Welcome to Dean Winchester's Hell


Contact Us
Promote DeanDamage

Log In

Skin Change


Season [279]
Short [87]
AU [65]

Featured Stories

My Fall Will Be For You by Jenn1984 T

I hear my name but can’t react, so I just watch as the beast raises...

Bean Stalker by Ophium T
Chuck’s books mustered a good number of fans. One of them turned out to...
Dangerous Assumptions by windscryer T

Dean is not having a good day and Sam's whole year is about to get worse...

Who's Online

Guests: 1

Black Friday by Ophium

[Reviews - 4]   Printer
Table of Contents

- Text Size +
Story notes:
Warnngs for non-graphic sexual situations, mild fetish and heavy swearing. Betaed by Jackfan2.
Chapter notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

There were two things that Dean knew for sure. One: people are crazy; and two: never bet against Sam on a game of rock-paper-scissors.

Still, somehow, those two concepts still failed as explanation enough for where Dean was right then. Nor for the fact that he was naked. Or the even more troubling fact that he was mostly, pretty sure, certain that he'd been drugged.

Maybe it was best to start from the beginning. Yeah, the beginning was much, much better than thinking about that small room where he currently was, the one that sounded like it opened into a much bigger room where Dean could hear the chatter of a fairly large group of people. Or maybe a large rave. And... had he mentioned the fact that those bastards had taken his clothes away?

So, the beginning.

Sam's an idiot.

Which made all of this his fault.

Well, okay, to be fair, they'd both missed the common denominator in all the disappearances from the roadside dinner. But it had been Sam's idea that they split up. So -his fault.

The thing was, people more often than not get sidetracked by their own line of work and tend to see what they want to see. What their lives and personal experiences allow them to see. Sam and Dean were no different from everybody else.

Kind of like those ink spots things in psychological tests. You know, the ones that don't look like butterflies to anyone?

For example, show a blur to a mechanic, he sees a grease spot; show it to a astrophysicist and he sees Cassiopeia; show it to Sam and Dean, and they see demonic omens. It just what their brains are trained to see.

Sometimes, though, a cigar really is just a cigar and it isn't your mother's fault that you smoke like a chimney because she didn't give enough baby bottles to suck on. Nor because she give you too many either.

This time? It was just humans being monsters towards other humans. Like the Winchesters hadn't learned that lesson from the Benders.

So, the missing people? All young guys who'd been driving by the same stretch of road. The part that Sam and Dean had missed because they hadn't really been paying attention to that particular detail? All good looking young guys who'd been driving by the same stretch of road.

Which was why, when Sam figured that only one of them should go into the diner and see what was what while the other remained outside as a backup, and Dean had actually won their round of rock-paper-scissors, Dean should've known fate was about to bite him in the ass. He never won rock-paper-scissors. Like... ever!

Long story short –mainly because it felt like whatever the hell they'd dosed him with was beginning to take effect faster and faster- Dean had walked into that diner, ordered a cheeseburger with everything (including kidnap, apparently), sat for a grand total of ten minutes enjoying the smell of his medium-rare meat being cooked in the kitchen and the fresh beer they had brought him, before whoever was behind it had made their move. Apparently, they decided that Dean's meat was good enough to serve their purposes and had promptly snaffled him, at gunpoint, through the back door of the restaurant.

The whole thing hadn't taken more than three minutes, tops, from Dean making a discreet sweep of the place for sulphur or any odd readings, to feeling the round touch of a gun's muzzle pressed against his kidney, to finding himself in the back of a windowless van with a bag over his head and a pair of cuffs around his wrists.

And the worst part of it all was that he had no way to let Sam know that this wasn't a demon after all.


There's a certain degree of anger associated with learning that helplessness is more than just one more word in your dictionary. Coincidentally enough, both Sam and Dean learned that simultaneously.

Dean had pondered his options the minute he could see anything other than the inside of a bag, immediate thoughts of striking back at the dumbasses that had whisked him away filtering through his brain in several degrees of violence. Had Dean been alone, and once he realized that he was dealing with dumb-assed humans, he was pretty sure he could have taken them out, guns or no guns. Even if he was starting to wonder if the beer he'd had at the diner was just beer. There was absolutely no way the walls of that room were shimmering between purple and yellow, with flashes of sparkling lights, that didn't involved drugs.

And besides, Dean was not alone. He was stuck in a room with way too many young civilian men that would, unavoidably, end up paying the price for any action that he might take, easy targets for any stray bullet that their kidnappers's guns might've coughed up.

