Title: Personification
By: ruefulgirl
Genre: Horror/Angst-o-rama
Pairing: Sam/Dean, OFC
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Thru S2
Summary: Sam and Dean are imprisoned by the OFC from hell. In order to escape, they first have to survive their captor's torments ... and the torments they inflict on each other.
Notes/Warnings: Looking for a happy, skippy fic? You aren't going to find it here. We've got masturbation, non-con, voyeurism, explicit sex, and a triple serving of angst, with hot fudge on top. So, seriously dark stuff going on, but it's not without some porny goodness. And I hope you'll find the ending is worth the agony. This is somewhat long, for me anyhow, but don't, worry – I'll post a chapter every other day or so.


She likes to think of herself as a spider, menacing and predatory.  Spiders have webs, and so does she.  Her web is her motel, a rundown little place off the I-40 in New Mexico, near Albuquerque.  When she thinks about those things, which isn't often, she feels a sense of satisfaction with the place.  It's lonely here, where days without sunshine are few and the sky is blue and clear, endless.  The adobe-plastered walls are missing chunks, the toilets in two of the motel's 8 rooms run continuously, and the screen door out the back slaps against the frame in never-ending thumps. 

The loneliness extends to the people who come here as well.  The winding black asphalt brings them to her by ones and twos, straggling travelers and strung out junkies.  Half-sober Indians and AIDS-ridden prostitutes.  Teenage runaways and balding, middle-aged men tired of paying child support.  They come in a steady, trickling stream, all of them damaged goods, but some of them more gloriously fucked up than others.  She chooses only the worst of them, the most destitute, the most isolated.  She doesn't do this out of fear for the authorities, not really.  She buries the bodies a couple of miles in the back country, during the dead of night, has been doing so for a long time and no one has caught on to her yet.  No, she chooses them because their turmoil feeds her like a thick, raw, blood-soaked steak.

The more they come, the more she feeds, and the more she sees the changes in her body.  Her skin, once pale and unblemished, has become thicker, rougher, and speckled with freckles and moles.  Muscles swell under her skin, whipcord strong and tight, but encased in thick, deceptive flab.  Her fingers have lengthened, her nails have grown to dagger-sharp points.  She loves the strength she feels growing day by day, feeding by feeding.  Power has begun to radiate from her like a high wave radio frequency.  It's getting better and better at drawing only the sweetest victims to her.

But it has never brought her anything like them before.

They come late at night, pulling the big rumbling black car over the gravel to stop it right outside the window of her office.  She takes one look at the two young, handsome figures in the front seat, and a thrill like mainlined heroin sizzles through her veins.  They're tired, she can tell that by the stiff way they exit the car.  Still, they bicker amiably while shuffling toward her as she waits patiently in the motel office.

Laughter erupts from the tall one as they open the door and come inside.  He's lanky, young, healthy looking, with a tousle of dark hair and baby-sweet dimples in his cheeks.

"You are such a pansy," says the other one, snorting.  He's shorter and bow-legged with a face far, far too pretty for a man.

The tall one says, "Takes one to know one, Dean my man."  Then, to her in a polite, sickeningly well-mannered voice:  "One room, two queens."

She shoves a form at him, sees his large hand scribbling out his name and license plate number.  The name on the form is Sam Walker. 

She leers at his smooth young profile, both despising him and marveling at him.  She can see what others can't, beyond the merely physical to the emotional, and because of that Sam nearly blinds her.  He shines like a beacon, pure and good and compassionate.  Strong, too.  But the pain is there, too.  Yes.  He couldn't have come to her at all if it wasn't for the pain.  His lies tied up all nice and neat around his heart, in a pretty little bow.  But instead of weakening him, it makes him strong, and fills him with calm and a steady, driving determination.  Fills him with love.  Cloying, candy crackle sweet love.  It both disgusts and challenges her.

"$43.50," she rasps, handing over the key to room 8, the special room.  "Checkout's at noon."

The other one, Dean, fishes a wallet out of his back pocket and palms a credit card, passing it to her pressed between his middle and index fingers.  The name on the card is D. R. Waters. 

She watches him out of the corner of her eye while running the card through the machine.  He doesn't shine like the other one.  No, he's different.  Walled off and potentially violent.  Angry.  Yet underneath all that, leaking through the cracks, is love.  Deep, deep love like the ocean is deep, but spiked with fear and sacrifice and grief.  The fear, that's the best.  Delicious and nectar sweet.  It intoxicates her, totally and completely.

As she hands Dean the credit card receipt to sign, she sees that Sam has noticed her, is staring at her in a vaguely troubled, knowing way.  She meets his gaze, then runs her tongue slowly and lewdly across her lips.  She knows what she looks like.  A hag, foul and ugly.  She can tell that he wants to flinch, but holds himself back from it.  Of course he doesn't, because that wouldn't be polite.

He seems about to say something, to change his mind about staying there.  But that impulse is fleeting, never really something to worry about.  He follows Dean out the glass door, dirty with smudged fingerprints.

Watching their backs as they climb into the car to park it in front of their room, she discerns something unexpected about them.  Some sort of connection between them.  A blood deep connection.  What ... ? Then it strikes her.  Oh--how delicious!  How terribly, devilishly delicious.  They're brothers. 

Sweet, good, kind, honest, moral, upright brothers.  Brothers who would never, ever consider doing the things she's going to make them do to each other.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

So very, very fun.


Sam doesn't think it's possible, but this room is even uglier than the last one they stayed in:  burnt orange bedspreads, stained, worn-down carpet, dirty-white walls "decorated" with black velvet pictures of matadors and little girls in pink Spanish dresses. The room's sole light source is a naked 50-watt bulb dangling from the center of the ceiling.

"I'd like to find the people who decorated this room and shoot them," Dean says, closing the bathroom door to block out the noise of the toilet's continuous running. 

Sam dumps his duffel bag on the floor and sags over to lie on the lumpy mattress, suddenly exhausted.  He presses his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the sudden tenderness there.  The sight of the hotel clerk's ugly face looms in his memory: a heavy, shapeless body, greasy straight hair, a barely noticeable chin atop rolls of fat.  Her eyes disturb him the most, though:  small, piggish, and full of pure, unadulterated venom.  And the way she licked her lips, leaving a slimy trail of saliva ... he shudders.

Dean notices, and cocks his eyebrow at his brother.

"Man, that hotel clerk gave me the willies," he says by way of explanation. 

"Well, you gotta expect that sometimes, Sammy.  You're a hot young guy.  The babes are bound to want you."

Sam would punch him in the arm if he didn't have to get out of bed to do it.  He settles for scowling weakly. 

"I'm grabbing first shower," Dean says, digging out his shower kit and disappearing into the bathroom.

Sam sighs, drags himself up to slide the chain lock in place. Although he admits that it's a damn unlikely possibility, he doesn't want that hotel clerk to come and molest him in his sleep. 


It's three a.m., and she's wide awake.  The lights are off in the office, and she's sitting in the squeaky office chair, polyester pants and flowered underwear pulled down around her ankles, looking out at door number 8.  She slides a dildo with increasing urgency in and out of her wet cunt.  The rubbery, plastic feel of the dildo is so different from the warm, living cock of a human man.  It's just a device, a thing, with no energy to draw into her, no fuel to work the transformation she craves.  But soon, she'll have that.  Soon. 

Headlights from an errant sedan glance over her as she comes, grunting and whining, sweat dripping into her eyes.  She gulps in harsh breaths as her galloping heart slows.  With a slick pop she pulls the dildo out of her pussy, brings it to her lips and sucks the tip.  It's foul and pungent, with a taste that she loves.

