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It's not the waking

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He’s lying in bed, Toni beside him, her arm thrown over his back and her fingers drawing patterns into his skin. It sends shivers down his spine, but her constant babbling is worse. She’s asking about hunters, his job, his family, when all he wants to do is forget about his messed up life and he definitely doesn’t want to think about Dean in a situation like this, not when she rolled off him not ten minutes ago, her breasts heaving and sweat covering them both. At the thought of his brother, his chest starts aching for a moment, constricting painfully because- but he pushes it down. He focuses on what Toni is saying and she continues talking about hunters and how bad they are at their job, suggesting that maybe there’s a mole in their midst. That idea is new to him and it’s interesting and he considers it, then he shrugs, because he doesn’t know and even if he did he - shouldn’t tell her - shouldn’t make her worry.

For a moment he wants to turn around, tell her to stop - stop asking me about them, stop touching me, get away from me - but the anger and confusion quickly gets dampened by renewed arousal as her fingers dip around his side and he’s tired, too exhausted to go another round, not after the two previous times, but his body still arches into her touch, and he says nothing.

“How do you do it? Get in contact with other hunters just like that? I mean, you and your brother… you said, you used to just travel around. It seems like a solitary lifestyle.”

“It is,” Sam mumbles and he wants her touch and he hates it and he wants to turn around and press his lips on hers to shut her up, push her into the bed and - snap her neck - make her moan around his fingers, his dick, make her come until she’s too exhausted to keep talking, until she finally stops asking him all these questions. Instead, he smiles softly and answers carefully. “But we make do. Hunters, you know, we aren’t exactly rich and those of us that can hold down a normal job are rare. So we travel cheap and we travel where the road takes us. If you know what you’re looking for you can probably find a hunter in nearly every dive and motel along the highways.”

Toni leans forward, her breath tickling his ear as she speaks, her breasts warm and soft against his back and he feels pinned down under her, helpless like an insect, but this is Toni and he loves her. “And what would I have to look out for?” There’s a tremble in her voice and she sounds - greedy - afraid.

Sam opens his mouth to answer, he wants to answer her, he has to answer her, he loves her and he has to tell her everything she wants to know so she will be safe and not get hurt like Jess, Sarah, too many of the women he slept with while soulless, he owes her that much. “Well… there’s the flannel and the guarded eyes and the trust issues for one.” He smiles, tries to keep it light because if he doesn’t he’ll - tell her too much - scare her, even though she’s not scared of much, she’s strong and she can handle herself, but he has to… tell her, shut her up, make it stop. She’s still touching him, but her hand has moved up his body again, is resting against his neck now, gentle, like a cotton vice, rubbing soft circles to help him relax. His voice trembles as he continues, but that’s just because he’s thinking about people he lost again, not because- “There used to be the Roadhouse run by our friend Ellen, but she’s dead, has been dead for a long time and-” Why was he telling her this? He shouldn’t be. He loved her, but that didn’t entitle her to a laundry list of his biggest sins, because he had gotten Ash killed that day and he had gotten Ellen and Jo killed later on trying to fight Lucifer and he’d get more people killed if he continued talking, he just knows it (and he remembers Jess and Madison and Cas and Dean and Mary burning on the ceiling, his fault, his fault, his fault) and so he snaps his mouth shut, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. Pain shoots through his jaw, but it’s wrong, dull, not like real pain. There’s flashes of real pain, his foot on fire, ice-cold water pouring over him, the hot sting of electricity flooding through him and he tastes ozone and yet not as cold as Lucifer, not as hot as hell, not as much ozone layered on his tongue as when Gadreel left his body, but realer than this and Toni, Toni had been there too, she had been watching, she was still… she was… she…

He tries to squirm away, tries to turn around, but he’s under her and he can’t move and the warmth of her body fades away, is replaced by cold air and pressure around his wrists, under his armpits, against the back of his legs, around his ankles and he’s not lying down in a comfy bed, he’s… somewhere else. His vision blurs and flickers, gray and yellow mixes until he’s dizzy from it.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he bites out and it takes a lot of strength - which it shouldn’t, he should be able to get up, but something is weighing him down - but he manages to push himself up, turn around and she’s just sitting there on the other side of the bed, not on top of him as she had been just a second ago and her face blurs and for a moment he thinks she might have drugged him, slipped roofies in his wine and he tries to remember if he saw her fill the glass, but he can’t remember, can’t remember anything before they ended up in bed, before her questions, before her touch and the blanket seems to tighten around him, wrapping tight around his ankles and wrists.

“Is everything okay?” she asks and the word makes bile rise in his throat, because she’s flickering out of existence as memories assault his mind and he suddenly remembers another woman who had tied him down, made him love her and he has to get out of here now. He flails backwards, but he can’t move and then his consciousness starts to pull out until it finally snaps back into place like a rubber band and he’s sitting in a chair, hands tied behind his back, his legs spread wide and there’s Toni, sitting in her own chair on the other side of the room, watching him.

She pouts, her notepad resting on her folded legs, pen on top of it and then she smiles. “You’ll have to admit, it was fun while it lasted.”

Sam’s stomach wrenches and if he could bend over or had food in his stomach, he’d be throwing up, but there’s nothing for his stomach to expel and so he’s just gagging on empty air and blood is thundering in his ears and he tries to calm himself down, before he drowns in panic.

“What did you do to me?” he forces out, but his voice is breaking, not the angry demanding tone he wants it to be, because he knows what she did to him, can feel it in the pain flaring from his foot, the ache from where his wrists rubbed themselves raw against the cuffs and wetness in his underwear where he-

Toni just looks at him, contemplating, then she tilts her head, smiles. “A hallucination created by potion and powerful spell work.” Sam’s head races and there’s Becky again, sad, pathetic Becky, Becky who had tied him up and taken off his pants and whined about not getting to consummate the marriage and he tastes bitterness in his mouth.

