.

.

He's like an animal trapped inside his brother's skin.

Iridescent-gleaming eyes, a carefree, wicked smile. The kitchen knife rigid tight between his fingers.

"…How much do you know about me, Sammy, huh?"

"Don't call me that," Sam mumbles, jaw hurting from clenching down. His wrists losing blood circulation fast from the clean, skilled knot of rope around them.

The shifter chuckles, and Dean's low growl injects something like liquid-fire, right into Sam's veins.

"I'll call you whatever I want."

Dean — not-Dean — leers good-naturedly, smoothly stepping in place with legs crooked to accommodate Sam's size, leaning down. "Because you're my little bitch right now," he whispers, tracing the knife's edge against the swell of Sam's cheek, not enough to impact skin. "Bitch. Jerk. Like pet names. That's some healthy relationship we've got—aargh!—"

He yelps, pressing blood-smeared fingers to his temple, neck cords tensing. Sam's eyes flick back the knife, held away from him.

A slow, disbelieving laugh. Dean's eyes blinking back to green.

"Oh, this is just…fucked up, isn't it?" He taps his Dean-skull. "It's all up here. What he thinks, what he feels about you, baby brother. Oh man, the things he wants to do to you." Sam groans pained when a hand cuffs him across the face, and then shoves him forward, inches from the shifter's face. A hot, familiar burst of air against Sam's skin-cracked lips. "Would you like the director's cut, Sam? How badly he wants to ream your ass, wants it sore and dripping with his come for hours… how he wants to fuck your mouth, lips sucking him off…"

"You're…sick," Sam manages to rasp out, half of his face still throbbing, stretched with agony from the last hit.

This not-Dean shrugs, making a 'so-so' face.

"He's got a point. Your lips would look very good around my cock." He buries the kitchen knife into a decorative, red-violet soda cushion next to Sam's head, right to the hilt. "But for now…" A slit of a menacing grin. "A little entertainment before the lights go out."

.

.

Drool slides from the corners of Sam's mouth, trailing warm down his chin.

He fights the intrusion with silent actions, with clamping teeth exposed and his tongue pushing back hard, but the revolver muzzle answers bruising, jerkier thrusts between Sam's lips.

Everything aches, his wrists, his muscles where the metal collides with flesh and bone.

Sam's face burns, and the roots of his hair echoes the aches as Dean's fingers twist and furiously haul Sam's head to tilt back, allowing his throat to open up for more length. He won't utter a scream muffled around the revolver, won't twitch any body parts from being limp against the sofa end.

There's no point in giving the monster any satisfaction.

"You're a natural," Dean purrs, a hint of silver ringing his pupils. "Look at you just take it…"

His index finger clenches visibly around the trigger. Sam can feel it, heart racing, eyes widening.

"Gonna go off…" Dean pants, like he's seconds away from an actual orgasm, now bobbing his victim's head along with the thrusts of the gun, "just for you, baby brother."

Sam's body betrays him, gasping for air around the solid, dampened weight of the gun muzzle, Dean's breathing rapid, the praise laced in his voice, the manhandling fills and strains Sam's dick. This is insane. The shifter is THIS close to blowing Sam's brains out with Sam's own gun and Sam is… getting off on the pure, infinite violent, how close and desperate…

The trigger pulls, no warning.

Sam snaps his entire body away at the click, red mouth slipping the revolver out, neck bracing and anticipating.

An empty round.

No brains sprayed across the furniture.

The pocket of relief balloons Sam's chest.

There's still time.

"Hm," a disappointed grunt sounds. Dean eyes the gun, bringing it up to his face to inspect. "Back to the original plan then."

He yanks the knife out of the sofa, bits of stuffing flecking the carpet. Sam groans wordless, loud, feeling his collar snatched up. His forehead cracks against the wood paneling of the floor, when he's thrown against the pool table. Vision swaying. The shifter maneuvers him flat onto his back, checking over the rope bindings, laughing at his expression.

"Don't think I can't tell what's going on." Dean's grin, easy and inviting. "You know… I'm not usually into guys…"

Sam bites down a whimper, brutally drawing blood to his bottom lip, as the heel of a palm roughly circles the mound of his denim crotch. His skin crawls.

"But I feel like there's something special between us, Sam. Something really special."

"Go to hell."

There's still time.

The shifter daubs his fingers over Sam's lips, mingling drool and spots of new blood. "It'll be over soon," he promises, and Sam's hips stutter, unsure of going forwards or back when those fingers make home, digging underneath his unbuttoned jeans and his boxers. They clasp around his dick, stroking it to life.

Dean's stubby nails catch slightly over the thin, bulging veins. Sam pleads, whispering, "no, no," and writhing on the floor, avoiding the hungry, intense gaze in Dean's eyes.

It isn't Dean.

He'd… he wouldn't. Not like this.

A part of him sobs, wanting, more, more, Dean's calluses and his gentle warmth, when fingers let go, leaving Sam fully erect in his clothes.

"It's your loss."

.

.


There appeared to be a time-skip between when Shifter!Dean had Sam in Becca's house. And Sam looked really out-of-it during it, almost like he experienced something that shook him. So, naturally, my imagination thinks of the worst possible thing and I am compelled to write it. Yep. Because that's how I work. Any comments are welcomed~!