Somnio Cruento, a supernatural fanfic

A/N: This takes place at some point soon after "Crossroad Blues".

Somnio Cruento

- by Infie

A bed has never felt so good.

You roll over and snuggle deeper into the soft comforter. Sam's turned up the air conditioning to make the room colder, make the blankets more welcome. It's a trick you taught him more than ten years ago, when he was overtired and unwilling to wear anything to bed other than his heavy fleece Winnie the Pooh jammies. In Florida. In the summer.

You'd turned the room into a Frigidaire, but Sammy had slept.

You wrap your fingers tightly around the hilt of the knife under your pillow and grasp for oblivion.

You're at the crossroads. The breeze flows around you like a caress of warm silk, and the dry dirt of the road is a cold gritty rasp against your fingertips. It is night, fog shrouded and dark. You look around at the shadowed shapes of the trees, at the indistinct masses of yarrow lining the ditches. Your knee creaks as you rise back to your feet, brushing your hands briskly against the soft, pleasantly rough denim of jeans stretched taut over thighs.

A gentle susurration behind you, and all your senses jump to the alert. The hair on the back of your neck rises. The breeze whispers across it, and you fight back the need to scratch. Instead, you whirl ...

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step.

The look on her face is triumph, right up until you wipe it away with your fist.

You jolt awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, knife in your right hand and your left still tingling from the punch. A dream... it was a dream. Looking at the blood on your knuckles, you wonder. Deliberately, you lick it off. You shake off the frisson of pleasure the coppery taste sparks in your body.

For the rest of the night, you don't sleep.

For the rest of the week, you are visited by the dream.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step.

The look on her face is triumph. You fight back the desire to punch the pleasure off her face and content yourself with stalking around her. She doesn't bother to turn with you, instead simply allowing your slow perusal of her whole body. She has a world-class ass. You feel yourself harden further as the image of her naked buttocks sliding back onto your shaft flashes through your mind. When you lift your eyes she's smiling at you over her shoulder, gaze hot under half-closed lids.

"You think the most delicious things, Dean," she purrs in that molasses-smooth voice. She glances at the obvious bulge in your jeans before lifting her eyes to meet yours in open challenge. "That's gotta hurt."

You cock your fist, hesitate. She laughs in uninhibited delight. "You can't hit a girl! Not deliberately. Oh, Dean, Dean... I knew your daddy raised you right."

You punch her, full force, right in the face. She staggers back in shock, and what you initially mistake as fear.

"You're no girl, bitch. You're nothing but a THING."

She smiles slowly, and you realise that look isn't fear at all. No, it's anticipation. Pleasure. Eagerness.

"Oh, Satan, Dean... that's wonderful. Hit me again." She's breathing heavily and you can't rip your eyes from her breasts heaving under the thin silk of her dress. Her grin turns malicious. "Or have you gone all soft? Daddy would be so disappointed in you, Dean. You can't even take down a little bitty demon in a simple dream..."

Your fists make no sound as they thud into her body. You're panting with rage, choking on the hot anger biting into your throat. Too soon you're spent, staggering back. "I'm going to kill you, you bitch. I'm going to find you, and I am going to rip you apart..."

When she lifts her face, it's Elena staring out of the bruised and bloodied eyes.

You fumble for your phone, click it open with shaking hands. Sam raises his head blearily from his pillow. He's been looking at you strangely the last few days. You reassure yourself that he couldn't possibly know; couldn't see into your head to know how you've been spending what little sleep you get now.

"Dean? What's going on?"

You hold up a hand, dial with the other. It rings. When the voice answers, she's wide awake.

"H... Hello?" She sounds almost normal.

"Elena." There is silence. "Elena, it's Dean."

"Dean?" Confusion over the air. "Really? It's the strangest thing... I was dreaming and I just got this flash of you in my dream." Her voice firms, begins to shake. Horror grows in your stomach and you close your eyes, knowing what is coming next. "Dean, you were hitting me..."

"It was just a dream, Elena. I'd never hurt you." Sam sits bolt upright at that, staring at you with shock and something else you can't read on his face. "I just had a dream myself." You force a smile into your voice. "It made me want to hear your voice. I'm glad you're ok."

There is a long pause before she speaks again. When she does, the low voice has warmed considerably. "Thanks for thinking of me, Dean. Goodnight."

"Hey... if... If it happens again, give me a call ok? I'll be here."

This time you can hear her grin. "I'll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Dean." There is a pause, and for a moment you think she's hung up. Then, very softly, you hear her again. "Sweet dreams." The phone clicks into silence.

Sam is still watching you with that indefinable look on his face. "You ok, man? You look... I dunno. Weird."

"I'm fine, Sam." You lay back down, phone close by. Elena's bloodied face is still dancing behind your lids, making it impossible for you to close your eyes. You can feel Sam's gaze for a long moment before he turns back to his bed. You also know he's only retreated, not surrendered.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step...

It's been weeks. Weeks of that insane dream. Weeks of meeting the demon in your mind. Weeks of nightly calls from Elena, checking on you and detailing your latest dream-wrought offence. You begin to wonder how long you can go without sleep if you try. Sam begins to wonder at the darkening circles under your eyes and the inarticulate cries that wake you both every night.

