Part II
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."
Shit.
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—
Coming.
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.
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