Title: A Matter of Love

Author: Amber1960

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Words: c6500

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Non con, Dub con, sexual slavery, drugged without consent, mind control

Summary: What is left of a man without his memories? Taken by an incubus and his identity wiped, Toy is just a plaything in the hands of many men. Meanwhile, Sam searches for his lost brother.

Author's note: Written for the H/C Bingo – possession/mind control prompt, though I think I failed to submit anything within the deadlines… A big thank you to my two beta's tifaching and reapertownusa who helped me beat this into shape from a half formed idea. Any residual naffness is entirely down to me.

A Matter of Love

"I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes"
― Vladimir Nabokov

If you could only save one memory, what would it be?

When they asked him that, he'd laughed. He thought they were joking.

They weren't.

Afterwards, of course, he couldn't remember the question being posed to him, or what he'd replied.

Afterwards, he couldn't even remember his own name.

He woke into silence, remembering nothing. He lay there for an undetermined amount of time, eyes closed, completely relaxed, enjoying the feel of warm air on his skin. He didn't have any reason to move or open his eyes. There was no reason to do anything. And it was that thought, paradoxically, that disturbed his lethargy and galvanised him into action.

He sat up and looked around at a room he had no recollection of at all.

It appeared to be a bedroom. Clean, and tastefully decorated in a cream and dark russet colour scheme that looked at once expensive and masculine, though he couldn't have said why he thought that. Or why he felt that he didn't belong in a room like this. The bed was large, a king-size, covered with a single fitted sheet that was smooth under his idly questing fingers, a fine cotton or maybe even silk, he wasn't sure. He didn't know if it was normal that there was no comforter or blanket. It just was. Certainly, he felt no need of an extra covering in the general warmth of the room.

The curtains were drawn back, letting bright sunshine stream in, illuminating everything with a golden glow. The room was sparsely furnished, just a set of mirrored doors he assumed concealed closets, and a large wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. There were two doors, both closed.

He slid his legs off the edge of the bed and stood, walking over to the mirrors, never taking his eyes off the naked figure walking towards him as he approached. He knew it was his own reflection, but it was as if this was the first time he had ever seen himself. Tall, fair skinned, short-cropped tow coloured hair. Well made, lean and muscular. As he got closer, he honed in on the details, cataloguing them. Hazel eyes with more green than brown; freckles dusted over smooth hairless skin; a single tattoo of a pentagram surrounded by flames set over his heart. There were a frightening amount of scars everywhere – legs, abdomen, arms, chest. He could see several thin, silvered lines on his left forearm, as if he was guilty of self-harm.

Yet he could remember nothing about any of them. If they had stories to tell, they were silent now. A silence that extended everywhere, surrounded him totally as if he'd woken up inside a bubble of nothingness. He thought perhaps he should be disturbed by that fact, but all he felt was a vague curiosity.

His penis was hard – morning wood, he thought - and he noted that he was well proportioned. There was no sense of modesty or ownership in his observation. It was just a body.

His sense of detachment continued as his hand moved down to wrap around his dick. The touch felt good, and his dick jerked eagerly in his fingers.

It was as if his body was being reminded of something that defined him, and he felt almost compelled to continue. He began to move his hand in motions that felt practiced, familiar, even though he couldn't remember ever doing this before. Yet his dick was already slick with oil and pre-come, and slipped easily though the circle of his fingers. He watched, fascinated, as the flushed head appeared and disappeared through the rapid motions of his hand. He knew he was going to come soon, he could feel the tension building. So he deliberately slowed his right hand down, to allow the fingers of his left hand to trail around to caress the taut wrinkled skin of his balls. The skin there was soft and sensitive, and he instinctively widened his stance so his fingers could reach farther between his legs, exploring.

The hot secret crack between his legs was slick too, and he knew his body had been prepared for sex. He didn't know why. Neither did he know how he knew this fact, as he had no experiences to draw on. A thought briefly passed through his head that perhaps he should be concerned about all of this, that the circumstances he found himself in were not – normal – but the thought was fleeting, soon lost in the pleasurable sensations of jerking off.

Staring into the pupil-dark eyes of the stranger in the mirror, he started to move his right hand faster on his dick, hips thrusting in synch with the motions. When his left index finger found his hole and pressed inside, he came, hard. He never closed his eyes even as his body spasmed and semen spurted out, splashing onto the mirror in front of him.

It should have been satisfying. It wasn't.

