Memes for us all ([personal profile] meyoumeme) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2014-01-18 12:50 am


You've been caught by an unknown circle of human traffickers. Everything has been taken from you - your possessions, your life, your dignity. In return you've been given a thin t-shirt that barely covers yourself and a barcode tattoed on your right wrist. Your new home is nothing but a cement bunker and it's dank and it's cold. For a while you feel hollow and alone, but slowly you start to notice the people around you. They're the same, just like you and in the same situation.

Someone finally fills you in. You're being offered up for sale - for any purpose. Someone could buy you by the hour for service - usually sexual, but sometimes for labor as well. Or they could outright buy you for your organs if someone desperately needs a transplant and the hospital is fresh out of kidneys.

You're merchandise now.

- post with your character
- don't forget your preferences and limits.
- specify whether or not you are ok with being a buyer and/or the product.
- tag others with your prompt of choice. if you have a hard time, rng is your friend.
- be kind and respectful to eachother and yourselves. speak up if you're uncomfortable with something.


ABDUCTION: You've been drugged and they've taken you, but you can't figure out where you are. All you know is the cement floor is cold, you can't figure out which way is up and which is down, and there's someone there inspecting you everywhere - taking inventory.

SOCIAL: Life is catching up to you and it's overwhelming. You're in a world of hurt, but so is everyone else. It's all the same situation. Maybe you can find comfort in one of the others that have been branded as property.

VOYEURISM: You're both property, and a buyer has paid for the both of you tonight. They've requested that you have sex with each other so that they may watch from behind a one-way window. A guard is planted by the door so that neither of you escape. If you refuse to copulate, you will be whipped. If you're not doing it the way the buyer is interested in, you will be punished.

FIGHT: You've been purchased by someone with a very specific and dangerous interest - slave fighting. You've been tossed into an arena with someone else just like you, in the same boat, and you're being forced to fight them to the death. If you refuse, they'll shoot you on the spot.

CANNIBAL: So beautiful and delicious. . . you've been purchased for dinner tonight. Whether or not they kill you first remains to be seen.

SLAVE: The boss has some chores to be done, and you're the perfect candidate. Get your tongue wet enough to wipe those boots clean.

PROTECT: It's a dog eat dog world out there and having an ally just might be the only thing that gets you through. Form a bond with someone and take their back in hopes that they have yours. It's not uncommon for someone to sacrifice themselves for the ones they love. If you're lucky enough, you might just find that someone.

TRANSPLANT: Sorry to say you've been chosen as an organ donor. Even more sorry to inform you that anesthesia is a luxury that nobody will bother to pay for. You'll be patched up with a few stitches and some gauze. That is, if you survive. I hope they don't take your heart.

SLUT: You're the buyer tonight and you've purchased your prize. Have your way with them, any way you want it. Be sure to punish them accordingly if they don't comply.

SAVED: Not worth your salt, you've been thrown out onto the streets, drugged and dazed. A kind soul decides to take you in, clean you up and get you healed. If you're lucky enough, they'll help you take your life back and find out what happened to you.

→ sexual situations
→ noncon, dubcon
→ blood and gore
→ amputations, loss of organs
→ death
→ you get the idea. . .
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938246)

6 - Warnings for torture and non-con and everything else

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-19 10:33 am (UTC)(link)
It's been one week and two days since John texted the coordinates that sent him and Sam on this hunt.

It's been one week and two days since Dean was beaten for the first time.

It's been one week and one day since Sam was beaten for the first time. In front of Dean.

It's been six days day since Dean was used as a bed slave.

He hasn't asked how long it's been since Sam was used for the first time.

Dean keeps track by scratching at the wall. He counts down the days until John realizes that they're gone, that something is very wrong. He plans escapes and makes maps of the mansion in his head. He plans and plans and plans because it keeps him going, and he doesn't think about what each morning brings, or the way Sam sometimes comes back to their small, damp room shaking, or about the time that he was whipped so hard they didn't even let him go back to his room. They just left him on the floor until the shock receded.

Dean's back is still sore, the wounds still red and angry and weeping, healing slowly because they don't get enough to eat and his body is tired. He sleeps on his side.

The funny thing is that Dean's actually learned a lot from all of this. He knows how to cook and clean better than ever before, skills he never learned while living on the road. Sometimes they ask him to read, so Dean knows a lot about the Victorian Era and the works of Dylan Thomas. Sometimes he helps them while they're watching TV, and Dean gets to see glimpses of the outside world. The world that's waiting for him. Once, he even found a case.

He kept that to himself.

Tonight, Dean's mostly whole, with exception of being absolutely exhausted. They woke him up early, as they do sometimes, and he was slow on his feet, back aching from being crammed in a small bed with Sam — not that he would ever complain or give it up, because Sam keeps him whole, Sam keeps him going and planning. They shove him into the room and Dean trips but doesn't fall. Moves to the bed and climbs inside, careful not to lie on his back.

He waits for Sam. Even as his eyelids droop and Dean starts to fall asleep, he waits. Digs fingernails into his skin. Tries to keep his eyes open. He waits, because he knows Sam won't wake him if Dean falls asleep, even if he needs to. He waits, because he wants to make sure that Sam gets to eat, two rolls laid out on a plate not far from the bed.

He waits, because he needs to know that Sam is still there. Still okay.

avengeful: (pic#7179492)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-19 11:05 am (UTC)(link)
The collars. The metal collars are the bane of their existence other than the people, and Sam has been shocked into convulsions by them once before when he strayed too close to the edge of the fenced yard. Sam ends up being pulled from Dean for most of the day, today, out to work for the mistress of the house; Katie, he thinks her name is, and what a normal, sweet name for someone like her. Selfish, vain, skinnier than she probably should be, hitched to this Jacob guy who's twenty years older than her.

