Title: Medlar!verse: Playtime
Fandom: Pairing: Supernatural: evil!Dean/Demon!Sam
Spoilers: References events/characters in early S4
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar problem, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: evil!Dean, demon!Sam, blasphemy, reference to violence.
Summary: Sam gets talky, Dean indulges his oral fixation and gets a new toy.
Notes: Written for entropynchaos's prompt SPN, evil!Dean/demon!Sam, playtime at comment_fic. Other scenes from the Medlar'verse can be found here.
The phone on the bedside table rang once before falling silent. Sam made a mental note to find out exactly who had made the call – they were either exceedingly lucky with their timing, or they'd been paying too much attention to what went on in the bed of their Crown Prince.
Reluctantly, he tightened his grip on Dean's hair, pulling gently until his brother stopped nursing on his deflated cock and lifted barely-focussed eyes to his face.
"I have a gift for you."
Dean's gaze immediately dropped back to Sam's cock, now lying limply in its nest of dark curls, saliva-slick and deeply pink from prolonged exertion.
"I think I broke it." The words were fractured, hard to understand when spoken through a throat still raw and swollen, blackened and bruised.
"Yeah, right. You know you'd cry like a baby if you thought that was the truth." Sam pressed two fingers to Dean's mouth before he could reply.
"You know I would have been with you in the Pit, if I could; if it wouldn't have ruined everything; if it wouldn't have made you fight harder."
Dean nodded, sucking the silencing fingers into his mouth and making Sam sublimely aware of his oral fixation, damaged throat be damned.
"I got to see you every now and then, but I heard you often. So many times you called on God to rescue you, to let you go, to give you absolution. Oh, I know it wasn't nearly as often as you called to me, begging and pleading, saying you knew I'd come." He brought his other hand up to stroke the hollowed skin of Dean's cheek, the bow of his upper lip.
"I wasn't the only one who heard you. He was listening too, and He let you suffer, Dean. He listened to everything they did to you, everything they made you do, and He never came, never answered, never even blinked. Truth is, He didn't want to end your suffering. He would have listened to your pleas and your torment for as long as I let them hurt you. He had a plan, you see."
Sam eased his fingers from Dean's mouth, tapping him gently on the nose when he felt the sharp, fleeting nip of teeth across his knuckles. He snatched up a short, cotton robe from the floor where it had fallen during their frenzied reunion fuck, and held it out for Dean to slip on.
"His plan was fiendishly simple, and it might have worked, if you'd still been our father's obedient lieutenant. He was going to try and out-wait me, and He almost did. A few more days of listening to you flay yourself with guilt and penitence, and I would have reached down and pulled you out to break you myself, leaving everything to chaos and His interference."
"Shhh. He thought you'd kill me before I could get the job done; thought you'd never break the promise Dad made you swear. But He fucked up. He probably thinks He over-estimated your endurance; probably thinks you gave in when it got too much to bear. But I know the truth, Dean. I know you broke for me. I was all that you had left out of everything – the Impala's safe, by the way, no-one's touched her – and-"
A sharp knock on the outer door of the suite interrupted him, and Sam snatched up a second robe and yanked it on, ushering Dean towards the door leading out into the sitting room.
"When He realised His mistake, He sent one of his minions to pull you out. Perhaps He thought you'd be so guilt-ridden by what you'd become down there that you'd prostrate yourself the moment you were topside again. Blinded by His own light."
There was a second, louder knock at the door, and the corners of Sam's mouth tightened in fury for the briefest of moments, before he turned a smile on Dean.
The suite's outer door flew open, and two of Sam's soldiers stepped into the room, dragging a third figure between them, covered from head to foot in a spotless white sheet.
The men took one look at Sam's expression and left as wordlessly as they'd come, pulling the door closed behind them with extra care.
Sam ignored them completely; they were forgotten before they'd even reached the elevator. His whole focus was on Dean.
"I hope you like your gift; it took forever to wrap."
Dean reached a hand out to the sheet and then paused.
"Go ahead. Take the sheet off."
One tug and the cotton slid to the floor, revealing the figure beneath. It was a man – or at least the shell of a man – and he was naked, wrists cuffed and resting on his belly, pale skin liberally sprinkled with tattoos and half-familiar markings.
"Dean Winchester, meet the Angel Castiel. He's been wanting to meet you for a while now, though under rather different circumstances. We thought we'd have a fight on our hands getting him into a meat suit, but it turned out he'd already got this one all set up, we just had to… finesse him into it. And all that ink he's wearing means he can't use that voice of his or any of his other tricks." Sam grinned, all teeth and flickering tongue. "He's all yours."