Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise, and I get nothing out of writing this stuff but personal satisfaction.
Notes: This particular fic was originally concieved as a oneshot set in one of those semi-popular serial killer AUs. I wrote the first part in the span of a week and sent it off to my most valued confidant, who then informed me that I had to continue writing it. Or else. This is the result of that "or else", and also bribery with lollipops.
Things you should know:
-There are four parts to this story, and a sequel coming after.
-Don't be decieved, this is not an all-human AU.
-There will be boy-on-boy 'romance' (but no wincest), so consider yourselves warned.
-This story will contain non-graphic sex, semi-graphic violence, and mature themes.
[Approximately three years ago]
They're hiding out in a nothing little suburban village. It's nameless, faceless, just like a thousand other pretty suburban wastelands across the country. To someone else it might have been home, or even just a nice place to stop for a visit. To the brothers Winchester, it was just another hole to hide in and lie low for a while, another quiet stop before the lack of blood and screaming became too much and it was tempting to summon a batch of demons just so they had something to kill that would put up a decent fight.
It has only been two days when Dean sees him. He's been cruising the business district on foot, car parked by a metre stuffed full of hours worth of change, breezing through shops and past commercial businesses. A habit, or hobby, whenever they're in a place actually big enough to have a business district.
He's stopped, waiting for a red light to change, when he sees the man across the street. An ordinary man, in an ordinary suit, talking on an ordinary cell phone with a slight frown on his face. Dean steps back and leans against the side of a building as he watches the man, sees a flash of sunlight catch his hair as he moves - it gives him the momentary illusion of a halo while fuck-me lips form plain, ordinary words on a mouth better suited to moaning. Dean Winchester's eyes flash dark with sudden want and he pushes away from the wall to follow the man to his place of work. An ordinary office building with a coffee shop on the ground floor to service the needs of the middle-class workaholics.
Dean takes a seat at the little cafe and orders a coffee, tipping heavily for his prolonged presence so the staff don't complain when he takes up the small table for hours on end. He watches the entrance to the building like the expert stalker that he is, always from the corner of his eye as he people-watches or flirts with the waitresses. Four hours later, at five thirty in the afternoon, the man emerges from the building again. Dean leaves only moments after, pinning a few crumpled bills under the salt and pepper shakers before he begins to dog the man's steps to a plain, boring car.
Then Dean follows him home in a stolen camaro, tailing him with the expert ease of someone who has done this sort of thing a thousand times before.
What he sees of the man's home is normal and boring. Boring wife, boring house, boring yard, boring kid. He thinks about the sunlight-halo and the fuck-me lips, his mouth twisting into a grim smirk before he peels off in the stolen car, street name and number perfectly memorised. Dean dumps the car, exchanging it for his own black beauty. He parks the car in the lot of the local tourist's motel and jogs across the concrete to the room he's sharing with his brother.
When he sees Sam, he gives his brother the address and says only four words. "Sam. I want him."
The man has no identification on him that isn't fake. His fingerprints don t match any in the national database. He refuses to give his real name. But none of this means that he's in the slightest bit innocent. The man's face is cold, like he really doesn't care that he'd been caught, or that he'd sliced a man's stomach open with a hunting knife during his arrest. Everyone knows Dean Winchester is a psycho, but this guy doesn't even seem to be that. And since he isn't Sam Winchester - Dean's only known accomplice - they're not quite sure what to say on the report they quickly send off to the FBI.
Both men are handcuffed and led to holding cells, separated and put as far away from one another as possible. It's not possible to get them far enough apart that they can't talk, but separating them still seems like a logical precaution to take.
The entire area is locked down while the cops sit down and wait for the FBI. They don't think it will take long for an armoured vehicle and heavily armed agents to arrive, what with the poster child for the modern serial killer sitting in their holding cells. They arrange a shift of guards just in case, and the guy unlucky enough to pull the short straw takes a shotgun and positions himself squarely in front of the only way to get in or out of the cells. From his position he can see them both, leaning against the front bars of their cells and angled so they can see one another.
Dean is still smiling, casual like he's at some kind of retreat and not locked up, handcuffs uncomfortably tight against his wrists. "You ok there, Cas?" Dean asks, a veteran of short stays in the system's worst answer to a hotel.
"I have been better," the other man replies, voice eerily calm. He sounds as if he's commenting on the weather, and something about that makes the guard nervous.
"Sam will come," Dean says with a grin. "We'll kill every single bleeder in the building and ride into the hazy fucking morning. I know you'd like that."
The response is a soft moan. The guard tries not to look as unsettled as he feels, suddenly very glad that his shift will be over in just a few short hours.
The brothers stalked Dean's new obsession together, tag teaming and keeping each other company by turns as they mapped his routine. They watched him from the moment he left his house to the moment he returned and sometimes after that. Office, gym, church, mid-week trips to the supermarket and leaving the office early to pick his daughter up from school twice a week. They waited almost an entire month before making any move.
