apple sins

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/26192251.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Winchester/Alastair
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Alastair
(Supernatural)
Additional Tags: gimp suits, Mind Control, Constructed Reality, Sensory Deprivation,
Implied/Referenced Underage Sex
Language: English
Series: Part 25 of spn kink bingo 2020
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-08-30 Words: 2,826 Chapters: 1/1
 apple sins
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

The next time Dean blinks, his fingernails are clean and intact.

spn kink bingo square 14: gimp suit

Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The next time Dean blinks, his fingernails are clean and intact.

He balks, inhales. Leans back to take in the room—cozy, muted colors. Must be around dusk.
A cuckoo clock, a souvenir of earlier travels, ticks patiently in its familiar spot on the wall.
For some reason, he thinks he should be getting dinner ready.

Dean gets up from where he had been perched on a bed. His bed. His room. Right.

Sam is seated at the dinner table, buried in his homework. Tips his head up for Dean walking
down the stairs, though, and inquires, “What’s for dinner?” and Dean’s mouth says,
“Casserole,” on auto-pilot.

Dean’s kid brother makes a face. “Again?”

Their kitchen is like he left it, earlier today. He knows where everything is by heart, of course
he does. Dad bought the house years ago; Dean fills the fridge regularly. As he dices onions,
his mind slips to the article waiting for him at his desk, tomorrow, at the agency. He’ll thread
in the interview he did today, maybe rewrite a paragraph or two.

Dad comes home just in time, literally with the chime of the oven’s digital timer. Hollers,
“What’s for dinner?” and, upon Sam’s reply, falls into a pleased smile. “Again? Awesome.”

The Winchesters eat with varying degrees of gusto. Sam dominates the conversation, as
always; blabbers about school and science and Dad nods, fascinated but tired and shoveling
food into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow, like he hasn’t eaten all day. As if Bobby
doesn’t give him any breaks at the garage, as if Dean wasn’t supplying him with packed
lunches. While Dad at least hums or gives other short acknowledgments of him listening,
Dean can’t, doesn’t. Is tuned out, and it’s weird, like—watching something through a thick
wall of glass.

He chews, but can’t taste a thing.

In bed, he can’t sleep. On his back and staring at the ceiling and he’s missing something,
something, but he can’t remember what it is. Dean slips out of bed, out of his room. Watches
the peaceful scene in the living room—Dad, out cold in front of the TV, Seinfeld on and his
lone after-work-beer barely even touched, condensates like fuck on the tiny rubber coaster on
their coffee table. Dad snores over the muffled, distant rhythm of music from upstairs, from
inside Sam’s room. Dean leaves the TV on for him after turning the volume down.

He almost slips the leather jacket on; almost. Can smell it: the rich, worn material of it, and if
he touched it he’d feel its weight, its significance. The warmth from Dad still lingers. Dean
leaves it behind on the coat hanger.

Crocks. He’s in sweatpants and a sleep shirt. It’s mild out as he stands on the porch, gazes
down the street as if he was waiting for something, anything. As if there was something out
there for him, calling him.
Dean’s hand goes to the amulet resting on his chest, underneath his shirt. He frowns, looks up
the street the other way. It’s quiet. Bugs. Wind in the supple trees. Green, a lot of it, out here.
A good neighborhood, Dad always prides himself with that. The Impala sits in the driveway,
done for the day.

Dean doesn’t contemplate heading back inside, not even for a jacket. Begins to walk instead,
up north, up the street, past the neglected bed of flowers Ellen talked them into but even Sam
got bored with eventually. Past the duo of garden gnomes he always found awfully tacky but
which somehow survived every move and Sam and Dean’s (more or less subtle) assassination
attempts and Dad loves them, so they stay, of course.

The streetlights are on and yet the world is dipped in blue. Soft and damp, like a cellar but
he’s outside, isn’t he? Out in the open and the next breeze brings fresher air, so maybe just
the funk of someone’s overdue trash can.