A drive; that's what you need. A full speed, engine roaring, road thrumming under the tires, echoing through the pedals to your feet and higher trip to the edge of control. That will wring away some of the unbearable tension. Sam watches the smile on your face with barely concealed worry. He shouldn't be concerned... this is the most free you've felt in ages. A downshift on a hairpin turn brings a sharp pain in your hand, and you look down briefly to see blood dripping from your fingers onto the gearshift. You stare at it in shock, and only Sam's blurt of fear brings you back to the road in time to avoid driving off a cliff.

Sam's white as a sheet, but you laugh at the adrenaline rush of it, at the sensation of being alive. You rub the blood (caused by a small burr of metal on the gear shaft, likely there since you rebuilt the car) into the leather cover, appreciating how the aged skin sucks up the moisture.

In the last weeks, it seems there are more things to hunt than ever before, that you are constantly on the move from crisis to crisis. It's starting to feel like all the bad in the world is coming to the fore all at once.

Given what you're doing in your dreams, you begin to wonder if you aren't part of it.

You grit your teeth, push the thought away, and put the pedal the rest of the way to the floor.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step.

The look on her face is triumph. As you swing, your rage a hot beast clawing at your throat, she catches your fist effortlessly, twists your arm behind your back. She steps close, plasters herself against every inch of your body from nipples to knees. Her ripe curves fit you perfectly, heat and pressure against all the right places, and you groan with the pain of it.

"Now, Dean... you're just edible." She leans forward and bites you. It's real, and it hurts. You push her away forcefully. Her hair tumbles around her face, your blood glints ruby on her lips. Deliberately, she licks it off, her eyes half closing with sensual enjoyment. It makes things tighten in your stomach, sends blood thundering to your groin.

It pisses you off.

You're on her in an instant, one fist clenching in the thick black hair, the other gripping her shoulder hard enough to bruise bone. You throw her onto the Impala's waiting hood. She sprawls awkwardly, her dress riding up white thighs, flashing matching black underwear. That peek breaks something inside you; something precious, and you rip that wisp of black away in a rage. Your right hand knots itself in her hair again, holds her in place despite her struggles. Your other hand goes to the front of your pants, opening your zipper. At the last instant, sanity returns enough for you to blink and pause, and then she laughs... she laughs like she's won. You snarl, teeth bared, brace your knees against Impala's grille, thrust with all the strength in your hips.

As you feel her heat enclose you, her face changes to that of the woman she rides, and Elena's terror strikes your heart as you try to stop... stop! too late.

"Jesus Christ!" You're out of bed, across the room, plastered with your back against the wall before you even realise you're awake. Out of the corner of your eye you see a flicker of red and turn on it savagely, knife at the ready. Sam stares at you from the dubious safety of his matching bed, his face a welter of conflicting emotions. Chief among them is fear.

I can't do this anymore.

You make your way to the chair, drop into it tensely, begin to run your fingers over the familiar soothing curves of the knife. The bite at the join of your shoulder and neck throbs with a steady, malevolent beat under the fabric of your t-shirt. You're glad it's black so he won't see the blood. "Shut up," you say to forestall the nightly question you can see forming on his lips. "Go back to sleep, Sam. I'm fine." Even you can taste the lie on your lips. It tastes bitter, like ashes. As you lean back in your chair, you see the flicker of red again. This time, you ignore it. When your cell phone begins to ring, you ignore that too.

The Impala looms in front of you, all sleek black lines, promising speed. Promising power. Her gleaming curves speak to something deep inside, and you're happy to see her vibrant menace, leashed to your will. Subservient to your desire. You smile at the dark promise in her presence before you. You run a hand along her flank. She is now as familiar to you here as in real life, and every single time you're just as pleased to see her as the first.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. Your response to her now is beyond habit, beyond simple lust, beyond simple rage. Your body flashes into readiness, the pressure on your groin a familiar ache. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. No, there is a different word to apply to her now.

She has reached obsession.

You take the first fateful step.

You gasp yourself awake again. Sam simply rolls over to send you a meaningful look that you ignore just as you have all the others. Your phone is silent. After that first time with the Impala (you can't bring yourself to name your actions then and since) you stopped answering altogether. After a week, she stopped calling.

How much longer will you be able to keep that shining thread of restraint intact? That the demon goads you into violence so easily is bad enough, even knowing that as soon as she succeeds she'll turn over Elena to bear the brunt of your rage. So far, you've stopped as soon as you've seen the girl in her face. But it's the same luscious body, the same pouting mouth, the same soft voice. In your head you're fighting a battle to keep them separate; a battle your rage wants you to lose.

And sometimes it takes longer than it should for you to notice Elena behind those eyes. Sometimes, it takes longer than it should for you to look.

You dress hastily, grab your keys, needing to get away from your bed. Needing to get away from yourself. Silently, Sam follows.

The wind ruffles your hair as you take the Impala out on the road yet again. Only at full speed do you feel anything like normal anymore. At full speed the road takes all your concentration and the absorption in the details of the drive, in the incredible harmony of the pitch of the engine matching the hum of the tires. Your hand drops to the gearshift, caressing it with familiar pride.

The Impala... in the dream. It's bothering you. How did the Impala get into the dream? Why is it there? As a prop for your fantasies? Something to throw her against? Something to pound her against? Something bend her over and spread her across and take again and again...

