[Supernatural AU → Sam Wesson & Dean Smith; Sam Wesson has a crush on Dean Smith — but he doesn’t know that Smith has a completely different side to him. There are skeletons hiding in Smith’s closet, and Sam might end up being one of them.]
The room is cold and Sam turns his head from side to side, groaning quietly in the pain in his head. It takes him a moment to fully wake and he blinks his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, squinting his eyes at the flickering light above his head. Frowning, Sam tries to get up and groans louder when he feels the binds around his wrists and legs.
An exasperated noise leaves his throat and then he remembers what happened. He was in the parking garage, talking to Mr. Smith and walking toward his car — they were going out to eat, on a date - something Sam had wanted for months. When they got to his car, Sam remembers being pushed against it and everything is fuzzy from there.
“Where — where am I?” He barely croaks the words out, his voice broken as he turns his head, staring at the wall to his left; there are hooks with things hanging from them. Sam recognizes a few of these things - a standard whip, a cat o’ nine tails, and several knives swinging back and forth. Swallowing thickly, Sam turns his his head and stares at the ceiling again, the sound of heavy footsteps overwhelming him.
The footsteps stop and Sam feels someone standing next to him, but can’t will himself to turn and look at his captor. Instead, Sam closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing deeply through his nose, balling his hands into fists. He hears someone laugh to his right and he shudders away from it, setting his jaw tightly.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy..” Sam recognizes the voice immediately and his eyes snap open, head turning toward the voice. Standing next to him is Dean Smith - his boss and crush for a few months. Dean is holding a knife in his hand and he’s dressed in clothes that Sam would have never guessed Dean even owned.
“What are you —”
Sam’s words are cut off when the knife digs into his arm and he seethes, arching his back off the table. When the knife is pulled away, he collapses against the table again and lets out a gasp, sobbing without tears. The laugh comes again, followed by footsteps, and Sam shuts his eyes, chewing down on his lower lip.
“You didn’t know about this, did you?” Dean asks, rounding the table, dragging the knife along Sam’s legs as he does. Sam shakes his head and whimpers out a quiet, broken ‘no,’ before he screams, feeling Dean’s knife digging into his thigh. Blood drips down his skin and Sam sobs louder, begging Dean to stop — questioning why he’s doing this, what he wants.
Laughing again, Dean stops and leans down, cocking his head to the side, his lips inches away from Sam’s. His hot breath falls against Sam’s skin and he lifts the knife, dragging it down his cheek, just barely pushing the blade down.
“This is just what I am, Sam,” Dean whispers, dragging the blade down the curve of Sam’s jaw, cutting it, reveling in the techie’s screams. “I get off on torturing poor bastards like you — you know, people that like me, and my other life..”
“Why — ” Sam starts, the words catching in his throat, escaping in a strangled mess of noise.
“Just be quiet and I won’t have to gag you…” Dean smirks and pulls the blade down, letting it run along the natural curve of Sam’s throat. “And believe me - I don’t want to gag you. Wanna hear those pretty little noises you make, wanna hear you scream and fucking beg me to stop.”
Before Sam can open his mouth to say anything else, he feels the knife dig into his neck and he screams louder. He screams Dean’s name and begs for him to stop, to let him go. The more Dean cuts and stabs him, the less Sam begs to be let go, and the more he begs Dean to kill him.
Two hours later, Sam’s body is laying motionless and bloody on the table; Dean is sitting in the corner, tearing off his bloody clothing. He tosses them to the floor and walks back over to Sam, dragging his fingers over a few of the cuts, tracing them fondly. Closing his eyes, Dean takes a deep breath and rests his hand on Sam’s stomach, the blood still wet and sticky.
“Oh, Sammy - if I weren’t fucked up, we could have something beautiful.” Dean smiles and opens his eyes, looking down at the body again. He takes his hand away and turns away, walking across the room. Mounting the stairs, Dean gives his mess one last look before leaving the basement, moving to the kitchen, committing the scene to memory.