There’s that tiny little house; he can see it from his bedroom window. Small but two stories,
robin blue paint and bright white trim. Pansies on the porch, cacti. Dean walks up the short
wooden stairway. A stray cat notices and ignores him to continue its nap on the still-warm-
looking pillow on the black metal bench underneath the kitchen window.

Dean’s hand moves on its own, way before he can rationalize how rude it is to ring
someone’s doorbell at this hour. They’re surely getting ready for bed or are just enjoying a
nice cozy evening, but his forefinger is pressing down on the buzzer already, irrevocably, and
his stomach jumps with the distant, soft familiar melody chiming inside the house as a result.

He waits, frozen—for what? Whom? Was there even a name on the mailbox? Was there a
mailbox?

The door opens. Warm eyes, warmer smile.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hi.”

“Can’t sleep?”

Dean shakes his head.

“I thought so. Well, come in, then.”

Dean does.

It’s warm inside. The wooden floor creaks under his weight. Classical music whispers from
across the corridor, from that nearly-antique stereo in the living room Dean’s always been
fascinated by.

Alastair’s hand curls over his shoulder to regain his attention.

Dean looks at him.

Alastair asks him, “Tea?” and Dean smells chamomile, smells mint.

He’s been coming here for ages, hasn’t he? Years. Months. Something.

It’s easy to hug himself to Alastair, get embraced back just as tight, as soothing. Dean leans
his head onto a shoulder, gets his hair stroked; sighs in relief. Yes. Here.

Alastair chuckles. “Bedroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hm, of course. Of course.”

Alastair nudges him straight, upright. Tips Dean’s head up with his fingers under his chin,
directs him to look at him, takes him in with hooded, aged eyes.

Murmurs, “My beautiful, beautiful boy,” and Dean closes his eyes for the ensuing kiss.

Alastair has always been gentle about these things. Careful and slow, and Dean’s not a fool,
of course. Learned about what old men with eyes like Alastair’s want of him but it didn’t
bother him with Alastair, not once. Always felt like they just—belonged. Together.

Dean licks back into Alastair’s mouth, hands on Alastair’s waist, the crisp white of his
button-down. Gets his face cradled by two wiry hands, boney fingers but they’re tender with
him, just like Alastair’s mouth, Alastair’s breath. Dean’s cock twitches inevitably for the
brush of Alastair’s beard against his face, his mouth, as they keep kissing, keep getting lost in
each other. It’s usually like that. Dean’s still a teen, after all; easy to excite.

Again, “Beautiful,” and Dean keeps his eyes closed and cringes for the blatant endearment,
keeps his mouth loose for Alastair’s thumb skirting along his lip, the corner of his mouth.
“Tell me what you need.”

Thoughtless, “Need you,” and Alastair chuckles for that, all huffed and loving and he tells
Dean,

“All right, then.”

The upstairs is dark. Always is, even in the day. But Dean usually comes around after
nightfall, after hauling Sam off to one of his friends and making sure Dad’s fed and
horizontal. When duty is over and he can just be—himself. Here. Enjoy himself.

Alastair instructs, “Take off your clothes,” despite Dean already knowing the drill, despite
him already pulling his tee over his head, shaking it out before folding it once, twice. Alastair
has opened the closet, flirts fingers and eyes over the selection waiting for them behind
usually-closed doors.

Dean sniffs, wipes at his nose with his forearm—it comes away bloodied.

“Woah.”
At that exclamation, Alastair comes over to him just in time to stop him from wiping at the
stain with his t-shirt. Shushes him and puts one hand to the back of his head, silently instructs
him to bend his head backwards.

Dean tastes blood, blinks. Wills the disgust away. Not now.

“Keep your head that way. Yes.”

Dean gets his shirt taken out of his hand. Stands there, awkward, his hands slowly coming up
to cup an overflow that doesn’t come. Alastair steps in front of him, tugs the string of his
sweatpants open so the heavy fabric of it drops to Dean’s ankles before he retrieves a bunch
of tissues, hands those to Dean.