She knows they are deep asleep, behind door number 8.  She feels their thoughts, circling in dreams, quietly assessing the day's experiences, winding in and around each other.  This is the right time, when their bodies are so still and relaxed and unsuspecting.

Pulling her pants up, she tosses the dildo into the desk drawer, snags the keys off the hook on the protective wall surrounding the desk, and walks out into the night, toward room number 8.  She almost pauses as she passes it, but instead just gives a little smile of anticipation.  Just past the room, she stops.  In the dirt, here, is an underground cellar, accessible through a solid steel door.  Bending down, she unlocks the heavy padlock and pulls back the handle, propping the hatch slightly open.

She gets up, then, and heads over to her room for a few hours of sleep.  They'd come in late last night, after all.  She wants them nice and rested up for tomorrow.


A hand on his shoulder wakes him, followed by the sharp timbre of his brother's voice.  "Sam, get up.  Now."

Sam comes awake with a jerk.  He sits up, groggy and confused.

What the hell? 

He's been laying on a cold, hard concrete floor.  In fact, he's in a concrete room – a place about 15 by 15 feet wide, no windows, no furnishings but a couple of old green recliners and a ripped brown sofa.  Florescent bulbs from two rows of shop lights illuminate the room, which smells vaguely of piss.  A staircase leads up to a closed hatch door, and a small kitchenette with a sink and cupboards line one wall.  A door near the cupboards presumably leads to the bathroom.

Dean is crouching beside him, his face tight and worried.  He's barefoot, in a gray t-shirt and boxer briefs, his usual nighttime attire.  Sam is barefoot as well, wearing red checkered pajama bottoms and a baggy blue t-shirt that he's had for years.

"How did we get here?"  He asks.

Dean smoothes his hair back with one hand and sighs.  "Hell if I know.  I woke up a few minutes ago, don't remember anything weird happening.  You?"

Sam thinks.  Suspicion tickles him lightly.  "Nothing.  Except for a creepy look from the hotel clerk.  But how could she get us down here without us knowing it?  And why?"

Dean shrugs.  "I'd rather worry about why later – and get out of here now."  He looks seriously freaked. 

"What?"  Sam asks.

"I tried the hatch – bolted tight.  There are no other doors, no windows."  He nods at the kitchen area.  "There are cans of food in the cabinets.  Lots of them."


Apparently, someone wants to keep them alive for a while.

Sam digests this for a moment, then gets to his feet.  "Come on.  Let's see if we can find some tools to jimmy the hatch open."

They find a flimsy metal can opener that Dean thinks he can sharpen down into a screwdriver of some sort to unscrew the hinges in the hatch, given enough time.  When they climb the ladder to examine the hinges, they see what looks like scratches and streaks of blood in the drywall surrounding it. 

Dean says, "Whoever put us down here to begin with is going to come through that hatch at some point.  Our best chance at escape will be then."

Sam knows he's right, and goes to scrounge up some weapons.  He's stomping on an empty can of green beans, trying to shape it into something with an edge that can be sharpened into a knife of some sorts, when Dean hisses: "Sam, come on – someone's coming."

Sam scrambles up the stairs to crouch next to his brother on the third step from the top.  He readies himself to swarm forward the instant he sees the hatch crack open, but when he tries, it's like his limbs are suddenly encased in concrete.  He sees Dean out of the corner of his eye, and he's not moving either, just struggling and cursing.  Then the hatch swings open all the way and they're looking up at the hotel clerk, who doesn't seem surprised to see them there. 

"Well, boys," she says in a voice like broken glass, "how nice of you to wait to greet me.  Now, just go on over to the far wall and wait there for me."

And the thing of it is, they do it, just walk over there despite the fact that they don't want to. 

When they get there, Sam feels himself slamming into the wall.  The back of his head connecting with it makes everything go black for a moment.  Pain, centered on his skull and radiating down through his shoulders and hips, strikes like lightning.  When his vision clears he realizes that he's pinned spread-eagled against the wall, pressure holding him there like he's at the bottom of the ocean.  His eyes swivel to Dean, similarly pinned on the adjacent wall, grimacing as he fights futilely against the invisible bonds that hold him there.  God, this is just too familiar.

The hotel clerk has somehow appeared directly in front of them, her small, dark eyes narrowed with hate, her thin lips twisted in a mirthless smile.  She says nothing, but Sam begins to feel invisible fingers prodding his stomach, spreading up his chest like the crawl of a spider, deliberate and slow.  The look she's giving him makes it clear she's the one with all the power here, and that makes him shudder just as much as the awful feel of those invisible fingers.

"Where are we?" He grinds out, trying to concentrate on something – anything – else.  "What do you want with us?"

She creeps forward, crowding into his personal space, until she's so close that he can feel her breath gusting across his chest, smell the fetid stench of it, like something dead and rotting.

"You're not far from your room.  Just next door.  I made you sleepwalk here – you and Pretty Boy over there.  One of my minor powers.  As for what I want with you, you'll figure that out shortly."  Her voice is like the slither of a snake, sinuous and unhurried.

She leans in, closer still, until her face is inches away, looking up at his.  She cocks her head, breathes him in, studies him as if she's trying to decide something, trying to gauge his strength or weaknesses.  His stomach is curling in fear, but he pushes it down.  He's had a lot of experience pushing down fear, lately.

She moves abruptly, then, turns her awful gaze on Dean.  She chuckles when she faces him.  "Oh, you're angry!  You want to cut into me, to see my guts spill out on the floor."  She seems delighted. 

"What are you?" he asks.

Sam wonders the same thing.  She has demonic powers, but her eyes aren't black or otherwise inhumanly colored. 

"I am your nightmare."

Then the corner of her lips curls up and Dean is sliding along the wall toward Sam.  He grunts, trying to still the movement, but in moments he's pushing up against Sam.  They stand there pressed shoulder to shoulder before the clerk makes a motion with her hand and Dean flips around so that they are face to face, chest to chest, hip to hip.  The pressure is so great on Sam's lungs that he can hardly breathe.  The thought that he's being slowly crushed to death causes him to gulp for more air. 

Sam can feel Dean's body on his, straining for everything he's worth.  He's making little noises of effort and frustration.  Dean feels so hard against him, every inch of him compact and muscled, tensed up like he's lifting three hundred pounds.  He's gasping, too.  His face is turned to the side, cheek nuzzling along Sam's neck.  Sam feels his brother's razor stubble, and smells his aftershave in a heady rush.  The muscles are standing out on Sam's neck; he lets out a cry of pure effort, struggling to breathe – to move – to live

Then, incrementally, the pressure eases.  It's enough that his lungs are no longer constricted, enough so that Dean can jerk his head off Sam's neck, and prop himself up on his elbows, arms on either side of Sam's body.  The relentless power that's jammed their hips and thighs together with crushing weight diminishes until it's no longer uncomfortable.  They're still close, far too close, but now Sam can feel the heat off Dean's body instead of being smothered by it.  Now, it's like they are leaning on one another for support, not being compacted by the tongs of some immense vise.

Then Dean's face twists and he begins moving, grinding his hips into Sam's, slow and hard and God, this time the pressure feels good – more than good. 

"No," Dean says, shutting his eyes.  "No!"  It sounds like bare knees on broken glass and tacks jabbing into his fingertips.  "Sam, I'm not ... she's making me--"

Sam's chest feels tight again, this time with emotion.  "I know," he says.  He's trying not to notice the sweet friction, the sudden thrill, but already he feels his cock swelling and hardening from the motion.

"You bitch - stop it!"  Dean grits out.  Sam hates the range of emotion crossing his brother's face – the anger and frustration, finally, desperation. "Don't. Don't make me do this," Dean's tone has dropped, has become hoarse and agonized.