Dean clenched his teeth and kept quiet, helpless to stop his captors from parting him from his several, very reassuring, layers of clothing. They didn't even have the decency of taking off his handcuffs to make the undressing easier –and Dean's fighting chances too- taking no risks as they cut right through the layers.

Dean bit his lip, looking at the shredded remains of one of his favorites shirts and the only pair of jeans he had that had no bloodstains on them. Those frigging pricks obviously had no idea how hard it was to break in new clothes and get them to feel just right... like the pieces they had just ruined.

Keeping his murderous intents to himself, Dean stood silently, watching the room waver and shimmer around him. He kept sinking his nails into the palms of his hands, trying to keep himself from completely submitting to whatever drug they had slipped into his beer. He needed to stay alert, stay sharp, ready to make his move.

Dean soon realized that there really was no point in that when a couple of big guys with black ski-masks over their heads, grabbed him and unceremoniously stuck a needle in the base of his skull.


Sitting in the car outside the diner, Sam could feel his ass acquiring a square-shaped form and slowly growing roots into the leather seats of the Impala, as he waited for Dean to return. It shouldn't have taken him that long to have a look around and check the place for sulphur or any other demonic signs unless he had decided to bang every single female waitress in the joint.

Which, given Dean's track record, wasn't completely out of consideration.

When it had became obvious that something was actually wrong, Sam had finally gone in, only to find himself clueless as to what had happened there. One thing was clear though: Dean was gone.

Sam's anger at himself and whomever had taken Dean from right under his nose, was directed at the side of the Impala –a fact that Dean would never find out about.

They had been foolish in assuming that, just because it was the middle of the day and they were checking the place just to be sure that it had nothing to do with the missing men, it would be safe to go into the diner alone. Or in at all.

All the clues and facts that they had so far were useless and didn't help Sam one bit to find out where Dean had been taken to or why. But he knew that none of the missing men had ever been seen again and Sam was damn sure that that would not happen to his brother.

The diner was half empty but, oddly enough, no one seemed to remember Dean ever walking in there. Not that Sam thought that his brother was impossible to miss, or even particularly memorable; but given that Sam had seen three, maybe four costumers walk in there the whole hour he'd been waiting outside, he had figured that at least one of the employees inside might've remembered a sassy stranger asking strange questions about cattle deaths or lightning storms.

And if he were to be honest with himself, Sam would admit that people simply noticed Dean when he walked into a room. Lord knew it had crapped up a number of jobs they were in because the two of them were hard to go by unnoticed, so, the fact that none of the employees –not even the women, who would've certainly noticed Dean- could remember Dean being in there, was more than fishy.

Whatever was going on in there, the people working at the diner were in on it. That part Sam was sure as well.

Sam was in the middle of considering if the boot-size dent on the side of the Impala was big enough for Dean to notice or not when Sam finally found him, while racking his mind in search of something that he might've missed while uselessly seating there on his ass for Dean to return. When he remembered the white van that he had seen taking off from the back of the diner maybe a half hour before Sam could almost see the metaphorical lamp bolt lighting above his head.

At the time, he hadn't thought much of it, finding it just odd that a supply truck would have no logo on the side, not even a name advertising what sort of product they transported. Only now, that Dean was gone, had Sam considered the reversed notion: that perhaps the diner was supplying whatever the van had gone to pick up.


The awesome thing about the whole deal was that now... now Dean knew exactly what had happened to all of the young men who had vanished without a trace. The scheme was pretty simple, if you thought about it.

A diner on a remote, desert road; people stop by to rest for a bit, maybe grab a bite, and all the diner's employees need to do was keep an eye out for the loners, especially those fitting the desired physical description, then give a call to 'the buyers'. Someone driving to someplace, never reaching their destination and disappearing somewhere in the middle of the vastness of Interstate-1.

If Dean were a betting man -which he was whenever he was sure to win the bet- he would say that all of the guys that had gone missing had probably ended up there, in the same place Dean was now. Or some other place built for the same end. It made it skin crawl at the possibilities.

For all that Dean liked sex and porn and generally having a good time, it took him a while to figure out what was happening there, because, honestly, the shit he was seeing had nothing to do with having a good time. From where he stood, he wouldn't even go so far as to call it porn. It was just the ass end of nastiness.

Whatever those pricks had given Dean and, by the looks of it, every other hapless son of a bitch in there with him, it did more than just smother their senses and make them feel woozy. He was already getting plenty of that from the drugs in the beer, thank you very much.

