Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a hiss behind him, like steam escaping from an industrial sized pressure cooker. Sam whipped around, machete at the ready, and stopped, staring. This one was different from the others. This… must be their Queen.

She towered even taller than Sam, and not many monsters could claim that honour. She had the same scaly grey hide as the others he’d killed, but her eyes were a vivid, blood red like a Crossroads Demon’s, except for the slitted pupils. She was as bald as the rest, but clearly female, naked breasts jutting incongruously from her reptilian chest. She wasn’t attacking. She was standing in place, if standing was the right word, the humanoid torso rising from a great, coiled swell of tail. She was swaying, rhythmically, like a snake before it strikes, and a forked ribbon of tongue kept flickering out between her lips, tasting the air.

She was a nightmare brought to life, and the fanciful depictions in the lore he’d researched had not in any way prepared him for the sight. He prayed the tactical information he’d put together was sound. If not, this was going to be the swiftest failure in the history of botched rescue attempts.

Sam hefted his machete and the Nagini gave a short hiss which might have been laughter; her cruel lips curved in amusement.

“What are you going to do with that, little hunter?” she asked, her voice surprisingly human and seductively soft.

“Believe me, I know what I’m doing,” replied Sam. He hoped that wasn’t just bravado.

“You’re a brave little hunter,” she said, her tone honeyed with approval and… something else. “Not so little, either.”

Her gaze raked Sam up and down, and her expression was leering. Was she – did the thing find him attractive?

“Your friend...” Her tongue flicked the air, assessing his scent. “Mmm, no, your brother, isn’t he? Well, he’s proving more trouble than he’s worth, but maybe you could take his place.”

Sam shuddered. The lore had been cryptic to the point of obscurity, but he’d guessed at a lot, and the creature’s attitude was rapidly confirming his theory. The Naga needed humans to reproduce, and this queen had taken his brother to… to breed. He tried not to picture that. No wonder Dean was being ‘trouble’. At least he was still alive.

“Sorry,” said Sam, “I’m not really in the market for a girlfriend right now.”

It wasn’t really the time for joking; was he making up for Dean’s absence? He’d been thinking about him a lot in the past weeks as he searched; how he talked, how he moved, how he smiled. Hoping against hope that he would see that brilliant, faintly mocking grin again.

The Nagini laughed, a rasping, sibilant sound. “Are you sure, little hunter? I can be generous. Your brother’s life, for instance.”

So she was offering him Dean now, in exchange for his… his services? Did she seriously think..? Sam realised, with dawning incredulity, that the Nagini believed he might actually accept. Had she ever looked in a mirror? Then again, she was a queen to her people, she probably had a pretty high opinion of herself. He felt faintly sick with disgust.

“My brother’s life is mine,” he ground out. “I’m not bargaining with you for it; I’ll just take it, and make you regret ever thinking you had the smallest claim.”

Now where had that come from? This was just another monster, same deal as always, fighting to save one another. Sure, this one had a more unusual agenda than most, but there was no logical reason for the surge of jealous hatred that rushed up in Sam’s chest. Kill the queen, rescue Dean, that’s all he had to do. He forced himself to stay calm.

The Nagini was hissing again, her eyes narrowed, mouth stretched in a wicked smile. She raised her arms as though to offer an embrace; her fingers were tipped with ferocious talons that dripped with venom. The Naga, unlike so many of the monsters they hunted, had no fangs. The males of the species were tough, but unexceptional; the females were deadly.

“Come and try then, little hunter,” she taunted softly. “I’ll rend your pretty flesh to ribbons, and then I’ll use your precious brother to replenish my sons. I’ll fuck him on a hearthrug made from your skin. You dare come here and threaten me with that?” She snorted, gesturing contemptuously at the blood soaked machete. “You may have slaughtered my children, but you’ll find their Queen is made from sterner stuff.”

Sam switched the machete to his left hand and reached slowly inside his jacket for the weapon he had prepared. Tooth of the mongoose, the lore had divulged, was the only way to slay Nagini, the rare and dominant females of this race. Its bite, apparently, was deadly as poison.

Sam had been forced to carry out a little robbery, breaking into the natural history exhibit of the city museum. He hoped the teeth of a long dead, stuffed mongoose were still viable. The lore hadn’t said how to use them, and they were too small to make any kind of effective blade, so he’d improvised. Along with the mongoose, he had stolen a blowpipe and darts from the Mayan exhibit. Had spent the evening methodically slotting the tiny teeth in place of the tips of the darts, then practised shooting to ensure his aim.

He’d cut the blow pipe down to a third of its original length; he’d been surprised to discover how long it was, and a six foot pipe wasn’t made for combat in close quarters or the element of surprise. It would have a reduced range, but he’d been pretty sure he wouldn’t get the chance to aim over any great distance. He’d been right.

The monster watched him, eyes narrowed in amusement. She might be toying with him, but he had the feeling she was waiting for him to attack, to come within reach of those wicked claws. Her long tail gave her reach, but it was bulky and probably slow. He doubted she saw much combat, likely relying on her male minions – her children, apparently – to deal with all the rough stuff. Well, she’d relied in vain then, because Sam had left a trail of scaly bodies, of severed heads and limbs, along the corridors of the empty warehouse. He was angry, afraid for Dean, and mostly driven by the fear that he might be too late. Those emotions had powered him through, the great blade hewing and hacking until he was gory with their blood.

Now, though, it was time for a subtler attack. He raised the two foot pipe, feeling the end to be sure a dart was ready. The Nagini tilted her head, frowning slightly, confused.

“What are you doing now?” she asked. “What is that thing? Don’t you know there is no weapon that can kill me? I will enjoy stirring your entrails with my claws. I will feed your balls to your brother!”

“You’ll have to get them first,” said Sam, raising the blow pipe to his lips.

She hissed and lunged forward, swiping at him with her claws, but he dodged easily, jumping back out of range. He’d been right about her being slow. She was less of a cobra than an anaconda, sluggish and fat.

“What’s the matter?” he taunted, channelling Dean. “Can’t quite reach me? Too heavy to dance? That’s what you get for lying around all day with your boy toys, letting the men do all the work. No wonder Dean doesn’t want you. He likes his women slim.”

That did it. Her mouth gaped in a screeching hiss and her eyes opened wide with rage as she reared back, ready to dive at him. It was what Sam had been waiting for; a clear target. He put his lips around the end of the pipe, aimed, and blew. The little dart went right into her eye and she screamed hideously, clapping her hands to her face. Her tail writhed, coiling up and slapping the floor in the throes of agony, and Sam jumped further back; but she didn’t go down.

“I will peel you into tiny strips!” she howled. “I will put out your brother’s eyes and fuck him bloody with your bones! I will dig out his liver and piss in the hole!”

She wrenched her hands away, flinging the dart aside. Sam could see the ruin of her eye, streaming blood; but that was all the little tooth had accomplished. Or was it? As he dodged around the room, keeping out of the way of her wild and uncoordinated attacks, he frantically went over the passage in his mind which had talked about the mongoose.

“For the bite of the mongoose is deadly to this creature, so much that they fear it above all things. It renders them feeble and open unto death, for even so much as the scratch of one tooth is inimical as poison.”

She didn’t seem feeble in the slightest, shrieking and lunging at Sam with a vigour that kept him hard pressed, despite his earlier taunts. But that ‘renders them open unto death’ - could it mean she was no longer immune to normal weapons? It had to be worth a try!

Sam threw down the blow pipe and took a firm hold on the machete with both hands. He jumped forward, slashed, and jumped back again, narrowly escaping her flailing talons. Some droplets of venom rained down over his face, burning his skin like ice, but luckily they missed his eyes and he ignored the pain. The monster had screeched when he struck her, and was now wailing in pain, thrashing her body from side to side. Blood welled from her flank; she was vulnerable!

Sam went at her with a vengeance, wielding the machete like a sword. Hack and thrust, dodge and parry, he wore her down, flaying her open with cut upon cut. His head rang with the fury of her screams. She seemed to be chanting something, the words unintelligible, and he feared for some spell, but nothing happened.

The last thing she said to him was “You want your brother so badly, well, now you have him!” and she tipped her head back and laughed, a ringing peal of mingled savagery, pain and malice that made him shiver despite the sweat dripping off him.

Then her hands went, flying across the room from one savage swipe after another, and after that it was just a matter of brute strength.

He chopped her into three big writhing pieces, head, torso and tail.

Still panting from exertion, Sam ran through this part of the warehouse, searching for Dean but keeping an eye out for any more of the dead queen’s brood. He doubted there were any close by though, not with all the racket she’d made during their fight.

In the third room he came to, he spotted a kind of alcove, low and arched and just large enough to hide a human body. Sure enough, his brother was curled up within, barely fitting inside the tiny space. He was naked, dirty, and lying on a filthy piece of old sacking. And there was a wide, shiny metal collar around his neck. He was shivering.

“Dean! It’s okay, she’s dead, you can come on out,” Sam said quickly.

He looked hurriedly back and forth between the doors at each end of the room. Dean didn’t move. Sam glanced down at him, concerned, and saw that he had lifted his head and was staring back at Sam. His face was tight with pain, or anguish; his eyes were wide and bloodshot.

“Dean, come on, we have to get moving, there might be more of them. Can you get up?”

Sam’s first thought was that Dean must be horribly cramped from lying curled up in that hole, for who knows how long. He was a little puzzled that there didn’t seem to be anything keeping Dean in there; he wasn’t bound in any way, no chain attached to the collar, no bars obstructed the alcove. A flicker of worry crossed Sam’s mind that Dean could be injured, unable to walk, and he was too big for Sam to carry far.

Sam crouched down to peer into the hole and assess for damage. A wave of ammonia assaulted his nostrils; the alcove stank distressingly of stale urine. He couldn’t see much for the dim lighting and Dean’s foetal position, and the dirt smearing his skin, but he couldn’t miss the marks; long, shallow lacerations, the edges purple and puffy. It looked as though she’d been using her venomous claws on him, and not sparingly.

“Are you hurt; can you walk?” he asked gently, and was slightly relieved when Dean first shook, then nodded his head. Maybe he was just too dehydrated to talk; maybe it was the poison. Or the ammonia fumes.

“Okay then, up you get; I’ll help you, but we have to go, Dean. Come on, get up!”

As Dean appeared to hesitate, Sam’s tone sharpened, not meaning to hector but he was worried they might still be caught. He had no idea how many more Naga there might be in the building, thirsty for vengeance for their dead mother-queen. His sense of urgency seemed to carry across however, as Dean awkwardly uncurled himself and crawled out of the alcove, getting somewhat shakily to his feet.

“Here, take this.”

Sam peeled off his jacket and handed it to Dean; who just stood there with it hanging limply from his hand. Crap. He must be worse off than he looked. Sam took back the jacket and draped it over Dean’s shoulders, then coaxed his arms inside.

“Come on, put your arm in there, that’s it. Now the other one; you’ve got it.”

He kept up a gentle flow of instructions as he guided Dean physically and eventually managed to get the jacket onto him. Fastened up, it just barely provided decency, as long as Dean didn’t have to do anything too athletic; Sam didn’t think he’d be up to much beyond walking anyway. Throughout the procedure, Dean’s expression had grown increasingly pained, and Sam worried that he was hurting, but they had so little time. Still, they had to make time for one thing.

“Here, let’s see if we can get you out of this.”

Sam put his hands up to Dean’s neck and explored the collar, looking for a lock or hinge. Weirdly, there wasn’t anything; the metal ring was seamless, without even a welding joint, though it was clearly too tight to have gone on over Dean’s head. Sam tugged it experimentally a few times, but the thing stayed put. Dean stood passively enough but winced noticeably with the movement, so Sam desisted for now. If necessary, he could just cut the thing off when they got back to the cabin.

“Never mind, we’ll deal with it later,” he told Dean, putting his arm around his brother’s shoulders for support. “Let’s go; c’mon, walk with me!”

He got Dean moving at last, and he didn’t seem to have much difficulty walking. Maybe the trouble wasn’t so much physical as psychological, Sam worried; head trauma? Or maybe just exhaustion and the stress of prolonged capture and torture.

As they passed the bloody sections of the dead Nagini, no longer twitching, Dean craned his head to stare, his eyes darkening as the pupils flared. His mouth jerked in a brief grin of savage satisfaction, more like a snarl. Sam kept moving, thankful when Dean didn’t stop to gloat.

They made their way through the building quickly and cautiously, mercifully encountering only two more of the scaly horrors that had captured and imprisoned Dean. Sam managed to take them out on his own, Dean being no help at all, as he just stopped still in the middle of the corridor while the fight raged around him. He didn’t even stand back against a wall or duck down to protect himself, though admittedly the monsters focused exclusively on Sam; but this helpless docility was really beginning to grate on Sam, it was so unlike his brother.

It seemed to affect Dean too, as Sam, catching his breath after the skirmish and looking him over uneasily, noticed that Dean’s fists were clenched and he looked tense and unhappy – in fact he looked downright pissed – so he wasn’t just standing around zoned out, he seemed to wish he could have joined the fight. But something had prevented him. The collar, maybe? That could explain why he had stayed in the alcove, and why he’d been so little threat the monsters had ignored him; it must be some kind of magical restraining device. The upshot of that was that at least Sam could stop worrying about mental trauma; maybe.

“All right, now we’re nearly to the exit,” he said as he wiped his machete clean on the nearest dead Naga’s jacket.

Unlike their Queen, as well as having legs rather than a serpentine tail, many of them had worn clothes. Presumably that made it easier for them to slip out into the world under cover of darkness, unremarkable until you got close enough to make out the skin.

“Last few yards, think you can make it?”

Dean nodded with conviction. Sam clapped him on the shoulder and moved off down the corridor. Dean stayed right where he was. Sam turned, frustrated.

“Dean, come on, keep up!” he snapped.

He didn’t miss the eye roll Dean gave as he finally got moving. Well, sorry to be bossy, Sam thought to himself, but this was no place to stand around daydreaming. At least once Dean did start walking, he seemed able to keep going.

They made it to the exit with no further signs of pursuit and Sam started to hope he’d killed the last of them. He was looking forward to hearing what Dean called them; he always made up some dumb, joky name for the things they hunted, and his unaccustomed silence was getting on Sam’s nerves.