The clerk's voice comes from mere feet away; she's moved so silently that Sam hasn't noticed her approach.  "But that's the whole point, Pretty Boy."

Sam slides his eyes over to look at her, manages to turn his head a bit to see the expression on her face.  Her dark eyes are alight, her breath coming in excited little bursts, her arms spread out to her sides, palms up, as though she's glorying in the feel of cooling rain upon hot skin.  She's relishing this.

He turns his head away, sickened by her glee.  Dean shifts a bit to one side, so that his thigh is pressing up against Sam's groin, and against his will Sam feels his hips start to move, sliding his cock up and down his brother's hard thigh.  Dean is panting now, whether from the effort of fighting the clerk's inexplicable power or from his own growing arousal, Sam can't tell.  Sweat is beading on Dean's forehead, pooling at the base of his neck, in the little hollow there.  Sam sees it there, and suddenly his lips are pressed against his brother's hot skin, sucking gently.  Sam's muscles jerk, he wills himself to shove himself back from his brother, to keep himself from acting out such delicious sickness, but all he can do is clench his fists and let out a soft sound of protest.  And now his lips are tracing a path across Dean's throat, pausing at the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder, causing Dean to shiver. 

Sam becomes aware that underneath the thin fabric separating them his brother is hard, and the knowledge of that makes his stomach drop and his gorge rise almost simultaneously.  But he can't stop, feels invisible fingers forcing his hands to make connection with Dean's back.  The tension there is almost painful, the straining muscles and sweat-soaked skin dampening his t-shirt.  Sam's fingers splay and slide across the wide expanse, caressing.  He curls them, halting their motion for a moment, digging into his brother's flesh.

He feels the clerk's eyes on them, feels her gaze devouring them, directing them, willing them to continue.  To go harder, faster, more urgently.  Her breath is harsh, a hum of pure pleasure is building in her throat.  Sam hates that she's watching, that she's drawing some sick satisfaction from them, hates the helplessness to stop it even more.

Dean's neck is straining, the tendons corded, his face turning red.  A cry of effort that sounds like a sob slips from him.  Curses are flooding from his lips: "Damn, fuck, stop ... stop .... shit ... no." Sam feels Dean's hands moving, fumbling at the waistband of Sam's pajama bottoms, one hand slipping inside, underneath his boxers to clutch his ass.  The sudden skin on skin contact makes him gasp from surprise and pleasure.  Dean's other hand is tugging Sam's pants and boxers down. 

Dean's gulping for air now, his eyes are by turns pained and hungry.  Sam holds his gaze until something deep and beyond words passes between them.  Still, he tries to voice his thoughts, whispers, "I never wanted this, I swear.  I'm sorry, Dean.  So sorry...."

" .... Not your fault," Dean mutters.  "Hers.  I'll kill her, Sam.  Rip her limb from limb.  I swear."

The pressure intensifies, a momentary reminder of her control.  Then Dean is pulling his own boxer briefs down, exposing his ass to her greedy eyes.  Sam's hand snakes around and grasps his brother's cock, starts jerking him off with quick, firm motions.  His own cock is grinding into the soft flesh near Dean's hipbone.  He feels hot, so hot.  A driving, relentless force is building in him, punctuated by sharp spikes of pure animal pleasure.  His cock is so much harder now, and his breath is coming in harsh gasps.  The orgasm is building, spiraling higher, gathering strength from deep within him, causing blood to sing through his veins in a burst of high octane. 

Suddenly, the clerk fades into the background behind this roaring in his ears, this burning need for release.  He can still feel her keeping him from moving away from Dean, but now he's no longer struggling, thrusting on his own, moving and moving and quickly—finally—


Release.  Sweet, sweet release ... hot and throbbing ... wet ...

Sliding down, down, down, until at last it's over.

His vision clears incrementally.  The room comes back into focus.  And his brother.  God, his brother is so close still.  Sam's hand is sliding up and down his brother's cock.  Dean is tense, so tense, every muscle tight like a bowstring drawn taut.  He's making a sound of pain/pleasure in his throat.  His hips are jerking into Sam's hand and Sam knows he's close, can feel the tension in his body reach an apex, perceives that he's mere seconds away. Then Dean's there, coming with a groan like agony, spurting hard and long. 

He lets his forehead fall to Sam's shoulder and he's breathing warm, moist air onto Sam's skin.  His whole body is shaking, on the verge of collapsing into some terrible, debilitating pain.  All of Sam's attention is focused on him, aching for him.  He hardly hears the clerk's last lewd comments, her laughter, and promise to return. 

When the hatch's lock is flipped into place, he and Dean are suddenly, abruptly released from her power.  Dean staggers back from Sam and for a frozen moment they just look at each other. 

Then Dean's face is twisting in grief and something like a roar is erupting from his chest and he's swinging his fist with all his might into the wall.  Sam thinks he might be doing it over and over again, but can't be sure.  He's too busy stumbling for the toilet.  He doesn't quite make it before vomit is surging out of his mouth.  He throws up several times, jettisoning partially digested food from his body like poison.  It doesn't quell the sick feeling there, though. 

Right now, it seems like nothing will be able to do that.


Sam stays in the bathroom for a long time, breath heaving as he leans against the white porcelain sink.  There's no mirror, which he thinks may be a mercy.  He's not sure he wants to see what he looks like.  He feels changed, sullied, sickened.  The sudden spring of sweat that covered him while he was retching is cooling on his body now.  He's aware of other smells—Dean's smell—the smell of sex—clinging to him.  A single, worn wash cloth lies stiff and crumpled on the floor.  In the absence of a shower, he wets it and squeezes it over and over again until he figures it's as clean as it's going to get, and proceeds to wipe himself off.  His body feels tender all over, scraped and raw, although he can find no abrasions on his skin.  When he finishes, he lets himself air dry for a moment before climbing back into his night clothes.  He's tired, weighed down with exhaustion and a twisted feeling of wrongness in his gut.  He feels a little dizzy, too, but that's probably just a delayed reaction from the stress, and dread over facing Dean again.  But of course he has to.  He opens the door.

Dean is sitting against the wall, one elbow supporting his bent head, and an arm curled around his middle to protect his right hand.  Sam knows his brother.  The hand is probably broken; at the very least it must be sore and bleeding.  Sam moves forward in silence and kneels beside Dean, taking his hand to examine it for breaks.  Dean doesn't resist or jerk away, like Sam half-expected.  He seems weak, and his skin feels hot.  His hand is shaking, and Sam resists the impulse to just hold it, to still his brother's evident agony with his own battered, but steady strength. 

Dean's always teasing him about wearing his heart on his sleeve, always calling him a pansy for letting his emotions out rather than keeping them bottled up and ready to explode like a shaken soda can.  But Sam knows that it's this very expression of his emotions that allows them to dissipate.  He moves through his pain, doesn't let it sit like acid in his belly, bubbling and churning, directing his every moment and plaguing him with continual fear.  Dean's different, always has been.  In some ways, he's simpler, a creature of reaction, with a protective instinct that would rival a mother bear's any day of the week.  He's a live wire, lethal but wild, sometimes unpredictable.  He loves Sam to distraction; will do anything for him.  Already had, in fact.  Physically, he can probably take Sam any day of the week.  But emotionally?  Sam has the upper hand there, is stronger on many different levels.  He knows he'll need that strength now. 

Sam probes Dean's hand gently, wincing at the torn, bleeding knuckles and already swelling flesh.  Miraculously, the delicate bones of his hand seem unbroken.  Sam wishes he had some ice to ease the swelling.

After a moment he releases Dean's hand, moves backward to rest against the wall near him.  They sit there in silence, heads nodding, thoughts circling, dazed and heartsick.  Sam wants to talk, but really – what is there to say?  Nothing will make it better.  Nothing will keep it from happening.  It's already too late for that.