He ran a finger though the white spatter on the glass, smearing it. He was still half hard.

A frisson of frustration ran through him and he turned away from the stranger in the reflection.

As if the adrenaline and endorphins released by his orgasm had unlocked something deep inside him, he felt a sudden urge to explore.

But the room was all there was. He tried the first of the two doors, only to find it locked. The second led to a small, brightly lit bathroom, tiled in white marble. Other than the obvious expense of the real stone and the gleaming stainless steel fittings, it was unremarkable. There was a toilet, a bidet - which caused him momentarily to snort a laugh, though he didn't know why it was so amusing – and a large spacious shower. A stainless steel rack, which doubled as a radiator, was piled with white fluffy towels, and the marble sink housed a neat row of toiletries. It was like a fancy hotel from a movie he couldn't remember seeing, the only anomaly being the large bottle of lube. He may not know much, but somehow he didn't think that would be a standard item. Where the marble tiling finished, the walls were all mirrors again.

There were too many mirrors in this place, he thought. Suddenly uncomfortable with his nakedness, he returned to the bedroom. Maybe there were some clothes in the closet. It only took a quick glance to see that it was empty, apart from a jumble of black leather straps dotted with steel studs and buckles that was hanging from a brass hook on the wall. He took it down for a closer inspection, but was none the wiser as to its purpose, so returned it to its place.

He was about to investigate the contents of the trunk when the silence was broken by a voice.

…You are finally awake. Good. And you have been active, I see. Huh. Messy.

He flushed, glancing at the soiled mirrors, still covered in his spunk. He looked around, but couldn't see anyone. Having just explored every inch of this place, he knew there was nowhere for a person to hide. The only conclusion was there must be a hidden camera and microphone somewhere. The lassitude that had been gripping him must finally be wearing off, as he could feel his muscles tensing up. Fight or flight, he thought, the result of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

So many thoughts, so much knowledge in his head, but nothing to hang it from. The lack of context was hamstringing him.

"Who are you? What do you want? Why am I here?" He asked. Demanded. His fists clenched and unclenched. He needed data.

…Hmm. You are a feisty one, aren't you? I just knew you were going to be entertaining. So, to answer your questions. Who am I? I am your Master, and you are here to obey and to serve. That is all you need to know.

He frowned. Who was this Master? He didn't remember anything. Except, perhaps, obedience. Yes. Maybe that was something to latch onto.

"Who am I?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but it was his most pressing concern, so it just slipped out.

…Names are not important here. We call you Toy, because that is your function. All you need to remember, Toy, is that your purpose is to please whoever enters your room to play with you. Anything they want, you must provide. Do you understand?

"I…don't know…"

…It is really very simple, Toy. Your sole purpose is to please. You are here to be fucked, to give pleasure to every person who walks through that door, in whatever fashion they desire. That is all it takes to make me happy. You want to make me happy, don't you?

"Y…yes?"

…Good Toy. No repeat after me. I aim to please. I want to make my Master happy.

Toy had no other words, no other purpose to put forward in place of this one. He said the words he was given.

"I …aim to please. I want to make my Master happy."

…Excellent. Now. You have clients waiting outside. You will welcome them, and do their bidding. When you make them happy, you make me happy and you will be rewarded. Remember, I will be watching you.

Toy started as the door that had been locked clicked open behind him, and the first client walked in.

0x0x0x0

Toy's first few clients were easy. Straightforward fucking was all they required, and Toy was good at it. He wanted it. The need to be fucked burned through his every waking moment, had started the moment he'd touched his own dick that first time. He thought he would probably die without it.

So he crawled up onto the bed on all fours when told, happy to be kept oiled and ready at all times. He licked and sucked and once he was even asked to fuck a client. He had a feeling that he was more used to doing the fucking than being fucked, but that feeling meant nothing here, so he let it go. He basked in the praise that came with a job well done, from his clients and from the Voice. His Master's Voice. That thought was amusing, though he had no idea why.

After each client, he was fed, and he slept. He slept a lot.

Every day was the same. Or rather, every waking period - as he had discovered that the light shining through his window wasn't actually the sun, and never changed. At first, this didn't bother him, but after a little while, he attempted to measure time by counting clients. The whole thing about time passing, and how the sun should behave was something Toy knew instinctively, without remembering. Toy knew a lot of things without understanding how he knew them.

So each day was the same, except his job got harder as his clients became more demanding. He started having a few repeat customers who even told him their names.

