Sam sat on the freshly made bed, his hands balled into fists around the soft bedspread, knuckles bone white. The sheets permeated the stench of sex and something primal. The aroma was the predatory musk that secreted from Dean's scales. Sam felt buried in that fragrance. The heady aroma that made Sam's head spin, his soul weeping for his brother's return.
Sam was sickened by the betrayal of his body. How it yearned for Dean. How it craved Dean like a drowning man craved the sudden, gasping inhale of air after having broken the surface of deadly water. Sam forced himself to stay on the bed, even when he craved Dean's presence, even when something inside him-weak and pathetic and mewling-desperately sought out Dean's familiar embrace. Dean's was protector. Provider. Pleasure-giver. Pain-taker.
How easy it would be to walk into the tunnels. He could shout for Dean. Despite his savage hunger, Dean would slither back to him without delay.
Sam's thigh muscles twitched. What should he be afraid of? The most threatening creature lurking in the shadows was his brother. Was he afraid of the dark? Of being swallowed up by the nothingness of cool, damp air?
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. This new side of him couldn't help but think Dean had been nothing but a caring, loving mate, even going as so far to put Sam's needs above his own. Intrusive thoughts hammered at the back of Sam's skull. Dean was big, strong, and resourceful. Dean had always loved children, had always been good with the little rug rats. It was, of course, a positive side effect of having been forced to raise Sam while their father ran off into the night, playing hero. Dean, Sam intrinsically knew, would make a wonderful father.
There was a ringing in Sam's ears that would not subside. It had started twenty minutes ago when Dean had slithered out of the room to relieve himself. The slaves has been gone for close to an hour, seeking out Dean's latest unfortunate victim. Sam dragged in a shallow breath, his lungs constricting, his heart hammering against his ribcage. The room, once appearing so open, so wide, felt like it were slowly closing in, the walls looming closer, closer, closer. Soon, Sam thought, he'd been squeezed to death, his head popping like a melon, brains oozing from his ears.
Sam grabbed his arm, blunt nails biting into the tan flesh, trying to break himself out of the spiral, but it was only getting worse. The pain was a dull, none sequential thing. Sam ripped his hand away and let his handle settle on his stomach. He wanted to press into himself, spear through fat and muscle and organs, and pluck the thing out.
His mating bite gave a sudden throb. Sam's hand flew to the mark, grasping it. A small whimper involuntarily escaped his vocal cords. It felt hot under his touch. When his fingers slipped against the discolored patch of skin, Sam felt a tightening in his loins, a sensual shiver race down his spine. He ached to touch it, rub it. Why it was throbbing now, Sam did not understand. Sam's stomach tightened. He forced his hand away.
I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. I was pregnant. Sam reminded himself, peering out at the wide, gaping maw of the room's entrance. He ignored the sickening pulse of the bite. He thought he could hear footsteps coming closer, the spine tingling drag of feet.
No, Sam silently corrected himself. I am pregnant.
Sam knew it. He couldn't quite explain how or why. His body just knew, like how the sunflower knew how to turn its head to the sun, or how the sand tiger shark devours its weaker sibling in the womb.
The shuffling noise grew nearer. A zombie-like moan creaked from the inky blackness. Sam tensed on the bed, his eyes zeroing on figures lumbering out of the dark. The slaves, faces expressionless and movements frightfully robotic in motion, dragged a tall, lethargic man between them.
One of the slaves carried a paper grocery sack clenched tight in his fist. Sam's stomach twisted in disgust; he'd never felt less hungry than in that moment. The slave pulled away from their captive, walked over to the table, and sat the grocery bag down. He turned and returned to his fellow slave.
The victim was blind-folded. His hands were bound behind his back with zip tie. His closed fists were turning bluish-purple. His body was long and lean, a slight hump at the nape of the neck. His hair was overgrown, a tangled, stringy dirty blond mess hanging over his cheeks. Even from his spot on the bed, Sam could see the thin, circular marks inside the victim's thin elbows. Trembles shook his frame, accentuated by no doubt the potent drugs flowing through his veins, speeding up his heartbeat, jarring his nerve. Sam wondered, in a distant part of his brain purposefully detached from this reality, if Dean's newest prey realized that this was real, and not some horrendously bad trip.