Dean's eyes close and he leans his head back against the wall, exposing the vulnerable curve of his neck.  Sam knows that he's trying to keep his face impassive, but there's only so much he can do, and the rage, the frustration, the helpless anger, unfolds moment by moment.  His breath is uneven; he's still shaking, but trying to still it by clenching his fist and holding his arms and shoulders rigid.

After a while, he asks, "You ever done anything like that before?"

Been forced to get a hand job from my brother?  He thinks.  Nope, can't say that I have.  Instead, he's silent for a bit too long.  Then, he admits, "Sorta."

Dean snorts.  "How do you sorta have sex with a guy?"

He sounds normal for the moment and Sam's grateful enough that he returns a grin.  Yeah, okay, it was a stupid thing to say.  "I was at Stanford, freshmen year.  Still didn't know hardly anybody.  My roommate invited me to a party and I got smashed on jungle juice.  There was this guy.  I'd been talking to him on and off.  Anyhow, he followed me into the kitchen where I was getting a plate of nachos and all of a sudden he's kissing me.  Pretty soon his hands were everywhere.  Suddenly there was this – I don't know – vision of Dad in my head, and he's yelling For God's sake, Sammy, what the hell are you doing?  Salt and burn the fucker already! And that's when I realized what I was about to do and it freaked me out.  So I stopped."

Dean asks, "Just like that?"  He sounds curious, not judgmental like Sam's half-expected him to be. 

"Not really.  Guy got pretty pissed.  Said I was a cocktease and next thing I know he's all over me again.  Had to end up kicking his ass.  He did give me a nasty shiner, though."

Dean thinks for a moment, then gives a little laugh.  "Dad would say something like that, huh?  Maybe not about some guy who's doing you, but about a hundred other things."

Sam smiles.  "Yeah, he would.  Did, as a matter of fact."

Dean wait a moment, then says, "I get it.  You sorta did do that before, huh?"

Sam regards him.  "Yeah.  I guess so."  His curiosity gets the better of him.  "You?"

A muscle jumps in Dean's jaw.  "Nah.  Didn't even think about it, really.  Never had a problem getting a girl, you know?"

He knows.  Dean's looks have pretty much guaranteed constant female attention.  He finds Dean's confession disturbing, though.  Dean's never acted like he had any sexual innocence left.  It makes him seem vulnerable.

They don't talk for a while after that.  They just sit there, until Dean says, "What is she?"

Sam has been thinking about that, trying to puzzle it out in those few lucid moments when exhaustion or horror isn't kicking his ass.  He's always been better at figuring things out aloud anyhow.

"Demon, maybe?  Some sort of lower order one that we've never encountered before?  I mean, her eyes aren't black or yellow like the other ones, but her power is pretty potent."

Dean gives a choked little laugh at that.  "My best guess, too," he says.  "What are we gonna do?  No holy water here.  No way to find the right exorcism, with Dad's journal and our books in the room.  Devil's trap?  Seal of Solomon?"

If they can trap her and get out of this damn room they can get to their weapons and books, at least.

"It's worth a shot."

It's not easy.  Sam takes the smashed tin can and uses the edge to scratch the symbols on the ceiling in large circles, standing on one of the chairs to reach high enough.  He has to get down and move one of the recliners again and again to complete the circle, and by the time he's done with the first circle, he's sweating and shaking from exhaustion.  Dean looks at him sidelong, but doesn't say anything.  He just takes the can and finishes the second symbol.  When he steps down from the recliner for the last time he sways on his feet, face draining of all color.

"Dean!" Sam says sharply.  "Sit, will you?"

"Yeah," he manages, and sits down right there, near the chair.  He looks for all the world like an exhausted little kid past bedtime.  "Don't know why I'm so tired ..."  He stretches out on the floor, yawning.

His yawn triggers one in Sam, too.  He lets himself slide down the wall until he's lying down, too, head pillowed on his arm.  The wall against his back makes him feel safe. 

He knows he's not.


Sam wakes a few hours later, though it's hard to tell how long it's been in the absence of sunlight or a clock.  He feels stiff and muzzy, and his stomach's growling.

He's eating chili out of the can with his fingers – no utensils save for the can opener – when Dean wakes.  Dean blinks like he can't remember where he is, then shuffles into the bathroom to stay for a long time.

When he emerges, hair dripping wet, Sam asks: "Hungry?"

"Nah," Dean says, looking nearly as exhausted as before they slept. 

Sam's just set the can aside when they hear the hatch unlock.

Dean turns to him, his face still and his eyes bleak.  "Time for round two."


They're back against the wall again, positions reversed from last time.  She notices the symbols on the ceiling immediately.

"You've been busy.  Too bad it's all for nothing." 

She walks right under them, unaffected.  Not even a flinch on her part. 

Well, damn.

It's not the end of everything, Sam tells himself.  It's just another piece of information.  He can use it to help them.  Will use it to help them.  Sam turns his concentration to learning all he can about her.  She looks uglier than before, something he doesn't know is humanly possible.  And therein lies the rub.  She's not human.  Except ... there's some internal sense that tells him she's not a demon either.  Not really.  The demons they've met have all radiated this feeling of darkness, somehow.  Like they were black holes, sucking the goodness and light from every person, every circumstance, even nature itself.  She radiates madness, and greed, and, more mundanely, disdain. 

Regardless.  There's the ugliness.  Her skin seems thicker, the ridge along her forehead and the bulges under her chin seem harder than before, like tree bark.  The hair along her arms is darker and the hair on her head is more wiry, though just as greasy.  Her teeth are dark yellow, and there are gaps between them.  He prides himself on his powers of observation.  In their line of work observation it can literally save your life.  So he's certain she's changed.  But why?  And how? 

This time she sits in one of the recliners, gives a lazy little nod and Dean's moving again.  Like a magnet, he's drawn to Sam, slams against him.  Instead of being sandwiched together face to face this time, though, Dean's back is flush with his chest.  Dean's struggling for all he's worth, grunting with sheer effort.  Sam feels his brother's muscles corded from neck to calves. 

"Sick bitch," Dean hisses. 

She smiles, spreads her legs out a little.  "I'm sick?  Who's going to fuck his brother into next week?  Not me."

"No--not again!" Dean growls.

"How you gonna stop me, Pretty Boy?"

Dean tries to move his arms, succeeds only in lifting them a few inches.  Sam suspects he can only do that because she's let him.  Dean's making this strangled moan deep in his throat and fighting, throwing every dram of determination into it.  Sam's half-afraid he's going to rupture something. 

Then Sam's attention is distracted because he feels his hand creeping along his brother's flank, across his hip to press against his dick.  Her pressure relents a bit, changes direction to make him smooth his hand up and down, firm enough to arouse his brother without hurting him.  He hates this.  Hates her.  God!  How can she do this, something so cold – so selfish?

She's intrigued by Dean, by his struggles and his pain, like she's drinking it in. 

"Words are all you have against me, Pretty Boy.  Except ... you don't even have them.  I can control those, too."

Dean's head is flung back.  Sam feels the sweat popping out on his neck, smells just a hint of his usual aftershave, feels the stiffness of his hair, tamed by that gel he uses every day.  His jaw is jutting out and his mouth is working.  "Fuck you, bit-- ... I ... no ... Sammy, I want you and I to fuck."

Sam feels a jolt of shock at his brother's words.  A voice is screaming sickandwrong sickandwrong in his head.  But his hand is still moving.  God, he can't stop it – any of it!  Anger is working its way up his spine, lighting every nerve and tightening every sinew. 

She's got her attention focused on Dean, loving his agony.  "See, Pretty Boy?" She drawls.  "I have all the power."  Her legs are farther apart now.  One hand is on her sagging tits, making slow circles around the nipples.