Your jaw clenches and you wrench your thoughts back to the road. Three AM, running at over a hundred miles an hour on a two lane twisting Montana blacktop is no time to lose focus. A mutter beside you draws your eyes to Sam, hunched half-asleep in the passenger seat. He let you go out once... only once... alone. He'd taken one look at the long, stark scratch on the Impala's side when he'd returned, and the look on his face had been eloquent.

So - no more late night rides alone.

And three hours fixing the scratch.

Fucking dreams.

But how did she get there? Why then? Why? Why...

Headlights flash in your eyes, bringing you back to yourself with a jolt of shock. You swerve back into your lane, skid to a halt beside the road, take a deep breath. Sam's awake, watching you with angry eyes.

"Did you just fall asleep, Dean? Did you?"

You can't answer him.

You don't know.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. Your response to her now is beyond habit, beyond simple lust, beyond simple rage, beyond obsession. Such pale words. Your body flashes into readiness, the pressure on your groin a familiar ache. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. No, there is a different word to apply to her now.

This? This is hate.

You take the first fateful step.

The look on her face is triumph. This time, as you lunge, she doesn't escape in time. Fingers claw against your hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing, SQUEEZING... She closes her eyes. Anticipating the switch to Elena, you release her with a gasp of rage. She rubs her neck, looking smug.

"Can't hurt a woman, huh? even in a dream... poor, poor Dean, all tortured over Daddy.. Even better, all tortured over me..."

You backhand her in a wickedly fast movement, blood splattering the ground just before she lands there herself. A gasp of air later she turns onto her back, arching against the dirt and flexing her thighs together. She licks the blood from her lip with a lingering swipe of her tongue.

You follow the wet pink tip with a helpless fascination, and the hate starts to rise again.

On the road again. Another angry spirit salted and burned and laid to rest. You wish... you pray that your issues could be vanquished so easily.

Vanquished. You laugh at yourself for even thinking in such poetic terms. It's not vanquishing you want. It's obliteration.

The Impala's tires hum evenly under your feet. Sam is asleep in the back. He's taken to catching his naps when he can, so that he can be ready when you need to go out. You're sure he isn't pestering you only because of the privacy you gave him when he was dreaming of Jessica. Instead, he keeps watching you with those worried, non-judgemental puppy dog eyes. You wonder how accepting those eyes would be if he knew. If he knew what his brother was becoming. Wrath and Lust, two of the deadly sins.

If Sam knew what you've already become.

Your eyes are drawn to an overpass, approaching fast. Huge concrete structure, solid support beams. No water barrels. Yeah... that would do the job nicely.

You step on the gas.

The Impala leaps ahead, responsive as always, eager to do your bidding. The overpass pillars get bigger in a hurry. The speedometer passes 100 as you close on them.

Sam rolls over in the back seat.

Immediately, you step on the brake. No... you stand on the brake, swing the wheel back towards the road, back towards safety. You miss the pillar by mere feet, still slowing. Sam is knocked off the back seat, tumbling to the uncomfortable floor with a blurt of surprise and 'oof' of pain.

As soon as the car is stopped you're out of it, trembling. The keys bite into your hand where you've clenched hard fingers around them.

Sam drags himself from the car, brushes himself off. "Dean?" He's pissed.

You pivot, stride back to him. You slap the keys into his hand, close his fingers over them, get in the passenger side and slam the door after you, hard. You stare fixedly at the road, knee bouncing with barely contained... something.

Sam spends a long moment looking at the horizon, black on black, rolling the keys between his fingers. Finally he gets behind the wheel, gives you a look you don't return. Wordlessly he starts the car, pulls back onto the road, and hits the gas.

After a while the trembling subsides, and you subside into that half-conscious state that so frequently comes with adrenaline overload. You're staring at Sam's hand resting on the gearshift. He's drumming it absently with his fingers. "Blood," you say blankly, even before you're fully aware of the meaning behind your words. "It's the blood."

Sam cocks an eyebrow at you, along with a tentative smile. It's the first time you haven't woken up in a sweat in ... you refuse to examine how long. You decide not to tell him you weren't actually asleep. "What is?"

You settle back in the seat, waiting for the motel with an anticipation you're sure is not entirely sane. "Nothing, Sam. I'm fine."

He doesn't even bother to acknowledge the lie.

It's dark by the time Sam chooses a motel. You wait for him to go to the shower before dressing for bed. It makes you laugh bitterly, that you used to UNdress to sleep, but since the dreams began you've had to black wear clothes to bed. It helps to hide the reaction of your body to the dreams. Somehow you think it's better that Sam simply think you're struggling with nightmares, rather than that you're getting off on them.

It also helps to hide the blood.

You huff out a quick breath, withdraw your knife from its sheath. You also pull out the silver and iron devil's trap pendant you had made months ago, after your encounters with Yellow-Eyes' Seed. Before you have too much time to think, you bare your forearm and jerk the knife across it quickly. The cut is deeper than you intended, but it gives you the blood you need. Quickly you coat the devil's trap before wrapping your arm tightly with one of the bandages you and Sam carry as a basic staple. Finally, you curl bloody fingers around the hilt of the knife, feeling the soft leather wrapping the hilt suck the moisture from your skin. You lay back on your bed, turn on your side, and wait.

