Chapter Text
Dean had a gag reflex once. He remembers it, part fear and part physical response. It had been the trigger point when his body was pushed too far, driven to spasms of repulsion.
There's a man forcing his cock down Dean's throat. No, not a man, Dean thinks, A monster. He and Sam have been on the hunt for shape shifters the past two days, and Sam had gotten a big old research boner for the Raven Lords of Lobberich. According to a dusty old tome, there were three Raven Lords, rather than the seven portrayed by the Brothers Grimm, and that's all Dean had bothered to learn before ditching Sam in the library and hitting up the nearest dive bar.
Unfortunately, the raven scum had been cruising the same bar and Dean has inadvertently become their next victim. He's not absolutely certain that these things are bona fide Raven Lords but they're definitely some variety of shifter because Dean brushed his silver ring against the shortest one and it shrieked like a banshee (he still wears his silver ring for special occasions, such as hunting shape shifters). There's also the evidence of the cock forcing its way down Dean's throat, that doesn't smell or taste even vaguely human. And there are three of them. And their eyes are beady.
Dean was obviously just too good looking to pass over in the bar. Either that, or it was slim pickings in the middle of the day. They don't seem to realise that they've picked up a hunter and Dean has no plans to enlighten them. He's actually hoping that the sexual assault part of the proceedings will drag out because the next bit is when he gets pecked to death and he's not seeing a way out of this on his own.
It's not the first time that Dean has been on his knees swallowing down the cock of a repulsive guy. Sadly, it's not the first time that Dean has been forced either. It's not even the first time he's blown a monster. It is the first time that the monster has been a shifter but as first times go it's hardly a major landmark.
As monster cocks go, this one's pretty small. Then again, that would make sense, since the thing's true form is a little black bird (Big black bird Dean, the raven is the largest bird in the crow family),and do birds even have cocks?
It's very tempting to bite down but the three Raven Lords have him captive, hands bound and nasty looking curved blades at the ready. If he bites the cock off of Raven Lord Number One then he has no doubt that Raven Lords Numbers Two and Three will immediately repay the amputation in kind and then immediately take it out on his ass. Dean would like to avoid moving the rape scenario from mouth to ass for as long as possible because Sam will be coming for him. He's making his mouth as loose and sloppy as he can, trying to delay the inevitable mouthful of bird-monster spunk. He just has to hold out until Sam can rescue him.
Dean does feel revulsion but it's a distant thing. The act is repulsive. The thing using his mouth is an abomination and it's violating his body, and the thought alone should be enough to make him vomit. He doesn't gag.
Sam is about ten seconds late. Bird Lord Number One blows its load, gross and sticky, and holds Dean's nose until he swallows. There aren't many monsters with poisonous spunk, so hopefully the only fallout will be the foul taste.
Sam's face is awesome. It floods with relief when he sees that Dean is alive, echoing Dean's own relief at being rescued relatively early into the assault. Shame follows quickly for Dean though, as Sam takes in what's happening: Dean's kneeling position and the thin drool at the corners of his swollen mouth. After that Sam is all cold fury and death.
They hug afterwards, or rather Sam hugs Dean. Dean's heart swells with love, pride and gratitude, and he forgets to feel awkward until he remembers the bits of dead monster squished between them. He's happy to have survived, as happy as he ever gets, to be back with Sam. The Raven Lords are bloody corpses and it's just another hunt that went a little sideways. Just a little more degradation for Dean's collection. He hopes that he's not contagious somehow; that he won't pull Sam down with him.
****
There are two types of people in this world: those who eat under stress and those that don't. Dean eats. He doesn't overeat, not much anyway, never mind what Sam says. He just gets on with it. He ate when he their father died, tasting nothing. He ate when he was dying, alternately tasting everything like he'd never get the chance again, and feeling like he was chewing on sand and cardboard because he was about to leave Sammy all alone in the world.
Sam hands him a menu and he dutifully runs his eyes down the lists, not really taking it in. His throat is raw from being pounded by bird cock and he can't get the aniseedy taste out of his mouth with coffee. Even the discreet swigs from his flask aren't helping any.
“Meat Lovers' Omelette,” he says, when their waiter asks for their order. “With a side of fries. Thanks.”
Dean had eaten when the Apocalypse was raining down upon them. He ate when Bobby died, threw it all up and ate again, until his stomach was full and cowed into submission. He ate when Sam was strung out on demon blood and all he could see was the lower half of Sam's face caked with gore.
“You okay?” Sam asks. Apparently it's therapy time.
“M'fine,” he replies, and it comes out a bit too gruff so he smirks and adds, “Take more than Woody Woodpecker's cousin to get the better of me Sammy.”
When Sam had finally seen fit to cure Dean of vampirism, the effects had lingered and all he had wanted to do was drink, but he ate. He had even eaten when Sam was losing his mind, tormented by Lucifer and defenceless without the wall. Dean really hadn't wanted to eat that time, but by then he had been so good at eating in the face of misery that he went right on doing it anyway.
Therapy over, Sam talks, too brightly, about a possible herd of animal spirits in Nevada. Dean nods and eats. He sips his coffee and thinks of the bloodbath they left behind in the last state. Sam had been terrible and furious, blooded black feathers flying everywhere.
Dean thinks about the look on the face of his attacker when it had realised its mistake; the way its black eyes had twitched when it knew that it was about to die by Sam's blade. He files it away for safe keeping.