Cleaned her room, did laundry, usual Cinderella stuff. Usually the least worse parts of the day. Not so many beatings for things that aren't as tough to screw up. Sometimes there are sexual favors in there, mostly initiated by her since day two or three, but Sam would rather not tell his brother he's been forced to eat someone out on their desk. As long as it got them through the day, he really just wanted to move on and try not to think about it. Maybe that just made it worse, because sweeping tonight turned into them herding him into the room again — makes his whole body lockdown, his palms sweat, his teeth grind in his skull.

He tells himself it could be worse. They're a little violent about nighttime flings. Sam doesn't want to ask about Dean's personal experience with them, but sometimes it's obvious, just like how tonight he's already acquiring bruises the shape of fingers over his collarbone, under his jaw, where hands could reach around the collar to squeeze until he goes lightheaded. He tries to turn his head away and gets punched in the mouth, enough to draw blood, and when he spits it, Jacob fucks his face. He learns not to spit anymore in this household.

By the time they're both done with him, he's tumbling back out into the hallway holding his clothes, dotted with molting marks and trying to wipe the scent of sex off his body. At least it's just the woman, he tries, and at least it's not Dean getting the raw end of the deal tonight. At least the guy hasn't had any bright ideas beyond using Sam's hands or his mouth. He only prays his brother has been able to avoid a little more of that humiliation. He wipes frustrated tears out of his eyes and starts to limp toward their room where there's probably someone waiting to escort him, but then Katie calls out for him to finish sweeping and he tiredly returns to that, wishing he had something to wash his mouth out with other than the tang of blood he gets biting his lips.

They must really have something against him today. They don't let him retreat back to the room until two in the morning, and by the time the door opens up and Sam's sluggishly wandering toward the bed, he feels like he could lay down and never get back up, no matter how much they prodded and kicked at him. He shakily puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, just needing to make sure he's not cold and stony under his touch, or feverish. Dean had gotten really banged up, and Sam can't help but feel responsible for that, even if he isn't supposed to be. Before he can bring himself to sleep, no matter how tired he is, he needs to check on Dean's back.

Fuck these people. They're not even people. They're abominations to humanity.

"Dean," he croaks, though he knows he doesn't need to. "Let me see, huh? Gotta check."

First thing he's said to him today, other than "see you later". Sam has a hard time with those, when they get separated. Because he's not sure if it might be a translation for "goodbye, in case one of us dies".
Edited (edits everything like always ignore me) 2014-01-19 21:19 (UTC)
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938267)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-20 07:55 am (UTC)(link)
Dean's awake, but he doesn't get up as soon as Sam limps into the room. He should, he needs to, but for a moment, it seems like too much. He hasn't even had that hard of a day, so it's bullshit that he's having trouble at all. He's just tired. Then Sam rests a hand on his shoulder and Dean responds to it. Finds the strength to sit up, trying to see as much of Sam as he can in the poor illumination. Notices fresh bruises.

"Later," Dean tells him, his own voice a little rough from disuse. He reaches forward and ghosts his fingertips over Sam's jawline. It always hurts to see that. Doesn't matter how many times it happens, it fucking hurts. He's seen Sam bruised over and over again on hunts, but this is different. This is helplessness of a brand that they've never seen. This is Dean failing to help Sam and find a way out. Trauma in ways they've never experienced.

This is every day wondering if Sam will come back.

"Eat first. Then I'll let you look." He figures it's a good way to bargain. Sam will insist on seeing his back, so Dean will insist on making sure he eats. They keep each other alive with little things like this — where one's will might falter, the other's picks up.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (slap this fucker in an ASPCA ad)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-20 08:12 am (UTC)(link)
"No, Dean... I'll eat as soon as — I need this more right now, okay? Just let me check up on it." Let him use his hands for something other than jacking people off and wiping down their windows. He needs to do this. His hand gently presses his shoulder, just above where the wounds begin, the touch so light Dean probably barely feels it. Sam's had time after sex to regain his wits, unlike last time. He's not shaking, and he had enough presence of mind to wash his hands three times until they ached in the sink, when they weren't watching carefully.

He's not tending to his brother's back with what's touched these hands, not without washing it all away and pretending he's clean at all. He just shakes his head, letting Dean prod at the blooming ugly marks on Sam's face while he looks anywhere but his brother's eyes. He can't help but feel ashamed. Some days he'd really love nothing more than to hug his brother for comfort, bury his face in his shoulder and pretend he doesn't exist in a world like this at all. Like when they were kids.

But Dean's hurt, and it's on Sam to be strong, so he just squares his shoulders and breathes in deep.

"It's fine."
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617116)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-22 09:39 am (UTC)(link)
Dean hesitates, looking at Sam for a long moment. Then finally, he takes off his shirt, and with a little reluctance, turns his back for Sam to see. This always bothers him. There's something different about having Sam look at this compared to having Sam look at any hunting injury. This is personal.

He's quiet as Sam looks. The lines are thin, overlapping in a lot of places, but the cuts aren't deep enough to have warranted stitches. They just sting, and are slow to heal. The blood is mostly dry and scabbing. Occasionally,Jacob rubs against them when he's is having his fun. They reopen if that happens, but Jacob hadn't touched him today.

"See? Healing." Before Sam can answer, Dean pulls his shirt back on. He hates Sam looking. Knowing.

"Now eat, Sammy. Please."

Dean's tired. But he refuses to lie back down until he sees Sam eat. Until Sam goes to bed and doesn't have to give him those looks anymore.

