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DEAD DOVE SAMDEAN

Wincest

Non-Con

Caning

Punishment

somewhat Stockholm syndrome ig?

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"Dude, you've gotta keep it down," Dean hissed at Sam as they crept through the shadowy halls of the abandoned asylum, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the peeling paint and cold, hard tiles. Sam, his eyes wide with fear and excitement, nodded vigorously, his breaths coming out in shaky bursts.

"You know how much I hate these places," Sam whispered back, his hand tight around the saltshaker in his pocket. The chill of the night air had seeped into his bones, but the anticipation of what they were about to face made him shiver even more.

"We're not here for a slumber party," Dean reminded him gruffly, raising the Colt .45 in his hand. "We're here to kick some ghost ass and save some souls." He smirked at his own words, the flickering light from the flashlight playing over his sharp jawline and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

As they approached the room at the end of the corridor, the air grew thick with a sense of foreboding. The door was ajar, and a faint light flickered within. Dean pushed it open slowly, revealing a scene that made Sam's heart sink. In the center of the room, a figure lay sprawled on a dusty bed, unmoving. But it wasn't a ghost they'd come to exorcise. It was a young woman, her eyes closed in what seemed like a deep sleep, surrounded by a ring of ancient, arcane symbols drawn in what looked like blood.

Dean's smirk disappeared, replaced by a furious scowl. He whipped around to face Sam, his eyes burning with accusation. "What the hell did you do?" he snarled. Sam's stomach twisted into knots as he realized his mistake. He'd mixed up the lore, the ritual they were supposed to perform. This wasn't an exorcism; it was something much darker, something that had never been meant for them to find.

The woman on the bed stirred, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from her chest. Her eyes snapped open, revealing a deep, inhuman blackness. She sat up, a twisted smile playing on her lips, and Dean knew instantly that this was no ordinary spirit. "You brought me a snack," she purred, her voice a chilling blend of sweetness and malevolence.

Panic set in, and Sam stumbled backward, his hand fumbling for the holy water in his pocket. But it was too late. The creature was on him, her nails digging into his skin, drawing blood as she dragged him closer. Dean fired the Colt, but the bullets passed right through her. "Sammy," he roared, desperation lacing his voice as he watched his brother struggle.

The room grew colder, and the air crackled with dark energy. The woman's eyes turned to Dean, and he could see the hunger in them. He knew that she could feel their fear, and it only made her stronger. He had to get them out of there, now. But as they stumbled out of the room, the weight of their mistake hung heavy between them, a burden that would follow them back to the motel and beyond.

Back at the motel, the tension in the air was palpable. Dean slammed the door behind them, and Sam shrank away from the anger radiating off his brother. He knew he'd messed up, big time. They'd been so close to a successful hunt, but now…now they were in deeper than they'd ever been.

Dean's handsome face was contorted with rage, and his eyes were cold as ice. He stalked over to Sam, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. "What were you thinking?" he yelled, spit flying from his mouth. Sam's heart hammered in his chest, his eyes darting to the side, avoiding Dean's piercing gaze.

"I-I didn't mean to," Sam stammered, his voice barely audible. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"Oh, it won't," Dean assured him, his voice low and menacing. "Because you're going to learn your lesson." He stormed over to the corner of the room where their father's old hunting gear was stashed, his eyes locking on the worn cane leaning against the wall. It was a relic from another life, another time, but now it would serve a new purpose.

Dean snatched the cane from its place and turned back to Sam, the wood feeling heavy and powerful in his grip. He knew it was a line they'd never crossed before, but something inside him had snapped. He couldn't let Sam's carelessness go unpunished, not when it could've cost them both their lives.

"Take off your pants," he ordered, his voice a harsh whisper.

Sam's eyes widened, and his breath hitched in his throat. The color drained from his face as he stumbled over his words, "Dean, no, please." The memories of his father's cruel punishments flooded back, the sting of the belt and the crack of the cane echoing in his mind.

But Dean was unmoved. He stepped closer, the cane raised slightly. "Do it," he demanded, his eyes dark with anger.