No, the shit that they had plunged into his neck had a couple of more disturbing effects. It was also making stuff happen to his body.

Dean could hear his heart, thumping hard against his ears; the palms of his hands were getting sweaty and clammy and an undercurrent of electricity beneath his skin was making all the fine hairs on his body –and some other anatomical elements- stand to attention. All the symptoms and signs of a horny teenage boy about to lose his virginity with the hottest girl in school, only with the fucked-up twist that Dean was far from being horny, from being a teenager and his virginity was long gone.

Dean wasn't the only one experiencing it, either. With their hands cuffed behind their backs, there wasn't much any of them could do to hide any of what was happening with their bodies. The rest of the guys tried to cover it up as best they could by squatting down, embarrassed, moving on legs that probably felt as jelly-like and detached from their brains as everything else.

Dean knew there was no point. Besides, years of hunting allowed him to keep his priorities straight, even with way too many illegal substances running through his veins.

With most of the guys trying to make themselves as small as possible on the ground, Dean had a clear view of the space ahead, the open room ahead of them towards where every one was being herded.

The new room was round, filled with turning lights of red and blue colors and a booming sound that made Dean's ears hurt. All of the walls were covered in mirrors, shamelessly reflecting back all of the naked bodies that had been pushed inside the room.

Even though he couldn't see them, Dean could feel the people standing behind those walls, watching the parade of naked guys. Meat on display.

Dean resisted the urge to pick a wall and lean against it, instead of just standing there in the middle of the room, looking like a lame duck. It was deeply annoying the realization that, no matter which wall he chose to give himself some sort of respite, there would be a sleazy human being on the other side, getting a free show.

So Dean kept to the middle, trying his best to keep an eye on the spot from where they'd come. It was the only way in and out of that room that he could see and Dean had every intention of using it to escape that place.

However, when the door closed and the dizzying array of lights started to blare all around the room, like some twisted, psychedelic version of a nightclub, it was harder to guess which way was up and which way was down, never mind remembering where the door had been.

One of the guys, a short Asian man with black hair and almond eyes, lost it the minute the door was shut and they were left standing in that fish bowl where all they could see was their own reflections.

"Let me out!" he yelled, banging his shoulder against the mirror. "Lemmeout! Lemmelout! LemmeOUT!"

Dean watched as the other guys stood clear of the panicking man. Survival instinct, he figured. Even not knowing to what end they had been trapped in there, the rest of the kidnapped men knew that the best policy was to keep to themselves.

Dean left the man alone for different reasons. He was sure that someone would come to retrieve him, long before he could crack the mirror or disturb whoever was on the other side. But he was wrong.

The Asian man kept on banging against the mirror until his shoulders were a bloody mess and his voice was raw. Over the sound of the loud music, no one could hear him anyway.

The booming music went on for a couple of minutes, the pounding of the bass and loud drums pulsing inside Dean's chest. When the music subsided to a less than deafening volume, Dean could still feel it pulse.

"Thirteen. Twelve hundred," a monochordic voice announced, coming from the same invisible speakers that had been puking out bad music into the room.

All the men inside the circular room tensed, looking up, looking at each other. One guy, a kid no more than twenty, with a mop of brown hair and startled blue eyes, started screaming for help.

Dean frowned. There was no reason for the kid to be reacting like that to the random numbers being repeated over and over in the speakers. There was no one near enough to him to be considered a threat.

In fact, those who stood closest had actually begun to step away from the kid much in the same way they had stayed clear of the Asian guy, as if all of a sudden they had found out that the kid had the plague or something. It was only when the freaked out kid turned around that Dean understood why the others had beaten a hasty retreat.

Painted in red paint over his butt cheeks there were two large numbers. A 'one' and a 'three'.

Bad luck number indeed.

Dean looked around, his eyes traveling lower than they had ventured before out of sympathy for all the naked guys. Sure enough, there were large red numbers painted on everyone's butt cheeks. No two numbers were the same and they seemed to vary from 'one' to 'thirty'.

Thirty. There were twenty-nine guys in there with him. That Dean had counted before. Twisting his head around, too many bodies reflected on the mirror for him to check his own reflection, Dean found the same smudges of red on his ass as well. He couldn't even remember when they'd done that.

'Thirteen', the kid, was panting in fear, fat tears springing from his eyes, his calls for help ebbing away into small whimpers. Dean took two steps in his direction, fully intent on standing by the kid's side when whatever happened next, happened.