He knows what he's been through. Maybe not the details, but he knows. He wants to fix it. Will fix it.

"We're gonna get out of here soon," he says quietly, rubbing one of his eyes. "I'm working on it."

And in his mind he hears his father:

I'll be home soon.

But he never was.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (pic#6426668)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-23 03:25 am (UTC)(link)
Yeah, it's healing. It's not infected or too fucked up to handle. Sam breathes a shaky but relieved breath before he swings his feet over the edge of the bed, moving toward the meager food left behind. He doesn't like to look so solemn, but there's really not much else to be — he does nod, though.

"I know we will. We'll figure it out, man."

He doesn't sound completely unsure of himself, either. They've been in shitty circumstances before and figured things out. Sure, it's never been this bad, and... and he's not sure they'll be the same, in ways neither of them will let the other see, but they'll get through it. Get out. Get away. He rubs at his face, which is bruising at the corner of his mouth from that suckerpunch, before he returns with the small plate of bread.

"You should eat the second one. You need extra — keep your body more fit, get your injuries looking better faster." As if to reinforce it, make him give in, Sam leans his shoulder into Dean's and holds out one of the cold loaves, ripping a piece of out his with his teeth. "One for you, one for me, okay?"

He wants to support Dean. That's what helps him forget all this. Or at least the last five hours of his life.

"Don't make me rattle off the effects of malnourishment, or something."
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938254)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-23 05:37 am (UTC)(link)
Dean shifts on the bed as Sam retrieves the food. He's staying awake for this — to make sure Sam is okay and to make sure he eats. It isn't right — that uncertainty in Sam's tone. Sam is supposed to believe in him — in Dean's ability to get them out of this. Yeah, maybe they aren't the kids that they used to be, but Dean should be able to do something about this.

He will do something about this.

"Not hungry," he tells Sam. "I'm just tired, Sam. I don't want it tonight. You eat it." Not entirely untrue, and Dean feels like a shitty brother for being tired at all, when he isn't the one who came back newly bruised and having been through god-knows-what.

He closes his eyes as Sam leans against him. It's comforting. Lulls him into a state of mind where he isn't thinking about how he botched this hunt.

"Don't be a nerd. I already gotta read all about that crap."

Then, to make light of it, he recites, "In the late 1800's people believed that food would be digested better in the dark." Opening his eyes, he looks at Sam, actually putting on a half-smile, slightly amused, even if it isn't the type of grin he'd normally wear. "It's the stupidest thing I've ever read, but hey, maybe we're ahead of the game." Since they eat in the dark all the time lately.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (Lucifer ain't got shit on me.)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-23 05:46 am (UTC)(link)
He looks his brother up and down for a second, looking a bit like an annoying little brother getting ready to bug him for a moment -- and it's easier that way. It's not playing pretend, not like they're faking company to get through the day. It helps, yeah, but... He nudges at Dean's shoulder, smile coming to him a little easier.

"For every bite you eat, I'll eat two. Which is probably unfair to you, because you take bites big enough for a croc, but hey. Then we can cuddle and I can kick you out of the bed."
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617237)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-23 06:03 am (UTC)(link)
It helps Dean, too. He wants to go back to cracking jokes and getting on Sam's case. Making pop culture references and flirting with girls and being a douchebag. They're not even that long into their stay, and he already feels altered. Different.

"It ain't cuddling," Dean protests, but he takes the stupid piece of bread and rips it in half, holding the other piece out to Sam. "Deal." He takes a bite from his piece and tries not to think about how much he wants a freaking hamburger.

It's almost an absurd thought at this point, but he thinks it all the same. Funny, the weird things that stick with you when privileges are revoked.

"Ugh, it tastes like cardboard. I know they got the cooking channel here. They should give it a try." But he makes sure Sam takes his two bites, and then he'll take another.
avengeful: <user name=bootycall> (pic#6895914)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-23 06:26 am (UTC)(link)
He snickers, shaking his head. Truth is, Sam's probably gonna end up throwing an arm over Dean's face or something and it's pretty much a good reason to keep struggling through all this. He's already scarfing down half of the roll, even if only to get Dean to eat more. "They made me cook dinner the other day, threw a fork at me and said to get you. Who knew you were a pro; I remember a lot of Chef Boyardee and cereal bowls."

He rubs at his eyes, suddenly too tired. When he finishes the bread he flops over gracelessly.

"Until you tricked me into thinking the raviolis were stuffed with bug eggs, anyway."
ramble_on: <lj user="tweak"> (pic#7098127)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-23 07:36 am (UTC)(link)
The more Sam eats, the more Dean himself warms up to eating. It makes him realize that he is a lot hungrier than he felt. The action even wakes him up a little, so maybe that was part of the problem. Malnourished. He could almost laugh.

"It was my deep dark secret," Dean replies with mock-mournfulness. "I think it's why they're so dead-set on keeping me around."

That, and Dean is really good in bed. Even when he doesn't want it. He knows how to work his way through it as though he does — he doesn't know if that's a survival instinct or if he's just that fucked up — and that increases his value as well.

The one time he was whipped, it was because he stopped pretending. By then, they already knew. Had Dean known ahead of time that being good in bed wouldn't get them easy treatment, he'd have been awful from the start.

"They are," Dean replies. "They hatch in your stomach and everything."

He finishes his piece of bread and lies down as Sam finishes his. "I'm gonna scope some stuff out tomorrow." He yawns, but he won't fall asleep until Sam is next to him.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (pic#6426647)

well this is pre-warned already but graphic non-conny stuff in here :|

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-23 08:26 am (UTC)(link)
Sam makes a face and curls up; it's not exactly the comfiest place out there, but he'd prefer being laid out here than anywhere else in this hellhole of a house. That was what was so intimidating — the place was huge, and there were so many corners; you'd think it'd be a godsend for sneak attacks for them, but in reality, it was always the owners surprising him. Coming out of nowhere. Making things worse.

