Sam could feel his brain jostling around in his skull when he was pushed down onto the bed. He was bent at the waist, his hands held firm behind his back, and his head was turned to face Dean lying against the door. His face was busted, Dad had done a number on him and left him sucking in deep, ragged breaths as he turned his attention to Sam.
“When did I teach you to fool around with each other?” He tightened his grip on Sam’s wrists, making him whimper and brace against the bed. “What the hell made you think that was okay to do with your brother?”
All they were doing was kissing. Dad wasn’t even supposed to get back until tomorrow afternoon, they were supposed to have another night together before he came home. But he was wired, a hunt gone well always left him pumping pure adrenaline, and now Dean was battered and Sam was about to be, as well.
“It wasn’t serious,” Sam lied, shooting Dean a pained look as Dad slammed his restrained fists down into his back.
“You think I’m fucking stupid, Sam? I heard the rumors, I heard everybody saying you two were too close, but I thought I knew better. About thought I died and went to Hell coming in here and finding you two actin’ like high school sweethearts. What would your mother think?”
Sam struggled against his grip, fought as much as he could in such a compromising situation, and tried to come up with a response that might get him to back off for once.
Of course, Sam couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t instigate a bigger fight.
“She’s dead! She’s not going to think anything about something as stupid as me and Dean kissing!”
He took in a shuddering breath as Dad cupped his ass check through his sweatpants, kneaded it with enough force that it felt like he was going to rip it clean off of Sam’s body. He struggled against him, but it was a futile effort—he had at least 120 pounds and a head on Sam, there was no way he was going to fight his way out. Dean was his only line of defense and he’d been kicked and punched until he was swollen and bleeding. Sam didn’t want to see Dean like this, his eye swelling shut and blood dribbling from his mouth, but it was more comfort than he would have gotten looking towards the wall or ceiling.
“I think you’re fucking sick, Sam. You and Dean both,” his voice was like venom as he pulled Sam’s pants down sharply, exposing his ass and making his heart jump up into the back of his throat. “I think I failed you as a father.”
“Leave him alone!” Dean struggled to say past a swollen lip and aching cheeks, but he tried, regardless. “Leave Sammy alone!”
Sam struggled hard, flailed like a fish underneath his dad’s iron grip and begged for him to stop.
“It’s not doing any harm, not when you’ve already ruined him.” He couldn’t even muster a shred of kindness for his favorite son.
Dad shoved one of Sam’s cheeks out of the way, exposing his hole and making it easier for him to push in. Sam buried his face into the sheets, into his folded arms, and he shook. He could feel how far Dad was pushing him, pulling him so thin he could practically feel that he was being ripped apart. Sam couldn’t bear to look at Dean, not in this state, and he couldn’t bear to see the look on his face as Dad did it.
His legs shook, fell out from under him as Dad forced himself the whole way in. Sam had never had anything so big inside him, his body wasn’t meant for it. He struggled against the large hand holding his hip in place once Dad had fit himself in, started canting his hips back and forth, in and out of Sam in long, painful strokes. It was dry, Sam knew that was bad, but what could he do?
Dad fucked him hard and Sam assumed it didn’t feel good for him, either. No lube, no waiting for himself to get fully hard before he stuck it in, pure punishment for the both of them. All three including Dean, who Sam knew must have been staring on in fear, conflicted on if he should resent Dad or try and take something away from this violent lesson.
He lost time at some point, the cruel thrusting becoming like a second heartbeat that racked his entire body. The creaking of the bedsprings thudded just the same as his pulse in his ears. His sweat-limp hair clung to his forehead and the nape of his neck. His body had gone limp. Dean’s voice started coming in again through the screeching of the bedsprings, his heavy pulse, the sound of Dad’s balls slapping against Sam’s skin, and all he could hear was Dean begging for him to come to his senses.
“Please, he didn’t do anything wrong,” his broken porcelain voice would haunt Sam for years to come.
Sam jumped when Dad pulled out and came on him, smacking his ass hard before he walked away. He heard him zipping his pants, walking right back out and slamming the door behind him. No more words, no conclusion to his lesson. Sam could only assume that he came to his senses then and was trying his best to find an out that wouldn’t do any more damage than this had. The worst part was that Sam couldn’t think of a kinder exit than the one he gave, despite how horribly used and raw he felt.
Once again, Sam and Dean were alone, but the air in the room felt stifling. He finally dared to open his eyes again.
Hot tears had trailed down his cheeks and he hadn’t realized it, not until his skin started to cool. He couldn’t stand and he wasn’t going to try. He wasn’t even sure he could turn himself over onto his back, despite knowing how much that would hurt to do so. Sam didn’t feel so much like a person anymore as a slab of meat that had been tenderized and basted. He didn’t think he’d ever willingly eat turkey again after conjuring up that mental image.
His mind was hazy and so irritatingly slow as it took him a few minutes to process that Dean had pulled himself up and dragged his beaten body over to Sam’s side. Sam wanted to tell him to fix himself first, but he couldn’t get his mouth to move. All he could do was stare at Dean with red, teary eyes, the rest of his face still.
“I’m sorry,” his voice echoed like he was on the other side of an empty room. “Sammy…”
He let his head fall forward, colliding against Dean’s chest. Sam could feel his heart beating against his forehead, felt something cool and sticky on his shirt that must have been drops and splashes of his own blood. He wanted Dean smeared all across him: his blood, his sweat, his spit, his spunk. His every thought circled back to Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, a desperate symphony inside his slow-moving mind.
Sam grabbed onto him with one hand and pulled himself closer, burying his face in his chest until all he could smell was Dean. He should have been rejecting touch, should have been curling up and hiding like on all those crappy procedurals, but he wanted to curl up inside Dean where he’d be safe, really safe.