It was pointless. There wasn't much that Dean could do when the kid backed away until his back hit one of the walls; a door materialized right behind him, producing two pairs of black gloved hands from inside that quickly grabbed the terrified young man and pulled him away. It all had happened so fast that if Dean's eyes hadn't been stuck on wide open and he'd blinked, he would've missed it.

The closing door cut off the screams coming from the other side. The lights resumed their dance. The booming music returned.

Concerned as he was over the fate of the guy who'd just been taken away, Dean had to admit that what had just happened, could prove to be his way out. There were thirty men in there. And now Dean knew that there was more than one door in that place. All he had to do was convince the other terrified guys that their only chance of escape was rushing the next opening.

It was something that Dean would never, ever tell anyone, the way he started to circle the room, going from man to man, shouting in their ears about the panned stamped.

Any other time, any other situation and Dean was sure that those men, all strangers to one another, wouldn't have listened to him. But they were all more scared of what lay beyond those mirrors than they were about what happened in that room. It was all the incentive they needed to grab an escape plan when it was placed in front of them.

When the next guy's number came up, they would be ready.

The decrease in volume in the music served as their cue. This time, the tension inside the room was louder than the music.

"Five. Nine hundred and fifty."

The unlucky guy was older this time, a black guy with an eagle tattooed to his right arm. The look he gave the others was a mix between panic and faith. They had a plan, and even though he was bait, he had to trust the others to have his back. Even so, and remembering what had happened to the kid before him, this guy was smarter, tried to stay away from the walls.

The frenetic lights stopped, just like they had before, and everyone tensed, ready for action, looking around to try and guess from where the hands would come now.

A weird, mechanical sound, similar to an elevator puller, filled the room.

With their eyes focused on the mirrored walls, no one saw the two metal hooks as they were lowered from the ceiling until it was too late. The new guy screamed like the one before, until his form disappeared through the short ceiling.

The weigh of failure descended at the same time the music resumed.

Dean cursed and swayed. There was no way he would be able to convince anyone again. They were like drunken fish trapped in a damn glass bowl. How was he suppose to do anything if his body was pumped with so much shit that he couldn't even walk straight?

New plan. The drugs dulling his senses had to go.

Dean started jumping up and down, no doubt offering quite the show to the sick peeps behind the walls, but he didn't care. It was either that or running laps around the mirrors. He needed to get his body moving, shake the drugs off his system. Be ready for when the next number was up. Even if the rest of the guys seemed ready to give up hope, Dean wasn't.

"Twenty six. Fourteen hundred."

Dean looked around, eyes furiously scanning the room, looking at more man-ass than he'd ever had in his life –and if that in itself wasn't enough reason to break every bone in the bodies of the people behind this, Dean was sure it was a damn good place to start- searching for the cursed number.

When he saw all the guys carefully pulling away from him, Dean finally figured out which number was painted on his ass. He was number twenty-six.


Sam was close to having an ulcer ON TOP of his ulcer when he finally got a hit on the license plate of the van he'd seen leaving the diner. After a less than reasonable talk with one of the employees, a 'talk' that had left Sam pissed and the employee with a few broken; and some not-so-legal hacking of the local DMV database, Sam had a lead.

It was stolen, of course, but that was enough to put an alert out for it. All Sam had to do was wait by the police scanner and cross his fingers.

His first piece of luck arrived less than two hours later, when a parking lot camera picked up the stolen van and the alert was issued. Sam's second piece of luck was that he was close enough to the quickie-mart where the van had been spotted.

It was Sam's first tangible lead of what had become a nerve-wracking, shitty day and it couldn't have come sooner. Dean had been gone for over six hours, and Sam could feel his chances of finding his brother alive and healthy dimming away with each ticking minute.

Sam followed from a distance. The road wasn't all that busy at that time of the night and the Impala wasn't exactly an inconspicuous car.

The driver of the white van was a bulky man that looked, dressed and smelled like hired muscle and whom, luckily for Sam, wasn't all that savvy about the ways of losing a tail. Unwittingly, he led Sam straight to the right place. At least, it looked suspicious enough to be the right place. An old abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere that had way too many fancy cars parked outside.

Sam had no idea what the hell was going on in there, but the suspicions that were beginning to form around the edges of his brain were enough to make him feel nauseous already. Whatever this was, it was bigger than he or Dean had signed up for. He flicked his cell phone opened and dialed 911.