Dean groans, irritated but warm, and his eyes slide shut for the pleasure of Alastair stroking
his cock all languid and loose, while he attempts to not make a mess out of everything. Tips
his head back into vertical dimensions and the tissues don’t feel soaked, and the taste has
already vanished, and it’s probably not that bad.

Alastair says, “Here,” and helps him wiping his nose, like Dean’s a toddler. Doesn’t stop
moving his other hand and Dean sways where he stands with the dull pleasure of it, hums and
puts his hands back on Alastair’s hips and Alastair tosses the tissues aside, into the tiny
wicker basket by the nightstand, before he folds his hand back around Dean’s chin, Dean’s
cheeks, and pinches them tight.

Dean frowns, huffs. Feels Alastair’s eyes on him but won’t move, of course not; he knows
this game by now.

Alastair kisses him, finally. Doesn’t release his pinch, rubs his thumb too-hard across Dean’s
mouth once he’s done with it, underneath Dean’s nose and that feels wet again. Dean’s
stomach is queasy for a second before Alastair’s palm connects with his cheek with a full
smack, and he grumbles, relieved, and gets another, same side.

“Look at me.”

Dean does.

Finds Alastair cold, close, measuring.

“Turn around.”

Dean does. Curls his lips into his mouth with the cool slide of Alastair’s hands down his
arms, with how they help him grab his elbows.

“Fuck…”

“What was that?”

Dean repeats, louder, “Fuck, please,” and Alastair rucks him close to himself with one hard
grip on his interlocked arms, brings the other between them to rub straight into the cleft of
Dean’s ass. Dean groans, curls his ass out for it, but Alastair’s fingers just tease, just stroke.
His cock flinches in the clean air of the room, fully hard and throbbing at this point. Pavlov’s
dog, all the way.

Alastair leans in to talk into Dean’s ear without touching him. Tells him, “Don’t move,” as if
Dean still has to be told. But maybe he does—have to be reminded, maybe, but he stays, even
when Alastair pulls away to collect whatever he’s set his mind on.

Dean’s eyes were closed even prior to the blindfold, swim in the thickest of darkness now.
Alastair murmurs, “Open up, come on. Good boy, Dean,” and slides his overlong fingers
along Dean’s jaw, threads the thick gag into his mouth until it nearly hits the back of his
throat—definitely does once he buckles it up behind Dean’s head. Dean swallows, all
shallow. Stretched out, and Alastair dances all ten fingers along his cheeks, his face, like
spiders crawling over his skin. Dean huffs, shudders. Keeps his spine straight, because he’s
good like that.

He is being walked those few feet to his right, where he knows the wooden bench waits by
the end of the bed. Without fail, Alastair orders, “Kneel,” and so Dean does, of course. Slips
right into position, elbows up front and hands clasped together like this is a prayer, like this is
church, and he’s not a believer by any means but the imagery nevertheless fucks with him.
Makes his skin pebble hard and adds more sweat to his pits, and he lengthens his spine to
look graceful, bare and bound in his neighbor’s bedroom with the lace curtains and the fuck-
old genuine wooden furniture and his dick’s so hard he hopes Alastair’s aware that if he’s not
careful about this, he’s gonna come all over the fucking floor.

But all Dean hears is, “Hm,” feels the weight of Alastair standing close, above him, feet to
either outside of Dean’s legs and he flinches, deep, for the slip of the cane between his ass
cheeks, for how it licks at his hole and his taint and tailbone in one slow stroke, and it’s gone
entirely then, and Dean waits, he waits. He can wait forever if he has to.

Doesn’t have to, though.

The first hit comes hissing and sharp.

Dean barely bucks.

“Twenty, yes?” and it’s not Dean’s place to object, or agree, or anything.

He’s flinching by fifteen. Sweats in bucketfuls and tingles all over, one inflamed line even
though the cane focuses exclusively on his ass, the upmost back of his thighs.