"No – Sam, don't--"  Dean breaks off, a strangled cry in his throat.  Then: "I'm going to do it, Sammy.  I'm going to make you fuck my mouth."

"Yes," Sam hears himself say.  Everything within him revolts.  He can't let the burning hatred overwhelm him, though.  He has to think.  Think hard.  She may be able to control his body, but she can't control his thoughts.

Both of them turn so that they face one another, presenting the clerk with a sideways view.  Of course, she has to see.  His hand is still mauling Dean's groin and he can't help but respond, growing hard.

Face to face, Sam looks his brother in the eye.  Dean can't stand it, looks down, aside, anything to avoid Sam's gaze.  Sam understands.  This is hard for him, but it's hell for Dean.  Still, Sam can't help feeling something—arousal? affection?—at being so close, so intimate, their breaths mingling, their bodies moving against one another.  She's directing his lips to Dean's jaw, making Sam mark it with his teeth, making him move toward Dean's lips now.

"No, Sammy," Dean whispers, broken sounding.  "Not the mouth – not there." 

Sam thinks he gets it.  It's too intimate.  A kiss is something more than hands rubbing cocks, more than fingers on muscles and curled around bone. 

Sam shifts his focus, not rebelling against the clerk's control, but redirecting it to trail kisses down Dean's throat, to nip at the skin there and suck, bringing blood to the surface, and causing Dean to gasp. 

"Sammy," he says in a voice that sounds like it's been torn out of him.  "I want to suck you off.  Now."

Sam's heart is racing.  He can't stop the excitement building within him, the anticipation.  Dean's thighs are shaking with the strain of holding himself upright – she's trying to make him go down to his knees.  He relents with a cry, cheek pressed to Sam's navel.  Low in Sam's belly, a warmth kindles.  He looks down to see Dean's lips parting, mouthing Sam's cock through his clothing. 

Damn.  It feels so good, so long missed.  Just the contact, the physicality of it.  And just like that, he's hard.  A moment later, his pants are pulled down and Dean's sucking him inside his mouth.  The sudden wet contact pulls a moan from him, long and drawn out, impossible to stop.  Suction, firm, smooth, wet ... teeth scraping, tongue around his cock, curling and lapping.


She lets him turn his head to look at her.  Her eyes are two dark pits, narrowed and feral.  Her lips are parted and she's breathing shallowly, huffing as she squeezes her breasts.  Her face is shining with perspiration, and something else – want, desire, energy.  He perceives a faint thrumming noise, like an electric motor, charging the atmosphere with current.  The air around her wavers for an instant, so quickly that Sam thinks he must be imagining it, distracted by the sinful things Dean's doing with his hot, sweet mouth.  But it happens again.  This time, Sam's reminded of heat waves warping the air.  Far off dry desert vistas, promising glittering cool water at the horizon.  A mirage. 

And that is significant.

He can't be sure how, yet.  But the knowledge that it is drives a spike through his mind, lodges it there, saying, "Here!  Here is the answer!"

But here ... here in this moment, on this body, is the pleasure ...

Think ....

He looks down at his brother again, kneeling, his uninjured hand grasping Sam's hips like he's trying to hold on for dear life.  His eyes are closed.  Seeing Dean's mouth sliding up and down his cock does something to him, turning him on so suddenly and sharply that it surprises him.  Dean is taking Sam's cock deep, relaxing the muscles at the back of his throat to keep himself from gagging.   

Sam knows he should be concentrating on something else.  Math equations.  Reciting the Bill of Rights.  Anything other than the pressure building in his loins.  But thinking? 

That's just not possible any more. 


The tall one is getting close, she can see.  His face is flushed, eyes fluttering open and closed, breath coming in gasps.  His hands are cupping his brother's head gently, and his hips are jerking forward, finding a rhythm quite apart from the one she would have him set.  The old saying is wrong, apparently.  You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.  No, but if you pour the water down its throat, after a moment or two it will gulp all on its own.  You can make a couple of brothers feel each other up, can get them to a point where they're so excited, so hard and wanting, despite themselves, that they just carry the act to its natural conclusion ...

She sees beyond their physical forms, sees their emotions blazing outward like flashing neon signs.  Pain/shame/revulsion dissolving into need/want/desire, then flaring again in an endless, intoxicating cycle.

But the pain/shame/revulsion can be so much stronger, so much sweeter.

She will make sure of that.


Sam feels himself on the ragged edge, feels rock hard and ready to explode – aching, tightening, gathering –

"Dean," he grinds out.  "Stop.  I'm going to—"

To his surprise, Dean does stop.  He stands, chest pressed warm and solid against Sam's, hand around Sam's cock, sliding up and down.  Now there's nothing but feeling all along his nerve endings, slick and wet and –

Sam comes with a full body shudder, so hard and long that he feels as though it is erupting from deep in the core of his being, taking some portion of his life – his vitality – with it.  His vision hazes out and he can only hear his thumping heart and ragged breathing.  He can't smell, can't taste.  All he can do is feel. 

He feels his come coating Dean's stomach, coating his own, warm and sticky. He's drained and sated and so, so sensitive.  Dean sighs against his neck, presses a soft kiss to the throbbing pulse there.  Dean is still hard and wanting against him, and his hand is still stroking Sam through the orgasm.  He's making this choked little noise down in his throat.  It takes Sam a moment to realize why.  He's gathering Sam's come in his hand, sliding it over his own cock, and murmuring soft and low, "Please, no. Don't do this – don't --"

A chill spiders out along his veins.  He looks at the clerk, sees the anticipation in her crow-like eyes.

She smiles.


The moment he figures it out she sees it.  The surprise on his face is downright comical.  Instead of screaming or shouting or cursing at her, he just closes his eyes and takes a breath.  His head falls back a little, and he swallows, Adam's apple working.  His lips – full and perfect – thin out.  He appears calm.  Way too calm.  But she knows that his heart is beating its way out of his chest, that a cold sweat is breaking out on his palms, and that his stomach is twisted up inside. 

With an impatient wave of her hand, she sends the other recliner scraping across the room to stop a few feet in front of them, canted sideways so that she can get a perfect view without moving. 

She brings Sam forward a few steps.  He resists, ends up walking woodenly like a marionette.  He resists as she bends him over the chair, too.  No, he's not as calm as he wants her to think he is.  Not at all.  She's positioned him just enough that she can still see his face and his brother standing behind him, looking devastated.  Feeling devastated.  The light she saw from both of them earlier is a mere flicker, snuffed out by the thick, oily darkness dripping down the edges of their minds, hearts, and souls.

Suddenly impatient, she makes Pretty Boy jerk down his shorts and fist his cock to stiffen it more.  She makes him guide it into his brother's ass. 

Oh, he fights. 

He's got a strong will, made stronger by desperation.  Occasionally, she runs across someone like him.  Strength of will never makes much difference in the end, though.  It just means she has to push a little harder. 

She makes him breach the outer muscles of his brother's hole.  His cock, slicked by come, enters with a minimum of prodding.  Seeing the look on his face, feeling his horror flood into her, chased by a brief impression of the unexpected, all-encompassing physical ecstasy – tight tight tight -- excite her with the suddenness and power of a lightning bolt.

She grinds the heel of her hand into her mound, stimulating her throbbing clitoris.  Her cunt had already been practically dripping from watching Sam fuck his brother's sweet, sweet mouth.  She's drinking in their agony now, swallowing it whole through every pore.  It sizzles, coalescing in her crotch.  Working the heel of her hand back and forth, she feels the pressure building, building!  

Energy sings, shrieks, howls.  She takes it inside her like a greedy, frantic, starving beggar.  