Sam was still working on coming up with some sort of plan to infiltrate the building and get Dean out of there, when all hell broke loose.

Men dressed in expensive suits and women with shiny pearls around their necks and drawn up hair-dos that would not move despite the speed at which they were running on their high heel shoes, started to pour out from one of the side doors, quickly followed by a horde of naked men running as fast as they could. Their screams and panicked shouts traveled easily on the still air and it was impossible to tell which group was screaming louder.

Gun in hand, Sam rushed to the commotion of hightailing cars and agitation. Mind racing as fast as his feet, he feared what might've caused it and in what condition he would find Dean. After all, six hours was an awfully long time to...

Sam stopped in his tracks. And stared.

Dean, wearing absolutely nothing but two guns on his hands, came running out of the same door, chasing a pair of chubby ladies that had been unable to run as fast as their lighter accomplices.

"How's that for fourteen hundred bucks?" Dean shouted, firing a round aimlessly into the night. "Having fun yet? Did I make your day?" His only answer was the sound of high heels clapping on gravel as the women beat a hefty retreat. "Yeah... that's what I thought," Dean ended, talking to the dust cloud of the speeding car driving away.

There were so many questions inside Sam's head that he really had no idea where to begin. He figured that lending a jacket to his naked brother would be a good start.

"Hey... Sam," Dean shouted happily, a goofy smile on his face. "You're here."

And then his eyes kind of did a weird flutter and he fell face down on the ground. Sam added one more question to his list, looking at the giant twenty-six painted on his brother's ass in flashy red paint. He didn't even wanted to venture a guess, so messed up the whole deal looked right then.

Sam figured that all the questions and teasing would have to be saved for later.

Not because he wasn't curious about what had happened inside that warehouse, nor because of some sense of over-inflated privacy respect that never really existed between Winchester men.

No, the reason why Sam wasn't able to make the whole situation as uncomfortable as he could for Dean was because of the heavy fist that sunk into the base of his skull.

There was a moment of pain at the impact, a moment of embarrassment at the realization that he was going to land face first on Dean's naked thigh and then absolute blackness.


"Shit!" Dean's voice echoed through the large bedroom. "Shit! Shit! SHIT!"

His situation hadn't improved much. In all honesty, actually, it had gone from bad to screwed to hell. Because now, there were no more naked guys around him, or mirrored walls or even bad music.

Now he was all alone, handcuffed to a freaking bed in a room with red painted walls and where the only pieces of furniture were a wooden chest, stored near the far corner and the bed Dean was attached to.

It would've been sexy, if Dean wasn't sure that he would have no saying in the following events and if he wasn't ready to freak out and start screaming bloody foul.

And Dean could've sworn that he had been out, that he had fought his way out of the auction and had stumbled across Sam. Had he imagine all of that? Were the drugs they'd given him that good? The hangover was certainly potent as a motherfucker.

Fact of the matter was, he was still trapped. More trapped now that he could barely move his arms and legs. And he was still naked, something that was beginning to really, REALLY get on Dean's nerves.

"You scared away some really good customers," a woman's voice sounded from the door.

Dean strained his head up, looking at the old matron that had been in charge of the diner by the side of the road. "You know, I meant to tell you, your cheeseburger really tasted like ass," Dean replied, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Maybe that's what scared your customers away."

The woman laughed, a throaty sound that reminded Dean of deep caves. "You're a funny one," she said, sounding surprise at the notion. "Too bad most customers won't be interested in what you have to say. You see," she went on, moving closer to the bed and allowing Dean a good look at her expensive suite and manicure nails. "Most of the men we pick up, are sold as a one time deal only. They do their part, we get paid, they're sent on their merry little way... everyone's happy."

Dean watched her every movement with intent eyes. She was tall, athletic looking for her age. The red hair and the slatted eyes gave her the general look of a copper head, ready to strike.

"I bet the guys you sell are really happy about it too," Dean countered. The fact that none of the men who had gone missing had ever been seen again told him that these people did more to them than just 'let them go', but he had no reason to tell that to Snake-lady.

"You on the other hand," she went on as if Dean hadn't spoken at all, her hand trailing lazily up his bare leg. "Cost me the whole evening's procedures. That's a lot of money we're talking about here," she admonished. Some how, she actually managed to make it sound like it was something that Dean should be sorry for. "Which means now... I take it out on you and your buddy."

