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Dean tries so hard to stay still and quiet, even as the gag is forced roughly between his lips, scratchy fabric biting into the corners of his mouth as the it's tied into a tight knot behind his head. His head rocks back a little with the force of it. The handkerchief belongs to Sam. It smells like his brother. He wants to scream with the wrongness of it but stays mute.
“I told you, when we came bursting out of your fallen angel friend, that we were going to have fun.” Dean cringes away from the whispering voice next to his ear, hating himself when Roman laughs quietly. It’s not as though Dean can go anywhere, bent over the desk, his wrists tied behind him, one of Roman’s hands pressing inescapably, as strong as steel, on the small of his back, keeping him down. A finger touches his neck, trailing through the dampness gathering in the dip below his collarbone. Dean's shivering violently, helplessly. He hears Roman lick his finger, and when he realizes that Roman’s tasting Dean’s sweat, it hits him that he’s not going to walk out of this in one piece. Probably not even in several pieces. Roman makes a sound that Dean himself has made when biting into a particularly fine cut of steak. “Oh, Dean,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You may be an annoying little shit, but you are going to taste so fine.” The last word comes out a soft, seductive hiss.
His hand skims down Dean’s arm, pausing to test the muscle, pinch the skin, note the texture of Dean’s shuddering flesh.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Roman murmurs, bending over Dean’s shoulder from behind him, bringing Dean flush up against his body with one proprietary arm over Dean’s chest, the other lifting up the bottom of Dean’s shirt and trailing feathery-light over the skin of Dean’s stomach, “that my subjects and I have certain tastes. I think you’ve encountered one of us who prefers you with cheese. Some think that fear has a particularly delicate flavor.” He pauses, as though he’s waiting for a response, and Dean finally allows himself a whimper on the end of a breath as Roman flicks open the top button of his jeans. “And I agree with that,” he continues, sounding pleased, rubbing his thumb against Dean’s hipbone. “But when I’m sucking the marrow after a good meal, I find there’s always something missing.” His hand moves down to cup Dean’s cock lightly, and Dean can’t help it, starts panting desperately behind the gag, feeling like a helpless child, scared and alone. Only this child knows what the monster under the bed wants.
“Quiet,” Roman admonishes him, his voice as gentle as the pillow that smothers a babe, as he begins stroking Dean through his jeans. Dean twists his hips as much as he can, spit-soaked fabric muffling his desperate whine.
“No,” he tries to say, but through the gag it comes out garbled and pathetic. He feels Roman smiling against his neck. The cool touch of Roman’s tongue sliding on his skin makes him think of death.
“Quiet,” Roman says again, softer. “Don’t want Sammy to hear you and come through that door.”
And fuck, he doesn’t, but for a second he’d forgotten. Forgotten that Sam is supposed to be standing watch outside while Dean searches the office and performs the ritual. Forgotten that Sam is outside, clueless, armed with only a bit of borax, while Roman works Dean’s pants down his hips and pushes a finger into Dean, as careless with Dean’s pain as a hunter with a small animal caught in a trap. Forgotten that if Sam comes through that door unarmed, with Dean incapacitated and helpless, he’s going to die bloody and violent, just like Dean’s about to die.
He can’t let that happen, loves Sammy too much. Sam will endure Dean’s death. Dean could never endure knowing he caused Sam’s. He wishes he could kiss the little worry line in between Sam’s eyebrows and tell Sam not to miss him too much and to take care of his guns every night. He pretends for a moment that it’s Sam’s broad, strong hand stroking his side.
The gag is sweet in his mouth, now.
Maybe it’s a gift.
He cries then, mutely, unashamed. Roman pets his hip. “I know it’s hard,” he whispers, and Dean knows the sympathy in Roman’s voice is as false as the devil but it makes the tears come a little faster anyway. “But you have some work to do before you’re ready. It’ll be so worth it, Dean. You’ll taste perfect. I know you will.” Roman pushes him down again until he’s lying with his chest on the cool surface of the desk. Dean turns his head to the side and presses his cheek against the wood. Closes his eyes.
Dean bleeds, and cries, and endures.
He does it without making a sound.