Sam hesitated in front of the cheap motel door. He had an armful of groceries and first aid items, gauze and tape that taunted him. He'd let Dean down. Let Dean get hurt. Ignored Dean's orders and left his brother wide open to attack. Sam sighed and looked back at the door. Time to face the music.
The room was dark; Sam could barely make out the bed. He slid his packages onto the table.
"Dean? You here?" He took two steps into the room when something slammed into him, tackling him into the ground.
"Stop struggling." Sam's muscles froze of their own volition, keyed into Dean's low voice. Something cold and metallic was slipped over Sam's head, tightening just under his Adam's apple. Sam swallowed reflexively. Dean's weight lifted from his back, but Sam remained prone on the ground.
Sam stayed where he was, listening to the sounds of Dean moving about the room, the snick of his brother's lighter, the rustling of the bedclothes. He was completely attuned to his brother's movements, everything in him eager to please.
"Get up and strip."
Sam scrambled to his feet and started shucking clothes as fast as he could. When he was bare—save for the silver collar around his throat—he stood before Dean, chest heaving and cock leaking. Dean was on the other side of the bed, arms folded and expression stony. Sam was trembling with anticipation.
"On your back," Dean growled. Sam climbed on to the bed and arranged himself spread-eagle, open and panting for his older brother's enjoyment. Leather cuffs closed around his wrists and ankles, stretching his lanky body over the bed.
"You're going to learn, baby boy." Sam shuddered again, the threat in Dean's voice terrifying and arousing. Dean leaned in close, his warm breath tickling Sam's ear. "You don't get to come unless I order you to. You will take what I give. You will scream and cry and beg and you will. Obey." Sam nodded; his obedience and quiescence was not in question.
Sam shouted and arched up when Dean's hand wrapped around his cock, an ice cube trapped between his dick and his brother's hand. It was almost unbearably cold, taking Sam's breath away as Dean slowly jacked his captive off. Feeling Dean's lips around his nipples warred with the coldness of the hand around his penis, and he stayed hard because Dean told him to, because Dean wanted him to, because Dean desired him to. Dean's touch sent bolts of arousal through Sam that not even the freezing ice could douse. Sam whimpered, relief rushing through him when the hand and the ice disappeared, leaving him numb and throbbing.
His relief was short-lived as moments later a searing heat cut through the cold. Dean was using one of his pillar candles to drip molten wax over Sam's dick, the points of heat more intense as it cut through the cold.
Dean reduced his erudite, Stanford-educated brother to a quibbling, begging mess in less than five minutes. He tortured Sam's nipples, freezing one into a hard peak while coating the other with hot wax, the candle's flame dangerously close to Sam's skin, turning the flesh beneath it pink. He chased a trail of wax with the ice cube, Sam's skin bruising underneath the rapidly constricting wax.
The whole time, Sam's cock was begging for release, the pressure of Dean's torture building in his balls.
Dean put his toys away, content with Sam's restraint and penitence...for now. He climbed onto the bed and slipped an ice cube between Sam's lips.
"Suck me." That wide, sassy mouth closed around him and Dean lost himself to the sensations. The cold, chased by the warmth of Sam's mouth, was exquisite. Sam swallowed around him and Dean couldn't take it anymore; he started to fuck the pliant mouth beneath him, using it because it was his and it would do as he said. He spilled, hot and wet, into Sam's ice-chilled mouth.
Dean rolled off the bed and released Sam, who looked up at him with sex-glazed eyes, mentally pushed into the space where Dean's word was sacrosanct. Where Dean's word was the only word.
"Kneel." Sam was a little wobbly, but he managed to slide off the bed and settle into an inelegant crouch. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and smirked. He trailed his foot up and down Sam's chest, feeling the remnants of hardened wax and wet trails of ice. He massaged Sam's cock with his toes, savoring the pitiful whimpers and half-pleas that slipped out of the man on his knees. Dean planted his foot right beside Sam's straining cock.
"The only way you get to come," he said, darkness in his voice, "is if you can get off rubbing against me." Sam whined high in the back of his throat and leaned into Dean, rubbing his cock against Dean's leg. He undulated against the strong muscle, finding enough friction to send himself spiraling into release. Every spot Dean had touched with the wax, every bruise, pulsed in time with his rapid heartbeat. Sam collapsed on the floor, whimpering and twitching.
Sam wasn't invited up into bed—Dean was still too angry for that—but Dean did slip a pillow under his lover's head and drape a blanket over his supine form.
Tomorrow, Sam would finish apologizing. He'd get up before Dean and figure out where the leash was hidden.