They made a quick, anxious dash across the parking lot and scrambled over the low wall that hid the Impala from view of the warehouse. Sam was relieved when Dean followed him over the wall with no sign of hesitation, but his frustration grew again when he got into the car and Dean just stood there.

“Dean, get in the car!” Sam ordered, and he finally obliged.

An unwelcome idea was hovering at the edge of Sam’s mind, but he was too busy getting them away from the warehouse to pursue it for now. They drove for an hour in silence, Sam casting occasional concerned glances over his brother. Dean didn’t look well. He slumped in the seat with his eyes closed, but he was too tense to be asleep. His face was drawn and pale beneath days-old stubble and the skin below his eyes was bruise dark. His bare legs sticking out from under Sam’s jacket were welted with cuts; and, in the close confines of the car, he didn’t smell so great either.

Sam decided his brother needed rest and care and it was too far to drive all the way back to Rufus’ hunting cabin in the mountains which they’d made their base, so he started to look out for a motel.

If anyone stumbled upon the warehouse, he mused, the police were going to have a field day with the corpses, especially the queen’s; but there was no way he was going back there on his own to clean up, not with Dean sick and needing his help. If there were any of the monsters left, they could do their own housekeeping; he hoped savagely that he had slaughtered them all. He hated to pass on the dirty work, but he should probably make some calls, rope in some other hunters to take care of the massacre before it was discovered.

Chapter Text

When they pulled up at last in a motel parking lot, Dean roused from a hazy stupor of pain and exhaustion. His throat was on fire and he had a sinking feeling he knew the only way they could take care of it; unless Sam could get the collar off him, and he guessed that was unlikely.

He was going to have to explain things to Sam somehow, without being able to talk. He needed the collar taking care of, a shower, food and sleep; and he wasn’t at all sure he was going to get any of them, at least not any time soon. Judging by the farcical efforts to get him out of the warehouse, it was going to be a long night. He waited as patiently as possible for Sam to come back from booking in, wishing he could at least have turned on the radio.

Sam wasn’t too long, and it seemed he might be getting the hang of things because he didn’t mess about this time in getting Dean out of the car; he issued a quiet order, gentle but firm, and Dean had no trouble in following him to their room.

He stood there while Sam looked him over critically, frowning in concern over the lost weight and the cuts and bruises in varying stages of healing. He was grateful Sam couldn’t see beneath the jacket to spot the puffy, purpled mottling over his abused crotch, which was still painfully tender. He felt exposed, ashamed and ridiculously vulnerable. He knew Sam would never deliberately mistreat him, but a lot could go wrong before he worked out how much responsibility he had been landed with.

Dean had always cherished his role as the older brother, protective of Sam and feeling it was his duty to take charge, which had always kept him going no matter how much he was adrift and panicking inside. The tables had really turned this time, and he just hoped Sam was up to the challenge.

“Okay,” Sam said, “you don’t look great but I’ve seen worse; anything critical I should know about immediately?”

Dean shook his head. Well, there was the collar, but he really wanted to put off getting to that, and it would keep for a while yet. Sam hadn’t made any guess as to why Dean couldn’t talk; probably figured his throat was raw from screaming.

“You probably need a lot of things all at once,” Sam continued. “How about you go take a shower for now, while I grab something to eat, think you can manage that on your own?”

Well now that was a loaded question, wasn’t it. Sure, if you phrase it the right way, Dean thought bitterly; otherwise they could be stuck here with Sam washing him down like a paraplegic. Awesome; not. He was allowed to respond when questioned, so he raised his hands and tried a meaningful shrug; he really hoped they weren’t going to have to play charades.

Sam must have picked up something from his expression because it looked like he was doing some thinking of his own, his forehead all pinched up in that little frown he got when he actually engaged his supercomputer of a brain.

“The collar, it’s stopping you from doing things, right?” he asked, and Dean nodded vehemently. Great, they were getting somewhere at last! “Okay, so… I have to give you orders?” Sam confirmed, getting another enthusiastic nod.

It had been horribly frustrating for Dean, getting out of that warehouse; only able to move when Sam explicitly commanded, helpless when the lizards had jumped them in the corridor. “How about you,” and “Let’s” weren’t sufficiently authoritative for the collar; it required firmness, and Dean could sense its permission from the slight tingle which accompanied the right kind of instruction. Without that, he didn’t dare act; he knew what would happen.

“Right,” Sam was saying now, “you go get showered while I get food.”

Nope, still not quite direct enough Sammy. The problem was, he was too polite; Sam’s best instructions came when he was in a hurry, and snappy. Dean started to raise his arms in another gesture, and stopped short at the warning sizzle, like a shot of static to the back of his neck. If he carried on, without being asked to communicate, the collar would shock him. The thing was implacable, and over his short time with the Lizard Queen, he had come to understand it very well.

Sam was eyeing him with mounting frustration. Yeah, well, not my fault pal! Dean thought; but frustration could be good, if it clipped Sam’s natural propensity to be nice.

“Dean, go take a shower,” Sam tried again, speaking more slowly and firmly.

At last! Dean turned thankfully and headed into the motel room bathroom.

As he heard the front door snick closed behind his brother, he shucked off Sam’s jacket and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up before he got in. Fortunately, the collar wasn’t too hung up on the specifics of any given task; as long as he went about the business of showering without stalling, it would let him decide the details. If there hadn’t been a shower close by, it would have forced him to wander off in search of one to carry out his orders.

That was one of the issues Dean dreaded; sooner or later, Sam was going to tell him to do something too vague to easily interpret and it was going to get him into trouble. For now, it was easy; all he had to do was take a shower. Stopping was another matter; Sam hadn’t specified a time limit or given further instructions. He just hoped Sam got back before the hot water ran out. How long did it take to pick up fast food, anyway?

Apparently long enough for the crappy heating system in this particular motel. When Sam returned, delayed by road works and an interminable queue at the burger bar caused by a malfunctioning fryer, he expected to find Dean waiting for him in the bedroom. He frowned at the clear sound of water falling in the other room. Surely he couldn’t still be in there..? What if he had collapsed; he could have drowned!

Mentally berating himself for not taking good enough care of his brother, Sam leapt to open the bathroom door. He stopped short on the threshold, panic draining away into dismay at what he found. Dean was clearly unharmed, but just as clearly very uncomfortable. He huddled in the bottom of the shower stall, shivering violently as the water cascaded over his shoulders and back. Sam couldn’t tell the exact temperature of the shower, but it was pretty clear from the lack of steam, the coolness of the room and Dean’s demeanour, that it was running cold, and had been for some time.

“Oh God, what happened, I’m sorry it took so long...” Sam babbled as he jumped to turn off the water and grab a towel. He bundled it around Dean’s shaking body, hauling him to his feet. Dean gave him a look that only seemed mildly accusing; mostly it was just wearily resigned. Sam felt the way he would if he’d accidentally kicked a puppy.

“Dean, I’m sorry, that was my fault wasn’t it; I didn’t give you clear enough instructions?” he apologised. “Come on, get out now.”

He helped Dean out of the cubicle; he was limping with cramp and shivering so hard his teeth chattered. Sam wrapped him in another towel then took a third and started tenderly drying Dean’s hair for him. Dean just stood and accepted the ministrations, feeling too miserable to object; and what could he do anyway that the collar would let him get away with?

Sam finished towelling Dean’s head and steered him back into the bedroom. The collar accepted enforced movement, probably because balking, even at a lack of command, could be considered a form of defiance. Sam ferreted about for some clothes in the bag he’d brought in from the car, having had the foresight to keep some of Dean’s stuff on him for when he finally found his brother.

“Here, Dean, finish getting dry, then get dressed and come sit down,” Sam instructed, thankfully precise for once.

Dean gingerly pulled on underwear, jeans and shirts then came over to the table, where Sam had laid out the food. It would be growing cold, but Dean didn’t care. He was starving, the lizards had barely fed him; and if he hadn’t had to be ordered, he wouldn’t have eaten the disgusting slop they served anyway. He waited, eyes on Sam, still shivering a little from his arctic shower.

Sam paused mid-mouthful of his own burger, realising that Dean wasn’t eating, then mentally kicked himself for being so slow.

“Eat up, Dean,” he ordered, gesturing to the food.

Dean didn’t need to be told twice, and pounced. Still, as he ate, Sam grew increasingly concerned. Dean’s normal dining style was more that of a wild animal than a human being, and he could demolish the largest of burgers in a few huge bites. Now, he was eating slowly, even daintily, taking little bites and chewing for a long time; and he winced as he swallowed each mouthful. It was going to take him a long time to finish if he kept going at this rate.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, and Dean looked up, frowning slightly as he shook his head. Stupid question, there was very little that was okay with his present situation! Sam clarified with, “Does it hurt to eat?”

Dean nodded, still forcing himself to swallow down the food. Sam kicked himself again and said gently, “Stop eating, just for now. Take a drink, clear your throat.”

He waited for Dean to take a pull on the bottle of beer Sam had provided, then stood up and went over to stand in front of him. He thought hard for a minute.

“Can you actually talk, if I tell you to..?” Sam asked. Dean shook his head. “Okay, well – can you show me what’s wrong? Is it the collar?”

Dean nodded, and put his hand to the front of the ring around his neck. He pointed, then pushed his fingers together into a stiff cone, and stabbed them lightly but with emphasis against the point where the collar lay over his Adam’s apple.

Sam reached out and gingerly felt his way around and under the collar, which sat snugly around Dean’s neck, but not so tight he couldn’t get a finger between it and skin. He ran his finger around, unrestricted until it got to the front, where it was brought up short against a metal barrier. A bar of some kind protruded from the inner side of the collar, butting up against Dean’s throat and…

“Open your mouth,” Sam instructed gently.

He held Dean’s head, angling it so that he could look down his throat. Dean obligingly kept his tongue out of the way without having to be told. Sam frowned; it seemed there was something there, but it wasn’t easy to see.

“Hang on,” he said, and went to rummage in the trunk of the car. He came back with a torch and a small mirror. After some messing around to find the right angle -

“Oh, crap,” Sam breathed, feeling sick.

The rod pushed right through Dean’s throat, and was thick enough to half fill the cavity. It was no wonder he’d been eating so gingerly, nor that he couldn’t talk. There was no visible injury though; no blood, and no tearing or swelling around the entry point, though the skin there was reddened and sore looking. Dean hadn’t been gone long enough for abuse like that to heal so well; it had to be magic.

Sam had been anxious enough to get the collar off Dean, though there was little they could try at a roadside motel; but this made it imperative. Still, he knew better than to start blindly hacking at a magical (cursed?) object, especially one with Dean’s throat in its grip. He needed to learn more about it first. Dean had, presumably, been wearing the thing since he was captured; maybe he knew something that could help? He couldn’t talk, but -

Sam went and got out his laptop, shoving the half eaten meal aside to place it within Dean’s reach, then pulled his chair over to sit alongside so he could see. He opened up a text document and was about to command Dean to ‘tell me everything you know’ but he was starting to get the hang of things, and realised that might not be the best way to go about it.

“I’ll ask questions, you type to answer. Okay?” he asked, and Dean nodded, happy Sam had finally hit on a way to communicate.

“First off; do you know if we can take the collar off safely?”

- No idea. Doubt it - Dean dutifully typed out onto the blank page.

They continued in this way for a while, Sam asking questions while Dean typed his responses. He tried not to stint, pleased he could finally get his thoughts across, even though he found typing more laborious than his college nerd of a brother.

“Second, do you know why it seems to have transferred to me, instead of just, I don’t know; switching off, or – or staying under the control of the Nagini?”

And what a nightmare that would have been, with her dead and unable to give any orders whatsoever!

- Don’t know; did she say anything before she died? She activated it with some kind of code, a spell maybe, when they put it on me. -

“Yeah,” Sam said, frowning uneasily as he recalled the Nagini’s strange chanting and her last, ominous words. “I think she might have; I didn’t realise what she was doing at the time. All right, never mind that for now; can you tell me how it works? I mean, tell me what you know about it, how it controls you.”

Dean drew in a breath and rubbed his hand quickly over his face as he thought about how to answer. The collar let him get away with quick, instinctive gestures like that, otherwise he’d have gone insane weeks ago from being unable to scratch a simple itch.

He was tired, his throat hurt like hell, his food – which would take long enough to eat as it was – was going cold. And he wasn’t the best at writing up a coherent story, not like Sam. But his brother was right, this was urgent; he needed to know this stuff, sordid as the whole business was. And the collar was starting to prickle at the back of his neck as he hesitated. Dean pulled the laptop close and began to type again.

- You have to give me orders. I have to obey. That’s it. I can’t do anything – ANYTHING – without your say-so. If I try, it shocks me. And believe me, it’s a big shock, I can’t just ignore it. I’ve tried. The thing has knocked me out more than once already, when I tried to get away or I just […] - (He paused while he thought about how to say it) - wouldn’t play ball. -

Sam winced in sympathy. Things were starting to make a lot more sense now.

“Okay, well the control method seems pretty simple, obey or be shocked; so what’s with this spike through your throat? What’s that in aid of?”

Dean’s response to this was halting, with long pauses in between typing, and a couple of winces as the collar prompted him to get on with it.

- The spike […] is for added control. Little extra bonus for [...] difficult customers, like me. I think it was meant to [...] make me […] compliant. -

Sam frowned, not getting it. “But you already had to do what you were told, what else could they possibly want from you..?”

Dean sighed. - Look, the collar isn’t fun, and the more I resist, the worse it gets. But; you know why I was there, what they took me for? -

“Yeah,” Sam admitted reluctantly, “she wanted to - it’s how they breed, they need a - a human mate.”

Dean’s snort spoke volumes. - Right. Well, I’ll take being shocked into unconsciousness over […] sleeping with the Lizard Queen, any day of the week. I was being pretty uncooperative. -

Sam could imagine. He had gathered as much from what the Nagini had told him. But something else bugged his curiosity enough to blurt an irrelevant question.

“Why’d you call her that? She looked like more of a snake, to me.”

Dean paused, but a flicker of a grin twitched his features.

- Well, not so much the males, they were the ones who caught me and I figured them more for lizards. But it was Lisa Simpson who settled it. -

Sam stared, trying and failing to process what Dean could possibly mean. Eventually he settled for a not very articulate ‘Huh?’ It was clearly enough of a question to allow Dean to continue typing.