Sam's trying to still his breathing and focus on something else, like Dad taught him.  He chooses the arm of the brown sofa.  It's ripped, with the white stuffing showing.  He counts, finding that he can generally get to six or seven before the pain distracts him and he has to start over again, blanking his mind, focusing on that stuffing. 

His body is starting to adjust to Dean's unwilling invasion, starting to lubricate, although he suspects that might be from blood.  Don't think about it.  Don't.  Then Dean makes a horrible sound, something part way between sobbing and choking, and he begins shaking harder, breathing wetly - like his lungs are filling with fluid.  He's pumping faster now, saying Sam's name brokenly.

Sam knows that people actually enjoy doing what they're doing now.  So it must get better.

Only it doesn't.  Tearing, scraping, plunging.  He could scream if he let himself.  Later. 

One, two, three, four, five ...

He hears the clerk's vulgar moans as she masturbates, unable to ignore the hatred that wells in his gut.  He looks at her, sees her foul form sprawled in the chair, lost in her own dark, sick world. 

"Yes," she's murmuring.  "Yes, you hate so much!  You're both so angry, so hurt, so betrayed."

Dean's rocking more frantically against him now, moaning low and pained.  Tortured by bliss.

The clerk practically vibrates with power.  Sam sees the air shimmering around her, stronger than it was before.  A look of pure, unadulterated joy flushes her cheeks.  She jerks suddenly, climaxing with an awful, low, animal-like whine.

He thinks of that power, flowing into her -- from them -- in fits and spurts and waves.  He thinks of the physical changes he's noticed in her.

Dean's shudders reach an apex.  His motion stops abruptly.  As Dean comes inside him (warm, wet, pulsing), the puzzle pieces lock together, revealing the completed picture. 

The violation that is still occurring recedes from Sam's attention.  He understands now.  He knows what is happening, and why.

And he knows how to stop it. 


She goes back to her lair and leaves them in the wake of the tornado, standing among blown down houses and twisted trees.

Dean's a mess.  He's pacing, agitated and angry, but so exhausted that he's stumbling.  His eyes are leaking tears and he's pale, worn down and out.  His hand is purple and swollen, but he doesn't seem to notice it.

Sam watches him from where he's laid out on the couch, on his stomach.  It hurts too much to sit.  He's already been in the bathroom, where he wiped the blood and come from his ass, and tears and snot from his face.  He's more worried about his brother than himself, though.  In the best of times, Dean's a jumble of pain and loyalty and love.  He can't imagine the stew of guilt and recrimination that's whirling around in his head now.

"It's going to be all right," Sam says, forcing the words through a closed-off throat.  He hurts, internally and externally.  He feels like a liar. 

Dean looks at him, stunned and pained and so stupid with fatigue that he looks like a lost little kid. 

"Sleep," Sam says gently.  "I need you strong and rested."

Dean mumbles something incoherent in response, and keeps stumbling around, literally bouncing off the walls, for a while longer.  When he finally stretches out on the floor, it's a relief.  He falls asleep almost immediately.

Sam wants to sleep, too.  He's bone-weary, but that doesn't seem to matter.  The throbbing, burning pain in his ass is constant.  As injuries go, it's not the worst he's ever had.  Not even close.  But it continues to remind him of what happened, making his chest tighten and tears spring to his eyes.  He thought that those few minutes he'd spent crying in the bathroom, while he was cleaning up, would suffice to release his agony for good.  Apparently not. 

He rests his forehead on his folded arms.  He tries to hold the tears back, but he's never been much good at stuffing emotions down, and the grief he feels now is squeezing out through his pores and glands and tear ducts into the worn, tattered sofa. 


Later, Sam chokes down half a can of cold Chef Boyardee raviolis--a disgusting meal even when heated up.  He hunkers down on his heels across from Dean, who's sitting up against the wall in what appears to be his favorite spot, and offers him the remainder of the can.  Dean shakes his head.

"Come on, Dean.  You need your strength."

"Couldn't keep it down if I tried," he admits.

Dean's better than earlier—less dazed, anyhow—and more pulled together, more like his old self.  Except that the toll of the past day (has it really been only one day?) is etched in harsh lines on his face and in the exhausted slump of his shoulders.  He wonders if he looks as beaten down as well.

Setting the can aside, Sam sighs and goes to the bathroom to wash his hands off.  When he comes back, he hunkers down in front of Dean again and says, "She's some sort of succubus.  The ... things ... she's making us do," The sex. "There's a reason she's doing it to us." 

"Yeah," Dean mutters.  "She gets off on it."

"No, it's more than that. She's feeding off of us.  Draining our energy."

Dean's gaze sharpens.  "The lore about succubi always talks about them drawing the life force from men while having sex with them.  She hasn't had sex with us yet.  Not that I'm complaining, cause don't go getting any ideas, dude, but I'd choose you over her any day of the week."

Sam gives a pained smile at Dean's attempt at humor.  He wishes he could give more, but it's just not in him.  "Maybe she's some sort of hybrid," he ventures. "The lore says that succubi drain men's life force, but they also try to get pregnant by a human male.  I think that's what she is, half succubus, half human.  It explains why the Devil's Trap didn't work.  She's not really a demon."

Dean considers this, then asks, "She's feeding off us to do what?  Grow into her succubus powers?  Is that why her appearance is changing?"  Sam should have known his brother would notice the changes as well.

"Could be," he accedes.  "It doesn't really matter, though.  All that matters is that I know how we can stop her."


Dean gets up, starts pacing in a wobbly burst of outrage.  Jaw hard, he spits, "I can't do that." 

I can, Sam thinks.  I can and I will.  Instead, he says: "It's the only way.  We have no other power against her.  This is the only way.  Think about it.  So far, our struggles have only made her stronger.  I know it will work."

"Sam, I'm not doing that."

He sees Dean's chest rising and falling, can almost feel the long, thumping heartbeats in his chest.  He's getting weaker hour by hour; his endless nervous energy, transformed now into fury at their helplessness, is draining him faster than Sam.  Sam realizes that he can't afford not to convince his brother that he's right. 

"We're dying," Sam says bluntly.  "How much longer do you think we can last against her?  One day?  Look at you – you can barely stand."  He doesn't mention the horrors she's likely to put them through in that time. 

"I don't care!" Dean barks.

"Look at me, Dean," he orders.  Dean resists for a moment, then complies with reluctant wariness.  "I need you to do this.  For me," Sam says.  It's a low blow.  The lowest, to manipulate Dean's love for him.  But it will keep both of them alive. 

Dean stills, a subtle change in muscles and energy, as though the words themselves are blows landing dead center to his heart.  Then his eyes slide shut and he leans his head back against the wall, exposing his neck.  He swallows. 

"Sam, please ..."

"Dean.  You're not doing it for her.  You're doing it for me."  For yourself.

Dean's face twists.  He's usually so good at keeping his emotions in check.  But that's just another thing she's taken from them.  Dean is quiet for a long time.  Sam has to force himself to wait.  It's like teetering on the edge of a cliff.  Eventually, Dean says hoarsely, "All right."

Sam lets his head fall back with grim relief.  He will save his brother.  Afterward, they can heal. 

But first. 

First, they must live.


The next time (the last time, Sam has vowed), she wakes both of them from a dead sleep.  Her hands are gnarled claws now, and her teeth are elongated and pointed, hanging over her lower lip even when her mouth is closed.  She stinks – like sulfur and rot – and there are nubs that look like the beginnings of horns protruding from either side of her skull.  She's radiating power and satisfaction and a kind of sickening anticipation that makes him vaguely nauseous.