The slaves shoved their captive onto the ground. Due to the forced positions of his hands, the man landed hard on his knees and fell to the side. He wheezed. The sound was like the air being let out of a tire. Sam was rooted to the bed. He peered at the slaves as they stumbled back to their cage, their deed done, their master-although not in the room, where was Dean?-satisfied.
His hot, labored breaths echoed through the room, wet and gruesome. Although the victim was a horrible sight, Sam felt momentarily release from his downward spiral. The man was no older than twenty, looking even younger in the fire light. Simple and disoriented. High out of his mind, unaware of a savage fate that would soon befall him.
Sam's eyes traced over the young man's ragged clothes, his musky, unclean aroma. Sam's thoughts drifted to the people Dean had devoured so far: Mateo-that poor security guard-the previous female Naga's slaves, and, of course, the demons. Besides Mateo, maybe, were they people that the outside world would miss? Would other hunters, following in Sam and Dean's fated footsteps, come barring down the same rusted ladder, trading the dry desert heat above for the cool and moist hellscape below?
Sam recoiled at the thought. No. Dean would do everything in his power to distract from any suspicion. He would trade a plump meal for something less appealing if it meant life or death.
Dean was smarter than Sam gave him credit for.
"W-what?" The victim uttered through dry, cracked lips. Sam grimaced at the soft noise. He peered passed the captive, listening keenly for Dean's approach. His eyes shifted back down to the cut on the man's forehead. Crusted blood clung in his hairline. Sam had no doubt Dean had smelled him already.
"Where am I?" The victim slurred. "Mom?"
Sam's heart clenched painfully. He found himself rising from the bed. He walked over to the victim. He bent down and grabbed for the blind fold encircling his head. He paused, muscles tense, and thought better of it. What would he be revealing? Horror, that was what. It would only serve to frighten the kid more.
Sam was suddenly hit with a feeling of utter helplessness. He tore his hand away. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, unexpected tears leaking down his cheeks. He hated himself. He hated his weakness, his increasing apathy towards his fellow man. After all, Dean had to eat. Even though Sam had a sneaky suspicion Dean had lied to him when he said he couldn't eat animals, Dean would lose himself to his savage hunger. These were the facts of this nightmare: Dean had to eat and the young drug addict was the perfect meal. He was a nobody. No hunter would come down into the dark to rescue someone who no one would care to report missing.
Soon, this living, breathing human being-this soul-would be nothing more than a hunk of dead meat in Dean's serpentine belly, his liquified corpse stewing, dissolving, coming undone. Bone, blood, fat, tissue, gristle.
"I'm sorry," Sam found himself saying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He grabbed the top of the captive's greasy locks, shivering from emotion. Guilt, thick and heavy and tasting like bile at the back of his throat, hit Sam like a hurricane.
Sam turned away just in time to lose the meager contents of his stomach. The captive's head lolled from side-to-side as if keeping in time to the splashes of vomit hitting the concrete.
Hands pressed just above his knees, Sam's stomach heaved again, a string of bile connecting with the foul-smelling puddle on the edge of one of many Devil's Traps littering the room. Quivering, Sam rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. He spat a glob of putrid saliva onto the ground.
"What's happening?" The captive slurred. "Wha...what's that?"
A sudden surge of blind panic struck Sam's system. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran for the mahogany table, tearing out the blade impeded deep in the wood. For a moment, he glanced at the knife's blade and suddenly resolved, he turned to the captive. How easy it would be to slit his throat. To be done with it.
But no. Sam wasn't a monster. At least, not yet.
He threw himself on top of the captive, seized his wrists, and cut the zip ties. With his hands so void of circulation the man couldn't even curl his fingers. Sam tossed the knife aside. It skittered across the concrete. He tore the blind fold off him. The man's eyes fluttered open. Blue. Blood-shot and hazy.
"Run! You stupid bastard!" Sam shouted, wrenching the captive up by his bony, quivering shoulders and shoving. Hard. The man stumbled. Nearly fell. Sam grabbed his arm and blindly pulled him towards the entrance of the room.
"What-what are you doing, man?" The young man mumbled incoherently, but didn't fight Sam's firm grasp. Sam and the captive stumbled into the tunnel. A cool damp hissed along the air. Sam's pupils expanded, desperate for a sliver of light, although the only light was rapidly fading as Sam dragged the man to what he hoped was safety.
"Trying to save your life."
A/N: Thank you for reading! Sorry for the sporadic updates. I have a lot going on IRL. Love to hear your thoughts on the story but no pressure. You all stay safe out there!