Someone, he never saw who, would prepare him and his room for each client while he slept. He would awaken to find his face had been shaved, his cheeks always kept baby-smooth, his body depilated, skin softened with lotion. His hole was always kept freshly lubed with a butt plug inserted to keep him ready for instant use.

Clients came and went. There was Number 12, Henry, who loved to add hurt to the mix. Toy knew to expect Henry's arrival when he woke already chained and cuffed to the bed, or suspended from the ceiling, limbs stretched wide, joints straining. He would twist vainly in anticipation of pain with the pleasure.

And Henry wasn't the only one who liked to deal out hurt.

Number 21, Simon, loved to try out all the playthings kept in the trunk at the bottom of the bed.

"Come on, Toy, what shall we try today? How about this?" Simon said, pulling out a cock and ball cage. Toy tried not to flinch, because he knew Simon would stretch out the torment longer if he saw any hesitation or fear, but given that Toy was continually on the edge of orgasm all the time he was awake, denial was almost the worst torture anyone could devise for him.

Almost the worst. Toy wasn't that fond of pain but the Voice had told him how much he loved to watch those sessions where clients made use of the various implements in the trunk, and how pretty Toy was when he screamed. So the day Simon found the flogger, Toy knew his Master would be pleased if he performed well. And he tried, he really did. He wanted the Voice to be happy, but when Simon had finished whipping him raw, and Toy's still-hard cock was red and weeping almost as much as Toy was, he couldn't stop crying. Simon fucked him through his tears regardless, and left him hanging helplessly, waiting for the silent servants to come and take him down.

Although the servants never spoke, they were always careful with him, and today Toy found the warm touch of their hands was almost too much. Too kind. They untied him and eased him onto the pristine white bed, smearing the satin sheet with his mess. His Master's voice surrounded him, talking him down, and his trembling eased by degrees. The Voice was gentle with him then, and full of praise for the way he looked - so beautiful striped in red and covered in sweat and come, my dear Toy – and Toy was torn between wanting the pain to stop and the loving words to go on forever. The silent servants were the ones who released his genitalia from the cage, but it wasn't the touch of their fingers on his cock but the soothing sound of the Voice that finally allowed Toy to come.

It was a long time afterwards that Toy finally felt strong enough to eat the food and drink the water the servants had left by the bed.

As always, the room was clean and bright when he next woke, and his wounds were healed.

After the client (the nameless number 34 it was, if his count was correct) who showed him what the leather straps hanging in the closet were for, and who in a single session made good use of several of the more painful playthings kept in the trunk at the bottom of Toy's bed, Toy started to think that the things he didn't know, the things he didn't remember, should be bothering him. The trouble was, he wasn't allowed much time to think. All the time he was awake, there was sex and that burning desire for sex that never left him, even after he was allowed to come. He was always hard, always ready and eager. Then in between servicing his clients there was only eating, and sleeping.

And there was the other problem.

Toy loved sleeping. He thought he might die without it. When he slept, he dreamed. Of course, those dreams all slipped away when he woke, boats without any moorings or anchors, but before they drifted off, Toy knew. The dreams were more real than anything here, in this too bright room with its fake sun and the exit he couldn't use. In his dreams there were no clients fucking him, there was no overwhelming need to be fucked. Instead he felt other emotions that he always forgot on waking, but that left him with a sense of restlessness and loss that faded more slowly than the memories of the dream itself.

In his dreams, he knew who he was.

In his dreams, he wasn't alone.

0x0x0x0

"Your brother most probably won't recognise you when you find him. This mixture of drugs is very powerful," said the quaking doctor. Sam's knife was nicking the thin skin of his throat. A thin trickle of blood slid down from the point of the blade, and Sam's nostrils flared. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip, hand trembling from the strain of holding back – he so wanted to slit this slimy rat-faced man's throat for his crimes. This was the man who'd worked with the millionaire incubus to develop the drugs they'd used to steal Sam's brother from him, and okay, this guy wasn't actively abusing Dean right now, but he was an enabler. He was still responsible.

"This is your fault," Sam said, his voice virtually a growl, and the guy full on broke down and cried. Incredulous, Sam watched as the doctor sobbed, big fat tears rolling down his thin face, snot running from his thin nose. Sam's face scrunched up in disgust.

