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Demon's Trap

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This really you talking?” Dean asks. Something’s wrong. He knows Dad loves him, of course, but Dad’s not exactly the type of guy who’d say as much.

“Yeah,” Dad answers, eyes shiny with tears. “It’s really me.”

“Why you saying this stuff?”

Dad says nothing for a moment, just shifts closer until he’s standing next to Dean’s bed. “I want you to watch out for Sammy, OK?”

This just makes Dean even more nervous. “Yeah, Dad you know I will…you’re scaring me,” he adds. Something’s not right, damn it.

“Don’t be scared, Dean,” Dad says, and leans over him, leans to Dean’s ear. Dad’s hot breath brushes against the side of his face. Dad’s apparently going to tell him something secret, something important.

Shock burns through him, as his father’s tongue slithers wetly into Dean’s ear.

“Dad!” he gasps.

That’s when the door to the hospital room slams closed.

Dean struggles, trying to push Dad away, but he’s too heavy. Dad’s tongue makes a few unhurried motions along the shell of Dean’s ear, and then it takes a last lazy swipe at the earlobe, before Dad pulls away.

His father looks amused. “What the fuck, Dad?” Dean says angrily, before he can stop himself. He might expect such a trick from Sammy, but this doesn’t make any sense at all. Not from Dad.

Dad’s towering over him, smirking. “What’s wrong, Dean-O? I thought you’d appreciate me showing how much I love you. How much I need you. The Demon was wrong, son, Sammy and I do need you. We need you so much. Let me show you how much.”

Reflexively, Dean makes a grab for his hip, but of course there’s no gun. Nothing but a flimsy hospital gown. “You’re not my Dad,” he hisses.

Dad throws back his head and laughs, deep and gravelly. When he meets his son’s gaze again, his eyes are that sickly shade of yellow that Dean remembers all too well from before. His heart sinks in his chest.

“You’re catching on quicker and quicker, Dean-O,” It mocks, locking that oily gaze on him. Its voice even lower and deeper than his Dad’s beloved tones.

“Let him go,” Dean snarls, clutching at the sheets in rage. Wishing for a weapon. God, Sam, where are you? Help me!

“Can’t do that, son,” It says, seating Itself on the bed. “Your Daddy made a deal. Gave me the Colt, the last bullet, and his soul. And all to bring your sorry ass back from the brink of death. See how much he loved you?”

Oh God. “You’re lying,” Dean gasps. “He’d never do that. Not even to save me-“

“How sad,” It says, grinning at him. “You don’t think your Daddy loves you enough to sacrifice himself for you.” It shakes Its head. “Or, if you prefer, that he’s suicidal enough. Guess you didn’t know him all that well, did you?”

Dean doesn’t know what to say or do. He wants to strangle the thing, but It’s inside his Dad’s body, wearing his flesh like a coat. Dean has to get out of here somehow, if he can.

Dean tries to get off the bed, get to the door, but he’s weak and slow. It's got his wrist in an iron grip, practically before he even starts to move.

It pins his shoulders back on the bed. Yellow eyes glare into his, and then It leans in again, leering with his Dad’s face. Stubble and hot lips brush against Dean’s other ear. “I promised your Daddy you’d live, but I never promised I wouldn’t have some fun with you, first,” It whispers, like a caress.

Dean opens his mouth to yell – maybe It won’t let the hospital staff into the room, but maybe he can attract attention from other people, maybe distract the thing from whatever It has planned – but It kisses him, smothering all noise with his father’s lips and tongue.

Dean pushes against the thing’s chest, trying to ignore the movements the thing’s tongue is making in his mouth, the way it’s sliding over his own tongue, tracing around every tooth. But he can’t move It. If it wasn’t his father’s body, he’d bite down, try to hurt It, do anything to keep It from- from- violating him like this.

It finally pulls away, and Dean sucks in a breath of air, gasping. But It clamps a hot, powerful hand over Dean’s mouth before he can utter another sound, forcing Dean’s head back into the pillows.

“Sssssh, baby,” It says with his father’s voice. “You have no choice but to let me do what I want,” It purrs. “You owe me something, for killing my son and daughter. You’re so good at using that weapon of yours,” his father’s fingers trail down the bedsheets, stopping to cup over Dean’s cock through flimsy, too-thin cloth. “Besides, your Daddy’s been dying to see it in action, if you get my meaning.” It runs Its tongue along his father’s lips.

Dean shakes his head in negation as much as he can against Its grip, and twists his body, trying to get out from under the thing’s hands. God, please, help me. Sammy, help me. Dad-

“Don’t fight me, son,” It says, pleading. His father’s eyes are dark again, normal, looking up at him beseechingly. “You and Sammy, you’re all I have left. The only people I love. Would you deny me this?”

Dean manages somehow to yank his mouth from the thing’s iron grip. “It doesn’t matter if you look like him, sound like him, or even if it’s his body you’re using. You’re not him,” he spits at the thing.

