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Enough is Enough

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Sam sits in his room, his mind racing in circles. Save Dean...remove the Mark of Cain...the Codex...break the code...save Dean. On and on, each stop in the loop leaving him helpless and frustrated.

He can't do anything about Dean or the mark right now.

He can't break the code. He can't even read the Codex. All of his knowledge about ancient languages and magical spells, and nothing. He's dead in the water.

Which just leaves Dean dead.

No!

He jumps up, restless and angry, wanting to do something. Anything.

He strides through the bunker and ends up downstairs, in the dungeon.

In front of Rowena's cell.

"Do come in, Sam. A lady gets bored with just her own company," a Scottish accent lilts through the barred window.

He stills for a moment, hand on the iron doorhandle. What is this really going to accomplish? But his muscles are too tense, his brain too steamed up to care. He twists the handle and walks in.

"Well, aren't you just an angry little bunny! Goodness, Sam, what are ye all worked up about?" Her eyes sparkle at him as she smiles. "Is it the translation yer lookin' for?" Long nails polished in dark green tap on the worn cover of the magical book, tracing the emblems there.

"Yes! It's been long enough, Rowena, I want the translation now! No more games!" He barely restrains himself from growling at her, but his heart is thudding hard in his chest.

"Oooh, you are such an impatient lad! You cannot rush great magics, boy, you know that! Who knows what errors could occur? Dean could end up a mouse, a dragon, or...dead." Now her eyes are cold, flat like a snake's or a shark's. The smiling mouth tightens into a line, lips pressed tightly together, and Sam wouldn't be surprised to see a skinny little forked tongue slide out from between them.

Sam's had enough. In two strides, he's across the room and in her face. He grabs her chained wrists in one hand, slamming them onto the wall and pushing her back until she is plastered against the cold, rough stone. His eyes narrow as he stares down into her oval face, momentarily robbed of its serenity with green eyes wide and mouth open in a tiny gasp.

Now he growls at her. "Listen, bitch, if he dies, so do you. Don't think this will end any other way. He's worth a thousand of you, and I won't hesitate a second to take you down if anything happens to him! Do you understand me?"

Her face doesn't register any fear as she coolly replies, "Oh, I understand indeed. Completely. Don't worry, lad, anything you can dish out, I can take."

***

Rowena watches him, the bigger Winchester, which she admits is saying something because the other one isn't small. He's struggling with his rage, his blind frustration, and she ponders how to use that to her advantage. The more desperate he is, the more power she has. Manipulation 101, as the college students she used to consume like candy would say. Silly things thinking they could learn a little wiccan.

Too bad about the enchanted chains, though. She tugs on them, just a little, not enough to draw his notice. Their spellwork still holds her, and she pouts.

His eyes are fairly throwing sparks off, and she has to admit he's quite attractive. Maybe there's another way out of the chains.

"Now, Sam, I'm sure there's some way to work this out." She undulates gracefully; she knows it's graceful, because it's a move she's perfected over centuries. She's seduced wizards, warriors, kings. Surely a Winchester ought not to be too difficult.

"Really? You want to tempt me with sex?" He sneers, and suddenly it clicks in her head.

It's all true.

All the rumors, the hushed murmurs that the Winchesters are not just brothers, not merely hunting partners, but lovers. Soulmates, if the stories about a trip to Heaven are true as well.

Well, fuck. There goes that plan. She sighs. It probably would have been fun too; he was so solid, so strong, she wouldn't have had to worry about breaking him like so many other, more fragile men.

His face is mere inches from hers, his eyes--brown and blue in an engaging mix-are now just dark with his fury. She feels a little shiver of anticipation.

"Fine, you want to fuck? Let's fuck. Let's see who walks away."

He grabs the neck of her dark green gown and rips, tearing it apart all the way down, leaving the tatters hanging at her sides. She gasps from the suddenness of it--she hadn't expected him to move so fast. He picks up her wrist manacles and slams them to the wall over her head. Sam's other hand is around her neck, and she feels the power in it. It's not inconceivable that he could choke her or break her neck in a moment. Her jaw clenches in tension, but then the hand moves and she breathes more freely.

His hand slides down the center of her chest, his eyes following it. She inhales; she knows that her breasts are small and firm, the envy of any maiden a fraction of her age, round and white. Dark pink nipples sit atop them, tempting morsels, as she's been told for decades, begging to be sucked and toyed with. Now she's back in the driver's seat, and she smiles archly.

Sam's hand drifts to one breast, cupping it, running a thumb over the nipple, and she purrs throatily.

It's the last gentle thing he does.

He squeezes her hard, the releases it and slaps it. Grabs it again, pinching her nub hard, making her gasp in unexpected pain. Then she catches her breath--fine, she can play rough. He's fast though, and now it's the other one being slapped, pinched, squeezed. He circles her areola and flicks it hard, repeating the move with the nipple itself. In moments, her whole bosom is stinging, and when she glances down, her fair skin is pink, and she can see finger marks already.