"I'm going in there, I'm going to make every one of those motherfuckers pay for what they've done. Then I'm going to bring my brother out, and you are going to fix him. You have to fix this. You understand?"

The doctor seemed to collapse in on himself in a snivelling messy huddle, nodding and agreeing with anything Sam said. Sam was taking no chances, though, and cuffed him to a radiator, well out of reach of anything useful, before patting him down and confiscating his cell phone. No point in sneaking into the wannabe Howard Hughes' estate only to find Dr Sniveller had rung ahead to arrange a welcoming committee. The doctor had a name, but Sam decided Sniveller suited him better, and calling him anything else, even inside Sam's head, was more respect than the little worm deserved.

Sam's hand was on the laboratory door handle when Sniveller called him back.

"Wait! Your brother, he's going to be in a bad way. The drugs don't just erase their memories, the addition of the incubus venom increases the libido exponentially so they can't think straight. You're going to need to give him a course of the antidote."

Sam rolled his eyes. As if Dean's libido needed a boost. Great. Just great. Sniveller was pointing to a small brown glass vial on the aluminium table. Sam picked it up.

"This?" Sam asked. Sniveller nodded, eager to please.

"Yes, yes. You should inject it; into the jugular is best, quickest acting. Ten miligrams should help calm him down initially, then another injection every five hours until the rest of the drugs work their way out of his system."

Sniveller was looking shifty. Sam frowned.

"What is it? What else aren't you telling me?"

"Erm. There's a possibility some of the effects of the cocktail they have been giving your brother may not be reversible. In some of our test subjects, both the memory wipe and the excessively active libido proved to be persistent, even after medication was ceased. Of course, there is not enough data yet to determine whether the effects are permanent…"

Sam couldn't help himself. He backhanded the doctor, who squealed with terror more than pain. Restraining himself with an effort from inflicting some real damage, Sam grabbed a handful of sterile syringes and shoved them inside his jacket, along with the antidote. He didn't want to consider the consequences of the antidote not working, or possibility the effects could be long term. He just wanted his brother back.

He spotted an open laptop on the side, and his eyes narrowed. He wouldn't mind betting all Dr Sniveller's research was on there. He swiftly unplugged it and stuffed it inside his jacket, ignoring Sniveller's wails of protest.

0xoxoxo

If you could only save one memory, what would it be?

Toy woke when his door opened.

That was the first wrong thing. Normally he was already awake and waiting eagerly for his next client's arrival, the fire of lust running through his body. Now instead of desire, there was the shock of being roused from the deepest of sleeps, and that sense of loss that always accompanied his first moments after awakening.

The second wrong thing happened when his gaze lit upon the man walking through the door, because Toy recognised him. Not as a client that he had serviced before, but as someone he knew. And not just a random someone. This was Sam, and Sam was everything Toy had been missing. The realisation hit him with the force of a truck. Sam was the person who had walked with him in every dream, and he saw now that it was the absence of Sam that was the cause of that hollow feeling, the reason for the loss and sadness he'd felt on waking up every single day he'd been in this place.

The sting of recognition was like the bite of the leather whip on his back. Sam. Sammy. His little brother. Words echoed inside his head, his Master's Voice saying - If you could only save one memory, what would it be? And his own reply came, defiant and incredulous and a little bit amused. Sam, of course.

And yet it appeared that Toy had forgotten Sam. Until now.

The third wrong thing was the horrified expression on Sam's face as his brother took in Toy's position – he'd been prepared as usual while he slept, and for a client who had wanted the cuffs and chains. Toy had been placed in a kneeling posture on the bed, legs held apart with a spreader, torso supported by a cushioned stool that kept his ass in the air and his head low towards the edge of the bed so he could service the client's penis with his mouth, should that be desired. Toy allowed his head to drop now, so he didn't have to see the disgust in Sam's eyes.

Because the fourth wrong thing was brewing inside of Toy's veins as the customary arousal began to kick in. His body shed sleep like a blanket and he could feel his dick hardening. Soon he would start begging. Toy didn't know exactly why he shouldn't beg for Sam to fuck him, but he was pretty certain it wasn't right for brothers to fuck.

Maybe that was why he had ended up here in the first place. Maybe he'd tried to coerce Sam into sex. Or worse, maybe Toy had fucked Sam, and this was his punishment. He couldn't remember circumstances, he couldn't remember context. The fact of Sam was the only memory they had let him keep. Images of a baby gurgling and wrapping chubby fingers around his, of a thin big-eyed kid brushing too long hair out of his eyes and laughing at him, of a tall teenager getting onto a bus, leaving him.