Dean, who had been trying his best to ignore both what the woman was saying and, specially, what she was doing, snapped his eyes open at her words. Buddy?

"My men wanted to kill you both," she went on, sounding like she was confiding to him. "But they have absolutely no sense of business," she added with a smile that revealed perfect teeth. "One look at the both of you, and I knew the night could still be saved."

Dean swallowed the bile that was building up inside his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to believe that she was talking about some other guy that happened to be near Dean when he'd passed out, but he knew that she was talking about Sam. The events that followed his 'sell' were a bit foggy to Dean, but he knew with absolute certainty that he'd reached Sam before blacking out. The sense of safety and home that came from finding Sam was impossible to imagine.

Sam had come after him, and now they were both stuck in the same mess. That whole fucking day just kept getting better and better.

"You know… the minute you try and fucking sell me to anyone of those kinky-freaks out there, I'm going to go ape-shit on their asses and your whole frigging business might lose more than just a few customers," Dean hissed out. That he would skin the flesh out of their bones if they even thought about touching one string of hair in Sam's head was left unsaid, but it was a promise just the same. There was, however, no point in giving these people more leverage than what they already had by letting them know just how much Sam meant for him.

The woman gave out a dry laugh, one that made Dean's skin crawl and told him that he was missing the point here. "Oh, honey… we're not going to sell you to one buyer," she said gently, her voice reassuring even as her hand trailed aimlessly over Dean's belly. "Your pal either. That part of the business is closed for tonight. This here," she said with a flick of her nose towards the naked room, "is the other part of my emporium... the most enjoyable part of my job," she added with a smirk.

Dean would spat on her if his mouth wasn't suddenly desert-dry.

"You'll find that I'm a very understanding person, my little green eyed treasure. In fact, I'll even let you see your friend before we open for business."

There were so many things wrong with that sentence that Dean didn't even know where to start. He didn't have a chance, either way.

One of the walls, the one to his left, reveled itself to be another of those freaking mirrored walls that had surrounded him during the auction. Snake-lady touched one button near the bed, and suddenly the lights dimmed, the mirror shimmered and Dean could no longer see his own reflection. Instead, he was looking at another room, exactly like the one he was in, only this one was occupied by a just as naked, although different Winchester.

"You fucking bitch!" Dean blared out, struggling against the cuffs that kept him tethered to the bed. Sam must've heard something, because Dean could see his brother's head turn towards him. "Let him go."

The woman placed a carefully manicure hand over her mouth, looking like she was actually considering it. "I will," she let out, smirking at the furious look in Dean's eyes. "Eventually. In the mean time, there are a couple of customers that are intent on getting their money's worth with you and long-stretch over there," she added with a vicious smile. "And you wouldn't believe the amount of women and men out there that are just dying to give me their money for that."

"You know this is going to end badly for you, don't you?" Dean asked with as much venom in his voice as he could muster. The helplessness of his position was making his heartbeat wildly inside his chest and there was nothing –nothing!- he could do to stop Snake-lady from doing whatever she wanted to Sam and him. No one knew where they were, not even Bobby, who they were suppose to meet by the end of the week. Until then, they were… well, Dean would say 'fucked', if the word didn't make his balls shrivel up his stomach, given in his current situation.

"One day, I imagine so," she said, completely fearless of that impending day. "But I'm sure my demise will come from either a powerful, albeit unsatisfied customer or from a rival, trying to take over my business… not from the meat I sell."

"I will hunt you down," Dean hissed, "and trust me sista, I'm good at that."

Snake-lady merely patted Dean's knee on her way out, her expensive suite barely wrinkling as she got up. "I'm sure you'll be good at lots of other things you couldn't even imagine. Before this night is over, you'll see yourself in a whole different light," she said, sage advice from the pits of human evilness. "And trust me, honey, I too am good at that."

She walked to the door where two security men stood, big as closets and looking about as smart as a piece of wood. "Let the first group through," she commanded. "Thirty minutes," she added to someone out of Dean's sight. "And remember... any permanent damage you cause to the product will cost you extra," she said, her voice gentle and caring, like a shopkeeper, reminding her customers to mind the delicate merchandise.

Dean could do much more than glare as she pretentiously stood by the door, collecting entrance money from two men and two women, in various degrees of nakedness, as they stepped inside.

Dean looked around, desperately seeking for anything that could be used to open the cuffs around his limbs. A loose nail, a lost paper clip, the fucking KEYS!