Within seconds, you're asleep.

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. Your body hardens instantly, eager for the release promised by that smile, promised by your need to wipe that smile away. Your response to her now is beyond habit, beyond simple lust, beyond simple rage, beyond obsession. Such pale words. This? This is hate. Your body flashes into readiness, the pressure on your groin a familiar ache. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step.

The look on her face is triumph. It turns to puzzlement as you turn your back on her, take a long step back to the Impala, seat yourself on the ground leaning back against her wheel. You stretch your legs out in front of you, cross your arms and your ankles.

She walks over, that delicious sway in her walk that says woman, says sex, says 'want me.. take me...fuck me'.

Deliberately you shift to release the pressure of jeans against groin, push the mental voice away, and just look up at her with disinterest. That expression costs you more than you'd like to admit, but the look on her face is worth it.

She steps over your legs, straddling them as she sashays up your body. Involuntarily your eyes follow the enticing sweep of her legs to her hips, to the small waist and high breasts you've always managed to hold that last inch back from tasting. That last tiny fraction. You swallow hard.

She notices and smiles, glides slowly into a crouch over your legs, her face inches from yours. "Dean," she purrs. "You can't think that I'm going to let you get away with just ignoring me, do you? You should know better by now." Her hands move to the waist of the t-shirt you're wearing, start to ease it up your chest. Her knuckles rub against the skin over your ribs and you shudder with an exquisite combination of hate and lust. She feels so good.

God, you hate her.

"Naughty Dean. You know there's no gods here." She leaves the shirt bunched over your chest and moves her fingers to the waistband of your jeans. The zipper opens with a harsh rasp that is echoed in your throat an instant later when her hand dips inside. She slides your clothes to the side, moves to kneel directly above you, clasping your hips tightly between sleek muscled thighs. She rests her whole weight over your erection. You close your eyes, digging for the last dregs of restraint.

She isn't wearing underwear.

She grabs your shoulders, toppling you fully onto your back, away from the familiar soothing support of the Impala. She leans forward, nips your chin with small even teeth. It rocks her forward so you can feel her wetness, feel her heat. You reach for your neck, grasp nothing but the material of your t-shirt. You have the briefest moment to wonder what the hell went wrong before she pushes down, pushes back, and envelops you in heat and pleasure and silken pressure.

You gasp, your hips lunging upwards involuntarily, twisting to get closer, to get more. Your hands move to her thighs, dig in hard enough to leave bruises.

"Oh, you like that." The demon moves a little, making your fingers spasm even tighter. She hisses her enjoyment, smiles down at you. "Pity you didn't want to co-operate, Dean. Now you get to find out what I like, instead." She slaps you across the face, hard. Your breath huffs out as your ears start to ring. You taste blood just as she squeezes with her internal muscles, and it bows your back. When she releases, she hits you again. Your whole body is on fire with the pain and the pleasure. All you want is to get away. All you want is...

More.

Her legs clamp tighter around your hips, and she pulls apart your t-shirt as if it was tissue paper. It is only when you get a look at her hands that you begin to fear. The red painted nails elongate as you watch, turning to claws. She rests them against the muscles of your neck, tightening and releasing her fingers around your throat. "Harder?" she asks breathlessly. Helplessly you nod, and the next squeeze threatens to tear out your windpipe. The incredible sensation as she tightens around your body is indescribable, and almost worth it.

She pulls her hands away from your throat, eyes dilated and skin flushed with pleasure. With a wide, malicious smile she reaches down and begins to rake those claws against your torso.

The pain! The pain is incredible. You feel skin parting under those devil-spawned claws, feel the furrows cut deep into the flesh over your chest and ribs. Blood bursts from your body, and you flail to get away. Your right hand hits the Impala's tire, scrabbles at the gritty dirt. Miraculously, there is metal under your fingers, and as you clench your fist around the leather wrapped hilt of your knife you start to scream...

Hands on your shoulders, weight holding you down.

You come up from the bed, lunging faster than thought at the shape dimly seen in front of you. Your knife is still in your fist, and you'll be damned if you'll go down without a fight.

"Dean!"

The shape is gone, stumbling backwards in the darkness. You scramble across the bed away from it, wedging yourself against the wall. Your breath is a fire in your chest.

The lights go on.

"Sam?" Your brother is at the light switch, bloody handprint on the wall. His other hand is clasped tightly over his stomach, wrapped around his waist. You drop the knife, all but vault the bed in your haste to reach him. "Sam? Jesus, jesus..." It's not blasphemy, it's a prayer... the first time in many months you've heard the name of God in your mouth and had it be heartfelt. "Are you ok? Did I hurt you?"

He bats at your hands pulling the bottom of his shirt up but you manage to look anyway. A razor-thin stripe across his abdomen bleeds a faint trail of red over taut skin; but he isn't hurt too badly. Another inch... a fraction of an instant slower on his part or faster on yours, and you'd be holding his stomach together with your hands, watching him bleed out all over the motel's fithy floor.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're sick. You brace your head against your hand, kneel at the foot of the toilet. "Oh God, oh Jesus... Sam."

