Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/324191.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Dark, Knifeplay, Hurt_Dean_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-21 Words: 1827
****** Goût de Métal ******
by tirsynni
Summary
     When Dean is captured by a man with a grudge against his father, he
     kept reassuring himself that everything would be all right. Dad would
     come. Dad would save him.
Dean Winchester really, really wanted to scratch his nose.
It was kinda weird.  He had plenty of opportunities to scratch his nose
earlier, but it hadn’t itched earlier.  Now it was driving him insane.  He
would give a limb—someone else’s, of course—to be able to scratch his nose.
There were some definite cons to being tied to a chair.
Dean didn’t flinch when the calloused finger ran up his bare arm.  He had
bruises of that shape up and down both arms and he knew more were probably
hidden under his t-shirt.  Big deal.  Sammy hurt him worse when he had tripped
on the library steps with his armful of books.  The teachers had harassed Dean
about his black eyes for two weeks.
“Your daddy owes me money,” the anonymous voice growled.  Behind his blindfold,
Dean rolled his eyes.  He wished the man would stop repeating himself and just
let him scratch his nose.  “If he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to get my
payment another way.”
Dean just shifted himself on the hard wooden chair, noticing he also had to
take a piss.  More threats, more threats.  Big deal.  Dad would be here soon,
and then he could go piss . . . and scratch his nose.
The calloused finger lingered on Dean’s skin.  Dean added punching this freak
to his mental to-do list.
“His time’s running out.”  Dean didn’t bother hiding his sigh; the gag did it
for him.  “Your time’s running out.”
Bullshit.  Dean made his yawn as obvious as possible.  He had no idea what set-
up his dad had going, but John Winchester had been doing this type of thing for
years.  True, getting kidnapped from his school was kinda unusual, but Dean
could handle it.  He just hoped Sam hadn’t freaked out or anything when Dean
hadn’t picked him up.
The man grunted.  “Fucking brat.”  Through will alone, Dean didn’t flinch when
that finger turned into a meaty hand, tight and hard around his forearm.  This
bastard wouldn’t get any satisfaction from him.  “Think you’re so tough, huh?”
Dean snorted, the noise muffled.  He knew he was that tough.
There was a sound that was almost a laugh.  The hand tightened further on his
arm.  Dean held his breath so he wouldn’t make a noise.  Like hell he would
make this bastard think he was actually hurting him.
Then the hand was gone.  Dean exhaled slowly, his breath further soaking the
gag.  The wet cloth chafed the corners of his mouth.
“That shit thinks he can get away with this?”  Dean ignored the angry rambling,
more focused on the throbbing in his arm.  Great.  More teachers suspecting his
dad of abuse.  “I’ll show him.  I’ll send him a message.”
Whatever.  Dean shifted his arm a little.  It was beginning to cramp.
Heavy thuds marked the man’s return, his footsteps anything but subtle.  Not
like a hunter.  Dean sighed inwardly and tried to relax his arm.  Mind over
matter and all that, ri—
Dean couldn’t help a jerk when something sharp and cold sliced over his newly
forming bruise.  He was so surprised he couldn’t make a sound even if he wanted
to.  That was new and it hurt.
“Let’s see if he can ignore this.”  Dean wanted to ignore it, wanted
desperately to ignore it.  He could feel the blood streaming down his arm.  He
wondered distantly if it was surprise that was making it sting so much.  Still,
he kept from making any noise.  Dad would be here soon.
The knife—Dean guessed it was a knife, he didn’t want to think about what else
it could be—lightly touched his bicep before digging in.  Dean bit down hard on
the gag.  No noise, no noise.  He was tough; he was a hunter.
And Dad would come.
“I could cut up that pretty face,” the man rambled.  For the first time, Dean
felt a sliver of true fear.  Not his face.  Don’t touch his face.  “That’d be a
message.  Bet he’d see that.”
The knife paused at Dean’s elbow, the tip buried in his flesh.  Dean fought
hard to keep from moving, especially when the man’s other hand cupped his chin.
“You have cock-sucking lips,” the man murmured, a comment Dean had been hearing
even puberty.  It had taken a while for Dean to figure out why his dad had
punched the first man to say that to him.  “Maybe . . .”
Finally, the knife slipped away from Dean’s arm.  He kept himself still,
feeling liquid heat slide down his arm.  He could hear his blood plopping on
the floor.

