Roman was frozen in fear, his heartbeat as quick as a drag racer's engine as it sped down the raceway in record time. The forgotten toolbox slipped out of his grip, the chest making an awful clatter as it fell to the floor.

"What's wrong, Roman? Cat got your tongue?" Ambrose taunted, cocking his head to the side. The expression in his eyes was one of absolute animosity, shaking Roman to the core.

The Samoan sucked in a trembling breath, trying to form something other than an ungodly shriek on his tongue. "Wh-what do you want from me?" He finally croaked, throat bone dry. "D-do you want money? I'll give it to you. I'll give you anything… a-anything you want."

Ambrose barked out a wicked laugh, bringing a hand up to tap an erratic rhythm against his collarbone. His snakelike tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip in a slow swipe. "Hm… anything?"

The doctor began to tilt his head down in a nod, but before he could even finish, he was pinned against the door, Ambrose's eerily cool breath ghosting across the shell of his ear.

"You might want to rethink that, baby," the man whispered, voice low and bizarrely seductive. A thick, suffocating cloud of silence fell over the room, seconds seeming to pass like molasses in winter before Ambrose continued. "What I want is information on your dear friend Regal."

Regal? What information could he want on him? The good doctor's warning remark before he'd practically fled the house clawed at the back of his mind. Was Ambrose a "bad man?" For all intents and purposes, he seemed to be living up to that statement. "Wh-what do you want to know?"

The man huffed out another quiet laugh, causing Roman to shiver as the strangely glacial breath whispered over his flesh. "I'm just curious, honestly. How's he doing?"

Roman quirked a brow, dumbfounded by the other's strangely simple query. "What?"

Another quick chuckle was huffed against his neck, and shit, if Roman wasn't scared senseless at the moment, he was pretty sure that the man's abnormally erotic behavior would've had him sporting a half-chub by then. He hated his brain sometimes, especially when those piercing sapphires came back into view, causing him to choke back a moan. His mind raced, dodging between thoughts of "Wow, this guy's going to kill me" and "Wow, this guy is fucking gorgeous." Fuck, if the madman hadn't gotten under his skin in just an insanely short amount of time.

"You heard me," Ambrose smirked wolfishly, their noses almost touching. "So, how's ol' Willy doing? He still head-over-heels for that whore? Living his perfect, suburban life?"

Roman reeled back—well, as much as he could in his current position—eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're talking about. Do you mean his wife?"

The other man snarled. "Yes, his… wife." He seemed to gag on the word as if it had left a sour taste in his mouth.

"I mean, I-I guess he's doing well? He retired from his practice, so I think he's sort of bored. Y'know, he's come over twice already today. Scared the shit out of me both times—"

"I wasn't asking for a novel."

"And I wasn't asking for you to intrude on my home."

A beat of silence passed between them, their gazes locked in an intense battle.

"So… you can let me go now, right? I told you what you wanted to know," Roman asked, trying to push himself off of the door. However, Ambrose's force was much too strong, so he fell back limply with a heavy sigh of defeat. His wrists were pinned, chest-to-chest with the lunatic, and honestly, a part of him was quite exhilarated by the experience; he quickly beat that thought to a bloody pulp. "Really, man? If you just get the hell out of here, I promise I won't call the police. And then maybe change the locks…"

Dean grinned, eyes shining with mischief. "Make me," he stated simply, his voice the perfect Molotov cocktail of swagger and cockiness. He studied Roman's expression, noting the slight, amatory glint in the steely grays with an amused chuckle. "Or… is that the opposite of what you want right now?"

Roman's breath hitched in his throat. Shit, was he really that transparent?

The other man dipped his head back down, nosing at the Samoan's neck before planting an open-mouthed kiss to the heated flesh.