- You know, the episode where Lisa drinks the ‘water’ on the ride at the Duff theme park, and trips out, and she says ‘I am the Lizard Queen’? Seemed kinda appropriate. -

Sam’s lips twitched as he recalled the scene. Well, he’d been wondering what ridiculous name Dean would have come up with for the monsters. Trust his brother to defuse and depersonalise the horror of his situation with cartoon humour.

Dean made to type more, but winced and gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I get it. That’s funny, Dean,” Sam said hurriedly. “Uh, carry on? I mean, keep typing.” He changed his tone to make it a directive rather than a query. “Explain the exact, uh, explain the spike.” He had been about to say ‘point’, which would have been tactless. “Don’t wait for my questions; if you have something to say, go ahead and type.”

Dean returned his attention to the keyboard and kept it there, concentrating with unusual focus on the screen. Sam had the feeling it was easier for him this way, more impersonal than Sam’s face, which - though he was trying to school his expression - must be telegraphing his shock and pity and just making it harder for Dean to open up about his experience.

- So yeah, I fought the collar the whole time; and it was starting to really piss the Lizard Queen off... -

Sam smiled grimly, he could imagine that!

- So she did something else. Told me it had a […] secondary function, for the really special ones. - As he typed the word ‘special’, he stabbed at the keys with angry emphasis.

- Chanted a second spell, or whatever it was, and […] this fucking spike, Sam. It just punched right through and […] it grows, it gets bigger all the time. It’s slow, but far as I can tell, it doesn’t ever stop. It just gets reset. So I […] fought a lot at first, I really did, but […] I couldn’t fight that reset. I could deal with the pain, but I just […] I couldn’t stand it, filling my throat, choking me [...] I didn’t want to die like that. -

Sam put out his hand, covered Dean’s on the keyboard. “It’s okay, I get it, of course you didn’t. Nobody would blame you for that, Dean. You did what you had to do to survive.”

Dean felt a little comforted but as he glanced up and away again, he winced at the understanding in those big hazel eyes. They still hadn’t gotten to the big reveal, and he would rather drop dead on the spot than explain to Sam what he, his own little brother, would have to do.

Sam felt his own throat constrict at the nightmare thought of the metal rod, slowly enlarging until it choked off his brother’s breathing. She had been wearing Dean down, the pain and humiliation and rising panic working constantly to mould him into an obedient slave. How long would it have taken to force his complete submission; or had it already happened? Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know. There was a more pressing question, anyway. He gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and drew back to let him type.

“So… how is it reset?” he asked, as gently as possible.

He thought he might already know, but his mind kept skipping past that as an absurd impossibility. They just couldn’t be having that conversation; it had to be something else. Wait to hear the worst, he told himself sternly, don’t invite trouble.

Dean paused for so long that Sam actually heard the crackle of electricity as the collar geared up and prodded him to reply. Dean grimaced, but looked abstracted; clearly this was only a fraction of the wallop the thing could produce. Finally, painfully slowly, he started to tap out an answer.

- I’m sorry Sam, I would never; you know I wouldn’t ask you to […] if I didn’t […] there’s just no other way. -

“It’s okay Dean,” Sam reached out again and touched his arm this time, rubbing gently, leaving his hands free. “Just tell me; what do I have to do?”

- She […] You […] I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, but I think [...] you have to kiss me. -

Chapter Text

Dean finally looked up and stared at Sam, his eyes wide and stricken. Despite his long shower, despite the fact he hadn’t given in; though she had found a way to take what she wanted anyway, in the end; he felt dirty. Not just surface dirty but unclean, right down through his pores and into his soul. Not so much because of what she’d done to him, but because of what she had forced onto Sam. Dean felt miserably ashamed. He was betraying everything he stood for (‘look after your brother’), everything they held dear between them, just to save his own miserable life. He shouldn’t have said anything; should have let the collar shock him unconscious and then died, choking, while he was out cold.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Huh,” he said. “Well, that’s not so bad?”

Dean’s stare turned incredulous. Sam mustn’t have understood him properly.

Sam, mistaking the reason for Dean’s amazement, hurried on to say, “I mean, I’m not making light; I know it must have been awful, having to - with that - I’m just saying, if it’s us, well, that’s a little different, isn’t it? I mean it could be much worse.”

Dean reached for the keyboard, his eyes on Sam’s in a pointed glare because his little brother was so missing the point.

- You do realise I’m talking about KISSING, Sam? You, kissing me. On the mouth. Your own brother. Frequently, unless we can get this thing off me any time soon. -

“Of course I understand that,” Sam said, sounding vaguely irritated, as though Dean was wasting time giving it the slightest thought. “But… I mean,” and he gave a nervous little laugh, “for a minute there I actually thought we might have to… you know. That this was how she got you to…”

Dean’s eyes widened again in horror and then scrunched closed as he turned his face away, realising what Sam had been thinking, and no wonder he had taken the real news so calmly! He typed again, furiously, his fingers punching the keys.

- No; no way; thank God no! Not that. Pretty sure it was meant to lead in that direction, and […] I won’t lie, maybe it would’ve gotten there eventually, if you hadn’t come along [...] -

That made him ashamed, too. The knowledge that she had been wearing him down, that the relief when the spike retracted was almost enough; that it was actually working, freakishly sadistic as the whole idea was, but then what guy was going to fall for her non-existent charms without a little helping hand? The fact that extra function of the collar existed, that they somehow managed to keep on breeding, showed they knew how to get what they were after. He wanted to hold out, but he couldn’t. She had him; it was only a matter of time.

As usual, he took refuge in snark, honest and savage. No, he wasn’t gonna lie, but there was no way he was letting Sam see that deep into his ravaged, pathetic psyche.

- But it was just [...] it wasn’t just about saving myself, Sam. You saw that freak; kinda had me at a disadvantage from the get-go. Didn’t matter what I thought, Little Dean wasn’t taking notice of a thing like that, hell, she was nasty! And all the pain, and knowing she just wanted to birth up a whole new army of freaks, and that once she got her way, she’d probably go on and kill me? Those are all mighty turn-offs. I have no idea what the bitch thought she was gonna accomplish with her sadistic sex games. Had no freaking idea what makes a guy tick. -

In fact, she hadn’t been so far off the mark, if she’d just stuck at it, but her impatience was her own undoing. If he closed his eyes, concentrated only on the sensation of the spike retracting, the softness of her lips, stroking hands… That seductive voice, caressing him with endearments… He had wanted to please, just wanted it to be over, maybe if he was good enough she’d keep him around, give Sam the time he needed to saddle up his white horse and ride to the rescue. But it was a lot to ask and the cards were stacked against it, and she took his wavering enthusiasm personally.

- She got pissed in the end when she realised it still wasn’t working and […] -

He swallowed, his fingers stilling as though frozen. He couldn’t type that, couldn’t tell Sam what she had done to him, before discarding him like garbage in that concrete hole, useless and spent and not even worth the trouble of ordering him out to piss. The nightmare played out every time he closed his eyes, the terror and pain on a loop, non-stop. He could only deal with it by ignoring it, pushing it to the back of his mind like the memories of Hell which still popped up to plague him now and again; except this wound was fresh and raw, and he’d almost welcome Hell flashbacks to crowd it out.

He risked another glance, saw that Sam was staring at him, his face crumpled with horrified comprehension and a stark pity Dean had to look away from. He was so tired, his vision was turning bleary and the spike nearly filled his throat now. Soon he would start to choke.

He knew it was stupid to hold out against his own brother, when he had been ready to submit to the monster, but he wanted this even less. It wasn’t fair to Sam, it was the last thing he wanted to force on him, and if he hadn’t messed up and let himself get taken by the lizards in the first place, they wouldn’t be in this situation. The guilt and the self directed rage held him as immobile as the collar did, staring unseeing at the keyboard.

Sam could feel black rage coiling in the pit of his stomach like poison. He wanted to kill the bitch all over again, squeeze out her life with his bare hands around her throat. See how she liked to choke. The sheer wasteful ignorance of her plan, making his brother suffer for what he couldn’t even help. The male anatomy worked by desire, not willpower. It was a stupid, vicious stalemate; the more Dean couldn’t… perform, the more she had tormented him, just making things worse. Given that attitude, Sam wondered how the stupid things ever managed to breed.

He tried to push that aside; it was over now, he had killed her, and what mattered was resetting the collar so that Dean had a chance to heal while they looked into how to get the thing off him for good.

He took in the exhausted slump of Dean’s body and the frozen expression of anguish on his face, realised that he was right up against the edge of his endurance, both physically and mentally. Was a kiss really so bad? Sam knew his brother, knew he was probably flogging himself over the thought that they shouldn’t do this, that he was letting Sam down somehow. Which was nonsense. Dean never did put his own needs above Sam’s, and something this trivial just wasn’t worth obsessing over. He knew he couldn’t convince him, but words didn’t matter anyhow; he knew what needed to be done, and quickly, before Dean slipped over that edge.

Sam leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean’s before he had a chance to react. They felt soft and dry and he could feel the slight trembling as they quivered, but Dean didn’t pull away. Strange as it was, it actually felt… nice. He drew back, not far, but just enough to ask softly, “Did it work?”

The glassy look in Dean’s eyes had retreated and now he looked at Sam, a little less wild and a little more focused. Now that they’d actually kissed, and they hadn’t been struck by lightning or turned into pillars of salt, maybe Dean realised it wasn’t so bad. He was shaking his head though, his expression defeated.

“It didn’t work?” Sam felt his stomach clench. No, that wasn’t fair, it had to work! If they couldn’t reset the spike then Dean would die…

Dean reached for the laptop, moving stiffly like an old man.

- Might have to put a little more work into it, Sammy. Lizard bitch had a long tongue, and she sure liked to use it. -

Typical Dean, deflecting and taking refuge in sardonic humour. Sam huffed a laugh and tried to do the same.

“Well I’ll do my best, but I don’t have a snake tongue, so I hope the collar gets that I’m trying.”

He reached for Dean, cradling his head in his hands as he leaned forward again, pressing their mouths together. A shiver ran through Dean and then his lips parted, and it was the easiest thing in the world for Sam to follow his instincts and slip his tongue inside. His fingers moved, stroking the back of Dean’s head as he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue around his mouth, slow and thorough.

Dean sat completely still, not moving a muscle. His tongue was lax beneath Sam’s, but that was okay. They were just doing this to fix the collar, it didn’t mean anything, and Sam ruthlessly squashed the tiny voice of regret. He might not have as many hang-ups as he should, about kissing his own brother; that didn’t mean he was into it. It was just that kissing was nice, and he hadn’t done it for a long time, and he wanted to help Dean, so it was natural for it to feel okay; wasn’t it?

Dean suddenly shifted in his seat, shuddering as he pressed back against Sam, and he moaned almost obscenely into Sam’s mouth. That couldn’t be the kiss; it had to be the collar spike retracting, finally! Sam pulled back, but kept his hands where they were, clasping Dean’s head.

“Now?” he asked, urgently, and Dean nodded, started to speak; his voice rasped unintelligibly, and he coughed. He reached again for the keyboard and Sam reluctantly let go.

- That’s done it. Thanks. Can I eat now? - was all he typed.

Closing down, walling off, Sam knew exactly what was happening, and felt a pang. But he also knew Dean was exhausted, injured and hurting and needing to process events, so he didn’t push.

“Sure, of course; finish your meal,” he said gently.

The food must be stone cold by now, the fries limp and unappetising, but Dean made quick work of it all even though his throat clearly still hurt by the cautious way he ate. Food gone, he finished his beer in just a couple of long, greedy pulls. Just a couple more things to take care of before Dean could hit the sack.

“Dean.”

Sam knew he had his attention by the swift flick of his eyes towards his face, then away again; Sam knew his brother well enough to recognise his guilt face.

“Dean,” he repeated, “how long ‘til that thing starts growing again; you going to have time to sleep?”

He meant, of course, how long until I have to kiss you again, to reset the clock; but saying it like that would have made it sound like much more of a chore than Sam felt it was. If he had to wake up every couple of hours to help Dean through the night, he would do it gladly, but he hoped it would be longer, because Dean really needed the rest.

- Not exactly sure, but I think I’ve got a good few hours. Lizard Queen only did it once or twice a day, more if I […] behaved. -

Which probably wasn’t very often, Sam thought, knowing Dean.

“And twice wasn’t enough?” he asked, gently.

Dean didn’t bother typing this time, just shook his head wearily, stifling a yawn.

“Okay then,” Sam said, aware Dean was nearly about to pass out in his chair. “We’ll try for eight hours, but Dean; if you wake up before then, and it’s started already, you wake me up immediately, you hear? You come get me the moment that thing starts to… to grow again. That’s an order.” Sam stared at him, willing him not to play the martyr as he was prone.

Dean ducked his head, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap; then raised his hands to type just one word. - OK -

It would have to do. Sam suspected he’d try to get away with it at least once, but then he was going to get a dressing down from one concerned and exasperated brother, because they needed to keep this thing locked down thoroughly to give Dean - and his voice - time to heal.

“Right. Don’t forget. Now one last thing. Any of those cuts need looking at before you sleep? Are there any injuries that can’t - that shouldn’t wait ‘til morning? Because I know you’re tired, but I don’t want to have to deal with a pierced lung or your spleen bleeding out in the middle of the night. So be honest with me, Dean. Tell me.” He knew things couldn’t be that bad, but he was exaggerating deliberately to make it clear he wouldn’t let Dean rest until he’d made at least a token effort to think about himself.

Dean shook his head, reached wearily to type. - I’m fine, Sam. Last of the damage was already a couple of days ago; if I didn’t bleed out in that alcove, I’m sure I’ll manage through one night in a real bed. -

And damn, how he was looking forward to that; he just hoped he’d pass out so deeply the nightmares might leave him alone for one night.

- If you’re done fussing, can I go to bed now, please? - he typed, then added as an afterthought, - Oh, better order me to take a leak, first. -

Sam winced, as it hit home that this had never occurred to him; Dean could have been sitting there busting from holding it in, although he had told him to speak (or type) his mind, so it wouldn’t be entirely his fault. Still, he realised he would have to be careful not to overlook any of Dean’s needs in future. It made his blood run cold to realise how dependent his brother was on Sam’s care; how completely at the Nagini’s mercy he had been. And from the state of him in the hole in which Sam had found him, there had been precious little mercy in her cold blooded veins.