****
It's a long drive to Nevada and they make a start the same evening. Dean drinks from his flask while Sam drives, to loosen up a little and make the journey slide by. There's no mention of returning to the Bunker. Dean needs to hunt and Sam seems to know it.
Dean drinks and Sam talks about wild horses. Their conversation tapers off and they listen to The Eagles, which makes Dean want to drink more.
Dean drinks when he needs it, even when he doesn't want to. He has a love-hate relationship with whisky, using the temporary salvation of the bottle, trying to temper it and usually succeeding.
Sometimes he hates the the smell of it; that he's weak enough to need it. He hates the good burn and loathes the familiar warmth as it settles in his belly because it means false comfort.
He doesn't let himself drink enough to become insensible or fall asleep. If he sleeps now then he's more likely to wake up in the early hours of the morning, sweating and panicking, and he really doesn't want that. Maybe later, when Sam's sleeping, he'll drink some more. Maybe he'll cry when the alcohol breaks down his defences, before the pain of his thoughts has mellowed to numb, before everything has swirled away to leave him with sleep.
“We can probably make it to Cheyenne, get a room there?” Sam suggests, turning down the volume.
“Make it Laramie,” Dean says. There are more bars in Laramie, his kind of bars. Getting laid would be better than sobbing his heart out in the dark.
“Sure.” Sam nods but doesn't turn the music back up so Dean waits for it. “Go easy on the hooch, okay?”
“Yessir,” Dean snipes, but after a respectable pause he screws the lid on the flask and tosses it into the back seat. He'll need to be semi-sober to hook up anyway.
Sometimes a faint trace of whisky on the air can make Dean hate himself more than he ever thought it humanly possible for one man to hate anything. Somehow he still manages to slug it back.
****
It's late when they get to Laramie, too late to get lucky on a week night but it's a Friday so Dean goes out anyway, ignoring Sam's stony disapproval and the poorly hidden rejection underneath.
Dean arrives at the bar with every intention of picking up a woman, vague ideas of soft skin and the comfort to be found in a gentle touch. Before he can make a move however, or even scope out the pickings properly, there's a guy all up in his personal space ordering him a drink. He's a big guy, bearded, rough around the edges, body language screaming alpha male. Dean wants to fight him.
There are probably consenting adults in the world who can have casual sex; consensual, safe, fun casual sex, and walk away from it unharmed. Dean thinks that's how it's supposed to go. That's how it goes in the movies: happy, hot, casual sex. It's never that way for Dean. However good the sex is, every one night stand chips away at his heart, leaves him a little colder, a little more alone.
Early on there had been more women than men, girls really. Sometimes, when their touch had felt like love, Dean had promised to return. Sometimes he had even believed that he would. Not every woman has been soft and tender, but they have all felt breakable in Dean's arms. Increasingly he feels guilty for receiving their tenderness, like a thief.
Then there are the men. Dean chooses the big ones, like this guy. He gives himself away with the conviction that he's worthless, and the relief of being used, of being useful, is immense. With guys like this Dean doesn't have to be in control. This guy will use him roughly, maybe not as roughly as Dean feels he deserves, but all Dean will have to do is take it. And he fucking wants it.
Beardy guy wants his mouth and Dean's not surprised: most guys do. He is a little disappointed. Beardy's cock is gratifyingly fat and Dean goes to he knees once again. He stretches his lips around the very human flesh and thinks that he is back in his proper place. The thought is both bitter and arousing.
There can't be many men walking the streets who can honestly say that they've lost count of how many times they've killed. Dean has lost count. In Hell they said that murder scarred the soul, and that's as may be, but it's the casual sex that scars Dean's soul. Women and men, every encounter, however hot at the time, only serves to reinforce Dean's self hatred in the long run. Dean thinks there's probably a dark humour somewhere in there; that Alastair would have laughed but he can never grasp it. It's bleak and awful for Dean, ugly afterwards in the daylight. It always hurts.
Dean gets a quick hand-job in return, pinned back against the wet brick wall. He comes with his eyes screwed shut thinking of nothing at all.
Back in the room, Dean cleans his teeth as quietly as he can. He's so broken and ugly inside, and he thinks the cracks are starting to show on the outside too. His hands are scarred and rough. His face in the mirror looks haunted and lined. It's amazing that Sam can stand to look at him at all.
****
Dean wakes just after 4am and thinks about Sam because he can't help it, never can for long.
Back when Dean had first realised what he wanted from his brother his gag reflex had still been in peak condition. He had ignored the bad feelings, the want that crept up on him, until Sam was fourteen and touching himself in the same room when he thought Dean was asleep. Dean had lain there on red alert, no longer able to deny the lust that tore through him. He had learned how weak he really was and it made him sick with himself.
He rolls quietly to his side and watches Sam sleep. Sam would be warm and gentle and Dean itches to touch. He thinks he's never wanted anything so badly.
A small mercy has been allowed Dean: Sam has grown up. Dean couldn't have lived all these years with the guilt of lusting after a teenaged Sam. Lusting after Sam at all makes him sick and weak-minded, but at least Sam is now a great strapping beautiful man. Nobody lusting after Sam these days could be accused of poor taste. Dean is the only person in the world for whom lusting after Sam is strictly off limits, and surely it is Dean who lusts the most. It should be funny. It never is.
Sam shifts in his sleep, frowning, and rolls towards Dean. Dean closes his eyes, just in case, but Sam doesn't wake. He imagines Sam's soft breath against his face; imagines Sam's fingers on his twice-abused lips.
Some time later Dean manages to find sleep again.
He dreams that he is Wile E Coyote chasing Sam.