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Personification	By : rue37 Category: Supernatural > General Views: 2959 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Part III
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.
Think.
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.�
--
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Personification