He's behind you in the bathroom, pulling you around to face him. His white t-shirt is sticking to the line of blood on his stomach, his eyes angry. "I think it's time to explain, Dean. And I don't think there's any room to argue, is there?"

Defeated, you close your eyes, shake your head. Sam helps you to your feet, supports you back to the bed. It feels like you vomited up your strength along with your supper, and you really need his help. When Sam lets you go and you sit down, his shirt is red from arm to waist.

"Sam?" Alarm rings through your head, muffling the sounds in the room under your shock. Did you hurt him worse than you thought?

Sam raises his hand, gloved in blood. "It's not mine," he says blankly, then his eyes widen in realisation. "Jesus, Dean! It's yours!" A gentle push at your shoulders drops you onto your back on the bed, careful fingers lift your faithful black t-shirt away from your sticky skin. Sam's breath hisses out in shock. You lift your head, glance down at the bloody evidence of the demon's pleasure. Some of the furrows are deep, deep enough to show the white glint of bone. Sam's face is white as he tears his eyes away to look at your face. All at once, your neck stops holding up your head, your sight dims.

The last thing you hear is Sam's frantic voice, calling your name.

God, it is such a relief to have sleep without dreams.

When you wake, Sam's hung you with crosses. Lots and lots of crosses. Hell - the bandages he's smothered you with all have little tape crosses holding them in place, and little black marker crosses written all over them. You can't help it... you laugh. It hurts.

Sam is immediately by your side. The horrible motel decor is the same, so he must have been sitting in one of the uncomfortable motel chairs. "Dude. What's with the motif?" A gesture to the bandages over your chest. Surprisingly, the movement doesn't hurt, but it takes more effort than it should.

"Bobby's suggestion." Sam replies cautiously, watching you closely. It's unnerving.

"Well, I look like I've been attacked by an artistically challenged horde of nuns." You glance around. Everything seems the same, except for the drawn expression on Sam's face. "How long was I out?"

"Two days." Sam shrugs, but you can tell he's both relieved and worried. You shift, the bandages pulling against the skin of your ribs. "The good news is you got some sleep and you're healing fast." You nod slowly. "The bad news is, I still have no idea what's going on." A hint of anger raw in his voice; he's fighting to keep himself even, keep the accusation out of his face. Your brother's dark eyes are serious and uncompromising. "It is time for you to tell me." You consider deflecting the question, but he forestalls the attempt. "You could have died, Dean." Looking for a flippant remark, you force a grin. He holds up a hand, stopping you again. "You could have killed me." Damn. He does know how to go for the jugular these days. The smile gone, you look away from the intensity of his gaze, nod jerkily.

You start to talk.

It takes over an hour to tell him everything. Almost everything, that is. Well... most of it. There are things you just can't bring yourself to say. Sam nods fractionally each time you break off, each time the pause lasts a little too long. Taking it all in, everything you say... everything you don't say. With each sentence, his face becomes more drawn, his eyes colder. By the time you finish, he's trembling ever so slightly. For the first time, you see some of the rage that drives you in Sam, and for the first time you see why it scares him. Cause that look, in Sam's eyes, is like looking into a twisted mirror and seeing something... wrong staring back. Something mean.

"Dean," he says flatly, belying the banked fury. "We need to deal with this."

"I've been trying."

Sam stands, starts pacing the small area beside the bed like he can't sit still any longer. "You said the Impala made it into the... the Dream Space?" He says it just like that, Dream Space, and you can hear the capitals in his words.

"Yeah. And the knife." The joy of feeling the blade under your fingers at that critical moment flashes through you again. "Good thing. I think she's just about all done playing."

Thoughtfully Sam rubs his chin. "But not the pendant."

"No." The frustration of reaching for your throat, finding only fabric. "I know it's the blood that brought them in. I just don't know why it didn't work with the pendant."

A long reach across the motel dresser, and then Sam is running the knife through his fingers. He examines every shining inch of the carbon steel, washed clean, oiled and cared for. An expression of his fear for you, that precise care. It tightens your throat. He pauses at the leather-wrapped hilt, clean but discoloured in dark lines shaped like fingers. "You smeared blood on the knife. Did you have blood on your hand when you held the hilt?"

You see where he's going with this, sit upright, reach for the knife. He hands it over more readily than you would have if he'd tried to gut you. It fits your fist like an old friend. A sensory memory, of the leather pulling the moisture from your hand. "Yeah." A smile breaks over your face. "Yeah, I did. And the Impala's gearshift has a leather cover. That's it, man, I can feel it. The blood needs to be incorporated."

Sam is nodding. "This is going to take some thinking, Dean. A couple of days." His eyes leave the knife, meet yours directly. "And then, it's our turn to play."

The woman is waiting.

Black hair, black eyes, full breasts, slim waist, long legs. She's beautiful, hot, so hot. When she smiles, that slow, seductive widening of ripe red lips over small white teeth, it sends a flash of lust through you like a hot knife. Your body hardens instantly, eager for the release promised by that smile, promised by your need to wipe that smile away. Your response to her now is beyond habit, beyond simple lust, beyond simple rage, beyond obsession. Such pale words. This? This is hate. She is temptation, sin personified. As she calls your name, her eyes flash red. You take the first fateful step.