He trembled when Sam's hand, large and warm, touched his shoulder. He didn't look up, even though Sam was talking to him. He couldn't find the courage to lift his head and look his brother in the eye.

"Dean, Dean!" Sam was saying, meaningless words spilling out while Sam's hands traced paths of flame over Toy's naked flesh. Toy started to shudder. Sam's hands moved down to the metal cuffs round Toy's ankles, searching for the openings, but Toy knew his brother would fail. They took the keys with them when they left; he knew this because they always brought them back when it was time to clean him up, after. Meanwhile, Sam's touch was setting off a fever in him, and he couldn't …he just couldn't…

Helpless to stop it, Toy began to plead for relief. He wanted, no, he needed Sam's hands on him, Sam's tongue licking his hot skin, Sam's dick inside him, fucking him open. He'd die without it.

0x0x0x0

…all this frenzied sex, along with the artificially raised levels of testosterone, triggers an escalation in stress hormones. The subjects' body fat and muscle fibres break down and their immune systems completely collapse. The subjects haemorrhage and develop severe infections before they eventually die… Too counter this, and to ensure the subjects longevity is extended as long as possible, I have prescribed a powerful sedative to be administered after each session of intercourse. Keeping the subjects sedated should extend their life span and prevent the need for the constant costly replacement of the subjects…

Sam thought he'd understood what to expect, that the information he'd squeezed out of Dr Sniveller had prepared him for anything, but this was so much worse than he'd anticipated. All the dispassionate analysis he'd made from his research, all the additional warnings from the doctor and his notes, even the fact that by the time he'd unlocked the door to Dean's room he'd waded through blood to get there, none of that prepared him for seeing Dean crouched naked on the bed, facing the door like an offering. His big brother was clearly intended to be on display, held in position to be fucked by the son of a bitch whose body Sam was stepping over right now. Fuelled by a slow simmering rage, Sam didn't care that the guy was only human, and that he'd killed him regardless.

It was only justice that whole sordid set up had been brought crashing down because they dared to take the one person in their town who had someone looking out for him who was willing to lay siege to Heaven or Hell to bring him back. A crazy millionaire with a mansion full of drugged up sex slaves and over muscled security guards held no fears for Sam Winchester.

Sam had been so focused on the horrifying information about the effects of the drugs on the slaves, and so terrified that, even though Dean had only been missing for five days, his body would be subject to such enormous stress he could actually die from it, that Sam had failed to consider the implications of these douchebags ensuring compliance by wiping their captives' memories. Even though he'd read and re-read all of Sniveller's notes on the stolen laptop, Sam hadn't considered what Dean Winchester might become when stripped of every experience that had formed him, everything that made his brother the man he was – or had been.

Sam's role model, Sam's hero, the grain of sand inside Sam's oyster shell. Sam's annoying, cocky, douchebag of a brother.

The person on the bed had been stripped of more than clothing, he'd been stripped of Dean.

And yet he recognised Sam.

Before the first dose is administered, Dorian Fox likes to tease the subjects. He asks them to choose one memory they can keep before they are wiped clean. Most of them choose the person they love the most, naturally. Of course, the irony is that unless they see that person again, their chosen memory won't get triggered, so it's a false comfort. Those subjects are never going to see the outside world again, let alone their loved ones…

More words from one of Sniveller's notes came back to him. Dean recognised Sam, therefore Sam was the memory Dean had chosen to keep. Sam did and didn't want to think about what that meant. That over everything else, Dean wanted to remember Sam.

Sam tried to distract himself from too much uncomfortable thinking by the routine of checking his brother for damage, and on solving the most immediate problem, how to free Dean from the shackles.

For one, although both of them had spent far too much time checking each other over for injuries, they were not usually totally naked during the process. Neither was Dean normally so silky smooth, and Sam realised with a start that his brother's body hair had been completely removed. Not that Dean was massively hairy to start with, but this felt completely different. Sam could feel every callus catching as he ran rough hands over the new, strange, satiny texture of Dean's skin, and he could feel Dean trembling at his touch. Worse, Dean was moaning, low and quiet as if he was afraid to be heard, a constant stream of unintelligible words that sounded unpleasantly like pleading. Swallowing hard, Sam moved to safer territory and turned his attention to the metal cuffs that were holding Dean's ankles in place.