Yellow seeps back into his Dad’s eyes, and they gleam poisonously. “You’re right. Clever boy.” It clamps the hand back over his mouth again. “That’s too bad, Dean,” It continues conversationally. “If only you’d let me seduce you. You could’ve made this so much easier on yourself. Now, I have no choice but to take from you.”

It shoves, forcing his head down and bruising his lips against his teeth, and tears the bedsheets off of him. No.

The cords of his hospital gown dig painfully into his skin, before they finally give and the Demon rips it free.

He’s naked and at the thing’s mercy.

Please Dad, he prays, if there’s anything of you left alive in there, help me.

It chuckles approvingly, clamping Its free hand onto his belly to hold him still as It licks a searing path up his torso, from navel to the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Mmmm,” It says throatily. “Very tasty. Yes, I can definitely see why they’re lining up for you.” It laps at one of his nipples, and Dean’s horrified to feel himself responding. It must be making it happen, he tries to tell himself. If it can pin him and Sammy to walls, slice women’s abdomens open, hold closed doors, It must be the one making him react this way.

Please, God, let this be something the Demon is forcing him to feel and do.

“You like that, don’t you Dean-O?” It whispers, biting at his nipple almost hard enough to draw blood. “You’re just a slut, really. Women, men, relatives, doesn’t matter to you. You’ll do anything and anyone, just for that moment of orgasm. That moment of warmth and belonging.”

Dean wishes, even more than he wishes that the blood would stop rushing to his cock, that he could go deaf, so he wouldn’t have to hear the thing. What It’s saying is a worse torment than the things It’s doing to him.

It leaves a trail of biting kisses back the way It came, from his throat back down to his navel, and then It’s shoving his legs apart and climbing onto the bed between them. Dean tries to move, to kick It away, but suddenly he can’t move or speak at all, even when It removes both Its hands from him.

“You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?” It taunts, the false endearment an echo of what his father said to that vampire woman a few weeks back, before the three of them set off this whole powderkeg. “Much as I love to feel you struggling under your Daddy’s hands, this is so much more efficient.”

Dean’s felt this way before. Sometimes on a job, when he knew somehow, in his bones, that he wouldn’t come out of it unscathed. He felt it when he got electrocuted, trying to kill that rawhead.

Helpless, knowing he’s about to be changed, but unable to do anything as the events unfold.

The only thing he can try to do is steel himself against the thing. Try to ignore It, ignore Its words, Its touches. It already said It won’t kill him, he tries to remind himself through the pulses of sensation, as the thing wraps one hand around his erection and the other around his balls, tugging, teasing, tormenting. He’s going to walk out of here alive. Which means he can make It pay later.

He just has to get through this without losing his mind.

Dean grits his teeth, fighting to kill the whimper rising in his throat, as the Demon engulfs his dick with his father’s mouth. Because, God help him, it does feel good.

Dean realizes It’s going to try to break him with pleasure.

Purely on reflex, he finds himself bucking up into Its mouth, and It allows that, looking up at him with sly yellow eyes. At least It can’t taunt him verbally when It has Its mouth full. Thank God for small mercies.

Dean can still shut his eyes, so he does that. He won’t have to watch his father’s face, his father’s mouth, doing this to him.

He’d pray to God if he thought it would help. But it’s probably better if he doesn’t. God never answered before, He’s not going to now. And Dean stops praying for Sam to come and save him, too. Even if Sam could save him – which Dean doubts – it would be even worse if the Demon did this to Sammy.

Dean knows he can endure anything, if it will spare Sammy the same torment.

The Demon’s pushing Dean closer and closer to the edge, but he struggles not to give in. Even as part of him is saying that the sooner he does, the sooner this’ll be over.

It’s a losing battle anyways. A hot tongue slinks up the underside of his cock, tracing over the pulsing veins, and callused fingers caress his balls, and – goddamn it – it feels better than anything’s ever felt before.

When It takes him down Its throat, it’s game over. Dean feels that familiar pressure in his balls, and arches against the Demon’s grip…except it doesn’t happen. The release he was fighting so desperately mere moments ago doesn’t come. Dean’s eyes snap open, and It’s sneering at him, his father’s mouth twisted into a grotesque mockery of itself.

“Did I say you could come yet, sweetheart?” It laughs. “Maybe later. I’m feeling selfish today.” It starts to unzip Its fly, eyes searing into Dean’s the whole time.

Oh Christ, is It going to-?

It turns him over roughly onto his stomach, and Dean is pinned down, almost smothered by the weight of the thing on his back. He feels Its hand probing between the cheeks of his ass, and Dean wants to shout, to squirm, to protest. But he can’t do anything except lie there and take it.

Hot breath burns the back of his neck. “So tight, baby,” It purrs, thrusting against resisting muscle. “Such a pretty body.”

It pushes hard, and Dean feels like It’s ripping him in half. Red agony, and there’s nowhere to escape to. No relief from what’s being done to him.

Hands dig into his back, nails piercing his skin. It shoves into him, back and forth, the strokes becoming gradually easier, and Dean tries not to think about that. About how much he could be bleeding right now.