Sam's still on his stomach on the couch.  He sits up gingerly, glances at his brother on the floor a few feet away.  Dean is wearing a dogged expression.  Sam wipes at his eyes, smoothes his hair down, and takes a deep, calming breath.  That's all the preparation he gets before she's making him crawl toward Dean. 

He doesn't give her the chance to do anything further, though, because he's taking the initiative, reaching out to place his hand on the side of Dean's face.  He smoothes the hot, razor-stubbled flesh there, feels it prickling against his skin.  They gaze at each other, and Sam is suddenly struck by how bright and green Dean's eyes are, blazing with life despite the paleness of his skin--or perhaps because of it.  Sam draws Dean's head toward him, leans his forehead against his brother's, just resting.  Their lips are close, their breaths mingling.  Yes, Dean's right.  This is so terribly, agonizingly intimate.  There are no walls between them, not any more.  Sometimes, Sam thinks that Dean's walls are all that hold him together.

So it surprises him when Dean scales those walls. 

Dean makes a soft noise of desire and kisses him.  Sam doesn't know what he's expecting: a sharp wrenching burst of disgust, perhaps?  But it's not like that.  No, not at all.  The labels—indecent, illegal, immoral, incest—are all stripped away.  It doesn't hurt; in fact, it's easy and painless, as though those labels have been soaking in soapy water for hours.  Dean is a fire, hot and consuming, burning with life and passion, and it's not like he's "blood of my blood, bone of my bone."  He's just ... Dean.  Soft in some places, hard and angular in others, but deliciously pleasurable all around. 

Sam's breath catches as their kiss deepens, Dean's skillful tongue slip-sliding in a lazy, arousing path.  Dean's good hand is resting lightly on Sam's flank.  As Sam's fingers tighten on Dean's back, squeezing their bodies together, Dean's touch grows more insistent.  He pulls Sam's hip closer to his own.  The firm contact sends spikes of energy from his balls straight up through the shaft of his cock.  He rocks his hip in a slow grinding rhythm that hardens Dean's cock, which lies trapped, hot and throbbing, between them.

Sam slides into the kiss heedlessly, a baseball player sprinting for home, pressing their bodies close together.  His hands clutch Dean's back, scrabbling desperately to pull his t-shirt up to get to the smooth, warm skin underneath.  When he feels it under his fingertips Dean gives a groan of pure, animal pleasure, and desire rockets straight to Sam's dick. 

His heartbeat drums in his chest and in his ears, drowning out reason and fear with the thud thud thud.  Somehow he's urging Dean over on his side onto the floor, so that he can press the entire length of his body against Dean's, and the feel of that – combined with the juxtaposition of cold hard floor and hot living undulating flesh – is exquisite.

Sam breaks the kiss to explore the sensitive skin underneath Dean's earlobe with his tongue.  "God, Dean.  I love you," he murmurs, the words spilling unexpectedly out of him.  "I love you so much." 

And he does.  More than anyone, anything, any goal or aspiration or fleeting, worldly pleasure.  The feeling is fierce, unwavering, and all-consuming.  The accompanying burst of tenderness he feels is thick sweet honey that fuels the desire, making it sizzle along every nerve ending.  Dean's proven that he loves Sam back with every fiber of his being. He's sacrificed his own wants and desires and goals for Sam too many times to count.  And between the two of them, Sam can feel their love blazing clear and white enough to illuminate the dark, dark sky.  It's beautiful enough to make him ache.

Dean squirms against him, nudging his knee between Sam's legs and rolling him over onto his back, his warm palm resting low on Sam's belly.  Sam's hips rise up, trying to urge Dean's hand lower, to stoke the fire kindling in his cock.

"Sam," he's saying, low and urgent.  "You're mine, Sammy.  Won't let her have you."

And he won't, Sam knows.  He'll die first. 

But what if -- what if dying is not required?

What if living is, instead?

Dean shivers against him, muscles tight.  Instead of fighting the desire like he did before, though, he's giving into it, riding the tides.  Images of him flash into Sam's mind:  Dean holding his hand as he walked Sam into his first grade classroom that first day, Dean holding him as he cried about a split lip or banged head or something else equally unimportant to an adult, but earth-shattering to a child.  And more recently, Dean up against the wall in that Godforsaken cabin, drawing their possessed father's attention from Sam, taunting the demon into spilling his heart's blood ...

Sam remembers the clerk, then.  Realizes that her brutal, smothering power is absent.  Has been absent since the beginning.

He draws back from Dean, takes in his brother's rumpled, beautiful form—the flushed cheeks, heavily lidded eyes, and passion-ripe lips.  Coming back to this room, leaving the cocoon he and Dean have formed around themselves, is like flinging open the door from a warm home into the frigid cold of a howling blizzard.

She's on the floor.  Writhing.  For an instant he's puzzled, thinking she's thrashing in ecstasy.  Then he sees.  It's not ecstasy.  Not at all.

It's pain. 

"It's working," Sam breathes in wonder.

Dean glances at her, dazed.  "'s good," he manages.  He gives a grim smile.  When he looks back at Sam, though, the grimness falls away under blistering heat.  "We'd better not stop, then."

He fists both hands in Sam's t-shirt, hissing when he apparently forgets about his injury, and tugs Sam down against his hard chest.  "I want this," he murmurs, then uses those full lips to suck and nip at Sam's mouth.

The warm soft feelings of love that sent the clerk to the floor crack and fall apart.  Passion burns like molten lava underneath. 

Breathing harshly, he grabs Dean's ass and grinds his erection into Dean's hips. The feel of Dean's own erection tight against Sam's groin makes him move frantically.  Dean responds with equal fervor.  They tussle for control, Sam humping his brother desperately, then giving way to Dean as he rolls Sam over on his back. 

Dean jams his hand down Sam's pajamas, sliding them down over Sam's hips, then forces his own down.

When their naked skin meets, Sam nearly comes from the blinding pleasure.  Panting and gasping, their cocks meet and rub against one another, hips bucking instinctively.  He grasps Dean's rock hard cock, and smoothes his thumb over the come-wet slit.  Dean makes a ragged sound and comes in hot wet spurts.  When Dean fists Sam's cock, their bodies both jerk in rough opposing motions.  Sam's need for friction consumes him, building and climbing until he falls over that same precipice, coming long and hard. 

As his sweat dries and his heaving breath calms, he rests himself on one elbow, looking down at his brother.  Dean's hand is cupping Sam's cheek, thumb caressing Sam's jaw slowly.  There's such a tender, open look on his face that Sam's heart squeezes.  He turns his head into Dean's palm and kisses it, saying with the gesture: I love you.  I love you. I love you.

A low, terrible moan from the clerk draws his attention.

She's sprawled out all over the floor a dozen feet from them.  Her appearance rivets Sam.  It's as though she's deflated.  The fat, lumpy skin is now smooth.  Her cheap, unflattering clothing is hanging on her as though she's instantly lost 50 pounds.  Her face is thinner, the skin unmarked and ten years younger looking.  The nubs on her head have receded, and her teeth are no longer yellow and pointed.  But her eyes are wild.  The expression of unbridled hatred in her eyes remains, augmented by anger and pain.

"Stop it!  Stop it now or I'll make you very sorry!"  She spits ferociously.  She draws to her hands and knees, shakily, face shining with sweat. 

Sam knows she wants to gouge his eyes out, stab him in the heart, throttle him until he turns blue.  She can't, though.  She's been immediately, amazingly weakened.  Sam is suddenly certain that more is needed.  For a moment, rebellion surges up his windpipe, hot and wild.  Disgust and rage are physical obstacles.  He swallows them down through force of will, and moves toward her.

Dean grasps his arm, holding him back. 

"It's all right," Sam tells him.  Somehow, he knows she can't hurt them anymore, despite her bravado.