That was when the realisation hit him. There was no way he was going to be able to get these shackles off without the keys, baring finding some oxy-acetylene torches lying around. Checking these cuffs out had placed him uncomfortably close to Dean's spread ass, which wasn't exactly safer territory at all. Dean was, oh sweet Jesus, shiny with lube and plugged. Just the time when Sam really didn't want Dean's murmurings to be come clear, because… well. Because.

"Please, Sammy, please fuck me. I'll be so good for you, please, I need you, please I need you to fuck me, Sammy, Sam…" over and over, a steady litany. Dean was trying to rock back into Sam's face, but he was restricted by his bindings and the movements were small and jerky. Sam was trying not to look but he could see the way Dean's hole was clenching and unclenching round the plastic plug. And Sam was more aroused than he could ever remember being in his life before. What the hell? What was wrong with him? It was Dean who'd been dosed with the incubi venom, not him, so why was he reacting like this?

Sam put a hand on Dean's hips to try and stop him bucking but that just seemed to make Dean worse. Dean never lifted his head or looked around, but his voice got clearer.

"Please, Sam. Sammy. Sam. I have to give you pleasure, it's my purpose. Please, fuck me, I'll do anything you want. I'm dying…"

Dying. The word was like a bucket of ice water over Sam's head. Because Sniveller's notes had said it could happen. Dean could die of this. He moved around to the front, grabbed Dean's shoulders and forced his head up.

"Look at me, Dean. Open your eyes, please, look at me."

Dean did as he was told, stared into Sam's eyes. Dean's pupils were enormous, the black had nearly swallowed up all the hazel, and Sam could feel the heat radiating off his brother's skin. All of the research notes were running through his brain in a stream of consciousness that was of no use whatsoever. What to do? He had been hoping to get Dean away from this plush prison before administering the first dose of the antidote, but it was looking as if it was more urgent than he'd thought. He was feeling in his jacket pocket for the syringe he'd loaded up with antidote when Dean licked his lips. Sam had seen Dean's lips before, of course he had. And he might have wondered on occasion about how they'd feel, whether they would be as supple and yielding as they looked. Now, seeing the pink tip of Dean's tongue run over the darker pink of that full bottom lip, Sam was lost.

…effects of the serum on occasions seem to transfer from subject to client…

…in one case in ten the client mentioned being overwhelmed by extreme lust…possibly due to trace elements of the active ingredient being exuded through the pores of the subject…skin to skin contact…possible permanent effects …some clients exhibited a lingering enhanced libido…

Rational thought fled out of the still open door, skipping over the dead client and out of the building before Sam could blink. Then Sam was leaning in to press his lips to Dean's, and Dean was opening up and kissing back with enthusiasm tinged with a vocal relief. Sam didn't want to ever stop this, the kissing. Dean's mouth was moist and warm and welcoming, tasting of mint and summer and happiness. Sam didn't remember ever feeling softer lips.

After a few moments lost in mindless bliss while sucking on his brother's tongue, Sam's dick began to make its demands known, and Sam realised there was more on offer here than mere kissing. And that it was about time he evened things up here. It was clearly unfair that Dean was totally naked while Sam still had on far too many clothes. He pulled free of Dean's mouth with an effort, and frantically tugged off his jacket, then his button-down shirt, cursing the recalcitrant fastenings while Dean moaned and begged him to hurry.

"Fuck, Dean, just…I'm getting naked as fast as I can here, man!"

Finally he was kicking the stiff blue jeans away and his boxers flew after them, and he could climb up onto the bed, ready to remove the last obstacle to sticking his too-hard dick into his brother's beautiful ass. At the touch of Sam's big hand on his butt cheek, Dean's agitated shuddering finally stopped. In the sudden silence, Sam could hear Dean's breathing quicken, settling into a panting rhythm that matched Sam's own. Sam's fingers touched the rim of the plug.

There was no more thought of cure or rescue, no scruple about having sex with a brother who was doped up to the gills, nothing in Sam's head any more except the throbbing ache in his dick and the tightness of his balls. His focus had narrowed down to the way Dean's hole flexed as Sam pulled out the shiny silicone, and the urge to replace it with his cock was overwhelming. Luckily for them both, Dean was so stretched by the plug and so well lubed, no restraint was required. Sam took the briefest of moments to steady his stance before shoving home in one long thrust.