The man never used the company car park. The brothers parked their car in an empty spot close to the building and intercepted the man on his way out of the office. It was a short struggle, one man who worked out to keep in shape against two violent felons who worked hard for speed and agility. They had him dazed and tied up before he even knew what was happening, a hard ball gag shoved into his mouth to make sure he couldn't scream.
Dean flirted even as they carted the man out to the parking lot, invisible at three in the afternoon when the boss made his rounds and nobody looked out the windows, talking about the man's pretty mouth and beautiful eyes.
Shocked, horrified eyes. Round and beautiful eyes that stared in disbelief as the Winchesters tucked him into the back of the car, jack-knifing his body to make him fit. Doors slammed, the engine revved, and Dean leaned over the back of the front seat to kiss the gag in their captive's mouth. "I'm going to make you beg for it, angelface," Dean crooned in a dark, heated voice that was unsettling as it was sensual. "You'll beg, and if you're really good I might just keep you."
"Jesus, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes from the driver's seat as they sped far and fast from the scene of the crime. "You sound like a lovesick puppy."
"You jealous, Sammy?" Dean asked, giving the bound and gagged man in the backseat one last look before turning around and sitting down on the seat how it was intended to be sat on. "You sound jealous."
"You sound like a fucking liar."
"You'll always be my first, Sammy," Dean replied, eyes glinting like knives as he smiled at his brother. "My partner."
"Don't you forget it, Dean."
"Not a chance, baby boy."
In the back seat, Jimmy Novak closed his eyes and prayed to a God who never answered, desperately clinging to whatever hope he could find.
The power cuts out just after midnight. The two captives stand patiently by their cell doors as guns go off and people shout for help, for backup, and finally for God. The door that hides the holding cells from the rest of the building crashes open. A head sails through the air to land with an oddly squelchy thump in front of Dean's cell.
Sam enters then, covered in blood, eyes glinting yellow in the darkness. He tosses Cas a straight razor and Dean a set of keys. "You owe me," he says as the cell doors click open.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be the one saving your ass next time," Dean says, kicking the severed head out of his way and dropping the now-open handcuffs on the floor.
"Would you like repayment in sexual favours or in blood?" Cas asks, blunt and direct, blue eyes letting nothing through.
Sam shakes his head and laughs as the blue-eyed man emerges from his cell. He throws one long arm around Dean's shoulders and kisses his brother's cheek. "Did I ever tell you what good taste you have?" he asks, watching Cas slip the handcuffs from his wrists and flick open the straight razor with a contemplative look on his otherwise expressionless face.
"Fuck," Dean grins back, looking up at his baby brother. "I never tire of hearing it."
"You promised sunrise," Cas reminds him, reaching out to caress Dean's cheek with the flat of his blade. "Is everyone dead?"
"Every single God Damned soul in the building," Dean replies, knowing full well exactly how his brother works. It's like a part of his own mind. He doesn't even have to look at Sam's self-satisfied smirk to know that it's true.
The first torture is sensory deprivation. He knows it's the first because Dean tells him, whispers it into his ear as the needle pushes into his skin and liquid nihilism is injected into his veins. The blue eyed captive lolls, boneless and barely awake as the brothers strip him of his clothing and wrap him in hard, thick latex.
A distant, still aware part of his mind wants him to scream when they take out the gag, wants his body to struggle and thrash. But willpower is nothing against the drug, so Jimmy finds himself helpless, only his eyes telegraphing his fear as he's zipped into the suit and the mask is placed over his head. It muffles his hearing, drowning out the brothers' talk and turning it into meaningless buzz. His eyesight is the last thing to be robbed of him as the long slit in the mask is zipped closed.
He can vaguely feel it as he's carried to what he can only assume is a bed, his arms tied to the headboard and his ankles strapped to the footboard. He can't feel any softness beneath him through the thick layer of latex against his skin. He can barely feel anything and it stretches on for indeterminable hours.
Jimmy prays, moving his lips silently behind the mask, rubbing them raw against the seams and the other zip at the front of the mask. He closes his eyes tight against the darkness, asking for salvation until his body starts shaking, his face becoming damp under the mask as tears squeeze from his eyes. He thinks about his family, doesn't know if they're still alive, and cries until there are no tears left and he's exhausted enough to fall into a fitful sleep.
When he wakes up he doesn't know what time it is, but the zip above his mouth has been opened. They must have been watching for a change in his breathing because the very next second he feels something cold against his bottom lip.
A muffled voice speaks up right by his ear. It takes Jimmy a moment or two to translate the sounds into words and when he does he's suspicious and relieved at the same time. "It's just water," the voice says. "Drink it or drown in it."
The cold rim of the cup shifts, pouring a trickle of water into his mouth. Jimmy gulps it down, trying not to choke on the steady stream of liquid. It tastes like it's just come out of the tap, but at this point he doesn't care, it's refreshing and one small sign of mercy. The water stops and Jimmy coughs on the last few drops, turning his head to the side. "Wh-what -" he starts in a croak, but the rest of his sentence is muffled by the zip closing again. He lets the question die and falls into silence.