He waits for Dean to settle, and really, he tries to give his brother as much room as possible. Even with the bruises, all that's wrong with Sam is he isn't sure Dean should be laying near him right now. He still feels like he's got their sickening musk clinging to him. Lucky for them, they've forced to bathe daily for the sake of 'not stinking up the place'. Tomorrow, he'll be clean. Likely by the nighttime disgusting again.

He breathes out a sigh through his nose, the weight of his eyelids too much after a few minutes — no, a few seconds, really — of resting.


Four hours later, they're woken up again, pried apart like usual. No real talk — it's not safe to — but they cross paths often enough in the house that he feels much better about the day already. He doesn't see any marks on Dean yet that look new, so he's thinking his brother is playing it cool and doing things well. And that's important to do. It looks like the woman's got her eyes on Dean today, and it makes Sam's stomach clench to know people look at them this way. A fact he learns too often, as time passes by and these sick fucks become more comfortable with their constant source of amusement. Sam's trying his hand at dinner again out of demand by the grandma — who is honestly the nicest of them, even if she's one step away from Misery. She ignores the sex, pretends it's not there, sometimes grabs Sam by the chin and turns his face left and right. Say something like you're filthy, you're so filthy, take him out of my sight until you give him another bath, which is centuries better than Jacob. He'd take her hand prodding at his face, fingers covered with rings, over the couple any day.

He wishes Dean were here. He'd be better at making horseshit for them to shovel into their mouths. He's in the middle of setting the table when he's caught off guard by Jacob: Jacob, who's drunk as he is 75% of the time, swaying a little and watching him like he's judging a dog at a dog show. Sam's half tempted to do a curtsy for him. Instead, Jacob reaches over and slaps the glass he'd placed out of his hand, to the floor. It shatters and echoes loud in the dining room.

He slams Sam into the table next, and Sam has to stop himself from fighting back, killing the asshole. A red rage boils in his vision that dulls into blood-roaring and anxiety at the feeling of him grinding into his hip. "One of these days, I'll make you wail for it, girly. I'll get you working right." He leans in close and Sam smells the alcohol dripping off his breath. "Your brother has better lips, but I love how messy you get."

The mention of touching his brother turns his stomach to lead, and he has to fight every inch of himself not to try and lunge. It couldn't matter. He'd be shocked or beaten or — anything, really.

Sam's eyes glance upward to the clock, sideways in his vision. It's still 20 minutes until everyone comes in for dinner. 20 minutes is a long time. Hell, even if they all came in, he's not sure it would matter; he'd rather this than Dean come in and get himself into trouble. So he just breathes through his nose and lets the guy fulfill his horny drunken... whatever the fuck. Sam closes his eyes tight, unsure what this day'll be for sexual favors — and for a moment Sam panics under him when he feels a hand pull down his pants, feels something too hot and too hard press between the middle of his thighs.

Sam thinks he might finally do it, that today'll be the day he loses what little he has in the way of sexual dignity. He doesn't open his eyes, prays to God and to angels and eventually even to Dean, even though he can't hear his mind working overtime, and Jacob eventually grinds back and forth between his legs — just his legs, Sam thinks, and it's horrible that he's relieved in some way to know that it's just that far — until he blows his load there and shoves Sam to the floor. Sam would rather be on the floor anyway. He shakily pulls up his pants, sticky and trying not to look completely distraught, and Jacob calmly puts himself away before he knocks the rest of the plates to the floor.

He spits on the ground, snarling and red-eyed. "Don't you ever fucking make her scream again without my say so, or I'll make you scream all night." A pause, as he looks at all the glass on the floor — at Sam, pale and red-cheeked with anger glaring back at him, come on the floor, on the slave's pants. "Clean up this fucking mess before dinner."

Another pause.

"And if it's shitty again, I'll make you eat the next glass you make me break."

Sam complies.

He doesn't want to, but he's scared.

Isn't that just the worst part? Spiraling into a state of anger and fear. Eventually, he thinks, he'll just be scared. Eventually the fear of never escaping will block out all that rage, leave him lifeless and hollowed out when someone's whipping him or fucking him or — or he just doesn't know. He starts wiping up the floor with a rag, eyes burning with tears that force their way out. Frustration leaves his shoulders trembling as he fervently wipes at his face.

He hates it. He wishes he could save them. Get them out of here.

And he doesn't have enough faith to think someone on the outside can get them.

They have to do something. Because they can't keep doing this.
Edited (omg all these typos i'm sorry) 2014-01-23 08:51 (UTC)
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938246)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-25 12:16 am (UTC)(link)
Dean is exhausted when they wake him up. Before all this happened, he could survive on four hours no problem, but the lack of sleep is compounding. It doesn't help that despite the comfort of having Sam with him, every time he shifts onto his back, the pain wakes him up.

When they rouse them in the morning, he's pressed against Sam, as though in his sleep he wanted the reassurance that Sam is there. That he's okay.

He shuffles out of the room, giving Sam a look that's meant to encourage him to be strong. They'll get through this. They've been through all kinds of shit with hunting, they can get through this too. Having Sam there keeps Dean strong and determined, even tired as he is.

Katie hones in on him almost immediately. She takes him to her bedroom and makes him help her dress like some kind of handmaiden. When they did this for the first time, Dean rolled his eyes and made smartass comments, but she was sure to nip that immediately — a few unpleasant punishments later, and a couple of threats directed toward Sam, and Dean quickly mastered the art of feminine practice.