With trembling hands, Sam obeyed, his jeans pooling around his ankles. His heart was racing, his eyes locked on Dean's, searching for any sign of mercy. But all he saw was cold determination.

Dean's gaze never left Sam's as he pointed at the bed. "Bend over." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Sam felt his throat tighten, but he did as he was told, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. He couldn't believe this was happening.

The bed creaked under his weight as he positioned himself, his stomach in knots. He could feel the cool fabric of the motel's comforter against his bare skin, the roughness of the cheap material biting into his palms as he squeezed them tightly.

"Dean, please," Sam whimpered, his voice cracking as he tried to hold back the sobs. His eyes filled with tears that spilled down his cheeks, leaving wet trails in their wake. He felt so small, so vulnerable, his fear reducing him to the terrified child he'd once been, enduring their father's wrath.

Dean's expression didn't soften, but something in Sam's desperation made him pause for a moment. He took a deep breath, his grip on the cane tightening. "You put us both in danger," he said through gritted teeth. "You have to face the consequences."

Sam's shoulders shook as he begged, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please don't do this." The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, his voice a broken echo of the strong, confident man he'd become over the years. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls painted with the memories of his past.

But Dean's expression remained unyielding. He took a step closer, the cane poised in the air. "You've got to learn," he said, his voice thick with a mix of anger and regret. And with that, the cane swung down, biting into Sam's bare skin with a sharp crack.

The pain was immediate and intense, stealing the breath from Sam's lungs. His eyes squeezed shut, and a scream tore through his throat. Each strike after that fell in a rhythmic pattern, echoing through the silent motel room. The sting grew unbearable, a crescendo of agony that seemed to go on forever. And with each strike, Sam felt himself slipping further into the abyss of his traumatic past, the line between then and now blurring.

"D-Dad, please stop!" The words slipped out unbidden, a desperate plea from a time long ago. Sam's mind was a tumult of emotions, a whirlwind of fear and pain. The cane continued to fall, and with it, the last vestiges of his pride. He could feel the warm wetness of tears on his cheeks, and the coppery taste of fear in his mouth.

Dean's strokes grew harder, the cane leaving angry red welts on Sam's skin. Twenty, twenty-five, Sam lost count of the times the cane met flesh. The pain was a living thing, a monster that grew with each hit, consuming him from the inside out. His body trembled uncontrollably, his grip on the bed slipping as he tried to brace himself against the onslaught.

Through the haze of pain, Sam could feel something else stirring inside him, something darker. Anger, resentment, and a deep, burning hatred for the world that had put him here, for the father who had taught Dean this brutal method of discipline.

"Dad, please," he choked out again, not realizing the slip until the words hung in the air like a curse.

Dean's hand paused mid-swing, and his eyes widened slightly. The anger in them morphed into something else, something that made Sam's stomach drop. He swallowed hard, trying to pull himself back into the present, but the damage was done. He felt a sudden pressure against his back, and realized with horror that Dean had an erection. The room went still, the echo of the last strike fading into the silence.

"Did you learn your lesson, Sammy?" Dean's voice was softer now, almost gentle, but the edge of danger remained.

Sam nodded frantically, his eyes squeezed shut. "Yes," he managed, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry."

Dean's hand moved to Sam's shoulder, his thumb brushing over a welt, eliciting a whine from his brother. "Good," he murmured, his tone low and soothing. "Now, I'm going to make the pain feel better."

The cane was set aside with a clatter, and suddenly, Dean's hands were on his bare skin, his touch feather-light against the throbbing welts. Sam's body was a maelstrom of sensations, the pain from the beating mingling with the new, unexpected contact. He could feel Dean's breath on the back of his neck, warm and erratic.

With a gentle grip, Dean spread Sam's bruised cheeks apart, exposing his quivering hole to the cool motel room air. Sam's breath hitched in shock, his mind racing with a mix of fear and a strange, unwanted arousal. He'd never… they'd never…

Dean's tongue darted out, tracing the tender ring of muscle with a wet, tentative stroke. Sam's body jerked in response, a whimper escaping his throat. The sensation was foreign, yet undeniably intimate. The salty taste of his own fear and the metallic scent of blood filled the air, but the gentle exploration of Dean's tongue was a stark contrast to the pain that had come before.