Your body flashes into readiness, the pressure on your groin a familiar ache. For the first time, you welcome it. Hell... you revel in it.

"Dean... where ever have you been?" She steps close, slides a finger slowly down your side. Her fingernail catches a little on your shirt, sending ripples of sensation across your ribs.

"Were you worried?" You laugh, deep in your throat, walk around her. She doesn't bother to turn with you, instead simply allowing your slow perusal of her whole body. She has a world-class ass. You feel yourself harden further as the image of her naked buttocks sliding back onto your shaft flashes through your mind. When you lift your eyes she's smiling at you over her shoulder, gaze hot under half-closed lids. You step close, leaning into her with your whole body, until your lips are just a breath away from hers. Her back brushes your chest, and you fix your eyes on that pouting mouth. "You had to know... I just couldn't stay away." Your voice is a purr in your chest.

She turns to face you, still just that fraction away from touching. "Why, Dean, you surprise me. The thoughts in your head are positively decadent." She closes her eyes, licks her lips as if she can taste your fantasies, taste your flesh sliding wetly between them. That thought brings a shudder to your body and a gasp to hers. "Wonderful…" A brief sensory image of those even white teeth becoming fangs, ripping into tender flesh has you jerking away as if you were scalded. She gives a low laugh, pleased that she's won another round.

God, you hate her.

GOD, you want her.

You reach out, fist both hands in her hair, yank her head back, and attack her mouth with yours as if you could devour her whole through the kiss. She opens willingly enough, but too slow, and the force of it slices lip against teeth. The bitter metallic taste of blood floods both your mouths and you groan in unison. With one hand you release her hair, with the other you grip her more tightly against you. A quick motion, and you break away, breathing like you've run a marathon. Your body protests leaving her, the trembling threatening to buckle your knees. Stubbornly you lock them.

She stumbles back against the Impala, rights herself slowly. One hand raises to the pendant you'd jerked from your own neck to drop over her head. The real reason for the kiss.

Ok, the other reason for the kiss.

Her hand springs away from the pendant; her breath hisses between her teeth with pain. "What is this? Dean…"

"It's a modified Devil's Trap." You smirk at the shock and fear on her face, quickly masked. "Modified to hold you in that form." Her body jerks once, twice. Trying her bonds. "And you won't be able to bring someone else in to hide behind either. This time, you're just you."

Her eyes flash rage and she advances on you, fists clenched. "I'm going to tear you to pieces, Dean. I'm going to flay your skin from your bones for this."

"Give it your best shot. You succeed, and you're trapped here forever." You shrug nonchalantly. "Might even be worth it."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, and she visibly gets a grip on herself. "Now, Dean... let's just talk about this a minute. You don't really want to do this..."

The punch rocks her against the Impala again, and she raises a hand to her bleeding lip. Mirroring her, you lift your fist. In unison you lick the blood off your knuckles and she off her fingertips. As you approach she backs away, the first time ever you can recall her voluntarily giving you space. "Oh, I want to do this," you assure her menacingly. "I want to do this a lot."

You reach through the Impala's open window, close your fingers around the hilt of your knife. It slides into your hand like it's finding its home, like it belongs there. When you bring it out, her eyes follow it intently. She licks her lips.

"What is that for, Dean?"

You smile at her unease, extend your left arm, and deliberately draw the blade across the flesh of your forearm. The skin parts easily, blood wells over the edges of the wound. A long moment later, something strange happens in your chest. A feeling like being ... re-arranged. It's weird as hell. And it hurts. Your hand goes to your heart, as if you could feel the changes happen underneath your skin if only you try.

The demon mirrors you, alarm on her face. "Dean..." It's a threat. "What did you do?"

You lick your lips, bare your teeth in a vicious smile. You start to stalk around her. "You know, I was thinking. How was it you called me here? We did some research... this isn't really a dream. This is a Dream Space. It's a lot like being real. And like being real, there are rules. Like, you're bound to the human form here. Stronger, maybe a couple of modifications..." You gesture at the claws. A growl of frustration from her. "A human can only get here by being called. And I had to wonder... how could you call me?" The pleasure you take in her irritation is like the feel of a warm whiskey in your gut. "I thought at first that it was the kiss... but nope. That really was just to seal the deal." Her eyes narrow on you, red starting to glitter through her irises. "It took a while, but I realised. It was the summoning. The photograph, in the box. You summoned me through the image I gave you." Triumph flashes through you as you see the rage cross her face. "And now, I'm taking it back."

You clench your fist, slice the blade across your arm for the second time in a quick motion. You can see him in your head, your brother, watching the line of blood appear on your arm as if by magic, see him turning to the shredded photo, see him touch flame to the paper. See him watch the smoke and the blood with that blank expression he uses to cover his anxiety, before turning back to monitor you again. It's just imagination of course, but you trust it.

The power slams into your chest like a train, knocking you to your knees and curling you over your stomach. A foot away the demon is doing the same as the link she forged is ripped from you both. Damn it! You thought the last bit hurt, but this shows you how very wrong you were. This, now... This hurts

The demon screams in agony. It's fucking music to your ears.

The roaring pressure subsides, leaving you both gasping on the ground. You heave yourself to your knees, spitting blood where you bit through your lip. "And there it is," you manage to mutter fiercely. "And now, bitch... now it's time to make a deal."

