Maybe there is an even lamer place somewhere on this planet, but Sam can't come up with a single suggestion. He makes a face at the equally bored old lady sitting in the ticket booth as he pushes over his share for the group ticket. A wrinkly re-drawn eyebrow raises itself at him as if it wanted to console him - hey buddy, could be worse. No idea for that scenario either, though.
Having friends: nice. Not spending a holiday all by himself or with at least one drunk family member: very nice. Being out of that damn hotel room for once: super nice. Dean is somewhere only God knows to feed his savings while Dad stays at home in all his grumpy gloriousness. (Whatever poor kid decides to ring that doorbell… Sam pities them.) Yeah, well, shit; out of all the holidays it's got to be Halloween though. Maybe there only is a certain degree of luck Sam can have in one sitting. He tries not to complain too hard.
Everyone is old enough not to make fun of him for not dressing up. Hell, the girls are the only ones in costumes, and probably only because it gave them a chance to spend ridiculous amounts of time in front of a mirror. They look stunning though. Stacy is a witch and wears a modest, black dress with a giant pair of earrings and blood-red lipstick. Dianne is bolder. She's a sort of princess. Her short yellow skirt bounces with every move, making all three males of their little crowd very grateful about the fact that darkness has long fallen. They have been walking the carnival for a good while and Jake decided that now, three shy hours close to midnight, it's the perfect time to "get down to business" - meaning making the girls scream and eventually cling on to one of them. It's kinda stupid, but hey, they're kids. Sam guesses that's a normal thing to enjoy for someone "normal" at his age. The middle of the group is a good position. If he walked at the end, maybe his annoyance with the whole thing would be too obvious.
The guys were joking outside, but once everybody passed the heavy curtains of the entrance way, the chit-chat dies off immediately. The haunted house seems to swallow up all sounds from outside, from other people and the busy carnival. Sparse lights give the group a vague idea of a route. Sam rolls his eyes at how everybody's movements become awfully careful. Even Brad's. Seriously? The dude is like a hundred and eighty pounds. He could take on a real monster if he would have to, and the worst that could happen to you here is an allergic reaction to all the dust and China-made plastics. But Sam will play along. Maybe they'll do something nicer after this.
On a scale from one for "bad" and ten for "good", the guys' plan scores a solid zero point two (when Sam judges generously). The girls are holding on to each other with their heads ducked in tension. They enter the first hall.
Sam sighs. Plastic spiders, cotton webs. Creepy music, a fog machine. Portraits' eyes seem to follow them and Dianne starts whimpering when she notices, but it's only a cheap projection that is triggered by a motion sensor. Jake startles at a groan of wooden floor that Sam causes and looks equal parts serious and embarrassed about it.
As they cautiously progress through the attraction, Sam comes to terms with the fact that he should cut the owners some slack; at least a little bit. His friends are legitimately scared. Maybe if Sam wasn't so damn used to horror, he would be shaken just the same. It is kind of creepy. And it is big. Seven bucks seem to have been worth the tour.
The longer they walk, the more the flair of Sam's surroundings are starting to get to him. Might be due to his empathy for his friends (who, at this point, have gone from "silent" to "on their toes") or the increasingly impressive designs the rooms. Where the air was stale but rather warm in the beginning, it's more and more freezing, thin, as if they were in a cellar or a cave… No, a cave would smell different. Here, it smells like mold on furniture. Lived-in space. Civilization. If anything, this is the least preferable option, judged by Sam's experiences. Caves, tunnels, dungeons - those are bland. You don't walk into a tunnel and say, "well, this could be worse." Doesn't get much worse than a tunnel. But a cellar? Everything could be down there. There is no way to predict the level of fuckedupness you might encounter. A little like the tale of Red Riding Hood. You expect a cute, old grandma, and then your sorry ass runs into something with a face that consists of ninety percent teeth.
A first scream makes Sam jump. Stacy wails out the aftershocks while a mechanical witch doll (oh, the irony) slides back into her hiding place behind a plank of the wall. Electrical candles are flickering, music changes. Sam feels sweat building up on his palms. Inside of his jeans' pockets, he digs fingernails deeper into flesh.
The next room really is something. Stacy is clearly on the edge. Sam can see her gasp at the gutted cat dummies, the almost too-genuine shine of red acrylic paint. Symbols on the walls might not be accurate but give an impression of a sort of satanic ritual chamber. Poor Stacy really must regret her choice of costume right now.
While the others seem to be less struck by the room, Sam stays with Stacy who inspects every detail. She's a half-hearted goth - always loads of black eyeliner, dark clothing, pentagram jewelry. Sam kind of likes her. Stacy is a tough girl.
It makes sense that she is interested in this room. A spell book in the middle of an altar captivates her in particular. Sam can see the white of her knuckles where she holds on to her own dress while she doesn't dare to get too near to the thick book. He takes a glimpse at the page. It's an actual book about witchcraft, but more of the historical side of it. Nothing like the editions crowding Bobby's house in piles and piles.