“Good idea,” he said. “Go use the bathroom. Then get undressed, if you want to be more comfortable; up to you. Can I give you open ended orders like that?”

Dean shrugged; the Lizard Queen had never been so accommodating, so he honestly had no idea. They would find out. He was already standing, not waiting for the collar to start grumbling; his bladder already was, a little.

Dean took care of business and then silently praised Sam’s nicety of expression as he found that ‘use the bathroom’ was liberal to interpretation. He was able to wash his hands and even brush his teeth. Then he got stuck, freezing with one hand on the doorknob as the collar prickled. Right. Another unspecified time-frame, just like what had happened with the shower.

Stupid thing, he thought at the collar. I’ve used the bathroom, whaddya think he wants me to do now? Thinking at it had never done any good though; it might react with uncanny perception but it wasn’t sentient. It just responded to intent. He figured that was why he could get away with small, instinctual movements, as long as he didn’t start thinking about them. Like blinking; swallowing; and breathing. Once, he had (stupidly? Or in a spirit of scientific endeavour Sam would have been proud of?) tried breathing in and out, rhythmically and deliberately, concentrating on the ebb and flow of air within his lungs. That little exercise had shocked him cold, his lesson learned by the time he woke up: don’t play games.

Dean leaned his head against the door and closed his eyes, entertaining visions of a future stuck inside bathrooms. At least this time, Sam was here, should wonder why he was taking so long…

After what felt like the longest couple of minutes in Dean’s life, Sam knocked lightly on the door. “Dean, you okay in there?” he called. Dean shook his head to himself. For such a clever guy, Sam could be really dense, sometimes.

“Uh, if you’re ready, open the door and come on out; otherwise I’m coming in,” Sam said.

That seemed to be enough permission and Dean’s hand closed on the knob again and wrenched the door open. He softened his glare to an eye roll as he saw the hangdog look on Sam’s face. He didn’t really blame his brother, in fact Sam was doing well considering he’d had less than half a day to wrap his head around the problem, and at least he wasn’t freaking out. Dean wasn’t sure he’d have managed to stay as calm if their circumstances had been reversed.

“Sorry,” Sam murmured, hovering a hand near Dean’s arm, not quite touching as though unsure if the gesture would be rejected. Dean twitched sideways, just enough to make contact without triggering the collar, and nudged the hand with his shoulder. He smiled to show no hard feelings, and Sam’s answering beam was golden.

“All set, ready for bed?” he asked, and Dean nodded. Oh, there had been that open-ended suggestion about undressing… He had slept fully clothed many times, it didn’t usually bother him, but right now his southern parts were tender enough to follow the advice; if the collar would allow.

It didn’t; clearly, vague, interpretative instructions from several minutes ago were not on the approved list. Dean got as far as hooking his fingers behind the top button of his fly when the warning sizzle jabbed at his neck and he sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Take them off,” Sam said, softly, sympathy clear in his eyes. “And your shirt. Then go to bed, Dean. Pick either one.”

Dean followed the new instructions gratefully. He couldn’t remember when sliding between stiff motel sheets had ever felt so blissful. He closed his eyes on Sam’s parting reminder:

“Night, Dean. Wake me if you need anything; anything at all.”

He smiled to himself under the cover of the blanket. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was safe, back with Sam, who would do his best to look after him. They would work this out, the way they always did. Dean fell promptly into the sleep of exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Exhausted as he was, the nightmare wouldn’t leave him alone. His memories bubbled to the surface in a poisonous froth, goading him with a punishing replay of the worst of his suffering. The details were vivid, stark in their accuracy, and unrelenting.

The Naga Queen writhed above him, her scales rasping against his skin, hot breath foul in his face. That sick tongue flickered like a snake’s, tasting, probing. He pressed his lips together, trying to keep it from sliding inside his mouth. He was good for several hours yet before the collar began to push its spike into his throat again. He closed his eyes too, so that he didn’t have to look into those mad, blood red orbs with their hellish slits. He could do that much, at least.

“Oh, come now, my darling, pretty boy,” she crooned, like she thought she had any chance of winning him over with endearments. Or maybe she was just fucking with him. No matter how much she thought of herself, she had to know by now that he really wasn’t interested.

“You are stubborn,” she hissed, then laughed softly. “You spurn me, but your struggles show your strength. Even now, helpless to my will these past weeks, you try to resist. I chose you well. Your seed will produce a fine clutch of sons. Perhaps even a daughter.”

Her hand stroked along his chest, gliding over muscles taut with the strain of trying to hold himself at bay; not that it was doing any good. She ran her fingers down over his stomach, making it clench in disgust; stirred, tickling, through his pubic hair; wrapped them fondly around his flaccid cock and balls. She caressed him, moving against him, short, jerking thrusts like she was attempting to fuck him. He could feel the slick wetness of the… hole at the base of her tail, squirming over his thigh like slobbering lips. He felt faint with nausea.

“I will bend you,” she whispered, tongue slithering across his face. “Or break you; no matter to me either way.” He could feel the twin forks of her tongue tip crawling over his eyelids like a skittering insect; lapping at the tears squeezing out at the corners. He fought not to vomit.

Suddenly, she drew back; he heard the grating of her tail as she moved over the concrete floor. He drew in deep, grateful breaths of cleaner air, but his relief was short-lived.

Now, she was stroking his legs, nuzzling his thighs, pushing them apart; and, God, mouthing at him, everywhere, down there. Her tongue wound around his cock like a worm, one fork pushing insistently against the head. It slid into the hole at the tip, a quick jab like fire and then he could feel it, oozing down inside the shaft, a sensation like nothing he’d ever experienced, even in Hell. His hips bucked, involuntarily trying to escape, and he cried out; the collar punished him and pain exploded like hot metal sizzling along his nerves. He crashed back to the floor, bruising his tailbone, mewling with the pain and the horror, not daring to give vent to anything louder.

She laughed, a full, throaty chuckle of appreciation that vibrated inside him, from her tongue in his cock. He heard himself whimpering, was helpless to stop the sounds. He wanted to die. Wanted to kill her, tear her apart with his bare hands and splatter her blood over the walls. Wanted Sam to come and find him already, save him from this endless nightmare. Wanted never to be found, because he couldn’t bear the humiliation of being seen like this. He would even have traded her for Alastair, and the Pit, if he could. He held himself still with superhuman effort, every muscle trembling.

Another swift needling of pain and she retracted the tongue, pressed kisses up against his crawling flesh. His dick dragged over his stomach, limp as a dead animal. Could she really think this was going to help get her what she wanted, or had she given up already, was just torturing him out of spite?

“Ahhh,” she breathed across his skin. “You taste… so good. I could suck on your sweet flesh for hours.”

Breathe. Push out the pain, the fear, the shame. Endure. It would end, it had to end, sooner or later. Please let it be sooner. Any way, any way at all.

“But we don’t have time for that,” she continued, her tone sincerely regretful. “We’ve a purpose here, my lovely, much as I enjoy playing with you. Time to stop being coy and do your job. Look, I’ll help you. Look! Look at me!”

His eyes snapped open at the command, knowing what would happen if he disobeyed. She swayed above him, her body rising between his legs in monstrous parody. She looked pleased with herself. She thrust her hand in front of his face, talons flexing. Something dark and viscous oozed from one claw tip, fell onto his cheek. Burned, first hot then cold, freezing fire.

“It paralyses,” she hissed, her smile equal parts hunger and malice. “Paralyses, but also invigorates. Your blood will rush to engorge your flesh, your muscles will snap rigid; you will feel like you are dying, but you will be giving life to me.”

What the hell was she talking about..?

She stroked his face with the back of the claw, drew back her hand. He craned his neck as much as he could without lifting it, trying to track her movements.

“Want to see?” she purred. “Yes, lift your head; I’ll allow it. Watch.”

Suddenly, it was the last thing he wanted, but he was forced to obey, the collar prickling its warning at the mere suggestion he might not.

She watched him, her eyes wide with sadistic glee, making sure she gave him a good show as she spread her hands. Her talons angled inward, toward his crotch.

No… No…

With the gentlest touch, she stroked one talon down the length of his shaft, its razor tip just barely piercing the skin. The toxin melted into his pores like dry ice and flared into a thousand brittle shards of agony.

He screamed, helpless to stop himself. His body arched off the floor as he writhed with the pain. Screamed again as the collar surged to life, punishing him for the noise and the prolonged, unsanctioned movement. He felt his cock strain taut, almost bursting with the rush of blood that pumped like liquid fire, and kept on screaming until his throat was on fire to mirror his groin and his voice cut out.

He barely felt her as she crawled over him, lowering herself over his blazing erection, and let him buck helplessly up into her body. Waves of black and crimson rolled in from the edges of his vision, obscuring his sight. Dimly, he was aware of her crying out, “Yes, fuck me!” The collar went quiet with that order, but the pain didn’t diminish. It felt like he’d been wrapped in barbed wire, which was simultaneously pulling on his dick while his balls spurted acid, and his mouth stretched around soundless cries of agony.

He shuddered and boiled and orgasm was wrenched from him in searing waves, as though his body was trying to expel the poison with his semen. Vaguely, somewhere above him, he heard her wild, exultant laughter. He had no idea how long it lasted. It felt like forever. Mercifully, he blacked out.

That was the point he woke up to find himself in bed, curled into a ball and dripping with sweat, every muscle aching with tension. His throat burned as though he’d been screaming in his sleep, but as he remembered where he was and peered muzzily through the darkness to find Sam, his brother’s still form beneath the covers suggested he hadn’t made enough noise to wake him. He remembered that from his recurring nightmares of Hell. When you screamed in dreams, it never seemed to come out in reality, as though the body knew to keep the mind’s madness in check.

Sam had said he could wake him though, if he needed him. Had ordered him to, in fact.

He tried calling out, but his voice husked in a near soundless whisper which might also explain the lack of screaming. The spike hadn’t regrown yet, but the constant abuse to his throat seemed to bridge that short period of respite.

There was nothing Sam could do for him, anyway. What was he, a child, to go crawling into his brother’s arms for comfort after nothing but a bad dream? He’d never asked for that with all his dreams of Hell, and he wasn’t going to start now.

He lay there, cataloguing his hurts instead, trying to flex his strained muscles within the fiercely proscribed limits of the collar. His crotch throbbed, too, and as he stretched, he could feel the telltale stickiness making his shorts cling damply. He had come in his sleep, echoing the nightmare. He retched, nearly bringing up his evening meal; curled into a tighter ball with his arms hugging his knees; and silently cried himself back to sleep.

Dean woke again, aching and parched, to Sam’s gentle but insistent hand shaking him by the shoulder.

“Dean,” he was saying, “wake up. It’s time, it’s been eight hours.”

He blinked muzzily, his vision obscured by grit. Almost put a hand up to rub his eyes, before he remembered, and then cursed himself for remembering, because he might have got away with it otherwise.

“Dean. You okay? Is the spike back yet?”

He swallowed, checking; shook his head. Looked like his estimated window had held up.

“Okay, good. That’s great. Listen, go to the bathroom, brush your teeth; take care of business. Then come back here.”

Good orders for first thing in the morning; but Sam always had been an early riser.

Dean struggled a little to get out of bed, feeling like an old man, every muscle protesting his movements. He got halfway through a spine tingling stretch before the collar buzzed him, complaining at the movement or prodding him to get going, or both. He winced and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Sam noticed. “You trying to stretch? You can stretch,” he said, calling out as the door closed behind Dean.

He’d been given a list of instructions which he knew he’d have to follow in order, but he found that he could both stretch a little and relieve himself with his toothbrush in his mouth, so that was something. ‘Taking care of business’ also seemed to cover washing his hands and then splashing his face with cold water, wiping the sleep crust from his eyes.

He’d have liked to do something about the other crust, scratching unpleasantly inside his shorts, but received a warning jolt when he went to pull them down. Pushing the envelope too far, apparently. He sighed, thought about stretching some more; but Sam had said to come back first, so he didn’t risk it.

He left the bathroom, walked over to the bed where Sam was sitting waiting, and gingerly raised his arms. The collar was quiet, so he indulged himself until he could feel his back cracking, standing in front of Sam while he watched. It was a little weird, but it felt too good to bother. He hadn’t had a decent stretch since he’d been caught and put in the collar, and after being shoved into that tiny concrete alcove, and the strain of his dreams, he really needed it. He grinned his appreciation to Sam as he finally lowered his arms, and Sam smiled back.

“Okay, you ready?” Sam asked.

His good mood deflated as a knot of something; anxiety? Guilt? Anticipation? formed in Dean’s stomach. That’s right; brother kissing time, right on schedule, the first of three daily instalments. If they could just do without that part, he thought he’d be able to deal. They’d figure out a way to get the collar off, and Sam was bright, he was catching on quickly and working out what Dean needed almost before he’d figured it out for himself. Maybe things wouldn’t be too bad. Apart from forcing the consent of his baby brother to things he had no right to ask, but was too much of a coward to refuse.

Sam had stood up, his hands were on Dean’s shoulders and he was peering into his face, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

“Dean?” he was saying. “Dean! It’s okay, we can do this. It’s no big deal. We’ll work it out, we’ll find a way. That’s what we always do, right?”

Dean nodded, miserably, only half believing it at this point.

“That’s right,” Sam repeated, squeezing the shoulders in his comfortingly large grip. “But until we can get it sorted, I have to kiss you. I’m sorry, I know it sucks, but it’s not that bad; you’d rather kiss me than have that spike in your throat, wouldn’t you?”

Wait; he sounded… nervous, like it was a genuine question, not just trying to shore up Dean’s spirits. Like he thought the problem was Dean having to kiss him. And he felt bad enough about it without letting Sam shoulder any of the guilt.

He looked into Sam’s eyes, so warm and earnest and supportive, and managed to offer up a shaky, lopsided smile. When Sam put it that way, it seemed almost ridiculous to get upset. Kiss, or slowly choking spike. After all, would he rather make Sam kiss him, or watch him die? They’d been through that before, and Sam didn’t deal well with countdowns.

Sam gave his shoulders another squeeze, patted one of them reassuringly. “Okay,” he said. “C’mon, just one kiss, and then we can get breakfast.”