Dad . . .
Something hard and wet touched his chin.  Dean froze.  No.  “You should see
your mouth around that gag.  Yeah.  Yeah.  I know what type of message I’m
sending Daddy.”
Fear spiked through Dean.  He strained his ears, listening for John Winchester,
listening for any indication that Dad was near.
Nothing.
The knife slid through the gag, cutting through the rough material.  Dean’s
hunter-trained mind instantly analyzed that fact.  For it to so easily cut
through the cloth, the knife had to be incredibly sharp, daily maintained.
Who the hell was his dad messing with?
The gag fell away.  Dean guessed the man pulled at it.  Before he could say
anything, the knife tip pressed against his bottom lip.  Dean froze, feeling
the wet, flat edge pressing down.
“Yeah,” the man murmured.  “Yeah.”
That was his blood wetting his lip, Dean knew.  That was his blood now trailing
from the knife down his chin.
But it didn’t matter.  Dad would come before anything happened.  Dad always
came.
Dean didn’t like the frantic edge that thought had gained.
“Open up,” the man demanded, and Dean considered refusing, except the man was
already moving the knife.  Fearing for his lips, Dean obediently opened his
mouth.
The taste of his own blood exploded in his mouth.  All he could taste was
metal, the coppery taste of his own blood and the metal of the knife.
A sudden thought struck Dean, and for a moment, terror paralyzed him.  Was the
guy going to cut off his tongue?  Was that the message the guy was going to
send?
“Yeah,” the man repeated, sounding fascinated.  The knife vanished, but Dean
didn’t relax.  Something in the man’s tone sent chills down his spine.
A moment later, Dean knew why.  He felt numb when he heard the click of a
button snapping open, the hiss of a zipper.  He clamped his mouth shut.

Dad, please, c’mon.  C’mon . . .
There was still time there was still time there was still time there was still
. . .
The knife pressed against his lip again.  At the same time, a rough hand
grabbed his short hair.  Dean kept his mouth shut.

Dad, please.
“He’ll get this message,” the man said, but his voice lacked the maliciousness
of before.  Dean refused to identify his current tone.  “Yeah . . .”
The knife moved, nicking Dean’s mouth at the same time as when the man yanked
Dean’s hair.  Dean involuntarily parted his lips.  He barely felt it when
something hard and hot forced its way into his mouth.
He only felt cold.
The man was talking but Dean couldn’t hear him over the roar in his ears.  He
was distantly aware that his jaw was already hurting, that his throat was
revolting against the foreign object.  All he knew was all he could taste was
metal.
Dad hadn’t come.
It was moving, fast and hard, and Dean obediently let his head move with the
thrusts.  The knife had moved from his mouth to his cheek.  It constantly
nicked the skin, the sharp edge brushing against his flesh each time his cheeks
bulged and hollowed.  His skin felt numb; he barely noticed the sensation of
blood trickling down his face.
Dad hadn’t come.
The man’s balls slapped his chin; his cock stretched Dean’s throat.  Dean was
choking but barely felt it.  Would he die here?  Of blood loss?  Of gagging on
some freak’s dick?  What would his epitaph say?  Would he even get one?
Would his dad bother with one?
Abruptly, his mouth filled, and with it, all feeling rushed back.  He began
coughing violently, uncaring of the knife tip slicing his cheekbone.  He could
suddenly hear the man’s satisfied groan, and the cold flooded away with the cum
sliding from his mouth.
Fuck this.  Fuck this.  He wasn’t going to die being some man’s whore!
His jaw ached, but it didn’t stop him.  As soon as the man started sliding his
now limp cock from Dean’s mouth, Dean bit down hard.  He could taste blood and
didn’t know if it was the man’s or his own.  He didn’t care; all he cared about
was the man’s screams.
Take that, bitch.
Dean could feel blood and cum painting his face but didn’t let that knowledge
deter him.  He focused on the knife falling away from his cheek, heard it
clatter on the floor.  Blows rained down on his head and shoulders, but Dean
only bit down harder.  He felt something give at the same moment the blows
stopped.  Dean slowly opened his mouth, fighting against the cramping in his
jaw.  The man dropped to the floor; blood poured from Dean’s mouth.
Dean’s muscles were beginning to shake, but Dean refused to give into shock. 
He focused on the rope binding his wrists and tried to remember every lesson he
was ever taught.  He refused to think about who had taught him those lessons.
Dean listened carefully as he fought against the ropes.  The man didn’t stir on
the floor; the door never cracked open.  His breath threatened to catch in his
throat but Dean didn’t allow it.  After a short eternity, the ropes fell away,
and Dean furiously tore the blindfold off.  He caught a glimpse of back and red
on the floor but ignored it.  He swept up the knife and with one slice, the
rope around his ankles fell away, too.
Only then did Dean look at the crumpled being on the floor.  Just another thug,
he noted distantly.  His bloodied and torn cock hung pathetically from his
pants, still bleeding.  Dean clenched the knife in his hand.
It would be so easy.  It would be so damned easy.
John Winchester would do it.
The knife fell from Dean’s hand.
Not looking at that crumpled body again, Dean looked around.  The man had
brought him to a simple shack, but in the corner it held a mirror and a sink. 
Dean strode over and quickly and methodically cleaned himself off.  He couldn’t
find bandages but Sammy could fix him up.  He would just tell him he was in a
fight or something.
His dad wouldn’t ask, Dean knew.  He would only wonder if Dean had won.
Dean told himself he had.
Leaving the knife and the man behind, Dean left the shack.
Later, it would occur to him that he had never screamed or cried.  Dean knew
John Winchester would be proud.
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