Somehow you're both on your feet, toe to toe. The height difference is somehow irrelevant. Despite her small size, she takes up all the room in front of you. "Why would I want to make a deal?"

"Cause without me, you're stuck here."

Her eyes flare red with rage, and you fight the desire to step back. Fingers close around your throat with dizzying speed, start to squeeze. "I could rip out your throat right now." You grab her wrist, twist. She doesn't move. "What would dear Sammy say, seeing your throat suddenly explode, raining your precious blood all over the room?" She gives a slight shake, and you can feel the claws spring out, tickling the skin. "What effect would that have on the poor dear?"

A fresh surge of hate races through you. "Go ahead. But then you'll be here forever. You can't leave this place as long as you're wearing that pendant, and you can't take it off. Kill me and you'll be here for good."

"I could torture you til you release me." The claws on her other hand slide under your shirt, flex meaningfully against the skin of your stomach. The sensation bows your back.

"Sam and I have a signal. If I give it, he brings me out. Without the link, you can't get me back. Without me, you don't leave. Stuck again."

There is a faint tremble in the hand gripping your windpipe. The pressure is making it harder to swallow. "I could just call someone else and have them take it off."

You grin at her savagely. "Won't work, bitch. It has my name on it. The only one who can remove it is me." Your voice drops to a low growl, a sound you've never heard from your own throat before. "Right now, you're fucked." You're shaking with the force of it, the hate and the joy all at once. "And I am your only way out."

She releases you with a scream of rage, dropping you carelessly to the dirt. You drop to one knee, wrench yourself back to your feet. No goddamned way will you ever kneel to her. You ignore the itch where the claws pricked the skin. "It seems I've underestimated you, Dean." She leans back against the car, crosses her arms and gives a bored sigh. "What's the deal?" She's aiming for even, businesslike, but it's coming across more as just plain mad.

Good.

"You leave my family and me and Elena alone, completely alone. If we ever meet on a job, you retire the field immediately."

The demon nods, face sulky.

"In perpetuity."

The demon's face becomes downright petulant, but she nods again.

"And you give me one hour, right here, right now, where you're mine."

Shock flickers through her eyes.

"In return, by the end of that hour, I release you from the pendant and the Dream Space."

"Define, 'mine'." Warily.

"Mine. For one hour, you belong to me. I own you. You serve me, in anything I want, anything I do, anything I ask." Your intensity is scaring you a little. A tiny voice in your head wonders what Sam would think of the sudden tweak to the deal. Ruthlessly you crush the voice. This has nothing to do with Sam. "I own you."

You can see her considering, but you can tell that last bit has her intrigued. "Fine," she says suddenly. "It's a deal." She reaches for your face to bring you close for the kiss.

You pull away, grab her wrists, throw her, hard. The Impala absorbs the shock of her landing easily, barely rocking on its springs as she sprawls forward across the hood. You're on her before she can move, one hand lifting her skirt as the other unzips your pants with practiced ease. You spread her legs with your knees, her arms with your hands, like you're laying her out for a search. She shudders under you, tries to lift her head off the chill metal of the car. You lean over her, pinning her with you whole body, speaking softly into her ear. "Oh, no," you say in a voice you don't even recognize as your own. "This isn't the kind of deal you seal with a kiss."

You pull her away from the hood of the car, turn her to face you. She gives you that familiar mocking smile, opens her mouth to say something you already know will make it even worse. There's no hesitation in the open-handed slap that knocks her back to the ground. You're on her again immediately, taking your revenge, slaking your thirst, in the only way that will truly satisfy.

For this time, for only this time, she is absolutely yours. You fucking own her. And this has nothing to do with possessiveness, oh, no... this is all about something altogether darker. Angrier. Meaner. This is about power. This is about rage.

This is about subjugation.

You rise, panting. Your chest hurts, your hands hurt. Your mouth... a finger raised to your lips comes away red with blood. You look down at her sprawled in the dirt of the crossroads. She rolls to her hands and knees, looks up at you. Her hair is a tangled mess, her white skin marred with bruises in the shape of your fingers, your fists, your teeth... Seeing her like that, on her knees in front of you, staring up with your blood staining her lips...

A glance at your watch. 5 minutes left. Reluctantly you turn away from her. You'd hoped that the hour might have vanquished some of the hate, might have expiated some of the guilt you've harboured for being so weak as to give in to her goading so many times.

It hasn't.

"Heal me," you growl for the last time. She complies, watching you with wariness and even a little fear. Whatever else you haven't accomplished, you did achieve this. The little bitch would not be coming back for a rematch any time soon.

"I don't know about that, Dean..." She drawls in response to the thought. "I thoroughly enjoyed myself." Even teeth shine whitely as she bares them in a half-snarl. "Thinking of all the ways I'm going to make you pay."

"Not without breaking the deal." Rapidly you dress, heading for the Impala. "Your word is your bond, remember? And you agreed... for one hour, you're mine."

"Yeah, yeah." She stands, takes a step. At the second, she's immaculately clean and dressed again.

You reach in the Impala's window, bring out the Bible and an aged wooden rosary. Immediately she backpedals away from you. "Deaaaan..."