Breakfast! Oh yeah. Dean’s stomach rumbled and hunger suddenly shoved aside the other sensations. He could really go for breakfast; and coffee. Sam would usually have gone out to find some before Dean woke, but he probably hadn’t wanted to leave him alone after what happened yesterday, with the shower.

He stood passively, forcing himself to relax, and something must have cleared in his expression because Sam gave a satisfied little grunt and nod of his head, and ducked down and forwards into Dean’s face.

Last night, Dean had been too out of it to recall much of their first kiss; he did remember the feeling as the spike had finally retracted, sliding back like a particularly tricky pin in a lock he was trying to pick. That always felt… so good, the relief almost indecent, and he had come to understand why it worked so well as an extra performance incentive. The release of his throat always sent a flood of pleasure right through his body, making his cock twitch, and with the right inducement… She had never had the patience to make it work, though, arrogance her own worst enemy.

He swallowed, pushed down the memories of his nightmare, hissing like snakes in the shadowy recesses of his mind. Didn’t want Sam to feel him shudder and think it was because of him.

This time, the spike hadn’t had time to reform, and he found himself, against all better judgement, concentrating on the actual kiss.

It came as a vague surprise that Sammy was actually a pretty good kisser. For a guy who made out with maybe one woman a year, if that, he’d somehow managed to keep in practice. That, or he was just a born natural. He was slow, and thorough, and insistent, treating Dean’s mouth like it was something special, that he wanted to take his time to enjoy. Treating it like it was his, like he had every right to be doing this, no hesitation or reserve or awkwardness.

Dean got the idea he knew where the expression ‘swept off her feet’ came from. It took every fibre of self control he had to stay still, not to respond in kind. Because that would make it a proper kiss. This; this was just a function, something they needed to do - that Sam needed to do - to keep the collar in check. If Dean didn’t get involved, then they weren’t… It wasn’t… Even if it felt like…

And then Sam was done, and drawing back, leaving Dean feeling breathless and confused and, even though there’d been no spike withdrawal to tug at his nerves, even though he’d emptied his sack in the middle of the night, there was that stab of arousal like a live wire from his tongue to his dick. Conditioned response, maybe? But totally, hideously inappropriate to being kissed by his brother.

If Sam knew… Dean was only wearing his boxers, his erection would be obvious. He felt his cheeks heating and prayed to whoever might be out there listening that Sam didn’t look down. Well, he didn’t have any business to be looking down anyway, did he, so maybe he’d get away with it this time. And if not, was it too late to claim morning wood..?

“You okay?” Sam was asking, hands back on Dean’s shoulders, hazel eyes searching ruefully and with far too knowing a gleam.

“Yeah…” Dean started to answer, his voice weak and rasping, and he coughed. “Took your time about it,” he carried on in a deliberate whisper, grinning cockily.

“Yeah, well…” Sam grinned back, a little wryly, drew back a hand to wipe down over his face. “Yesterday… it seemed to take a while before the spike responded. I wanted to make sure. Don’t want it… waking up again when we’re not expecting it.”

Dean found himself nodding seriously. It really wasn’t a joking matter, and Sam was only trying to help. Not fair to tease him about it on top of everything.

“So, you good?” Sam asked. “For now, I mean? Ready to - get ready, and get back on the road?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean replied in his new, throat preserving whisper. He really wanted a wash, but couldn’t bring himself to ask; he’d showered already the previous evening so Sam might naturally enquire why he needed to get clean again so soon, and that wasn’t a question he wanted to answer.

Sam frowned, still searching Dean’s face. “You sure? Because Dean, if you need anything - anything at all; I mean, I’m trying, but you can’t expect me to - I’m not psychic, okay? You have to let me know, otherwise I can’t help. I can’t order you to do things, if I don’t know they need doing. You understand?”

Dean nodded again, vigorously, plastered on a bright, fake smile. Everything’s fine, we’re cool, just stop over-thinking things and let’s get going already, he thought. It was simultaneously… nice, that Sam was trying so hard to look after him, and terrifying, because if he kept probing and empathising like this, he might work out exactly what ‘needed doing’, and Dean could really do without those kinds of orders from his little brother.

“Okay, well… if you’re sure,” Sam hedged, clearly not convinced. “But, um… just make sure to tell me. That’s an order, Dean. You need something, come ask me, because trust me, it’ll save a whole lot more embarrassment and difficulty than holding out and waiting for me to figure things out on my own.”

Sam was way too close to understanding what was on Dean’s mind right now for comfort, and Dean was starting to feel panicky, and then, oh shit; the collar prickled, and he’d just given him a direct order, hadn’t he. Thanks Sam.

“I, uh; can I just - I need to use the bathroom again?” he extemporised, as Sam leaned forward to catch the whispered words. Dean swallowed, dreading that this wouldn’t be enough, he’d have to go into detail to get Sam to give him explicit instructions, and damn, how had he thought earlier that he could ever deal with this? It was suffocating and nauseating and he’d barely been awake for half an hour. He had the whole day to get through yet, and who knows how many more before they figured out how to remove the collar?

Then, “Dean, breathe.” Sam’s hands were back on his shoulders, steadying, massaging. “Of course you can go to the bathroom. Go do - whatever it is you want in there. Take all the time you need. I’m sorry, I should have; earlier, I was too specific, is that the problem? I just wanted to get the kissing done, in case the spike… Anyway, go. Take care of yourself, and come back out when you’re done. That okay?”

Dean nodded again, relieved and grateful. That sounded like it should cover; well, pretty much everything, and he hadn’t had to go into detail at all.

“Thanks,” he whispered, as Sam gave his shoulder another pat before standing back, and Dean turned away to see if gathering his clothes would be allowed, to take into the bathroom with him to get dressed. Apparently it would. “Go take care of yourself” was a pretty open ended order, after all, and he’d had nothing so considerate from the Lizard Queen.

Dean didn’t take too long because he was hungry and he wanted to get back to Rufus’ cabin as soon as possible, so they could look into whatever books he’d stashed away there, along with the rescued copies Bobby’d had made of his own library.

Thankfully, the urgency of wanting to leave quelled the insistence of that other little need, so he washed, shaved and dressed in short order. He found that ‘take care of yourself’ even extended to packing away his soiled underwear, balling it up and stuffing it into a corner of his duffel where Sam hopefully would never have to know about it. The collar, under Sam’s considered instruction, was being unusually magnanimous, and he felt his mood lifting again so that his problems didn’t seem so insurmountable after all.

Chapter Text

They left the motel and headed west, Sam driving, because as he said apologetically, Dean just wasn’t road safe. They couldn’t know when the collar might balk within even the broadest of command structures.

They stopped for breakfast at a roadside diner with an outdoor seating area, where Dean could sit in relative privacy near the car and away from prying eyes and ears. There was a brisk wind blowing, but he could put up with that; he wanted something more satisfying than take-out. Sam came back to the table with coffee and a plate loaded with a full cooked breakfast which had Dean salivating, and at Sam’s “Tuck in!” he fell to like what he was; a man who had been kept on the verge of starvation for weeks. His throat had stopped hurting and food had never tasted so good; he groaned around each mouthful, not caring how he sounded.

Sam smiled, glancing at him frequently as he made a more measured assault on his own plate, pleased to see Dean enjoying his food again. The way he had gingerly tackled his burger last night had been heart-wrenching.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he said, when he’d made suitable inroads into his own meal.

Thinking and driving? Thought the idea was to stay safe on the road, Dean thought. He eyed Sam, mouth too full to voice the quip, and anyway, it hadn’t been a question, so the collar wouldn’t let him speak.

“The collar seems to be pretty good at open ended instructions,” Sam went on, “as long as I word them carefully. So what we need are some golden rules. Standing orders, that mean you’re doing what you’re told, but that let you interpret them how you want. Does that sound like a working plan?”

Dean considered carefully while he chewed and swallowed. “Maybe,” he whispered. “Worked this morning. Just have to try.”

“Right,” said Sam. “So, my first rule is, you can speak whenever you want to. No waiting for me to ask you a question or give direct permission. I want; I order you; to speak your mind.” He waited, expectantly.

Dean swallowed again, around the second mouthful he’d shovelled in while Sam was talking. The collar had given a funny sort of tingle as Sam finished speaking, a little like the permissive tickle that let him know when an order had been conveyed, but more attenuated; just a little ripple of sensation across the back of his neck. He hoped that was a good sign.

“Talk when I want to,” he said in his scratchy whisper of a voice. “Got it. Something about bathroom breaks would be good, too. Something really unmanly about having to ask your little brother for permission to pee.”

“Yeah, I was getting to that,” Sam replied. “Rule number two: No asking to visit the restroom. For any reason. Wherever we are. You want to go, you get up and go. Blanket permission; that’s another standing order. Think the collar can deal with that?”

Another little ripple caressed Dean’s neck. “No idea,” he answered, honestly. “Hasn’t been tested before. Just have to wait and see. Better keep an eye on me for a while, in case it doesn’t work out.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll be doing that, Dean. Don’t worry, I’m not taking either of my eyes off you until we know this works. I still - I haven’t forgotten the shower yesterday. I should never have left you alone in there and…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean forestalled him quickly, and the collar didn’t give so much as a peep of protest. Maybe this would work, after all. He swallowed; speaking - even in a whisper - was still uncomfortable. “Not your fault, Sammy; I don’t blame you, so don’t go blaming yourself. You didn’t know. This thing… Look, you’ve been dealing with it less than a day and you already… You’re making a huge difference, okay? I appreciate it.”

Sam gave him a tentative smile, appreciating his support right back. Dean understood, he really did, and he sympathised. It had to be a lot for Sam, suddenly burdened with so much responsibility for his brother’s welfare. Dean had been looking after Sam his whole life, and he’d still be terrified if it were forced to this level. Phrase one instruction the wrong way, a single moment of inattention or misunderstanding, and the person who was relying on you, whose whole care and safety and happiness was in your charge, could be in a heap of trouble before you could blink and take it back. At least if he was allowed to talk, he could guide Sam, if he thought he’d missed anything, so rule number one really was golden.

“All right,” Sam went on, “rule number three. Because frankly, it’s been really getting on my nerves. Whenever we go somewhere, or we stop, or we get in or out of the car; I have to order you every time to stand up or sit down. No more of that. You know what’s expected in any given situation, when to follow me or not; I want you to use your own judgement from now on.”

The collar tingled again, but this time, he barely felt it, the sensation almost like the breeze teasing his hair.

“Uh, Sam?” he tried. “Not sure that one’s gonna cut it. The collar tells me… There’s this little nudge, not painful, so I know when to follow an order, and… It did just give one, but it was pretty weak. Think you can firm that one up a bit?”

“Oh,” Sam said, looking startled. “Right; sure. Well, that’s good, at least; means you know the other two worked, right?”

Dean shrugged, finishing the last mouthful of the most divine breakfast he had ever eaten.

“Could be,” he rasped as soon as he had swallowed. “I mean, probably; at least for now. But we don’t know how long the orders’ll hold up. Last night… Might’ve just been the way you said it, but you told me I could get undressed when I got out of the bathroom, and then…”

“And then you couldn’t,” Sam finished for him. “Yeah, I remember. Okay, so… How’s this? If it’s obvious I need you to follow me - like, I’m leaving, not just heading to the bathroom myself - you have to get up and come with. And if I get in the car, or sit down in a room, you have to sit down, too.”

“Yeah, that worked,” Dean said, as the collar gave a much more robust tingle against his skin.

“Good,” Sam replied. “I’ll, um… I’ll try and make it clear, too. Tell you where I’m going, stuff like that. I just hate having to order you every time, you know? It’s like calling a dog. ‘Sit’, ‘Stay’, ‘Heel’. Not that - I know it’s gotta be a hundred times worse for you.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, no; I get it. It is annoying. Glad to have that one cleared up. Okay, so let’s move on with the list; do we have a rule number four? Got any ideas?”

They seemed to have covered the basics already; if he could sit down or head off after Sam without waiting to be ordered, pee when he needed to, and speak his mind, he thought he could handle doing pretty much everything else on command. It wasn’t as though he was a stranger to following orders; their Dad had raised him as an obedient soldier more than a son, although he’d tried and failed at doing the same with Sam. What counted was his dignity. Even prisoners in maximum security jail had free access to a toilet. They could wing the rest of it, add in new rules as the need arose.

“You’ve just given me an idea for it, actually,” Sam replied. “Since we don’t know how well or how long the rules will hold up… Maybe we can add in a failsafe? Kind of an overarching order; a Prime Directive. Should probably have made it number one in the first place, but I don’t know if the collar can reorganise that easily?” He looked questioningly at Dean, who shrugged casually.

“One Rule to rule them all?” he joked, grinning absurdly at his own weak humour. It was just so good to be able to crack a joke, to banter with Sam without worrying that he’d be punished with a thousand volts through the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Sam laughed, “and in the mandate bind them.”

“All right, so what’s this One Rule gonna be?” Dean asked, still grinning. “Get Sam if you’re in trouble?”

“I’m thinking simpler; smaller,” Sam replied. “If the speak your mind rule fails, or you can’t talk because the spike is back for whatever reason, we need a signal. Something easy and obvious to let me know, and that you can pull off even if you’re in a tight spot where you can’t move much. Make it specific enough that the collar won’t have any issues.”

He pondered for a while as he drank the last of his coffee.

“What about tapping?” Dean wondered. Sam gave him a quizzical look. “You know, like in wrestling; tap the mat to indicate you’ve had enough.”

He demonstrated, smacking his hand down hard on the tabletop three times in rapid succession, then tensing and gritting his teeth as the collar fired up with indignation. Pain flared like a lightning strike through his nerves but it was worth it; he felt like he’d surprised and got one over on the thing. Every little victory...

Sam winced in empathy. “I almost felt that,” he said. “But that’s good, you could do it even without the order. Let’s go with that, then. Umm… okay. Priority rule: if you need my attention, tap on a hard surface. With your hand, or a foot, whatever you can move. I want to hear it; I wanna know if you need my help.” He paused, looking at Dean expectantly.

“Umm…” Dean hadn’t felt anything from that, but maybe that was down to his frazzled nerves after the shock? The little permissive ripples from the previous orders had been very weak. He gave it a shot, slowly lifting his hand… and stopped, going as still as a statue, because he certainly felt that, as the collar prickled a warning. He lowered the hand again gingerly and shook his head, resigned.