She makes him do uncomfortable things, like bathe her, and punishes him if he shows any amount of interest in her body. He's getting conditioned not to react unless she initiates, and then it's under the threat of being whipped again. He brushes her hair and praises her when she wants it.

Today is a day when she's in a bad mood. She's demanding, and nothing pleases her. She grabs Dean by the shirt and yells in his face when she thinks the bath isn't hot enough. The dress she chooses to wear is a little tight, and when he has trouble with the zipper, she slaps him in the face.

He isn't the only one who gets the brunt of her anger. She's as rough with Jacob and he kowtows to her and takes it out on him and Sam.

The day wears on with Dean doing things like cleaning and, of course, cooking. He thinks he's going to get out easy for the day, but as he's getting ready to go back to his room, she takes him to bed. This time, she gets a little kinky, getting off on demeaning Dean by making him crawl and act like some kind of pet. She pets him and presses into his wounds, and tells him to whine like a dog if he's in pain. All that, and she still expects him to perform. He does, and treats her as though she's the most precious woman he's ever handled, as though her pleasure matters more than anything else.

His skin is crawling by the time he's finally allowed to go to their room, and he's positive he'll never look at sex the same way again.

Hell, at this point, he never wants to have sex again.

But he had time today, while he was being put to work. He was left alone in between, and Dean took the opportunity to wander some halls and come up with a game plan. Sitting on the bed, scratching another day, he vows that they're only going to put up with another day of this. And then they're getting out.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (the noble moose in its natural habitat)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-25 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
Dinner goes about as well as can be expected; Dean isn't there, so he figures they let him go back to the room -- or at least hopes he gets the chance to go back. He isn't really sure, can never tell in a big place like this. Katie hangs all over Jacob and he smiles like he's won a prize, and really, Sam doesn't see it. He's learned not to let his disgust show, though. Just dishes out the food, hopes it's good enough. Of course, Jacob immediately complains about his, but Sam expected that as well. He doesn't, however, expect a bait and trap; Jacob offers the plate up and Sam moves to grab it just as Jacob lets go, lets it smash all over the ground.

You son of a bitch, Sam thinks as he watches the man's eyes glint devilishly for a moment, and then he plays it up. "What a fucking worthless slave, Katie. Don't know why we have this one. The brother can at least cook. And not look like we beat him on a regular basis."

Sam's cheeks fluster, eyes flashing dangerously. You do beat us on a regular basis. Instead of yelling back, doing anything, he drops down and starts picking up the fragments.

Katie speaks up. "Shut up, Jacob. The other one is raw sexual prowess, so obedient and passionate — this one... mmm. Reminds me of a doll. Sad, raggedy, but such a cute little thing. Isn't that right, Sam?"

Sam bows his head. He wishes... God, he wishes he could just...

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, and the tongue he gives -- fucking excellent." It's weird to be mildly contented by Jacob's disappointed face, especially when he hates the molestation that goes on around here. Meanwhile, Katie shakes her head. "But then, he is inept. Jacob tells me you broke three of my dishes in one day today."

That son of a bitch.

"I didn't — "

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're lashing out. You're harder to put a leash on, Sam. And I don't like that. So we'll have to do a little re-education tomorrow. Bright and early."

Sam nods, sweating cold. He doesn't know what that entails. He just doesn't.

But he isn't hit or beaten, and he isn't taken to the room, so he hurries back to their small room — as long as he can get out, he's happy, just has to get back to their room. The door swings open and he walks in, pale and anxious, and then he tries to look casual when he puts a plate of food down for Dean. He doesn't try to mask the stench of Jacob all over him; it's pointless, because it's on his laundry, on his skin, and they aren't getting cleaned up until tomorrow, bright and early.

"For you. Katie says it's a gift, or whatever she likes to think."
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617267)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-26 08:52 am (UTC)(link)
Dean's sitting on the bed when Sam walks in, picking at the hem of his shirt. He misses being able to clean knives and guns while being idle — it feels like ages since he last held one. In place of wiping down a blade or using a bore brush on a barrel, he picks at string. He stops, however, as soon as Sam enters, and searches Sam's face for anymore evidence that he's been beaten.

He doesn't ask, though. It's better if they don't draw anymore attention to what's going on. They understand without words.

When Sam sets down the food, however, Dean grimaces and shakes his head. "I can't eat that tonight," he tells Sam, thinking about how lucky he probably is that Katie didn't stick it in a dog bowl and tell him to lick it clean. He's too disgusted to want to eat anything, let alone a full plate of food.

So much for his voracious appetite. Even Dean Winchester has his limits.

"You eat it. And then you can check my back."

No fuss today, since Katie fucked with the lashes earlier today. He wants to make sure they're clean. He needs to be okay enough to plot a way out, which means infection is officially a no-go.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (pic#6426662)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-26 09:04 am (UTC)(link)
Sam doesn't say anything, just lifts the shirt up — and hesitates on the new bandaging. He hasn't needed bandages for a few days, so seeing new bandages makes his fingers numb and his hands quiver a little in bottled rage and pain. He'd throttle that bitch and he wouldn't feel remotely bad about killing a human being. He'd kill them all. His voice sticks for a moment, but he unravels himself a bit. "It's not too bad. It's not dirty, looks uninfected."

They always know just how much treatment to give them, to make sure they don't die.

They always know.