Roman gasped. The madman's lips were as cold as ice, his breath seeming to leave a frosty path as they oh-so-slowly trailed up to his ear. Why is he so cold? "L-let me go," he stuttered, trying to muster an intimidating edge to his voice. Don't let go. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Dean chuckled yet again, lightly nipping at the other man's earlobe. "You're a funny guy, Roman," he observed, relinquishing his grip on Ro's wrists as he brought one of his hands up to grip at the other's ebony locks. He twisted the hair around his fist and pulled, smirking at the man's effort to muffle a wanton moan. "You put on a front, trying to act like a tough guy, but in the end, I can make you bend to my will."

"You can't make me do shi—ah!" In his lust-induced state, he failed to notice that Ambrose's other hand had worked its way down to his groin. His eyes grew wide, pupils blown in desire as the lunatic palmed him through his sweatpants. It had been years since he'd been with another person, let alone be able to actually "take care of business" himself due to his grueling hours of study and residency. His mind turned to goo, his body molding like clay in a sculptor's hands.

"Heh, you'd be surprised at what I can do, Roman," Dean whispered, continuing his delicious teasing. "I wonder what your mother would think of her perverted, little boy? Caught up in the web of a total stranger."

The doctor groaned, completely overtaken by the man's oddly seductive rambling. He pushed his hips out, desperately seeking more contact, more of the oh-so-sweet friction he'd secretly craved. His pulse thrummed with life, pleasured moans escaping his lips with each pass of the other's strangely cool tongue over his skin, like fire meeting ice. I shouldn't be doing this. He gasped, feeling the man's blunt teeth press down into the tender flesh at the crook of his neck, the beginnings of a bruise forming beneath the assault of those icy lips.

Ambrose pulled back, blowing gently on the purpled area with his glacial breath. "I wonder what your boyfriend would think?" he chuckled, "Watching you come apart in my arms?"

His breath hitched, neurons firing as he slowly came back to his senses. Oh God, Seth.

"Or," Dean continued, squeezing the Samoan's package and causing him to mewl out helplessly, "what about our pal, Dr. Regal? Like he says, I'm a 'bad man'."

Those oceanic eyes and arrogant smirk came back into view, and Roman paled, the realization of his current situation finally hitting him like a wrecking ball.

"And don't you forget that."

Roman's gut twisted, a wave of nausea washing over him—he needed to get away before this progressed any further. With a shake of his head to clear his muddied thoughts, he screwed his eyes shut against those debilitating sapphires and pushed his hands out against the other man's chest, stumbling forward over the trodden-down carpeting. Throwing his arms out to try and regain his balance, he came to a staggering halt, eyes widened in utter confusion. Where did he go? H-he can't be that fast. He stared down at his trembling hands in bewilderment, from the deep lines crisscrossing his palms, to the scattered freckles dotting the backs. What in the hell?

A quiet snicker sounded behind him, gradually building into a rumbling, throaty cackle.

Oh, fuck.

On legs made of jelly, Roman guardedly turned, once again coming face-to-face with the madman.

"What are you?" he inquired, heart thumping in his chest.

Ambrose smirked and stepped forward, the sound of his clomping boots echoing in the near-silence of the house and sending a chill up Roman's spine. "Why don't you come see for yourself?"

If you were to ask Roman, he'd be the first to tell you that he had no idea why he did the following. It could've been the need to know, or he could've been strung along like a powerless marionette in the lunatic's hands, but in the end, he would probably tell you that it was actually worth it—after the initial shock, of course. With a gulp and his eyes locked with the other man's in an unfaltering gaze, he brought his hands up and cautiously reached out toward Ambrose's chest. Almost immediately, they were enveloped by an eerie chill, a sensation he'd felt on his neck just a short while earlier.

"Holy shit."

He let his eyes drop, stomach sinking as they trailed down the length of his arms to the point where they disappeared into the other man's ragged t-shirt. Carefully pulling back, he watched his shaking hands reappear, flexing as the warmth quickly returned to his freezing appendages. Returning his gaze to the other man's, he felt paralyzed, feet refusing to cooperate as he willed himself to flee for his life. The realization suddenly dawned on him: Dean was a ghost.