“What, it didn’t work?” Sam asked in dismay.

“I dunno, maybe the wording?” he suggested. “Or maybe it can only take so much programming; three standing orders maximum?”

“Or because I put in three already and now I’ve confused things, trying to give this one priority?” Sam put in.

Dean just shook his head again, more to indicate he had no clue than to disagree. They really didn’t know how the collar worked, and if the Lizard Queen had an instruction manual, he’d never seen it. Sam looked more frustrated than Dean felt, though. They had made a lot of progress already, they couldn’t expect solutions to be handed to them, gift wrapped.

“Never mind,” he said, wishing he could reach out to console Sam, touch his arm or pat him on the shoulder. “Three is still pretty good. Three is awesome, actually. I can talk freely again, and you have no idea how good that feels. And if the other two hold up, that lowers the chances of me humiliating myself in public. I’ll take it as a win, for now.” If they could just find a long-term solution.

Sam smiled hesitantly; Dean was the one wearing the collar, after all, so if he could be upbeat about it, Sam had no right to be moody.

“All right then; want to put the new rules to the test?” he suggested.

Dean nodded, then just sat there, looking at Sam and… being chicken. He took a deep breath. Not like he didn’t already know the worst that could happen, and Sam was right here to take care of him. When had he become such a wuss, anyhow? He was Dean freaking Winchester, it was gonna take more than a cattle prod neck brace to keep him down. Sam had said he could use the restroom, for any reason at all. Well, he didn’t need to take a leak right now but he did need to test their new rules; was that reason enough?

Sam was watching him, patient and far too understanding. He was stretching this out way too long. Time to test his mettle. Another bracing breath, and he rose to his feet in one swift movement, grabbing at the edge of the table in case the collar struck him down.

Nothing happened. An exultant grin broke out across his face and he made instinctively to high five Sam; and then the collar did react, making him wince and laugh simultaneously.

“Ow. Okay. Well that -” A second, warning prickle. ‘Get a move on’. The thing could be annoyingly literal. It would let him get up to use the restroom, but he would actually have to go through the motions.

“Uh, be right back,” he said, still smiling though his elation had ebbed. He made his way around the side of the diner, thankful the restroom was situated around the back, so he didn’t have to thread his way between tables full of gawking customers. The collar was embarrassingly conspicuous.

When he got to the bathroom he washed his hands, just for something to do, then took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He found himself thinking about everything they had come through together to get this far; all the pain and death.

Mom, then Jess; Dad; Sam. His deal, and Hell; the Apocalypse; Agent Henricksen. Sam’s… addiction. Pamela. Jo and Ellen, and Ash of course, long before. Adam, their new half brother, who they never had the chance to get to know. Sam dying again, but worse this time. Infinitely worse. And then coming back, but wrong; missing a vital piece. Eve, and Crowley and… Samuel Campbell. Losing Lisa, and Ben. Then Cas’s ultimate betrayal and trying to stay one step ahead of enemies on three fronts; Leviathan, the FBI, and Castiel himself; while Sam’s mind slowly unravelled. Bobby. Cas’s return to the fold, only to be lost again, in their final showdown with Dick Roman. It was a bitter tally, and it only served to highlight what had gone wrong, all his mistakes and weaknesses and missed opportunities.

All of it, seven years of mounting struggle and fear and sacrifice since the day Dad left to hunt down Azazel, and finally it had seemed like it might all be over at last, apart from the little problem of saving Kevin; only for Dean to be snatched, like some kind of naive country rube, by the lizards, when he’d barely had time to turn around and breathe. And now, here he was, some hunter, some saviour.

He snorted in disgust at his reflection, pale and gaunt, a shadow looking even more beaten and pathetic than he had after the Pit. The collar gleamed under the fluorescent light, winking at him, sneering. He couldn’t meet his own eyes. He had kissed his own brother. Twice, now, and how many more times to come, and what would they think; all the dead, his family and friends, if they could see him now; see what he had become? How many times had he helped to save the world, and he couldn’t even help himself, couldn’t even piss without Sammy’s permission. What had he been getting all excited about, before, just because some clever wording had lengthened his leash? He was still a slave, now just chained to Sam instead of a vicious, depraved monster, and already starting to get comfortable in his bondage.

Dean freaking Winchester indeed, he had always been dutiful, biddable; as long as the leash was balanced by the petting hand on his head. Daddy’s good boy. Alastair’s. Now Sam’s. The angels might have had him, too, if they’d been kinder; they made the same mistake as the Lizard Queen, failing to see through his desperate, macho posturing to the weak, needy little boy inside, who would fold over for anyone, if they would just offer the smallest crumb of comfort… Would let his own blood, his own little brother, do that, just to feel like he mattered...

He raised his hand, balled into a fist, and smashed it into his reflection. Would have kept on, until the mirror and his hand were both a broken, bloody mess, but the collar didn’t brook damage to its master’s property. It stopped him cold with a vicious jolt that sent him reeling against the sink, where he leaned, breathing heavily, hands gripping the taps white-knuckled while his forehead rested against the cool glass of the mirror.

Sam found him like that, didn’t say anything about it. Just rubbed his back, promised that everything would be okay, and ordered him gently back to the car.

They drove well into the afternoon, crossing the county, chasing the sun. Sam took the fastest and most direct route, not wanting to waste any time, but they took long breaks at rest stops or simply pulling up at the roadside because they couldn’t switch out the driving and he was concerned about Dean’s health. He wanted to make sure he got plenty of chances to stretch out and walk around after being confined and restricted for so long.

Dean scoffed at his fussing but was secretly touched at this evidence of how much Sam cared. Then despised himself, for rolling over for a pat and a kind word.

But, as the road wound on, his mood lightened. These were some of his favourite moments of any day, just driving. Moving from A to B in companionable silence, whether heading towards or away from a case. Either way was a window of calm and stability, when no imminent danger threatened and they could just relax and simply be. Driving felt like time stood still and they left all their troubles behind them, stumbling along in the dust in the rearview mirror. They might be - usually were - driving towards more trouble, and the past was always catching up; but until they arrived, there was nothing but the journey, enclosed in a safe little bubble of routine and familiarity. Their home on the road.

A couple of hours after they had stopped for lunch, the alarm on Sam’s watch started beeping and he pulled over to the verge, killed the engine and released his seatbelt. Turned in the seat to look at Dean, who stared back, puzzled.

“Why’re we stopping?” he asked; two hours in the car was nothing for them, Sam couldn’t think he needed another break this soon after the last.

“Eight hours is up,” Sam answered softly. “What, you forget you’re on a schedule?”

Oh. That. Honestly, Dean actually had forgotten. Sam was taking good care of him, the standing orders were holding firm, and his throat felt great. At times, riding along in his Baby by Sam’s side, gazing out at the scenery with the radio tuned to a rock station, he had almost felt normal. He had pushed away all thoughts of the collar, just focussing on the here and now. Existing. It was probably very Zen of him, Dean thought wryly, but it was just one of his many coping mechanisms. Shit came in his way, he would freak out, for a while, but then he locked the panic back down and got on with life. Compartmentalise, ignore, repress, whatever you wanted to call it. Dean called it dealing. And had always been grateful they lived in a country as big as the USA, which granted so much time between jobs that could be a whole state or even further apart. Today, that had been time well spent wrestling his inner demons under control.

“Dean?” He realised as Sam said his name that he had been wool gathering; that he really didn’t want to snap out of the bubble just yet and face reality. But Sam was right, he was on a schedule, and if they didn’t keep it, the collar would intrude on this relative peace in a way he couldn’t ignore.

“Yeah;” he passed his hand over his face, dropped it hurriedly into his lap as his neck prickled. “I’m with you, Sam. Okay, let’s do this.”

Sam gave him a gentle, encouraging smile. “C’mere,” he said softly, leaning forward.

Dean moved slightly, leaning into his own seatbelt, which he felt stretch out against his chest, the slight resistance holding him; cradling him. He held still, blinking rapidly as Sam’s face drew nearer, and he swallowed convulsively at the soft pressure of his lips.

Sam’s tongue licked along the crease of his mouth, gently requesting entry, and he obliged, letting his lips part so Sam could slide inside. He felt his stomach dip and swoop at the feeling and was amazed at how calm and in control his brother seemed. This was only the third time they had kissed and Dean still couldn’t work out how he felt about it. His head was a mess of conflicting feelings, but Sam kissed him like he wanted to, not just because he had to; like he was enjoying it. And he was good at it.

One by one, Dean’s reservations, his automatic protestations and… no, not revulsion, never that, but the shame and self-condemnation he felt; all were overcome, dissolving like sandcastles in the irresistible tide of Sam’s certainty and self-assurance. His brother was kissing him, and that was that. He might as well get on board because it was happening regardless, and throwing hissy fits about it wasn’t going to make a scrap of difference.

He made just one silent, secret promise. He would allow himself to accept this, even to admit that it felt pretty good (although he would die before ever letting on to Sam); but he wasn’t kissing back. As long as he held that last line of defence, the collar wouldn’t win.

Chapter Text

It was nightfall by the time they reached Rufus’ old hunting cabin and the yawns he was giving cracked Sam’s face apart. He’d been driving for hours, rest stops aside. The kiss he gave Dean before they turned in was thorough, but perfunctory; it felt as though he was going diligently through the motions, but wasn’t putting his heart into it like he had the last couple of times. Dean wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed, and decided to shelve the whole mess for tomorrow. Compartmentalising; it was what he did best.

Of course, his nightmares ignored this rationale. Tonight, they behaved more like the typical dreams from before his capture. Which was to say, confused and disturbing, but no less nightmarish for being obviously unreal. Endless scenarios spooled through his sleep, fragments of Hell and leviathan and Sammy burning in the cage, half memory and half his twisted imagination. Sure, the Lizard Queen wove in and out of every scene, looming in the distance or morphing subtly through the features of his assailants, her hissing chuckle a constant background static. But at least tonight he didn’t dream about what she’d done to him. He woke drenched in sweat with his muscles throbbing from the effort not to thrash around; his body had learned the hard way not to toss and turn in the throes of his dreams; but he didn’t have jizz all over his shorts, so he’d call it an improvement on last night.

Sam slept in, coming straight over to Dean the moment his alarm jerked them both awake. No instructions for tooth brushing this morning, he greeted him with a sleepy ‘Hey, Dean’ and no more, before his mouth was on him, a little rough and sloppy but still more tender than last night. He kissed him until the aftertaste of sleep had washed away, cupping Dean’s chin in his hand, rubbing a thumb slowly over the emerging stubble as though to categorise the sensation. It was soothing, grounding, and Dean leaned into him, pathetically grateful. At the same time, it was so soon after sleep, on the tail of the repetitive transformations from his dreams, that he tensed, anticipating something horrible. He wanted to deepen the kiss, to drown his jangling nerves in the warmth and solidity of his brother; and he wanted to pull back, to check that he was still Sam.

He could do neither, because of the collar, and so he just lay there while Sam bent over him and licked into his mouth. He felt as passive as a corpse, reminding him of the fairy tale when the prince woke Snow White from her death-like coma; only in the adult rated version he’d seen, things had escalated pretty quickly from kissing. Probably not the best thing to be thinking of right now, with his brother’s tongue in his mouth and morning wood. Bad enough that the kiss fuelled his hard-on; it was sore too, the skin burning as it stretched. He’d better check that; pity the cabin didn’t have a shower. If his cuts had gotten infected, they were going to be hell to keep clean.

Sam drew back, smiling softly and a little quizzically at Dean’s obvious disorientation, and patted the side of his face. “Go get ready,” he instructed gently. “But I need to pee so hurry up with that part ‘cause I’m coming in right after you.”

Great. Sharing their morning ablutions was never normally an issue, but no way was Dean going to examine his dick with Sam in the room. It would just have to wait for later. He had a standing order to use the bathroom whenever he needed, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. He deliberately looked away while he used the can, not wanting to confirm the extent of his injuries. It didn’t feel too bad, apart from having to be careful how he held it, so maybe it was just the natural pull of healing scars.

He gave himself a cat bath at the sink with a washcloth as Sam took his turn at the porcelain, then they brushed their teeth together companionably, side by side. That much was normal, calming in its familiarity and ordinariness. Sam claimed the sink for himself when Dean headed out of the room to get dressed. He rejected the opportunity to check himself over; Sam might finish up and come back in at any moment.

Sam didn’t take long but Dean finished dressing before he came out, then sat down on the bed to wait. It occurred to him that he hadn’t had specific instructions to do that; on the other hand, he didn’t have any to the contrary, and maybe the collar didn’t care as long as he wasn’t doing anything, just waiting for further orders. But maybe it would have objected, if he’d thought about sitting before he actually sat down. It wasn’t always easy to guess how it would react; it gave him considerable leeway in some instances, such as when carrying out a command, but could be painfully inflexible in others. A lot depended on how much conscious thought was behind an action, and how quickly he could carry it out. Sometimes it might punish him anyway, but it was a little slow on the uptake. Like yesterday, the way he had been able to strike the table with his hand to alert Sam, even though it had slammed him for it immediately afterwards.

Given a gun, he thought his training and instincts might override the thing at least long enough to fire off a shot, if he came under attack; especially if something attacked his brother. He thought about their escape from the warehouse two days ago and grimaced, recalling how he had just stood there, helpless and furious, while Sam fought off the last of the naga. He’d thought too much about it, letting his fear of punishment get the better of him, which meant the collar was dulling his instincts; making him second-guess himself. He was a man of action, of impulse; but the collar demanded he stay quiet and still, waiting for orders. That was why it had let him sit down just now; he was just waiting. He was being good.

His stomach twisted at the thought, bile rising in his throat, and he slammed his fists against his thighs, feeling a peculiar satisfaction as the collar kicked in with a warning jolt. That much, at least, he would always have control over. He might not be able to do much but he was in charge of his own pain.

Sam glanced over, frowning in concern at this little demonstration of independence. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m peachy,” Dean answered, with a smile utterly devoid of warmth or humour. Maybe, on reflection, it wouldn’t be such a good idea for him to have a gun. Too easy to whip it out and put a bullet through his own brain before the collar could catch his intention.

Sam eyed him, brows still creased, but didn’t argue. “All right, let’s go get breakfast,” he said and headed out of the bedroom.