He closes his eyes and grips the clean, not lashed section of Dean's shoulder to squeeze in silent communication: I'm sorry, I wish I could've done something, we'll figure this out, please hang in there. And then he breathes out and slowly puts the bandages back into place, as gingerly as possible. "... I don't think I can eat, either. We'll eat it cold tomorrow or something." It's pasta and bread, and even if it gets hard and nasty, Sam'll eat it anyway. He wonders what they'd do if either of them got violently ill. Sam can only hope they're smart enough to give them a day off to sleep.

Who the fuck knows.

Sam doesn't want to talk tonight. Usually, they have plenty of conversation — even if it's not about a lot of important shit, they talk about cases and old stories, about dad and sometimes even about dumb college stories. Today, though, Sam's mentally drained. He lays down first, not wanting to look Dean in the eye when he remembers being bent over the table. His voice gets stuck again, but this is for Dean's safety, so he speaks up at last. His voice is hushed, anxious — lost.

"Don't let Jacob hear you. If Katie wants you to touch her." He shifts uncomfortably. He's not sure how they can even work around Jacob when it comes to Katie. But. He needed to let him know it was a problem anyway.

He's not sure if he should mention the other shit. It'll just make Dean worry.

"... Try not to let him know."

ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617196)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-29 11:43 am (UTC)(link)
Dean resists taking a hissing breath as Sam puts the bandages back in place. It hurts, but he doesn't want to make this harder on Sam than it is. He can tell by his pause that it bothers him — and it would bother Dean, too, to see marks on Sam, but that doesn't mean he wants to make this worse.

He knows how to interpret that squeeze, but it gets to him, because it isn't Sam's fault. Sam doesn't need to be apologetic — and it's Dean's fault, if anyone's, for not being able to stop this before they were put in chains and herded like animals. He doesn't say anything, though, even if his shoulders droop a little with the contact, guilt on the surface because Dean just doesn't have the energy to hide it.

"You gotta tomorrow. We both do," Dean tells him as Sam lays down. "Look." Dean reaches in his torn sock and pulls out a paper clip, holding it down so that Sam can get a good look. "We're gonna get out of here tomorrow night." He says it with conviction, believing it because he has to, even if getting out of collars and doors is only the start of their escape. He needs to believe it. And so does Sam.

They're Winchesters. They can do this.

He puts the paperclip in his tattered pillowcase — safekeeping, in case they search him.

After that, Dean gets in bed next to Sam, lying flat on his back so that he can just barely place his shoulder against Sam — a subtle contact meant to be supportive. He tenses, however, as Sam gives his warning. Doesn't pull back, but clenches his teeth and tries to rein in his anger.

"We're gonna kill him, Sammy," Dean tells him, as softly as easily as he could be telling Sam goodnight. And for him, it is a kind of bedtime story — the assurance that there will be a happily ever after when this is done. "Him and Katie both. Just a little bit more time."

And Dean wants to. There's a certain bloodlust under the surface that he doesn't think he's ever felt so intensely before. He'll enjoy it — and he'll make them suffer for doing what they did to Sam.

He doesn't need details — doesn't ask for them. Just as he doesn't tell Sam how his lashes have been reopened. There's knowing, and then there's knowing. If Sam told him specifics, Dean would probably just go ahead and punch the hell out of Jacob tomorrow, and that would ruin everything. And if he told Sam specifics, Sam would fret over them.

And probably never look at Dean the same way again, knowing how fucking subservient he is, how trained he's become.
avengeful: (pic#7265804)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-29 04:29 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam nods, because even if an attempted escape makes his stomach churn, he knows anything is better than just living as is. "Tomorrow. I got it."

That ends up being the last thing he really says to Dean for days. In the morning, they take him away and don't lead him to any chores or anything of the sort. No laundry, no dinner, no Katie or Jacob. He thought that would be a good thing, but -- it's not. Instead, they lead him off into a room with a man; he's a little older, like Jacob, hair in the beginnings of receding, and he's wearing black surgical gloves and is very clean and neat.

'Re-education.' Sam didn't really figure what that meant. He glances around anxiously, noting a bed (there's always a bed, isn't there?), plates and glasses, assorted things that are a reoccurring part of his life. Machinery. A chair with binds. He swallows hard and finally looks back at the man, who they address as Murray.

"Tall one, isn't he?" the man says, voice void of emotion or inflection, and he shepherds Sam into the room as the doors close -- and stays closed. For days Sam doesn't want to keep track of, he's in this room with Murray and one personal guard for Murray, some ripped guy he probably bought off the internet, who the hell knows. They start with repetition. Yes sir, no sir, please sir, thank you sir. Sam is given vocabulary, a list of things that are okay to say. He replies accordingly, because the first time he doesn't, a button is pushed and he's writhing in electricity-induced agony on the floor.

Hours tick by. He recites some mantra for slaves, the less-than-not-equal-to talk that makes Sam's mouth dry. Reply accordingly, he says, or your owners will electrocute you. Sam answers questions, and half of them are correctly spoken, with the right inflection, the right face, the right compliance. The other fifty percent earn him electric shocks that convulse him in the chair is strapped in until he's screaming that he doesn't know what they want from him. The screams echo into the house walls, and he's sure somewhere out there Jacob is smiling wide.

Where is Dean, though? Sam clings to the idea that Dean's waiting out there for him to escape.

Sam learns food tolerance. More than usual. He's given a plate of food, told to eat accordingly for each day. Sam is starving and tries to eat the meager meal, ends up getting shocked for taking too much. He adjusts carefully. Your body will adjust to the portions, Murray says, and Sam shakily takes only a little off the plate. May I have more,sir, he asks, voice cracking on the last syllable. And then his collar causes another flash of blinding pain. There are days where they leave him in the chair with the black bag on his head in the chair. So that he may learn how to endure isolation. That's important, is it not?