Toni’s grin grows. “So… was it good for you?” The question feels like a punch in the gut and suddenly shame floods Sam’s body, because it must have been good for him on some level after all. There’s a wet heat in his underwear and when he looks down he sees where it soaked through his jeans, forming a stain to proclaim his shame for all the world to see, and his stomach rolls. He got off on what she did to him. He has to look away, but she continues, probably still smiling. “I wish I had thought of recording you. The way you strained in this chair, rolling your hips… I didn’t even have to touch you for any of it.” His eyes snap back to her because he’s afraid she’ll move, afraid she’ll come for him. But she’s still sitting, in her chair, watching him intently and she probably did the same thing while he was coming undone and he can picture himself, can see the scene she’s describing, the way he must have bucked in his restraints, his hips stuttering and his hard cock outlined and straining in the confines of his jeans. His stomach clenches again, but there’s still nothing in it to throw up and so instead Sam tries to press himself further into the chair, anything to escape her heavy gaze running up and down his body, but he can’t move and his legs remain spread and open, easily accessible. “But best of all were the noises you made. Secrets spilling from your lips in between those wanton whimpers and moans. Seriously, better than any porn star.” Sam remembers then that she had encouraged him to be as loud as he wanted, to beg her for her touch and he had, he had begged her, he had fucking whined as she had buried her hand in his hair and pushed him down the length of her body, her leg in between his rubbing circles while he ate her out.

There’s a terrible taste in his mouth, but it’s just stomach acid and Sam is still completely dressed and even now she’s not touching him and Sam knows that she’s telling the truth, that she didn’t touch him and somehow while he thinks that should make it better, it makes it feel worse.

She interrupts his train of thought with a sigh. “Sadly, I can’t do the spell again. Your brain would liquefy, which we don’t want. Yet.” You’ve still got a job to do, is what Sam hears and he knows he hasn’t told them enough yet, but he has told them too much already, besmirched Ellen’s memory by mentioning her to those British Men of Letters, endangered every hunter in America that might currently be staying in a motel, endangered every other person who just so happens to be caught up in the crossfire, and it’s all his fault. He can’t fight down a gagging noise, but she doesn’t react. She just gets up slowly, lifts one of her long legs, keeps them spread open for a while longer than necessary if she just wanted to get up and Sam forces himself to keep eye contact with her, afraid of where his eyes might drift otherwise, because he remembers-. “So…” She flips open a satchel on the table and lifts a small curved knife, lets the light catch the blade and Sam can’t help but draw in a sharp breath. Yet it also makes something inside of him relax. Familiar territory and all that. “I’ll have to resort to less… pleasant methods.” Again her lips curve, a secret smile and it makes Sam feel dirty.

He wants to scream at her, tell her that none of this was pleasant for him, call her a sick bitch, because she’s the one that got off on ra- hurting him, but the words falter in his throat and then she’s in front of him, looking down at him with giddy interest in her eyes. She’s a scholar turned torturer after all and he’s her first real experiment. She’s getting closer and closer and he wishes he could close his legs, because he knows she must see the stain on the front of his jeans and even though he’s broken free from the hallucination, that’s something he can’t erase. She’s right in front of him now, just a few inches before she’s fully standing in between his splayed legs and the way his ankles are tied forces his crotch to the front of the seat, unable to move back and she would just need to reach out to touch him. Instead, she bends down, smiles, her face getting way too close to his and suddenly Sam is wondering if it was really her body that was projected into his mind, or if it was just whatever his mind found attractive, if she just asked the questions and let his imagination supply the rest, or if she also faked the breathy moans and encouragements. He wonders if she actually got off on this and he’s not sure which answer would make him feel worse.

“Enhanced interrogation was never part of my job description.”

His mind stutters to a halt as she lifts the knife and presses it against his chest where his shirt is unbuttoned, his attention zeroing in on that point on his body but she doesn’t cut him, not yet. She seems to be savoring the twitch of his muscles as she runs it across his collarbone - Lucifer did that sometimes, ran a knife back and forth, shallow cuts one right next to the other until Sam’s skin was fully peeled off, leaving his muscles and veins exposed while Sam slowly suffocated, but not even Lucifer had been able to make him truly believe he liked any of it and shame hits him again like a wave that he’s drowning in - and Sam wants to scream, but he can’t move and the words are caught in his throat as the knife trails higher, across the sensitive area of his throat - she would just need to press down and slice and she would pierce the skin and veins open, rip through his muscles and he would bleed to death relatively quickly. But she doesn’t want that. Instead, she lets it catch under his chin, scraping it against the stubble that has grown there during his captivity and Sam has to close his eyes because he doesn’t want her to see the terror still reeling in them and he wishes she would just cut him, stop with the games and finally get to it.

When she pushes the knife against his lips, Sam is glad he’s been clenching his teeth, but she doesn’t push it further anyway - and Sam’s sure she could, she could force his mouth open and make him swallow the knife, cut him open, make him taste blood again, but she doesn’t - she just forces his bottom lip down and somehow that feels worse, leaves him cold and exposed. He remembers her warm, soft lips too, the memories (hallucinations) standing out against the cool, hard blade.

“But as it turns out… I’m a quick study.” She’s leaning down now, eyes fixed on his as he opens them, hopes there’s hate in them and not fear. She pulls back and the knife scrapes his lip and then she’s cutting and stabbing and it’s bad, it hurts, both pales and stands out in its pure human evil against the cage, but at least he now knows what’s going on and he can react how he wants to, so he throws his head back and screams when the knife tears his skin. At least she won’t be able to force him to beg her again.