There was nothing, the space near Dean's hands as naked as the rest of the room and its occupants.

On the other side of the wall, he could hear Sam's muffled protests and the groaning of wood as Sam fought against his own restrains. Another large goon stood by Sam's door, charging entrance to a similar group of four people.

It was like a damn carrousel, and Dean and Sam were the rides.

Dean's attention returned to the group inside his room when the door closed with a bang, leaving him alone with four individuals that didn't look one bit disturbed by the fact that they'd just paid a large sum of money to basically gang-rape a perfect stranger.

"You guys don't wanna do this," Dean tried, his face non-threatening even as the skin on his wrists broke under the pressure of his struggles to break free. "Don't take my word for it, but I'm pretty sure this is illegal in most states."

One of the guys, a bald man with a belly that looked more like a seven months old pregnancy, kneeled at the foot of the bed and promptly stuffed Dean's toe inside his mouth.

"Fuck!" Dean let out, the contrast between the cold room and the hot mouth sent a shiver all the way up to the back of his neck that caught him by surprise. That and the revulsion at realizing what and exactly whom had caused the feeling. "Then again, I guess you really want to do this," Dean growled, doing his best to keep his stomach contents on the inside.

The others didn't seem all that predisposed to wait for their turn either. Each of the women had sat on one side of the bed, cold hands playing along the tense muscles in Dean's chest, while the remaining guy climbed on top of the bed and started positioning himself over Dean's head with a satisfied smile.

"Dude," Dean let out through clenched teeth, "if you're thinking about doing what I think you're thinking about doing... think again. Unless you wanna go through the rest of your lame life with only half a dick."

The guy smirked, the side of his thin lips lifting just enough to reveal a golden pair of teeth. He was smiling, like it was all a joke that he'd heard before.

Dean bucked up off the bed, rising a glorious four inches before the clink of metal in the cuffs pulled him back down. The only thing the action accomplished was a pair of surprised yelps from the women and a scrape of teeth against his foot from bald guy at the foot of the bed.

"Fuck this shit!" Dean yelled, thrashing against his restraints and the four bodies pressing closer and closer to him. "I'm going to kill everyone of you fuckers!"

The certainty of that menace, so perfectly clear in Dean's words, gave his attackers some pause. The silence lasted less than a couple of seconds, but it was enough for Dean to hear the strain in the wood above his head.

Snake-lady had gone for aesthetics rather than sturdiness in the beds she had used to keep her prey and Dean couldn't be more grateful to her for that.

Distracted as they were making the best of the time they had bought, the two guys and the two women barely noticed as Dean stopped thrashing wildly and concentrated rather on the board he could feel loosening up.

Rather than distract himself with what was happening in the room next door, keeping his mind off Sam and reminding himself that his brother was a big guy who could take care of himself, Dean instead kept his eyes focused on Golden-teeth, still standing above him. The lanky man taking his time kneeling on Dean's chest and posing himself ready for what he believe would be the best blow-job of his life, his hips already swaying at the prospect alone.

Dean smirked at the man when he felt the long headboard come loose in his hands. He grabbed and swung it in the direction of the man's head, a deep feeling of satisfaction that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with watching the man's gold teeth explode from his mouth in great splatter's of blood and saliva, filled Dean.

One of the women scattered back, yelping as warm blood gushed over her, while the other, a bottle-white haired woman with enough muscles on her lean body to remind Dean of a body-builder, jumped straight at his face, hands like claws, looking for all intents and purposes like she wanted to gouge Dean's eyes out.

Dean had no second thoughts about using the wooden board to smash her face in. She fell to the floor, landing on top of Golden-teeth with a whimper that was the most feminine sound that she'd made so far.

The Toe-fetish guy finally clued in on what was happening and was up in a flash, moving faster than one would expect from his round shapes, banging against the door for help before Dean could stop him.

"Help!" Help us! He got loose!" The bald man said, body quivering in fear against the door. The hard on he'd been supporting up until then was long gone. Obviously, their victims' fighting back was not something that turned those people on.

Dean, using his newfound weapon to bang against the bottom boards that kept his ankles still trapped, spared a moment's glance to the glass wall. All he could see was himself, wild eyes, red-beet face and disheveled hair. No Sam.

Whatever trick of light that Snake-lady had used to make the wall see-through had been cut back to allow the perverts in each room some 'privacy'.

The other woman, the tallest one with ice-blue eyes, screamed at Dean, anger turning her icy eyes into cold fire. "You're going to pay for this!" she yelled, eyes darting in between Golden-teeth bleeding on the floor and Dean.