A voracious, predatory glint in his blazing orbs, Ambrose's cocky smirk held steady.

"I'm your worst nightmare, baby."


Roman awoke with a start, limbs scrambling for purchase as he felt himself tumbling to the floor. With a heavy thud, he landed hard, back groaning in pain from the sudden impact. He reached out with trembling fingers, feeling the rough carpeting beneath his digits, and let out a relieved sigh. Cautiously cracking his eyes open, he squinted against the harsh lamplight and took in his environment.

"Guess I fell asleep on the couch again," he mumbled, rubbing at his sore back and gingerly rising to his feet. He carded a hand through his sleep-tangled locks, grimacing as he hit a knot at the back of his head. The sensation of his hair clenched in a strong grip took his breath away, the pristine image of Ambrose's rapacious gaze swimming in front of his vision, and he shook his head, trying to bat away the startling memory. "It was just a dream," he told himself, "a really fucked up dream."

Snatching the browned remains of his forgotten apple off of the end-table, he staggered into the kitchen and deposited it in the trash. As he passed the basement door, Regal's words flooded back to him in a nausea-inducing wave: "… Do not go into the basement." Roman shuddered, his stomach churning uncomfortably. What does that even mean? It was just a dream. He grabbed an empty glass from the cupboard and quickly filled it at the sink, the cool water refreshing as it slipped down his parched throat. Chancing a quick glance toward the door, he was relieved to see that it was still securely closed.

"I'm going insane," he muttered, depositing the empty glass in the sink to wash later. "I-I'm working too hard. It's stress. A good night's sleep should do me well."

Stumbling down the hallway toward his bedroom, his foot struck a stray object on the floor. Peering down, his blood ran cold—the abandoned telephone. With a heavy gulp, he scurried into the bedroom and slammed the door shut, chest heaving as he gasped for air.

"It was a dream. I-it was just a dream," he told himself, scrubbing at his face with shaky palms. "Calm the fuck down, Roman. Dr. Regal wasn't stuck in the attic, and that Ambrose guy isn't in your house. You're going to brush your teeth, crawl into bed, have a fantastic night's sleep, and then wake up refreshed and ready for your day tomorrow."

Throwing his shoulders back, he puffed out his chest and confidently marched into the master bathroom. As he loaded up his toothbrush, he peered into the mirror, scoping out any blemishes or unruly hairs. His eyes trailed down until they landed on the marred, purpled area between his neck and shoulder. What the fuck? He gently pressed his fingers against the angry splotch, a hiss of pain escaping his clenched teeth. He could practically feel Ambrose's teeth biting into his flesh, those icy lips hungrily sucking against his lust-flushed skin. Irritated, he shook his head and finished his nightly routine, pushing the remains of the dream to the back of his mind.

Flipping the bathroom light off, he padded to his bed and threw back the duvet, more than ready for sleep's sweet release. He plopped down onto the mattress and slipped off his socks before sliding in and snuggling up under the downy blanket, a contented sigh escaping his lips as his head hit the pillow.

"See, it was nothing," he yawned, eyes drooping under the sandman's spell, "I'm gonna wake up in the morning, and all this crap will be long forgotten."

As he slowly slipped into dream-land, an all-too-familiar, gravelly voice began to drift up through the floorboards. Eyes snapping open in horror, he followed along with the lyrics, mouth forming around the words as if on impulse.

I thought that I was over you

But it's true, so true

I love you even more

Than I did before

"First, Johnny Cash and now, Roy Orbison?" he muttered, blinking. "At least he has good taste…"

But, darling, what can I do?

For you don't love me

And I'll always be crying over you

Crying over you

Sleep evaded Roman that night.


Another short chapter... my apologies! I promise that the next one will be much longer.

So, Dean kinda ended up a bit... perverted. This is the only non-con(ish) scene in this fic, though!