Just when he thinks he’s mastered it, that he’ll be able to get through this with most of his sanity intact – at least he can’t see his father’s body doing this to him, and at least he’s no longer turned-on – that’s when the Demon changes tactics. It shifts, pushing into him at a new angle, and sparks of pleasure zip up Dean’s spine again. No, not again.

But it’s no use. The Demon’s hand slides underneath him, wrapping around his cock and coaxing it back to life, milking it deftly while those horrible, pleasurable thrusts go on and on and on

Dean feels the orgasm approach again, just as inexorable as last time. He tries to block it out. I’m going to walk out of here, he keeps repeating to himself. I’m going to make this thing, and every one of Its fucking kids, pay. It’s the last defense he has.

He keeps repeating it like a mantra, even as the climax claws into him, the Demon’s hand becoming slick with come. Even as the Demon’s fluids – God, so cold – spurt into him.

The room swirls around him, and Dean suddenly finds himself lying on his back again, dressed and under the covers. Was the whole thing a twisted illusion? But no, he’s not that lucky. He aches, and the sheet underneath him is wet and uncomfortable. And the Demon’s sitting at the foot of his bed, wiping Its sticky hand off on the bedclothes, smug satisfaction on Its face.

“I hate to fuck and run, Dean-O, but Sammy’s on his way. Gotta go.” It winks at him.

Dean finds he can speak again. “You fucking bastard-“

“Is that any way to speak to your loving Daddy, boy?” It stands and saunters over, leaning over him once more. Then It grabs his chin and presses another forceful kiss onto Dean’s mouth.

“See you around, sweetheart,” It leers. “Let’s do this again, sometime.”

It backs away, and before Dean can answer, his father’s body is suddenly engulfed in black, oily smoke.

When it clears, Dad’s dark, horrified eyes are looking straight at him. “Dean-“ he gasps.

But then his father’s eyes go empty, and John Winchester slumps to the floor of his eldest son’s hospital room.

“Dad!” Dean rasps, trying to get out of bed. Trying to ignore the pain in his backside, his belly.

“Dean?” comes a familiar voice from the hallway, and Sam shoves the door open and bursts into the room. “Dad!” Coffee spills everywhere as Sam kneels over the body of their father. “Dean,” Sam says, sounding panicked. “I think he’s-“

Dean knows it’s hopeless, but they have to try. “Get help for Dad,” he orders roughly. His brother doesn’t respond, just looks up at him, frozen in shock. “Now, Sam!” Dean orders in a voice like a whip’s lash.

 

*~*~*

 

OK, let’s try again, an amp of atropine please

Dean stands in the doorway with his brother, watching paralyzed as the doctors try to bring Dad back.

Hating himself. Because as much as he wants his Dad back, what if Dad is revived and remembers what the Demon forced him to do to his own flesh and blood?

OK, stop compressions

still no pulse

Or worse, what if they bring Dad back, but when he opens his eyes, it’s the Demon’s sly yellow look burning there, instead?

Dean thinks that even after all the pain and humiliation he’s just endured, that’s the thing that might break him.

time of death, 10:41 am

When they call the code, Dean initially feels nothing. Not pain, not sadness, not anger. He just limps back to his hospital room, a stricken Sam in tow. Dean holds closed the back of his hospital gown so Sam won’t see the damage, and hopes there’s no telltale streaks of reddened come running down his legs.

The silence between them lasts until Dean gets back into bed.

“Did Dad say anything?” Sam asks, voice shaky. “He was in here with you, you must’ve been discussing something-“

“I don’t want to talk about it, Sam,” Dean replies. He just wants to lie down and pull the sheets over his head, like he used to do when he was very small. Before Mom died. Just burrow under the covers, curl into a ball, and forget everything that’s happened.

But he can’t, and he knows it. He has to be strong now, for Sammy. Just like after Mom died. He has to plan.

Sammy stands there wringing his hands, eyes full of unshed tears, and Dean starts to feel emotion returning. He waits to see what it is.

He’s almost grateful when it’s anger. Anger, he can use.

But first thing’s first. “Sammy,” he says hoarsely. “As soon as possible, you’ve got to get me out of here. Then we’ve got to get Dad’s body out of the morgue and burn it. Just like he always told us we’d have to, if this kind of thing happened.” He doesn’t add that burning the body will ensure that the Demon can’t torture Dean like It did earlier. Not like that. “It’s what Dad would want,” he reminds Sam, before his brother can protest.

“And then we find the Demon. Kill it once and for all-” Dean remembers that the Colt is gone. “Somehow,” he finishes. “Dad would want that, too.”

“OK,” Sam says, looking and sounding defeated. He doesn’t even pick up on the fact that Dean’s implied they no longer have Elkins’ gun.

“It’ll be all right, Sam,” Dean says. It feels hollow, as hollow as he feels inside, but he needs to try to go on. For Sam. For Dad’s cause.

He’ll find a way to get through this.

Even if he has to slaughter each and every one of the evil sons of bitches, with or without God’s help.