She ran to one corner of the room where a wooden chest was placed against the wall.

When she turned around to face him again, there was wicked looking whip in her hands.

"Great," Dean muttered to himself, concentrating on the loosening boards that were slowly –too fucking slowly!- coming apart near his feet. "The toys-chest... this just keeps getting better and better."

It wasn't looking good. Cry baby Toe-fetish desperate banging on the door would eventually attract Snake-lady's goons to that room and Indiana-bitch was brandishing that whip like a pro. From the sound it made as it hit the floor, Dean could easily guess that it wasn't so much as a 'toy' but rather the real deal.

"Now, remember... you damage the goods, you cough up more cash," Dean let out, eyes focused on his task rather than looking for a reaction on the insane woman.

When the door crashed open, Dean figured everything was over. For half a second, he could imagine Sam and himself as nothing but dead and broken bodies, abandoned in some dumpster in the middle of nowhere, half eaten by rats before anyone could find them. No one would ever know what had happened to them. No one would ever stop this from happening again.

In all honesty, Dean had never been happier to look up at the blinding flashlights of the men dressed in black that burst through the room or about hearing the sweet, sweet sounds of 'STOP! POLICE!"


Sam had a black eye. But he was also smirking like the cat who had gotten the cream, the bird and his litter all cleaned up.

"You called them, didn't you?"

"Yup," Sam confirmed with a smile. "Anonymous tip when I found the place where they were holding the auctions. Figured that something with that many people attending would warrant the interest of the local authorities."

Auctions. Dean snarled at the innocuous sound of that, masking what was really going on. "Couldn't you've called sooner?"

"They got there in time, Dean," Sam pointed out. "That's what matters."

"Yeah... well, you weren't the one with a giant baby using your toes as a pacifier, okay?" Dean hissed out, teeth bared. Not even after almost boiling his feet in the shower could he get ride of the feeling of that guy sucking on his piglets. It was too bad that the police squadron that had taken down the whole operation had stopped Dean from showing his point of view to Toe-fetish and Indiana-bitch. He had a couple of wisdom pearls that he'd wanted to knock out of those two. For starters.

Sam made a ackgggh! noise that sounded surprisingly close to gagging. "Well... no," he agreed with Dean. "But lets just say that I'm keeping away from wiped cream for the rest of my natural life."

Dean paused, his mind quickly supplying him with enough reasons for that to make a boat filled with hard-assed sailors blush. He gagged in return. "Dude... that's nasty."

"Yeah," Sam let out, eyes down and avoiding looking anywhere but the hole in his jeans' knee. "All I'm saying is... I'm ready to forget about this whole thing as quickly as possible."

Dean sighed. "Bobby's gonna ask, you know," he pointed out. "What the hell are we gonna tell him?"

Sam bit his lip. "We could lie."

Dean laughed. "I could lie," he corrected. "You suck at it. One look at you and Bobby would know the whole story."

"We could avoid him for a while," Sam ventured, not even bothering to deny Dean's accusation. "Let this die and go away."

Dean's smile widened. "Let's go to Vegas!"


"Yes! As in Las best place to win some serious cash," Dean went on, eyes glinting already at the prospect.

"You do realize that when the police figures out that we escaped protective custody they'll be after us too," Sam pointed out. "Probably even assume that we were in cahoots with those people back there?"

"Only if they're heads are way up their asses," Dean said with an almost-pout. "Besides, I found some extra cash that we could really put to use there."

Sam's eyebrow rose. Their credit cards were near their limit and it had been awhile since Dean had found time to hustle some pool. Besides, people didn't simply 'find' some cash. "What did you do, Dean?"

The smile that spread over Dean's face was nothing short of mischievous. He wiggled his eyebrows at Sam, knowing that his brother would get the answer on his own.

"You didn't," Sam let out. It came out more incredulous than reproachful. "How much?"

"Ten grand," Dean confessed. It wasn't like Snake-lady would ever report the theft, busy as she would soon get with charges of sexual slave trade, forced prostitution, sexual assault and murder. "I figure it was just compensation... you know, for the emotional trauma."

Sam just shook his head. "Yeah, I bet." He relaxed back against the leather seat, watching the road being eaten up by the fast car. "Vegas, hum?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean whooped. "Red, twenty-six, here I come!"

The end

Enter the security code shown below:
Note: You may submit either a rating or a review or both.