He cries quietly, angry tears they can't see, because he's at least alone.

He misses Dean, though.

He misses his brother too much to handle, in a place like this.

It's a 24 hour process. He gets to sleep for five hours with a request for sleep, but he has to wear a device that repeats words into his ear. The room is starting to blur into one solid mass of dreary lighting, and by the time he's at the topic of sexual favors, he's ready to rip it all down. But he can't. Because it's not part of the things he does, in his room. Once he leaves, he can rip things apart. With Dean's permission, maybe. He's told to initiate first contact with the bodyguard, jerk him off without any emotional response, which Sam manages to do fine. They practice him taking off and on clothing, in the correct order as indicated by the lady of the house. They practice ignoring Sam's own sexual reactions to touch, this time -- with lashing. It's a new pain, and they practice it steadily. The mistress loves hitting her sexual creatures. He'll need to be more prepared for that.

Sam has a full-blown anxiety attack twice, but Murray always calmly settles him.

I want my brother, let me see my brother, he doesn't say.

Because he's scared they'll take him away.

One and a half weeks later, Sam is shoved back into the hallways. And then he's forced into his old chores. He goes outside, quietly retrieves laundry, and starts folding, too shaken to do much else.
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-30 07:00 am (UTC)(link)
They take Sam and he doesn't come back.

The first day goes as normal, but then they leave Dean sitting in his room, picking at the hem of his shirt, waiting for Sam to come back. He stays up all night, refusing to eat, and when they come for him in the morning, he asks after Sam. They tell him he's fine and Dean forces himself to get through the day because it could just be that they kept him over night. He goes through the motions — but at night, Sam is still gone.

Dean get through one more day, fraying at the edges and fucking up his tasks. Then they give him Sam's work, too and he loses it. It's a transition — a way of saying that Sam won't be coming back for a while, if ever, and Dean can't take that. Jacob is there, focusing on him because Sam isn't around, although he's better with Dean, handing him a plate without dropping it.

Dean smashes the plate over his head and moves to take a punch, before he's shocked and on his knees. He fights it, nails tearing at the carpet as he tries to stand, and then Jacob is on him, beating him, until Dean's eyes are swollen and he thinks he's lost a tooth. They drag him to the bathroom and shove him into the tub, and then leave him there, Dean beaten and bloody and shivering in the too-cold water.

The night goes by, and halfway through they retrieve him and return him to his room. All Dean can think is how he needs to get back to Sam, or Sam needs to get back to him, but he leaves the paper clip in place.

They need to escape together.

Katie takes him next, thinking she can control him, threatens Sam's life (but Sam is gone) and when Dean refuses to lick her like she likes, she beats him again, using a switch on him, returning him to the tub where Dean sits in ice water again.

It isn't until they drag him, the next morning, to witness Sam in re-education that Dean finally calms down. Katie whispers in his ear about how she'll kill Sam in front of him if Dean ever tries anything like that again.

After that, Dean limps around and does his duties quietly, obediently — even more so than before. He tends to Katie and sucks off Jacob and cooks three meals. He does the laundry and reads about history and spends every single night staring at the ceiling until he can't anymore, reminding himself that Sam is still alive. He's okay.

By the end of the week and a half, Dean's healing again — the swelling has gone down, the concussion is gone, the switch marks are fading, and Dean's back is slowly scarring. There are green and yellow bruises along his face, and he still limps a little, but he's okay. He's okay, and when he walks into the hall, so is Sam.

Sam's okay.

Dean doesn't let himself seem beaten into the ground or turned into some kind of submissive plaything. He straightens, walking over to Sam in the brief moment he has in between responsibilities. He doesn't say anything, just stands there, feet away, a small smile on his lips as though they haven't been apart for so long — as though they aren't trained slaves. He says nothing, but tilts his head, body language casual to the immediate observer, but Dean's eyes are intense, and all he wants to do is check Sam over to make sure he's okay. Bring him down into their room and fix everything that's broke.

Dean puts a hand on the laundry, meant to attract Sam's attention, but says nothing.
avengeful: like a big emotional brick (we can break into houses)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-30 07:24 am (UTC)(link)
Sam's focused entirely on his task, because trying to think of anything else might make him lose it. His back is sore and aching from the last three days of constant whipping, and Sam's not far off from Dean in that regard; his are fresher, seeping through meticulous bandaging applied by Murray, hidden under his raggedly large shirt. For a moment he seems in a trance, eyes staring off, past the fence into nothing, and he loses track of himself for the first time in two weeks.

Then a hand is in his vision, and he flinches back sharply — panic clouds his vision immediately, because he can't fuck up so soon after re-education, and he can't go back, he just cannot go back — "I'm sorry, sir, I — " He stops when he looks up, fear flashing through his eyes before he relaxes a little at Dean's presence. There are heavy bruises under his eyes and he's pale, hair a little wild from the sad excuse of a bath they'd given him before shoving him back out into this very tiny, horrible world.

"... Dean..."

He looks back, afraid they'll be caught not working, not doing their jobs. Once he's sure they're alone, well and truly, he closes his eyes and recollects himself, bows his head in shame. They've fucked him over, Dean. They won, made him a ball of anxiety screaming at the walls and crying under black veils. Don't initiate eye contact unless requested, Murray's voice tells him. You are not a person, you are a tool, a means to an end. You will act like an inanimate object with no eyes.

He doesn't look at his brother, hands shaking.


Other words are having a hard time coming to him, because his throat is locking up and when that happens, 'Dean' seems to be the only word that functions properly. He turns himself away from Dean and back toward the laundry, and tries to rush through folding things. He has to calm down. Just get through the day, so he can have a moment of peace in the room with his brother. No more words in his ears or electric shocks or anything like that. No more lashes to his back...