She hisses at him like some sort of wounded animal as he draws nearer.  It's hard not to recoil in horror, to let his pain and anger get the best of him, but he keeps pushing those emotions down and away and just focuses on her face.  Tears are falling in big, fat drops from her dark, small eyes.

"Get away from me!" she cries, with an edge of panic.

Her hair is hanging in greasy tendrils across her face.  He thinks of the violation she visited on him and his brother, the hatred and ugliness and pain that they are now left to deal with.  He can't focus on that now, though.  Just like he hadn't been able to focus on that before, when it was occurring.

Hand trembling and breath hitching, he reaches his hand forward.  Gently, he brushes her hair from her face, hooking it behind her ears.

"No!" she moans.  "Don't do that ..."

Her lips are still thin and wrinkled, framing a filthy mouth.  She must be finished, though.  Destroyed completely.

So he leans in and kisses her.  His lips when they press against hers are as soft and loving as he can manage.  She slaps at him, crying, "No, no, no, no!"  Her blows are as weak and ineffectual as a child's.

The foul scent surrounding her dissipates, and the puffy flesh surrounding her eyes disappears, making eyes that had previously appeared cruel and piggish almost ... pretty.

He draws back after a moment, feeling Dean's attention on him.  Dean's face is still in that way it gets when he's feeling something deeply.  His eyes are crowded rooms of disgust and outrage, and his chest heaves with hard-to-take breaths.  Sam can see the thoughts making plow lines across through his mind.  He looks to Sam for guidance, his gaze pleading.  Sam wishes he could let him off the hook.  But he can't.  He nods at Dean, saying, Go ahead, do it.

Despite the fact that Dean's emotions remain clearly conflicted, he, too, creeps forward, his whole body wracked by almost invisible tremors.  Something like hope flashes across her face when she sees him. 

Then he reaches out a tremulous hand and smoothes her back carefully, like he's calming a skittish animal.  Because he is.

She wrenches herself away from him, and gives a final, agonizing cry.  Energy is sucked out of the room with incredible speed and suction, creating a momentary airless vacuum. 

Some sonic-boomlike barrier has been breached, and the last of her ugliness evaporates, a mirage examined into truth. 

Now she's just a woman.  Rather plain looking, rather thick around the middle, but no longer a terrible monster.

Her hands fly to her cheeks and she scrambles backwards, rising to her feet unsteadily, and dragging herself up the steel staircase to the world above. 

She disappears out the hatch as though fleeing certain death.  Sam sees the blue western sky up above, and freedom. 

He and Dean help one another to stand, and climb upward, through the open hatch.



Now that the clerk is gone, there seems to be no need to hurry.  Sam stands beside his hotel bed and stuffs his dirty laundry in a thick plastic bag he keeps for this purpose.  He's wearing clean clothes now, and shoes and socks for the first time since this ordeal began.  It feels good.  He's trying to concentrate on that good feeling, because there's so much inside him that hurts like a mother fucker.  The sense memory of Dean's fevered touches can't overcome the scalding remembrance of the rape ... the bludgeoning to death of all he's thought inviolate.  The shocking intensity of the pain that surrounds the memory surprises him.

Dean comes in from the car, where he's already stowed his duffel, and stands in the room's center looking around as if he can't remember where he's left some precious possession. 

"What are you looking for?"  Sam asks, voice cracking from disuse.

"I don't know," Dean admits.  But Sam already knows.

Your innocence.  Yourself, before the clerk's violation.

Too bad he can't find that here.  Too bad neither of them can. 

"Let's go," he says instead. 

They turn to leave.  The clerk is standing in the doorway. 

Sam's knees go weak.  He sits on the bed in shock, heart thudding painfully in his chest.  Dean's entire body goes tense, and he takes two determined steps toward her.  Sam recognizes his posture as the one his brother gets when he's about to wreak violence.  But he stops himself, and just looks at the clerk.

It takes Sam a moment to see what he sees.  

She's changed from the stained blue smock she was wearing earlier to a white, baggy t-shirt, and clean black slacks.  Her hair is combed and pinned to the sides of her head like the schoolgirl she must have been once.  She looks ... harmless.  Is harmless, he realizes abruptly.

"I want to be angry with you," she says in a thick voice.  "You've taken everything from me." 

They watch her.  Sam can't quite believe the changes he's seeing, the air of normality and helpfulness that surrounds her now.

"I can't be angry, though.  I can't hate.  The things I did ..."  She trails off, and Sam swears the expression on her face is regretful.  "My power has changed now.  I can't do the things I could before.  The things I did to you."

The silence between he and Dean is like a black, yawning hole.  She ventures into it.

"But I can do one thing to make it right." 

She comes forward.  Sam forces himself not to pull away, but to stand strong.  Dean watches them both like he doesn't know whether to attack her or grab Sam and tug him out the door.  Sam's kind of surprised he isn't doing one or the other. 

When she reaches out and touches Sam's cheek, though, the world recedes and he can no longer think about his headstrong brother.  A tingling warmth is spreading out all over his head, sinking deep into his skull, saturating his brain.  It's wrapping around the memories of everything that has gone on – the horror of their imprisonment, the pain, guilt, and trauma of the rape, and the sucking away of their strength.  But instead of letting those memories continue to flare and burn, she pats them down with a bucket of metaphorical water, and quenches them.  Their stabbing agony drains away into a muted throbbing sting, then drains further until he can't feel them at all.  They still exist, but they've faded into the distance like a wound that is scabbed over and healed, vaguely unpleasant but no longer sickening.  As though he's over it ... past the horror and into the future, with a necessary stopover in the miraculously painless present.

When she turns to touch Dean's cheek as well, he flinches, emotions warring on his face: hate and anger and the desire to kill, torch, burn. 

"Let her," Sam urges. 

He swallows, locks eyes with his brother, but stills himself.  Sam's heart aches at Dean's trust.

In the next moment, Sam literally sees the agony drain from Dean's eyes, sees the way his body releases the pent-up tension and rage.  His head falls back and his eyes flutter closed.  When he raises his head and opens his eyes, it's like a black shroud has been torn from his body.


Afterward, Sam asks her, "Your name.  Your human name.  What is it?" His voice is steady, his tone curious. 

The clerk thinks about her human father.  He raised her; loved her as best he could.  It wasn't his fault that she could only think of becoming like her mother.  The name, though.  That had seemed like adding insult to injury.  Her mouth twists in irony.  "Angel."

"Yes, it would be," he says wryly, and turns those deep green eyes on her.  "Go, then.  Leave this place."  He smiles suddenly, a little sadly.  "Be one.  You've been a devil long enough."

She knows he's right.  She has to leave this place and act in accordance with her new power.  Her power is different now.  Transformed into something good and pure. 

She has to use it.  She has a lot of choices, now.  But that is something she's never had a choice about.


They stand outside by the Impala, watching the last colors of the brilliant red sunset die away.  They both know it's time to move on, but Dean seems to need to say something first.  Sam gives him time.

"So," Dean says finally.  He's using the voice that he thinks sounds casual.  "Where do we go now?"  He won't meet Sam's eyes.

Sam regards him, thinking at first that his brother is talking about the road they should take.  Then he realizes what Dean's really asking:  Can they go back to being 'just brothers,' after what had been done to them?  After what they did voluntarily?  It's a good question; luckily it's one he doesn't have to think about too much.

"Anywhere we want," Sam says confidently.  He means it.  "Anywhere."

Dean finally meets his eyes.  He takes a deep breath, looking less tense than he has for days.

"Okay," he says.  He doesn't go on with, I believe you.

But Sam knows he means it.  And he knows that Dean's comment is right as rain.

They don't have to wait any more to be okay.

They already are.




Next story in series - Touch.