Sam's moaned exhale was echoed by Dean, and then there was nothing else in the world but the feel of Dean's hole tight round Sam's dick, so perfect, and wet as a girl, and the sound of flesh slapping on flesh as Sam pistoned his hips mindless as a dog, filling Dean up. Dean's litany of please, please turned into yeah, that's it, Sammy, just like that and Sam was so entranced, his orgasm when it hit took him totally by surprise. He juddered to a halt as his dick pumped his life out into his brother, then Dean tensed and Sam knew he was coming too. Dean's muscles clamped tight around Sam's pulsing cock and Sam cried out. It felt so fucking good…too good.

Oh god.

Dean was relaxing. Sam could feel the tension bleed out of every muscle he was in contact with where he was draped over Dean's back. Sam's dick, still half hard because the fucking thing apparently had a mind of its own, was slipping out in a mess of lube and come as Dean's hole relaxed along with the rest of him. Sam winced. His cock felt a little sore, and he wondered how long he'd actually fucked Dean. He'd lost all sense of time passing while …Shit. His heart still raced, thudding against the bone cage of his ribs as if attempting to escape, and if he didn't get out of this room quicker than Mercury, Sam feared his body would be clamouring for round two. That doctor hadn't exaggerated about the effects of the cocktail of drugs they'd been feeding Dean, and he couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel for Dean if the second hand effect had hit him that hard just from touching Dean's skin.

Sam slid off the bed, trying not to look at the mess he'd made of Dean, who seemed to be slipping into a doze, in spite of the extreme discomfort of the position he was strapped into. Sam needed to get dressed and find those keys, pronto. And some clothes for Dean, because he clearly couldn't be trusted to touch Dean again. Even thinking about touching his brother caused Sam's cock to twitch. He'd never gotten dressed so fast in his life.

He fled.

0x0x0x0

Toy woke up from his fleeting post-coital doze alone. He didn't open his eyes, but he could tell from the quality of the silence that the room was empty. He wondered for a brief moment if it had been real, that Sam had actually been here; the Sam from his dreams who he'd never remembered upon waking until now. Toy – but no. He wasn't Toy, he had a name. Sam and had told him. His name was Dean. Dean had always known Sam had walked in his dreams, even without the memory. Now he understood better why he'd loved to sleep so much.

But Sam wasn't here now, because he was never here when Dean woke up. So, another dream then. The disappointment was bitter, though he hadn't realised that he'd hoped for more. He hadn't known what hope was, before.

Dean waited, head down, eyes firmly closed, for his fever to reawaken as it always did, and for his Master's instructions.

0x0x0x0

It didn't hit Sam until he had the keys to Dean's shackles in his hand. He'd been in such a rush to escape from that room that he'd omitted to inject Dean with the antidote, and there was no one left to administer the usual sedation after sex to prevent an over-reaction to the stimulation. The blood drained out of Sam's face and he ran through the lavish marble clad corridors of Dorian Fox's mansion as if he was being chased by a whole nest of incubi, skidding to a halt in the still open doorway.

Dean was still there, of course he was. But Sam leaned on the doorframe for several long seconds, frozen into place until he saw Dean's back rise and fall with a natural breathing rhythm, and Sam could move again. Dean must have heard him, because he looked up at Sam and smiled. Sam's heart lurched at the open expression of joy on Dean's face. He was so used to Dean with walls, all locked away behind multiple barriers of machismo, bravado and the mantle of Big Brother, unable to show weakness or vulnerability. This Dean had lost all those layers, had been rendered emotionally defenceless, and Sam was staggered by the strength of the reaction that swept over him. Dean had spent so many years protecting his little brother. Now it was Sam's turn to return the favour.

"Sam! You came back!" Dean said, beaming at Sam as if Sam was the sun. Sam couldn't help responding, even though he knew this Dean was so broken he might never be mended. He smiled back.

"Dean, I have to give you an injection now. It will help."

Dean didn't flinch when the needle slid into his neck, just kept his gaze firmly fixed on Sam as if he was afraid his brother was going to disappear if he closed his eyes. Sam depressed the plunger, watched the syringe empty and hoped it would be enough. He could already feel the heat rising from Dean as the cycle of fever started to build again. Sam would have to be very careful not to touch Dean's bare skin; he couldn't afford to allow lust to cloud his judgement if he was going to get his big brother back for real.

And he was going to get Dean back. Whatever it took.

End

"Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders."
― William Faulkner