He manages to reign in his emotions, wiping emotion off his face.

"We — have to finish chores."

They can talk later. In the room.
Edited 2014-01-30 17:29 (UTC)
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6695875)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-31 07:33 am (UTC)(link)
"Sammy." Dean says it in return, caught between anger at that beaten demeanor, at the way Sam won't look at him, and a newly budding sense of despair. This is hard on them both, but that...that's defeat, stark and undeniable. Dean is made of determination, but half of it stems from Sam — from wanting to protect him and get him the hell out of here. He can't handle seeing Sam like this. His fingers curl, clutching a shirt that Sam is meant to fold.

Anger is good. Dean can work with anger. He uses it to force down the despair.

"Look at me, Sammy," Dean tells him firmly.

He'll go, after he can see Sam. Remind him that he's here, visually, if they can't stand here and have a conversation. He won't give him an ultimatum, though — a look or I'll stay, because Dean won't get him in trouble.

But he doesn't want to leave until Sam does this.
avengeful: bel-perdente @ lj (pic#6972856)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-31 07:43 am (UTC)(link)
Sam closes his eyes, throat dry. He feels like he shouldn't look, but this is his brother, and — and hell, it's easier to follow an order, at least. He looks up slowly from over one shoulder, eyes dulled and chock full of exhaustion. It's all done with complete hesitation, the hands in the laundry basket curling into clothing, squeezing anxiously. He numbly wonders if Dean can tell that he's losing it. That he's weaker than both of them thought. That they did a number on him, left him feeling way too vulnerable and even more snuffed out.

"Please, just — do your work," he says, voice a begging whisper. "No trouble today. Just... none today, please."

He doesn't think he can handle anymore re-education right now. Ever. He's not sure he could handle getting beaten or berated today. He just... wants to make it to the end of the day.
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938247)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-01-31 08:35 am (UTC)(link)
Dean was hoping that Sam looking at him would make him feel better — that he'd see a spark of life. Or defiance. Or, hell, that Sam would get pissed because Dean asked. But the way it drags on, the way it takes Sam forever to do something that should be so simple and easy — Dean is his freaking brother, not these monsters — breaks something in Dean that he didn't even realize was still whole.

"Okay," he answers, placating, raising both hands up.

He can guess what went on — saw a small part of it, if nothing else — but this is worse than Dean thought it would be. He has to do something, but if Sam's desire to escape has been ruined — if he's going to be too afraid — then Dean doesn't know what he's going to do.

He can't put Sam through something that scares him so much.

Dean turns and goes back to his chores.

He's late, and it earns him a slap, and they threaten him with a night spend in the bathing rooms again — which is a favorite punishment now, he guesses, and is probably going to lead to him catching his death one day if they keep it up — but Dean does what he needs to do, and gets sent to his room dry.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (pic#6233953)

[personal profile] avengeful 2014-01-31 08:51 am (UTC)(link)
Sam moves through the day efficiently and without so much as a glance anyone's way. There's nothing but relief when he's able to go back to the room early, and he sits waiting for Dean who can't be far behind. The collar around his neck feels constricting, and any second he expects it to send him to his stomach in white-hot agony, but it doesn't. It just sits there and chafes skin and makes him miserable. Sam eats a very exact portion of the plate they leave out for him and Dean and he waits. And waits. And wonders if maybe they're going to leave him all alone again.

Or if maybe Dean's being re-educated, too, and they just didn't say.

He tries to keep calm, but then he remembers Murray's hot breath on his ear and how Dean had already started getting lash scars and how heavy the collar feels -- by the time Dean finally gets back, Sam is curled up on the bed, red scratch marks all around his collarbones and neck where he'd tried to scratch and pry away at the metal band around his neck. He rolls at the sound of Dean arriving, terrified hope written in his features, back screaming at him for pulling at the scabbing, ugly marks.

Dean's okay, though.

The door behind Dean slams shut and Sam leaps to his feet, bridging the short distance and throwing his arms around his brother's neck until he's got his cheek against Dean's ear. He closes his wet eyes and breathes deep through his nose, trying to resist the warm trickle at his eyelashes. He wants to say something, but he just ends up shivering, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.
ramble_on: <lj user="tweak"> (pic#7098114)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2014-02-01 11:33 am (UTC)(link)
Dean hardly has time to assess Sam before Sam's on him, hugging him, that desperation clear in the way he breathes, in the tension and relief of his hug. Dean doesn't say anything, just puts his arms around Sam and hugs him tightly, trying to be the beacon of support that Sam needs — giving him what little he can.

He stays like his, rubbing small circles on Sam's back like he's five all over again, returning to old habits and instincts simply because Dean doesn't know what to do. And it was like that, before, when Dad would be gone for too long and Dean was left with Sam who was sick or hurt and without knowing what to do, Dean would stay close and offer menial comforts and hope that was enough.

Finally, after a long time, he pulls back and starts taking inventory of Sam's body. Sees the scratches and murmurs a Sammy, but doesn't go to touch them. He doesn't know what they did, and doesn't think he can handle Sam flinching away at him at this point, Dean's own hope and strength being so fragile and beat down.

"Sit," he finally says, guiding Sam over to the bed. He isn't going to ask — not yet. They can just be together for a little while, try to settle down with just each other before they go into detail.

And really, Dean has a good idea from his own glimpse.

He reaches forward carefully, touching Sam lightly on the arm. "Lemme see, Sammy," he says, knowing that Sam will know what he's talking about. "If you want, I'll show you mine first."

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