By the time the zip is opened again Jimmy feels delirious. He's been watching colours swirl past his eyes for what feels like hours, catching phantom sounds that make his head whip around. Then suddenly cool air hits his lips again and the cup is back, tipping water into his mouth that he gulps down, only just realising how thirsty he is.
The zip is shut again before he can plead for more.
The urge hits him soon after and Jimmy squirms in the suit, squeezing his eyes shut tight as the uncomfortable feeling forces him away from the colours and back to reality. He holds out for hours - not even knowing that hours have passed - before he can't take it anymore and sobs behind the mask as the vestiges of dignity are taken from him.
He must have blacked out again because the next thing he knows, he's being efficiently stripped of the suit and shoved into a shower stall. Light hits his eyes for the first time in what feels like days and he's blinded by the sudden brightness and the hard spray of cold water that splashes over his body.
Jimmy shivers in the sudden cold, his body on fire and certain that it s burning. The sounds around him are too loud and he cringes in the shower stall, his limbs aching with the tingle of pins and needles. Large shapes loom in his blurry vision and Jimmy tries to plead, to reason.
"Shh," the voice is soothing, the kind of voice you'd use on small, scared animals or especially shy children. "Don't tire yourself out, angelface."
Ice cold and wet, Jimmy finds himself being pulled out of the shower stall, huge hands holding him down as slightly smaller hands begin wrapping him in the latex suit again. Jimmy starts to struggle. His head snaps back and suddenly he's looking into inhumanly yellow eyes. His struggles falter, like weights have been placed all over his body and he can't explain why it s suddenly so hard to breathe, let alone move.
The inside of the suit is wet and smells like pine. Jimmy's eyes roll back in despair and he passes out again as the mask is put back over his head. He dreams about being chased through pine forests by yellow eyed monsters and wakes up with the visions still dancing in front of his eyes.
He soon figures out the routine. Hours of nothing, cold water, more hours of nothing, a bite or two of unsweetened oatmeal suddenly added into the mix, more hours of nothing, another drink, and the longest period of silence which must be night. Sometimes he can swear he hears them moving around, hears them talking in low voices or feels the bed he's strapped to dip slightly with weight on one side. They strip him down for long cold showers every two days after letting him stew in filth and each time Jimmy finds himself in the shower stall it gets harder and harder to voice pleas for mercy. Every day he finds it harder to pray.
After what he figures has been about two weeks the routine suddenly changes when he wakes up to find himself sitting upright and sick as the world moves around him. He nearly throws up, but finds that there's nothing in his stomach to throw up. He only feels the burn of bile in the back of his throat before he swallows it back down.
Please, God... he thinks, then stops. He leaves the prayer unfinished, unable to find any more words. Jimmy's head drops down, his chin almost touching his chest. He doesn't fight when the car stops and he's carried somewhere new. He doesn't move as he's strapped upright into a chair except to let his head loll to the side as he stares at the colours, too tired to try and hold on to what life was like when he could still move and think and feel.
He's still upright in the chair when the zip over his eyes is opened. Jimmy can't talk, can't make a sound that isn't muffled and silenced by the latex over his mouth, but suddenly he can see and he has to squint his eyes against the light. It takes him a moment to register what he's looking at. A pair of green eyes looking into his, sharp and alert as they assess whether Jimmy is awake and aware. They must find what they're looking for because the eyes pull back and Jimmy sees first the deceptively handsome face of one of his captors, and then the room that he's sitting in. Pale colours, classic and classy. Probably a hotel. He spares a thought to wonder how they got him in, how they would have explained away his attire and unconscious state.
Then he sees the taller of the brothers leading a giddy, giggling young woman towards the freshly made bed and frowns. He doesn't get what's going on until they start stripping, clothes tossed carelessly away from the bed. The girl's lace panties land inches from Jimmy's feet and he wonders what the hell she must be thinking, wonders why she doesn't see this as sick. He sees the words form on the tall man's lips, doesn't realise their significance until the girl looks right at him and pouts her lips into a kissy face, hands on her own breasts. Jimmy tries to look away but he can already feel that something is horribly wrong with this picture.
It takes both him and the girl until she's got her hands tied to the headboard to realise what exactly is going on, because that's when the other man appears. The girl begins to look nervous. Jimmy can see her lips move and imagines that she's saying she didn't sign up for this, wasn't here for a tag team or threesome. Jimmy starts to feel nervous for her, starts beginning to think that he's about to witness a murder.
But he soon discovers that he's wrong as the brothers play with the girl, using their bodies to bring her to the absolute height of pleasure until Jimmy can hear her moans even through the muffling latex. Jimmy tries not to watch, tries to close his eyes, to look away. He manages it only for a few moments at a time before he can't help but look back. Like staring at a train wreck. Like slowing down past an accident on the side of the road to see if anyone is hurt. He can't help but watch.
By the time the girl is dressed again and ready to leave, Jimmy is crying. The girl coos to him and leans down to press an unfelt kiss to his latex-covered cheek before she disappears.
The second torture, Dean Winchester tells him. Is having to watch.