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Personification	By : rue37 Category: Supernatural > General Views: 2958 -:- 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.

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Name: Personification (1/5)
By: ruefulgirl
Genre: Horror/Angst-o-rama
Pairing: Sam/Dean, OFC
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Thru S2
Words: 1750 (this section)
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.� It�s finished except for some residual
tweaking.� Inspired by stele3�s �In the
Company of Demons� http://www.geocities.com/stele32002/Dean_OFC_Sam.htm
and kroki_refur�s �With Spit and a Prayer� http://community.livejournal.com/sn_fic/540964.html� �(both excellent angsty fics that deserve your
immediate reading and eternal devotion).�
Thanks to my lovely betas:�
ulysses3_de, tecetyeintyale, and dysonrules, who does, by the way.�

x-posted all over the place

Part I

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.

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Personification