As the initial shock began to wear off, Sam felt a different kind of tension building within him. He tried to push the thoughts away, but his body was betraying him. His cock, which had shriveled in terror, began to swell, straining against his boxers. He could feel the wetness pooling between his legs, the sticky warmth of his pre-cum smearing against the fabric.

Dean's tongue grew bolder, lapping and swirling around Sam's tight opening, delving into the warmth within. Sam's grip on the bed tightened, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to push back into the sensation. It was wrong, so wrong, but it felt…good. He could feel the tension in his body slowly giving way to something else, something that scared him more than the beating ever had.

Without warning, Dean's tongue pushed inside him, penetrating the barest inch. Sam's legs trembled, and a low moan slipped from his mouth. It was a violation, a line that should never have been crossed, but his body was responding with a hunger that shook him to his core.

The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and then Dean's cock was pressing against his entrance, thick and insistent. Sam's eyes shot open, his mind snapping back to reality. "No," he choked out, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Dean, no."

But the words were lost in the fog of pleasure and pain that clouded his senses. He felt the head of Dean's cock push past the ring of muscle, the pressure building as his brother breached him. The pain was a white-hot knife, but it was quickly overshadowed by the feeling of being filled, of being claimed by the very person who had just punished him so severely.

Dean's grip on his hips tightened, his breath coming in harsh pants as he began to thrust. Each movement sent a wave of agony through Sam, but it was quickly followed by a dark, twisted pleasure that made his toes curl. He didn't want this, he didn't want to want this, but his body was responding on instinct, his hips rocking back to meet the steady rhythm of Dean's .

Dean's strokes grew more forceful, his cock sliding in and out of Sam's tight channel with a sickening wet sound. The pain was a living, pulsing thing inside him, but it was melding with something else, something that made his breath catch in his throat and his eyes roll back in his head.

The room was filled with the scent of sweat and sex, the sound of skin slapping against skin a stark reminder of the reality of what was happening. But in the haze of his mind, Sam could only focus on the feeling of being filled, of being owned by his brother.

"You're mine, Sammy," Dean whispered, his voice a harsh rasp in the quiet room. "You always have been." And with that, he drove himself deep, his release flooding into Sam with a final, brutal thrust. The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of being claimed complete and utterly.

As Dean's cock softened, he pulled out, leaving Sam's body feeling empty and used. The room spun around him, and he collapsed onto the bed, his cheek pressed against the rough comforter. The sting of the welts on his ass and the ache between his legs was nothing compared to the turmoil in his chest.

When Dean finally spoke, his voice was gentle, almost tender. "I did this because I love you," he said, his hand stroking Sam's hair. "Because you're mine to protect, and I can't do that if you're going to be so careless."

Sam's eyes filled with tears as he nodded, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I know," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

And in that moment, with the weight of his brother's body pressing down on him, the sticky warmth of their mingled release between his cheeks, Sam believed him. He believed that this was love, twisted and painful as it was. It was a love born from a life on the run, from a world where the only constant was each other.

For a few moments, they lay there, the only sound the harsh rasp of their breathing. Then Dean rolled off of him, and the coldness of the room seeped into the space between them. He pulled Sam's pants back up, his touch surprisingly gentle on the tender flesh of Sam's ass.

"C'mere," Dean murmured, his voice thick with a mix of lust and something else, something softer that Sam didn't dare name. He rolled Sam onto his side and tucked him against his chest, his arms wrapping around him in a fierce embrace. "I forgive you, kiddo," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You're mine, and I'll always take care of you."

Sam curled into him, his body shaking with the aftermath of pain and fear. The warmth of Dean's body was a balm to his soul, the steady beat of his heart a reassurance that he was safe. He felt like a child again, small and helpless in his brother's arms. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.

Dean's hand smoothed over his back in soothing circles, his thumb brushing against the tender flesh of Sam's neck. "You're okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through Sam's entire being. "You're safe now."

Sam's eyes grew heavy, his breathing evening out. The warmth of Dean's body, the safety of his arms, lulled him into a fitful sleep, where the nightmare of their encounter melded with the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

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