The collar gave that peculiar soft tingle he’d first felt yesterday, when Sam had given him his standing orders. It was much gentler than the buzz he received every time he got a direct instruction. As far as Dean was concerned though, it was a green light. He rose to his feet and followed.

Sam was busy in the little kitchen area, pulling out bowls and cereal and the milk he’d picked up with some other basic supplies on the road. Dean went to sit at the table and pulled up short at the warning static across his neck, not quite painful but definitely a red light. Huh. So sitting on the bed to wait while Sam dressed was okay; sitting down at the kitchen table while he prepared breakfast wasn’t? What was different? Because he’d thought about it before doing it? Or maybe because sitting on the bed came at the end of carrying out an order; Sam had told him to get ready, he had done it, and then he’d waited. Now, he was at the front of the line for new orders, so maybe the waiting had to be less relaxed? He had no idea. He wished the thing had come with a freaking manual.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked, his voice coming out gravelly, but stronger than yesterday. Anything to keep him from standing here like a robot; he’d rather take orders than wait around for them.

“Uh, sure; go make us some coffee?” Sam replied, a little surprised and distracted, but the order was precise enough for the collar to prod its acceptance.

Dean found the new bag of fresh coffee, sniffed appreciatively as he opened the wrapper. Smirked to himself as he spooned it into the stove top coffee maker; Sam didn’t like his coffee as strong as Dean’s, but he hadn’t specified, so he was just going to have to take his with plenty of milk. Nothing against Sammy; but it was another little flash of independence, and he was going to run with those as far as he could, every chance he got.

By the time the coffee was ready, Sam was seated, eating his cereal; time to test those standing orders again. Dean brought the pot and a couple of mugs to the table and sat down, cautiously this time. The collar stayed quiet; well, order number three had been to sit down when Sam did, and he guessed that had been overridden by the more immediate instruction to make coffee, but now it would probably object if he tried to put it off. There was no standing order for what to do next, though. Dean cleared his throat, pointedly.

Sam glanced up from the book he was reading, and Dean took a moment to appreciate, fondly, how it didn’t matter where they were, at a bar or the laundrette or an old abandoned hunting cabin deep in the woods, his little brother would still find something to research. Although to be fair, he was probably looking for info on the collar.

Sam stared at Dean for a moment, and Dean just waited him out (yeah, he was getting good at this) until he could imagine he heard the gears clicking in his brother’s head. Then, “Oh! Sorry, yeah, uh, help yourself Dean. Have some breakfast.” Sam looked away, embarrassed at forgetting, and busied himself pouring coffee while Dean filled his bowl with something far too healthy to be termed cereal in his book. This was what happened when Sam got to choose their supplies. He remedied the situation by sprinkling sugar liberally over the milk, which earned him a pained glance and a little sigh, and Dean grinned back around his spoonful of cornflakes.

Sam took a gulp of his coffee, winced, and glared at Dean; then his expression softened and he reached for the sugar. “So I was thinking,” he said as he stirred the mug, “we don’t have much in the way of supplies, and we could be holed up here for quite some time. I should make a grocery run, make sure we have everything we might need so I don’t have to go out and leave you too often.”

Dean frowned. “Whaddya mean, leave..?” he questioned, dread settling like a clammy fist in his short hairs. “I can come with you, I’m not out of commission, just… a little compromised.”

Sam snorted, although his look was sympathetic. “More than a little, Dean. For one, that thing is really noticeable, and the FBI may be off our tails by now but we should still lay low for a while until they forget about us. Telegraphing our presence by starting up the local gossip chain? Not such a great idea.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that, but the thought of being left alone here, something happening, Sam not coming back… It was too much, and it moved him to protest, to summon whatever weak argument he could think of.

“I can put a scarf on or something, to hide the collar,” he tried to sound reasonable but to his own ears it came out awfully whiny.

Sam held up a finger. “For two,” he ploughed on, “me having to give you constant orders? It’s just not going to work. At best you’d just be trailing around after me, not much help, and if I do order you to do anything, that’s gonna draw attention, too.”

“I could sit in the car and wait,” Dean tried. He wasn’t begging. He wasn’t.

“And what if something happens; what if a cop comes by? What’re you gonna do if a cop orders you to get out of the car, show him some ID?” Sam had put on his patient tone, his voice of reason that brooked no argument; meant he was going to be one stubborn son of a bitch about this and normally, when arguing didn’t work, Dean just voted with his feet. That option being denied him, he could feel himself losing ground like sliding down a muddy slope towards defeat. He wracked his brain for further objections but came up with nothing and stayed silent.

“It’s just too risky, you being out in public,” Sam went on, gentle but resolute. “It’s only the third day since I found you, Dean; we still don’t know everything about how the collar works, and the last place I want to run up against its programming is in a crowded store. You’ll be safer here; you can sit and do some research until I get back, and you’ve got your standing orders, you’ll be fine. I won’t be gone that long, there won’t be a repeat of… It’s not like I’ll be leaving you in a difficult situation, like last time.” He was clearly referring to the shower fiasco from their night at the motel.

“And if something happens to you?” Dean tried one last ditch counter to Sam’s persistent logic. It wasn’t that he disagreed; he just couldn’t stomach the idea of being stuck here, with the collar, helpless if anything untoward should happen; and with their luck, it probably would. “Or if something goes wrong here? We can’t call each other, I can talk but I can’t pick up the phone.”

“Nothing’s likely to happen,” Sam insisted, sounding like a parent soothing a panicky child. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere, nobody knows we’re here-”

“That’s not reassuring!” Dean cut in. “Something does happen, and you can’t come back for me, I’ll starve to death out here on my own!”

“Okay, okay, good point,” Sam hurried to be reassuring. “So how about this; I’ll call Jody, put her abreast of the situation. If she doesn’t get the all-clear from me by the end of the day - no,” he amended, noting Dean’s strained expression, “let’s make it sooner, say; in six hours - she can come out here to check on you, alright?”

“Much good that’s gonna do,” Dean grumbled. “Not like she can order me around while the collar’s fixed to you. And it'd take her the better part of a day just to get here.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Sam said a little desperately, “she can at least make sure you’re not in danger, and she can find out what’s happened to me and sort things out. And it’s only gonna be a few hours, Dean; I’m only getting in supplies, you’ll barely even notice I’m gone. Just trust me, okay? It’s better this way. At least until we get things figured out a little more. I’ll be back before you know it, and then we’ll be set for the long haul, however long it takes to fix this.”

Dean stared at him, a little mournfully. He couldn’t think of anything more to say; Sam seemed to have all the basics covered, and he knew, rationally, that it wasn’t likely anything would happen to either of them during a short, routine trip to the store. Besides, he could use the time alone to give himself a thorough check-up, so he didn’t have to worry Sam about his potential injuries. Standing order number two was pretty liberal, to use the restroom whenever and for whatever he wanted, so he could treat himself in there and the collar would have no objection.

“Okay, fine, you win,” he sighed. Just, please; make it as quick as you can?”

Sam smiled and reached across the table to rub Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll be quick, Dean, I promise. I know this sucks, but it’s the least risky option. You’re good for another seven hours,” he gestured at Dean’s neck, “and I won’t be nearly that long; besides, even if something was to - to delay me, you have, what, a good twenty four hours before it closes up to the max, right?”

Dean could really have done without that reminder; he had enough to think about, not knowing where Sam was and whether he was safe. Just worrying about when he was coming back was going to kill him, never mind the clock ticking down on his next spike reset. The next few hours would seem like days, he knew it. But, no point in putting it off; the sooner Sam left, the sooner he would be back. So,

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean lied, putting on his game face. He knew it didn’t fool Sammy, not for one second; but it was a code of sorts, an acceptance that this was just how things were, typical of their lives, and they both just had to get on with it. If he said he was good, he was good, no matter how he might feel on the inside, and Sam would go along with that.

“Okay, here.” Sam cleared the table then set the laptop in front of Dean, checking that they had a satellite signal, and that the battery was plugged in and charging from the rusty electrical outlet on the kitchen wall.

“You sit here and try and research the collar while I’m gone; I’ll call Jody and then I’ll get going. You’ll be fine, Dean. Just try to stay calm.” Sam dropped his hand onto Dean’s shoulder for a moment, a reassuring weight; squeezed it, and moved away. The loss of contact sent a pang through Dean, already missing him and he hadn’t even left yet.

Sam called Sheriff Mills, putting her on speaker, and updated her on the entire situation; finding Dean, the monster corpses that needed to be cleared out of the vacant warehouse (he admitted a little guiltily that he should have called about that sooner, but he’d had a lot on his mind) and a quick summary of the collar and its limitations. The only thing he didn’t mention was the kiss reset. Jody didn’t need to know about that, since there was nothing she could do about it anyhow.

“I have to leave him for a couple of hours while I go get supplies,” he finished. “He should be fine, but in case anything happens; I’ll check in with you in, say, four hours, but if I don’t call, could you-”

“Of course, I’ll come right over, don’t you boys worry about it,” Jody assured them. “Matter of fact, just to keep things as smooth as possible, why don’t you check in with me regularly, Sam? Call me every hour, then if I don’t hear from you, there’s no time wasted, I can set off straight away.”

“Thanks, Jody, you’re the best,” Dean spoke fervently over Sam’s shorter, but no less sincere acknowledgement. It meant a lot that she was taking this seriously, and he felt better knowing that at least he wouldn’t be alone, even if something did happen to his brother. He firmly squashed all worries about what Jody could do within the twenty four hour time limit, before the collar went from being a painful inconvenience to a lethal trap. There was nothing to be gained from speculating about what they couldn’t prepare for.

Sam set off with a last reassuring squeeze of Dean’s shoulder, and he settled down with the laptop as instructed. A couple of hours later had thrown up little besides articles on pet management, the radio tagging of wild animals, and a whole lot more about alternative sexual practices than Dean was comfortable knowing. He was beginning to feel the after effects of his breakfast coffee and he thought he might take a break and take care of two needs at once; he ought to look into that other matter before there was a chance of Sam returning to surprise him.

Dean made to get up and froze before his ass had left the seat, as the collar told him in no uncertain terms to stay put.

“What the hell..?” he muttered, noting that it didn’t seem to have a problem with him talking; just moving, apparently. “C’mon, I need to use the bathroom,” he told it sternly, still speaking aloud just because he could, and there was nobody to hear him holding a one-sided conversation with an inanimate object, anyhow. He tried again and subsided with a groan as the collar made it clear that he, not it, was mistaken here.

“Are you kidding me?!” he snarled, slamming his hand down on the keyboard in frustration and paying for it with another jolt of electricity. “Look, you dumb piece of trash, I’m allowed; Sam said so, it’s standing order número dos! You think he wants me to piss all over the floor? You’re not doing your owner any favours, here. I’m coming back to the laptop, just gimme a break already.”

He attempted to stand for a third time, and a stronger bolt of energy drove him back into his chair, eyes wincing shut with the pain. He could ignore it, force himself to his feet… but he knew what would happen. The collar would just keep shocking him, with increasing power, until he collapsed on the floor. Sam would come back to find him sprawled unconscious in a pool of his own urine and vomit; if he hadn’t choked on it and died. Disobedience would accomplish nothing, and he couldn’t do that to Sam. Better to come home to a small mess, and a healthy, if pissed off brother, than that nightmare, although a small, unworthy part of his brain piped up viciously that it would serve him right for abandoning Dean in the first place. He’d warned Sam something could happen, and now it looked like it was going to. Unless he could hold on until he got back; how long had it been, anyway? Surely he hadn’t planned on staying out the whole seven hours Dean had until the reset?

Dean glared at the laptop screen morosely, drumming his fingers on the keys to distract himself, not to type. Funny how insistent the bladder became when you knew there was no chance of relief; just moments ago, he’d had the idle thought he might make a trip to the bathroom, no more. Now, it felt like it was going to explode. “Sam,” he said through gritted teeth, “you better hurry the fuck up, whatever you’re doing.”

The collar started buzzing warningly against the back of his neck. “Oh, what the hell now?” he shouted, exasperated. “You don’t like me cussing out your owner? Too fucking bad. Stupid Sammy always thinking he knows best. ‘Stay here Dean’,” he imitated his brother’s voice, pitching a savage falsetto way higher than Sam’s normal register, just to be aggravating. “You’ll be fine, much less risky leaving you all ALONE in an abandoned CABIN in the freaking middle of NOWHERE, with a psychotic cursed COLLAR that won’t even let you up to TAKE A GODDAMN PISS…” He stopped, panting, his hands clenching into fists, as the collar stabbed at him again and again. He realised, blearily, that it wasn’t the yelling it objected to; he had been smacking the tabletop with his hands to punctuate his outburst.

He forced himself to get a grip; anger wasn’t going to help, he needed to figure out what the collar wanted, why it was suddenly acting up like this. It had been fine for two hours while he sat and looked stuff up on the computer, so maybe that was the problem? It had been Sam’s parting instruction, ‘sit here and do research while I’m gone’ - a direct order that probably countermanded any standing order, lower down the chain of priority, that would contradict it. And the constant, low level buzzing that was cramping his neck right now, that was probably a prompt to get on with his orders. So the collar wasn’t going to let him off doing research; okay, he could work with that. It was a laptop, he could take it with him into the bathroom and multi-task!

He reached to unplug the power cable, and yelped as his frazzled nerves took yet another punishment. “Son of a bitch!” he swore. “I’m not turning it off, I’m trying to bring it with me! Do what you want and keep from making a mess into the bargain, how is that not good?!”

He reached again, cautiously, for the cable; slumped back into his chair with a frustrated growl that sounded suspiciously more like a whimper as the collar crackled once more against abused nerve endings. The nape of his neck felt red raw, and the stiffness of muscles shocked rigid was beginning to spread across his shoulders and down his arms, numbing his fingers. If he kept this up, he could do some permanent damage; and it was pointless trying to reason with the thing, like it could actually listen.

“Okay, okay, sit still and do research, I got it,” Dean sighed, and sat forward, fingers splayed ready to type. The collar quietened immediately, but it was a bitter satisfaction; his bladder, temporarily forgotten amid more pressing concerns, surged back into play with a vengeance. He wondered how long he could hold it, and whether there was any way he could contain it if he couldn’t. Sam had cleared the table of any useful receptacles; maybe he could twist around and aim for the sink..?

