Lemon
Written for lj's spn_teamfic
Warnings: Character death, autoerotic asphyxiation
The first time it happened, Dean pushed the memories aside, putting it all down to hallucinations. By the third time, he had to admit to himself, at least, what was going on.
He didn't want it to stop, though, so he kept going back. The feel of the rope pulling at his neck as he forced his feet not to kick out, the weight of the lemon between his teeth, and the feel of his own fingers on his hard on faded out for just a second before he had to start fighting for life. It was that second that really counted.
Even the times his eyes were closed, were bulging out and making it hard to see, Dean knew it was her. It was her chilled hands brushing over his erection, her impossibly soft lips playing against his ear.
Sometimes he could hear her, she said, "Oh, Dean," and "So perfect," and "Someday, someday."
He and Sam were running back and forth between the Dakotas, on a hunt that seemed to span their borders, so his sudden penchant for turtlenecks and scarves could be explained away. Not that it mattered, with Sammy constantly disappearing, with his attention always on something else. Sam's eyes rarely even focused on Dean, let alone looked at him.
That's probably where it started. He'd been bored, lonely, and reading too many posts on some porn message board. It seemed like something he could get behind, something he could control while being out of control. It was clean, wouldn't leave the mess that his favorite knife left against his thigh, dripping down onto whatever ratty sheets he sat on in the middle of the night. And he didn't have to trust anyone else with it, didn't have to ask anyone to give him what he might need.
It wasn't hard to find the necessary materials or the free time. Hunts against anything that didn't involve seals were becoming few and far between (maybe all the monsters were starting to wise up) and getting drunk could only help so much. He'd tested the rod holding up the flimsy shower curtain, making sure it was stable enough, thankful that staying at old motels usually meant old fashioned craftsmanship.
He'd maybe gone a bit overboard with his knot, but that hadn't stopped him from keeping up the familiar pattern of strokes. Just as he felt his release hitting him, just before he was going to bite down on the wedge in his mouth, he'd felt something else. He'd never come so hard in his life.
Sometimes he got hard just thinking about it, about her. She was completely inhuman and utterly special, someone that rarely judged him and never really hurt him. She understood, even when she didn't.
He was up to once a day by the time they finished the hunt. It was too hard to stop--the pleasure felt like his soul was being gripped in those firm hands, caressed. He didn't ever want to stop.
Dean saw her more and more. Every time she was more solid before his eyes, her hands were firmer against him. The voice in his ear was bolder, making promises he knew only she could keep.
"I'd keep you safe," she said, and, "I'd never give you up."
She said, "You'd be first in my heart."
He didn't need to stroke himself at all, his libido and her body did everything. He got off, again and again, every moment an explosion, every moment a fall.
After the fight with Sam, he almost went back to Bobby's--but he couldn't deal with the sorrow of another human being, not in the face of his own. He checked into a dive motel, pulled the barely hidden bag out of the Impala's truck, and stumbled to the bathroom, hanging the noose with practiced ease.
She caught him when he slipped into that other plain, but didn't lift him up. He looked at her through the haze of sex and pain, tried to speak through the choking noises coming, involuntarily, from his throat. She hushed him, kissed away his words, and he gave in.