Sam brings her wrists down and places them behind her head. "Keep them here," he growls, and she does, curious and not a little turned on. Besides, the iron is legitimately strong, and there's the annoying spellwork on them. Now both of his hands work her tits over--rubbing her hard, smacking her, rolling her nubs painfully, tugging on them. It hurts, but her excitement mounts; no one has handled her like this without her direction in, oh, forever. No one has taken.

He's breathing harder now. She arches her back, craving more, willing him to lose his focus. He grabs both breasts, crushing them together, and lowers his mouth to them. He bites her, hard enough for her to feel the sting of his teeth on her already abused skin. He nips at her nipples, bites the soft curves, digging his fingers into them as he mouths her. His mouth moves up to bite at her shoulders, the sensitive skin of her neck, which she tilts her head to accommodate. He's squeezing her boobs so hard, she can scarcely breathe, but she's still pushing herself into his hands.

She's breathing hard now too, relishing the mix of pain and pleasure coursing through her. Sam lifts his head, mouth barely an inch from hers--she can feel the hot, moist air of his exhalation. "Well, now, aren't you the big, manly one," she croons. "What else do ya have?"

Her naked legs part as he shoves his knee between them, jamming himself up into her crotch. He pushes up so hard that she's just about on tip-toe, leaving her wobbly with her hands still behind her head. His hands leave her breasts to grab her rib cage, keeping her locked into position as he rubs his leg against her pussy. She has to admit, he has some impressive musculature; she can feel those thigh muscles flexing deliciously against her clit as he moves.

"This what you want, bitch?" He hisses in her ear, leg still moving against her. She's getting wet from it, it's so hard, so good. Her hips start grinding back, seeking more stimulation; the denim is rough against her sensitive tissues, but she doesn't care, welcomes it. Her slick is soaking into the material, and she knows he feels it when he groans, his fingers digging into her ribs. "Fuck..." he thrusts into her, pressing her against the stone wall, and he'd be crushing her if she weren't who she is.

They pant together, bodies locked into the slow give-and-take of his thigh and her pussy. Her breasts still sting from his earlier attention, and she's dying to free her arms and touch him, feel those bulging arms, taste that throat now shining with sweat. All she can do is arch her back, push herself toward him. She's in a haze of pleasure, and starting to lose track of just who's in control here.

He bites her neck again, and the sharp pain clears her head for a moment. "Come on, Winchester, this all you've got? Can't you properly pleasure a woman or have you been sodomizing your brother for too long?" She doesn't spare the acid in her voice, despite it all being a front. Her nerves are singing, and she'd love to fuck him. There's something big and hard rubbing her hip as they move, and she's betting it's not a flashlight.

"Bitch...that what you want? Want my cock? Fine." He wraps his hands around her biceps and fucking lifts her, swings her right around to the other side of the room. Her wrists are finally freed from behind her head, but before she knows it, they're stretched above her head. She's pinioned again, but now it's a hook that holds her manacles, a dangling hook and she's trapped on it, arms stretched high and feet unable to even touch the floor now.

"Bastard!" She spits at him, but he claps a broad hand over her mouth, his callused palm stifling her. His eyes are angry slits and his face contorts in a snarl.

"Shut. Up." Sam's lip curls. "You don't deserve to speak. You don't deserve to talk about my brother." He steps back, strips off his T-shirt, throws it onto the floor. She wants to taste him now, taste his sweat, his salt, even though she's pissed he dares to treat her like this.

Then she sees him, and she forgets about being pissed. He's stunning, far more than she expected to find under those stupid plaid shirts and economy t-shirts. He's undoing his belt, opening his fly, and her shoulders are starting to complain, but she just lets her eyes rove all over his chest. Black hair spreads over his perfect pecs, brown nipples just on the lower curve, perfectly defined abs. A trail of that black hair leads down from his navel, and just as her eye follows it, he shoves his jeans and boxers down.

It wasn't a flashlight.

His cock is fully hard, bobbing heavily as he moves back toward her. It's flushed dark red, the fat head already shiny from pre-come. He doesn't even bother to take his jeans off, just leaves them mid-thigh as he grabs her hips and grinds against her pubic bone. He slides that thigh back between her legs, and god, his skin is so warm, the hair tickling her clit. She can't restrain a moan. She feels herself sliding against him, she's so wet now. He laughs shortly. Bitterly.

"You like this? Like my leg against your cunt? Just wait." He runs his hands up and down her body, pinching her breasts and nipples, reviving the sting on them and intensifying it.

