against him, flopping uselessly between his body and the warm, tear-stained vinyl seat.

Almost magically Sam’s body was opening to the invasion, muscles relaxing despite themselves, and Dean used that moment of relaxation to shove the final length of the way, moaning softly. They said you could never go home again, but they had lied.

A gasp of a moment skimmed by where stillness overlay the urgency, and then it was a tangle of movement, as any semblance of sanity scattered. At last Sam let go, his mouth opening to release a keening wail of grief, and he thrust back, unconsciously begging for absolution with each stab of movement. He continued to howl until Dean smashed his hand against the open aching mouth, muffling the sound to a thin shriek.

His words slammed against Sam almost as hard as he did, “It could be all your fault.” He tugged at Sam’s bound hands, pulling them up sharply so that they creased at the elbow and bent between their bodies. “And you could blame yourself forever.” He used the leverage to spread his brother upon his lap, and push upwards, one hand still clinging to a wrist. “But I forgive you,” his fingernails began to leave crescent moons in the skin they found, “I forgive you, Sam.”

Along the road a banshee scream of raw pain fled, echoing briefly before being chased away by the wind. Inside the black car Sam lay panting, Dean’s fingers slowly stroking along his jaw, over the back of his ear. The belt rattled again as it was freed, slithering to the floor with a soft clink.

Dean tugged gently until Sam fell into his arms, curling against his chest, breath already slowing. For a long time they stayed that way, Dean petting and soothing until he could no longer hear Sam breathing at all. When he pulled away, much later, he smiled at the soft expression on his brother’s sleeping face, the wrinkle between his eyebrows was gone, his mouth slightly open. He almost looked like the Sam that had existed before, the one that no longer did.

“I’ll always forgive you.” Sam never heard the promise whispered into his ear, he never saw the tears that spattered next to his hand, or felt the touch of the knuckles that trailed down his cheek. But that night he slept peacefully, his wound at last cauterized.

-the end-