By the time Alastair feathers the cane over his skin without inflicting any more violence,
Dean is shaking.

“Beautiful. Now, where were we?”

Dean focuses on his back not slouching, his head not dropping. Gurgles around his gag while
Alastair works him open methodically, clinically; two fingers and endless lube and the plug
comes soon enough. Heavy and wide and a new sheen of sweat, and Dean tries hard not to
whine or make any noise but it’s fucking cruel, fucking too much and he’s not prepped
enough but the toy sinks in anyway, without a care, stretches him thin and full and he
trembles, feels his cock drooling a first full gush of precome. Has it tickling down the taut
length of his cock, teasing him further while Alastair settles the toy in for good, nestles it up
in his guts and choking out his prostate with a final, hard push, a, “Good boy,” and another
pulse on the base with his thumb, and Dean grunts, lost, blackness.

His cock and balls are next. Get sheathed and squeezed in too-tight plastic and Alastair pays
special attention to the setting of the cock ring, slings it painfully narrow and Dean almost
humps back into his hand; almost.

Hears Alastair chuckling, so maybe he didn’t quite stop himself. Feels those fingers flirting
around his cock, but the plastic prevents all sensation.

“I know, I know. Don’t worry, I got you. Always do, don’t I?”

Alastair’s slacks brush soft against the back of Dean’s legs as the man shuffles closer. Dean
knows what’s next even without the delicate clink of metal, but the auditory cue makes it…
better? Worse? He thinks he likes this. Always did, didn’t he?

Alastair shushes him as he flinches. Presses absent kisses into the back of Dean’s drenched
neck while he pushes the metal rod up his dick, blind but knowing, familiar. They’ve done
this a lot, after all. Dean still reels with it, the over-full, wrong sensation. Alastair secures
another plastic piece over the stuffed head of his cock to prevent anything from slipping out.

Dean’s delirious. Hard and aching and full and he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs,
but Alastair’s got him. Knew what he needed and wanted before Dean even had the
vocabulary to articulate any of it; just a kid back then but it all felt so right, so wonderful and
safe and it was always safe with Alastair, it was, it was.

Every movement reminds him of the plug, the sound. He’s so sweaty Alastair must be using
half the container of baby powder but they’ve worked him into the suit eventually, and
Dean’s exhausted and burning and tense but God he’s safe, everything bundled up tight and
he breathes, deep, through his nose—aware of the scent of latex, Alastair’s cologne, the
room, the house, this…place.

The wood. The sheets. The air. The stone. The fire.

“I’ll let you out in an hour. Don’t want to upset your daddy, do we?”

And Dean shakes his head, weakly, before Alastair pets at his head, cards through his
overlong blond hair a final time before he settles the earplugs in, pulls the mask over Dean’s
head.

Darkness. Silence. Heat.

Maybe Alastair mumbles something about Dean getting too old, too big for this kinda shit,
because it feels like he’s struggling to carry him. Dean would help but his arms and legs are
tied, immobile, useless. He can barely curl his fingers inside the thick padded mittens.
Alastair got those for him. Him alone. Nobody else. All of this.
The crawl space underneath the closet is just enough. Some inches for him to wriggle, if he
must (he doesn’t). His breath stutters from him as he notices the door closing above him,
gently thudding shut, muffled and distant and the toys plugged and bound to him whirr alive
as if on cue, buzz low and teasing and he’d groan if he could, and maybe the closet doors are
already shut, maybe he’s already alone, all alone.

Safe and sound, Dean sighs. Melts into his constraints and loves that there is no room at all.
Nowhere to fall out of line. Nowhere he isn’t—held. Protected.

Underneath the leather mask, a new, wet trickle adds to the already-there sweat. Makes its
way down from nose to cheek and pools there. Smells of iron and salt, himself, and Dean
breathes deep.
End Notes

With this work, I have successfully blacked out my SPN kink bingo card 2020. I had loads of
fun with the bingo and I hope you guys enjoyed what came out of it as well ❤.

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!