Her shoulders are really getting sore now, and he sees her grimace. "Aww, baby, need help with that?" he purrs, running his hands up and down her arms, massaging her shoulders only to squeeze them hard. She's a little surprised--she didn't peg him for being capable of this. It's the quiet ones, they say.

He tickles her armpits gently, and it would probably feel good if she weren't strung up like a chicken. Sam's fingertips continue their dance down her sides; the same hands that abused her tits are now causing her to writhe as he tickles, except she can't get away, and it pulls even more on her arms. She bites her lip--this is really getting ludicrous.

"Enough is enough! Get me down from here, and I won't kill you." She tries to glare at him, but the sensory overload derails her ferocity. It's hard to bark when you're moaning.

"You're right, enough is enough." He smiles at here, gives his cock a couple of strokes. The smile is not reassuring, and she's feeling some real apprehension. She's also turned on as fuck.

He steps up and grabs her ass, each cheek easily handled by his big paws. He lifts her just like that, holding her close, and she's so wet, it's ridiculous. "You thought my leg felt good? This will be even better." His voice is so rich, so deep, it thrums in her ears and sends a shiver through her.

There it is--that probing at her pussy is his dick, and he's pushing in. Saints, it's huge, she thinks, jaw dropping as she strives to accommodate it. Thick and hard, burrowing its way inside her like a hungry mole. There's a moment where she feels she is going to split, but then her muscles relax and he finishes sliding home.

She can't think for a moment, she's so full, she can't remember ever being so full. It's intense--every bit of her vagina feels him, the steel of his erection rubbing all of her tender tissue. The root of his cock with its bush of dark hair is smack against her clit, and she reflexively grinds against it. He chuckles as he pulls back and slams into her. She has to wrap her legs around him; it takes the stress off her arms, but oh god, she has to hang on, has to ride this for all it's worth. She just doesn't have any control over it.

It's all in his hands, literally. He has total control of her, dangling from her hook, legs only anchored as they are wrapped around his waist. He has total freedom to thrust hard, pull back, tease her with just the big mushroom head poking in and out of her entrance. When he pulls out, she can't stand the emptiness, but there's nothing she can do except wait for it.

He tires quickly of teasing her, and finally just fucks her hard, thrusting with short jabs that slam into her clit while the head rams inside her. She's adrift, her body helpless, her mind reduced to simply trying to handle the waves of pleasure laced with shivers of pain. His dick is slicked with her juices, she's so wet she can hear his flesh smacking into her moisture.

Sam keeps one hand on her ass as the other snakes between their bodies. He rubs her clit hard, on the very verge of too much, and then shoves two fingers into her, alongside his cock. She yowls as he presses on that sensitive spot of her inner wall, feeling herself gush over his hand, his dick; his balls are wet as they slap against her ass.

How long have they been fucking? How much longer would it go on? She wants to come so badly, needs to, but every time she approaches that point, he shifts his rhythm, his pressure, and her climax backs off. She's almost in tears--tears of rage and frustration--but there's squat all she can do about it.

"Feel that, baby? Like that cock? That belongs to Dean." He's back to fucking her hard and steady, her body shudders with his pounding. If she weren't bolstered by the spells that have preserved her beauty all these long years, she'd be falling apart under his assault. Her body is screaming for release, she's writhing in his hands, her pussy swollen and tender, every nerve sensitized and flooding her brain with pleasure.

She's so sensitive that she feels him go stiffer just before he comes, hot fluid filling the last crevices inside her and spilling out over her thighs, running down the split of her ass. He groans loudly, crushing her against him as he pulses. She gasps, trying to finish rubbing off on him, her own orgasm so close, so close, please, but she has no leverage to work with.

And then he pulls out abruptly, yanking his still-hard cock out of her; she yelps in pain and surprise. His come is still dripping out of her, running down her legs now as they dangle, sticky tickly trickles down her thighs, behind her knees, inside the crack of her cheeks. With her whole weight back on them, sharp pain stabs her shoulders. She reels from this, but also from having her climax ripped away, from feeling the first bright sparks from her clit extinguished by his abandonment.

"You bastard," she gasps, heaving for breath, throat dry. "I'll kill you...I'll...I'll..." Invective fails her, she can only sputter and twitch, her body racked with the stunted spasms of an aborted orgasm.

He reaches over and grabs part of the tattered skirt of her gown and casually wipes himself off, carefully cleaning his dick, balls, and pubes. He drops the messy fabric and pulls his jeans back up, tucks himself in, zips up.

"That, Rowena? That is only a taste of what I'll do to you if you don't read that fucking Codex and fix my brother." He looks at her coldly. "Don't think that Dean is the only one who knows how to torture someone. He was only in Hell forty years." He comes close to her, and she can smell the sex heavy between them, smell his sweat, his anger. "I was there one hundred times as long. Think on that."

The iron door clangs shut behind him.