The book opens to the correct passage as if by its own volition. You run your fingers over the rosary, listening to the faint click of the beads.

"You're breaking the deal? I should have known." Venom drips from the words.

You turn on her, contained violence boiling just under the surface again. She backs away, fear flickering across her face before defiance takes its place. "I'm not breaking the deal. I said before the hour was up, I'd release you from the pendant and from the Dream Space. I am doing just that." You flash her a vicious smile. "After all, I never said... how."

"Another deal, then." Desperation this time. "Your father."

You don't even consider. Three minutes left. "No." This time the smile is real. "But don't worry about that. I already have plans for him." You turn your attention to the book. She snarls.

"I'll kill you before you can finish the words. Better here for eternity than there!"

"You can't." You can't keep the pleasure from your voice. "Cause for the next two minutes, you are still mine." You find the place on the page, lean back against the Impala's impartial flank, start to read. The latin flows perfectly from your lips, rising and falling with an ancient rhythm. The demon growls, thrashes briefly, eyes you with hate. You match her glare for glare, the latin still spilling easily, the words music in your mouth. You smirk when you reach the end, when she is drawn screaming into nothingness.

Now, finally, now you feel better.

The pendant drops to the dirt with a faint thud and a tiny puff of dust. You reach down, pick it up, wind it around your fist. The leather strap is tight, elastic against the edges of your hand, the points of the symbols digging pleasantly into the skin of your palm. You squeeze it tight. Your weapon; your salvation.

Deliberately, you lift the knife from the Impala's front seat and draw the blade for the third time across your arm.

"You know, you forced her into making bad deals twice, Dean. I don't think she's going to just let that slide."

Sometimes, Sam can be a true master of the obvious. "You think?"

"What do you think she's going to do when she claws back out of hell?" As usual, he's watching you get ready to leave instead of packing himself.

You shrug, continue to pack. "She's going to look for ways to get around the deal. But mostly, I think she's going to call it even for the moment." Jeans first, then shirts, then underwear, then socks. "She's got all the time in the world to make me hurt. She'll wait til I'm not paying attention any more."

"Hey, Dean? You never told me. Why did it take so long for you to come out of the dream after I broke the link?" Sam asks it casually, smoothly, but his eyes are intent on you.

"We were negotiating the deal." Toothpaste, toothbrush… You use the familiar routine to keep your thoughts off your face.

"Negotiating? For an hour?" Sam's eyebrows reach for his hairline in his disbelief. "And what were you negotiating with? Baseball bats? It was really weird to see you bruise and cut and heal like that, by the way. It's a good thing you told me not to take you out unless you made a third cut. I almost did it anyway."

"She wasn't going down without a fight." You give Sam the look; your 'I'm not talking about it so shut the fuck up' look. "All you need to know is I won."

"Yeah, well… no more deals, ok? They aren't good for my nerves." Sam tosses your stuff from the side table to the bed where you can reach it. Books, sunglasses, wristwatch...

You pick up your phone from where it bounced on the mattress, stare at it. Swallowing hard, you punch the buttons, make the call.

"Hello?"

"Elena." Silence on the other end. "Elena? It's Dean."

"I know who it is. It's the guy who stopped answering his phone." She sounds pissed. With good reason, you admit.

"Look, I wanted to tell you… you shouldn't be having bad dreams anymore. At least, none involving me." Sam is watching you again, giving you his best sympathy look. You turn your back on him. "I just wanted you to know that, and to tell you… if you do have another one? Give me a call. I promise I'll answer."

Silence.

"Elena?"

"It's really over?" She sounds like she's about ten years old. When you talk again, your voice is as gentle as if she was.

"Yeah, Elena. I think it is."

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for calling." A soft click.

Slowly you put the phone in the duffle, then shake your head briskly and zip it up. When you turn, Sam is still sitting on his bed, still watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. He has a half-smile on his face.

"Shut up." You throw the bag at him. He laughs as he catches it easily. "Time to go Sam. Give me the keys." You snap your fingers imperiously, hold out your hand. He pulls the keys out of his pocket, dangles them tauntingly.

"I don't know, Dean. You sure you're good to drive? You've been a little erratic lately…"

With a quick flick of your wrist you've grabbed them from his fingers. "Get in the car, geek boy." Sam grins, lifts your duffle from the bed. He stands up, ducks to get through the motel room door.

"Hey, Dean? What was it you did for that hour again?"

You're at the crossroads. The breeze flows around you like a caress of warm silk, and the dry dirt of the road is a cold gritty rasp against your fingertips. You look around at the arching shapes of the trees, at the masses of yarrow lining the ditches. Your knee creaks as you rise back to your feet, brushing your hands briskly against the soft, pleasantly rough denim of your jeans stretched taut over thighs.

The road stretches with black perfection in front of you, rolling endlessly through sun-drenched fields. Empty of tempting women, empty of demons, empty of threat. Just... empty.

Beckoning.

You grin, turn back to the Impala, slide behind the wheel with the easy grace of years of practice. Her seat accepts you, welcomes you home. In this place, there is no key required. Her engine throbs to life with a throaty roar. You reach forward, turn on the radio. The heavy beat of Metallica explodes from the speakers, thrums through the frame of the car. You roll down the window, check the road.

You hit the gas, and you go.

END