No, the collar informed him with mindless obstinacy, he couldn’t. It jabbed him again for good measure, hounding him to get back to his allotted task.

Dean gave up. “All right, I’m on it, now shut the fuck up and leave me alone,” he muttered and dove back into fruitless research. The mounting urgency of the signals from his abdomen made it increasingly difficult to concentrate, not that he was finding anything worth concentrating on, and he was developing a headache from the chronic cramping of his trapezoid muscles. Panic stirred, uncoiling like a snake in the pit of his stomach, and its hissing translated into waves of dizziness that washed through his mind, leaving a frozen blankness in their wake. He couldn’t type, he couldn’t even see properly, and if Sam didn’t come back soon, he thought he might pass out anyway, right here in his chair over the keyboard. At least the collar would leave him alone once he was unconscious, and he laughed hollowly, grateful for small mercies. Then he made a Herculean effort to pull himself together, because he was a Winchester, and Winchesters didn’t quit.

Fortunately, the collar did not have a detailed grasp of what constituted useful research, and as long as Dean was trying; making half hearted attempts to stab out queries and taking three times as long as normal to read through the first article to show up; it left him in peace. Unfortunately, his bladder did not. As time ticked away with torturous slowness, it only became fuller, and the need to relieve himself more desperate. Eventually he couldn’t fight his body any longer and when he went to fumble open his jeans and the collar instantly zapped an objection, he couldn’t be bothered to fight it either and just let loose, right there in his pants, sighing with the almost orgasmic relief. He took a subtly malicious pleasure in knowing there wasn’t anything he could do about it; it was all the collar’s fault, and a man’s just gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

That feeling soon dissipated, as his ass and thighs grew cold and clammy and the stench of urine assailed his nostrils. The scratches along his dick started to burn with prolonged exposure to the acid of his slowly drying piss and it was a forcible reminder of his recent imprisonment, discarded and helpless in the concrete hole in the wall of the warehouse, used up and aching the way he did now. The panic started to climb again. Sam had abandoned him just like the naga; he wasn’t coming back, Jody wouldn’t make it either, and Dean would rot here, after a slow, agonising death from dehydration and repeated electrocution as the collar tried to force him to get back to work. He started to look up how long a man could go without water in captivity, but that wasn’t collar research so naturally it stopped him cold.

Time crawled over the next hour or so like the agonised struggles of a victim in a horror movie, seeking non-existent safety. It was a monotonous loop of desultory attempts to keep the collar satisfied with ‘research’, which dragged slowly to nothing as a creeping paralysis crept over him at the pointlessness of it all, and he curled into himself, trembling and praying for his brother’s return. The remembered stench of filthy concrete rose like a ghost all around him on the fumes of his own waste, as the walls of the cabin shrank in around him, boxing him in. Then the collar would spring to life, prodding him viciously back into reality until he grabbed for the laptop like a lifeline, tears leaking tracks down his cheeks as he begged it to leave him alone. At least back in the hole in the warehouse, he’d had only to wait, there was no additional cruelty of a task he could no longer perform.

That was how Sam found him on his return; well within the limit for resetting the spike, but far too long for his brother’s taut-stretched psyche.

Dean was so far gone by this point that he could only register his brother’s approach with a barely-strangled sob, slumped over the laptop with the keys imprinted on his tear soaked face. The measured footsteps paused as Sam neared the table, gradually taking in the evidence of Dean’s utter humiliation. There was a rustling thump as he dumped the bags of groceries, then he flew to Dean’s side, patting and plucking at his shoulders as he pieced things together in a chastened torrent of exclamations.

“Christ, what happened, why couldn’t you… the collar wouldn’t let you get up? Oh shit, shit, I told you to sit here didn’t I, I said sit and do research and - God, Dean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t - I thought the standing orders… How long’ve you been here like this? I should have listened to you, should never have left you alone… Dean, are you okay? I mean, I know this must be mortifying but it wasn’t your fault, and I’m back now, and… Dean?”

It slowly dawned on Sam that Dean wasn’t just sitting in an apathetic slump, nursing a fully justified bitterness towards his little brother’s stupidity, but that something more serious was wrong than wounded pride. He hauled him upright and cradled him to his chest, anxiously checking his glazed, reddened eyes for signs of consciousness. A whimper escaped Dean’s throat at this gentle manhandling; his neck felt flayed and his entire upper body was locked tight in spasm from the constant electrocution.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, doing his best to tamp down the urgency that sharpened his tone. “Are you hurting, did the collar punish you for… for that? The spike hasn’t come back has it, it’s not been eight hours yet… Dean, talk to me, tell me what happened!”

Faced with an unequivocal command, Dean stirred from his fugue and in a rasping voice he listlessly outlined the basics of the last few hours.

“Wouldn’t let me up; you said sit and research. Peed myself. Panicked a little, but it wouldn’t let me stop. Kept shocking me. Just made it worse. Tried to… to type, couldn’t… everything going blurry, pain, couldn’t think straight; scared. Was scared, Sam. Felt like… back in the warehouse… abandoned… left me there to die…” He trailed off, eyes wincing closed, and Sam hugged him close, running his hands over his shoulders and then his hair. He started to shake a little himself as the full horror of the situation crashed in upon him.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating numbly, as he rubbed the muscles of Dean’s upper arms and shoulders and what he could reach of his neck above the collar.

“Come on,” he said after a little while, “let’s get you cleaned up. Wish this place had a shower, but we’ll just have to make do with a sink and washcloth. I’ll boil some water, make it nice and warm.” The water heater that supplied both sinks was woefully inadequate, barely enough to take the chill off the pipes in winter.

Sam hauled Dean to his feet, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist, and led him, stumbling a little, towards the tiny bathroom. He propped Dean up on the toilet, checking he could sit unaided before he went to get the hot water.

“Dean,” he said hesitantly, “you think you can… you wanna do this yourself, can you manage..? I mean, I don’t mind, I just don’t want…Do you need my permission?”

Dean tried to force his trembling muscles to cooperate, but between the stiffness and the numb fog that seemed to have crept over him, alongside his ingrained dread of the collar’s rebuke, he couldn’t seem to manage. He felt like a wooden puppet whose strings had been cut, rigid and helpless. He gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of shame and fury washed through him, making his muscles clench and throb anew.

“Can’t…” he croaked, screwing his eyes closed so as not to see the emotions doubtless flooding Sam’s expressive face, guilt and pity and maybe even disgust at the hopeless wreck his brother had become. Dean Winchester, acclaimed hunter, scourge of demons, angels and leviathan, reduced to a snivelling, trembling wreck who couldn’t even wipe up his own filth. All because of that naga hag and her fucking collar. He was helpless, less self-sufficient than a slave, and he felt completely unmanned. Even in Hell, he’d had a choice, had withstood their torture for decades; seemed Alastair could have learned a thing or two from the naga, because they had him wrapped up like a little bitch in mere weeks. “‘M sorry Sam… useless…”

“It’s okay,” Sam soothed, “it’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up about this Dean. Look, I’ll do it. It’s fine, not as though it’s anything I’ve never seen before.”

Which might, technically, be true, but there was a world of difference between half caught glimpses as they undressed together in cramped quarters or shared the facilities, or Sam working on stitching a thigh wound with his face mere inches from Dean’s boxers-clad junk, and sitting here, a grown man, as his little brother washed his ass and balls. Dean shuddered and choked back a sob of self-revulsion, leaning back against the cold, hard tank of the john as more tears leaked beneath his eyelids. He was so done with this shit; might as well let Sam get on with it. At least he couldn’t suffer any worse than this final degradation.

Sam was gentle and efficient as he got Dean standing again then stripped him out of his soiled clothing. He was clearly trying to avoid looking as much as possible, because he didn’t notice anything wrong until Dean’s indrawn hiss of pain at the touch of the washcloth against his dick. Dean had forgotten about it himself, the localised soreness merely one note in the overall chorus of pain, but as Sam was forced to pay attention to the claw marks, his indignity plumbed even greater depths.

“Crap, Dean, why didn’t you say something?” Sam remonstrated. “This doesn’t look recent; she do this to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, barrelling on as he wiped as tenderly as possible around the inflammation then reached for the first aid kit in the cabinet over the sink. “You’ll be okay, it hasn’t gone septic, but you’ll - we’ll need to keep an eye on it,” he emphasised the change of pronoun firmly, “make sure it doesn’t get any worse. I’ll put some salve on it, and a loose bandage. Good thing urine is sterile, if anything it’s probably helped, but I bet it stung like a son of a bitch. Dean, you have to look after yourself better than this; you’re compromised, you need my help, and that means talking to me about stuff before it gets too bad, okay? I know it’s embarrassing but suck it up; would you rather have me, or try to explain to some stranger how you got your dick all scratched up like you tried to screw a wildcat? Not like we can take you to a hospital anyhow, not with the collar.”

Dean just stood there, eyes closed, and let his brother’s mildly chiding prattle wash over him as he fixed him up, as competent as any professional nurse. It was actually soothing, as the sting - both mental and physical - wore off and his whole body started to sag with tiredness, as though his bones had been filled with lead. By the time Sam had finished and helped him into clean underwear, he was shaking from exhaustion, and he was led unprotesting out of the bathroom and into bed.

“You rest up for a bit,” Sam ordered, “while I go clean up out there. I’ll come wake you when it’s time for a reset, and then I’ll make us something to eat.”

It occurred to Dean, hazily, that Sam shouldn’t have to clean up his mess. He was doing everything: killing the monsters, driving, shopping for groceries, cooking, cleaning and taking care of his brother. But, as he’d tried to tell him before, Dean wasn’t disabled; with the right instructions, he could share the workload easily. He just needed to take a little nap and then he could get right on it.

“Not fair,” he murmured, thickly, so that Sam had to bend over him to catch what he was trying to say. “Doin’ too much. Gotta let me… gimme orders. Can help. Later. Jus’ need… short rest… then clean up…”

“No,” Sam answered, succinctly. “You need to rest, Dean; and the cleaning can’t really wait. Besides, I’m not letting you do that; it’s my fault it happened in the first place, and if you think I’m ordering you to clean up a mess you couldn’t help, then think again. You rest up until I’m done; let me know if you need anything, but otherwise, stay quiet. We’ll discuss task division tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”

With that, he smoothed his hand over Dean’s forehead, turned, and left the room. Dean heard him on the phone to Jody, telling her that everything was fine, he was back at the cabin and would keep her apprised of their situation. He spared her - and Dean - the details of what had just occurred. After that, Dean could hear him puttering about with a mop and bucket, scrubbing down the chair, putting Dean’s jeans in the bucket to soak. One of the consequences of dealing with leviathan for the last year was that they were not short of cleaning supplies.

As he lay there listening to Sam clean up, Dean had a sudden flashback to his early childhood; events from the harrowing weeks after Mom’s death, which he had completely forgotten until now. He had been so obsessed with looking after his baby brother that he hated to leave Sam’s side for a moment, even to head to the toilet. He’d disgraced himself on several occasions, unable to explain what had happened, not just because he was so young; for some time after the fire, he had also lost the ability to speak. Now, he remembered watching as Dad cleaned up, not so much the actions but the feelings that accompanied them. His own shame, and his father’s disappointment, which he could sense even at such a young age, although Dad had never actually told him off for the frequent accidents.

One occasion came to him in particular. He recalled with uncomfortable clarity how he had woken up one night needing to go, and wet the little truckle bed they shared, because he didn’t dare get up and leave Sammy. It could happen all over again, they (whoever ‘they’ were) could come for his brother while Dean was away, like they had when they got Mom. He had lain there, frozen with indecision; wet, uncomfortable and ashamed, the sodden lump of Mr Stabby pressed up against his side. Except he hadn’t been Mr Stabby back then, that was long before Dean had transformed him with a flick knife into a steel horned deterrent to bedroom intruders, but he couldn’t recall what he’d called the plush horse as a child.

When Dad had come in to check on Sam and discovered Dean’s transgression, he had picked the toy up and muttered something about it being too ruined to save, making as if to throw it away. Dean had screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing an absolute and unaccustomed shit fit at the thought of losing one more thing, the only one of his toys to survive the fire. The little horse had become his comfort and confidant throughout the long, dark nights, a brave and loyal companion which kept the nightmares at bay. Dad had been shocked into a rare capitulation, and Mr Stabby had been thrown in with the bed linens, little the worse for wear after his ordeal.

If Mr Stabby could survive a bedwetting, then so could Dean. He gritted his teeth and raised his arm, shoving his hand under his pillow before the collar could catch up and discipline him for moving too much without permission. He felt about, enduring the punishing shocks until he found what he was searching for and then stilled, as his hand closed about the childhood memento he always kept by him in sleep, alongside his gun. Mr Stabby had been with him through thick and thin and he had too many memories and too strong a connection to let the toy go, though he tried to keep him hidden from Sam. It wasn’t exactly a secret, just something too raw and personal to want to explain, or even to think about much beyond keeping him packed in his duffel, transported from pillow to pillow between motels. He was such a rote part of Dean’s bedtime routine that, on their arrival at the cabin and Sam telling him to get ready for bed, he had been able to transfer the toy without the collar balking. He was just glad the naga had taken him between motels, so all his stuff was packed in the car, or Sammy might have missed the little horse and left him behind.

Now, Dean was finally able to relax, drifting into a light doze with his fingers curled around the small, soft shape beneath his pillow as he half listened to his brother cleaning up. Sammy had his back, just as Dean had always had his; they looked out for one another, and they would get through this like everything else the monsters threw at them. The continued existence of Mr Stabby was his proof; the toy-turned-weapon had even survived Dean’s trip to Hell, showing up among his personal effects that Sam hadn’t had the heart to throw out. His current situation sucked, for sure, and the past several hours had been up there with some of his worst, but it was just the starting slope of a learning curve; nothing his little brother’s giant brain couldn’t get to grips with. In the matter of Sam versus an asshole magical enforcement collar, when the chips were down, Dean was confident that his brother would win.

As a four year old, he’d had to depend on Dad, even though the man’s own grief hadn’t made it easy looking after his traumatised son. Now, Dean depended on Sam, their roles suddenly reversed. Dean had always looked out for his little brother, but now, he realised he would have to let Sammy look out for him for a change. He seemed to be handling things much better than Dad had though, and Dean fell asleep thinking it might be okay for Sam to hold the reins for a little while; just until they’d figured things out.