Sam tries to speak as softly as he can, but it still startles Stacy. "It's a warding spell," he explains. A forefinger points to the simple lines of a symbol. "Against an enemy's bad thoughts."
From the side of his vision, Sam sees eyes going even wider. "Wow," she breathes. After staring at the pages for a little longer, she turns to Sam and blinks at him. Under the paleness of her face, there is something like excitement. "Do you know about this kind of stuff?"
"Just a little," Sam lies, "Got a crazy aunt." He twirls his finger beside his temple to put more emphasis on the already rude statement. Stacy scowls at him, just a little, but he can see. Yeah, a mean move, but it's better not to encourage someone to look deeper into these kinds of things. The more people promoting them as undesirable, the less sorry souls will try something stupid.
Back in the corridor, the others are both out of sight and hearing range. There are noises from several sides as the main corridor splits into multiple routes here. Many rooms. Maybe too many. "I'll see if they're over there." Sam turns to his right. "You check the left."
Stacy goes even more rigid than before. Her pretty red mouth opens in a scandalized gape. "I- I don't wanna go alone!"
"C'mon, it's not that bad, Stace."
"When people split up in horror movies, they always- they always…!!"
Sam tries not to sigh. "It'll only take a minute. The faster we find the others, the better."
The adorable witch with too much eyeliner scowls at him under the rim of her pointy hat. "That's what they always say in horror movies."
Except that those are movies, Sam thinks, but what can he do? "Just a minute. Promise. Check the left, please."
She hesitates and throws him another upset look before she staggers down where he told her to go. Alone, Sam heads right.
The house doesn't seem to attract too many visitors, or maybe they just hit a particularly unbusy time. Sam runs into nobody on his search. Bloody kitchen - medical room - baby's room. The latter makes him hesitate. The guys obviously aren't in there. Sam bites his lip before he decides to step inside.
It's a small room. Dim night lights are all support for his sight. On the ceiling, playful patterns dance from where a mobile casts them from above a crib.
A crib. Sam feels his chest getting tighter.
Another step inside, closer, to see more. It triggers a recording of a music box to come to life. The soft tunes of a generic lullaby somehow fail to ease the mood. Sam looks around the narrow room. A window is painted on the wall, very realistic, very nice. It shows an idyllic scenery, complete with fluffy clouds and full moon. Shelves are lined with children's books and toys. It's too dark to see them from afar, so Sam closes in.
The floor creaks underneath a fluffy carpet. Indirect lights glow up behind the individual shelves, highlighting their stocks. Sam blinks to see clearer. Stuffed animals. Dolls, both of animals or classic porcelain in the shape of human girls. Then, he finds something else.
Red nose. Frilly collar. Wide grin.
Sam instantly turns to the other shelves. His mouth feels dry, his throat full all of a sudden. He should move on. This is stupid.
Before he turns to the door, he gives the crib another shy glance over his shoulder. Sam furrows his brows, opens and closes his mouth a few times. He taps the seams of his pockets with the tips of his fingers.
Okay. This, and then he's gone.
One, two, three quick steps take him right in front of the crib. White, innocent wood. Baby-pink beddings. Sam doesn't dare to touch anything.
The steps were enough for the motion sensors though.
It happens all at once - all light dies off, music stops, door slams closed. Sam spins around, but there is no chance to see anything in this total darkness. Now, he grips the crib. Now, he is aware of his heart hammering up against the root of his tongue.
Eyes wide, he is listening. Movement. Something is moving. It's not him who is moving, but it's inside of this room. Just a second ago, he was all alone in this room. The silence bears down on him, almost crushes him. Sam hears wheezing. It's his own.
Again, he spins around, but to no avail. Both hands on the crib. The baby doll in the bedding starts crying, sending Sam jumping in place, hands bolting off of the furniture.
Here, in the middle of the room, far from any furniture or wall, Sam's elbows bump into something solid.
Before he can make a sound from where he has his mouth open and ready to scream, a gloved hand clamps down over it. An arm presses his own ones against his sides like a vice, powerful and professional, hard enough to shove all air from Sam's lungs as he screams into the cheap cotton against his mouth. Barely a sound passes through.
The voice is muffled by something. Sam smells cheap silicone. A mask. Must be a mask. He tries to bolt free from the hold. Naturally, it doesn't get him far. A few more tries, quick, must do it quick, but no try to get the leverage over to his side works out. The attacker - maybe an employee here, they saw people in costumes before, were jumped by them before - knows what he is doing. He knows all the tricks.
A thought, distant but sharp, but before Sam can get a hold of it, the arm slams from chest up to around his neck. Choke-hold. It's useless, but Sam holds on to that forearm that bares down on his windpipe.
Cold sweat, alien heat. The amount of air that Sam can get into his lungs through his nose alone is nowhere near enough. His blood is pounding in his ears. The attacker is a solid wall against his back.
Something sticks out though, and it digs up against Sam's ass.
Now, and very suddenly - and this is maybe saying a lot about how fucked up Sam is - Sam realizes.
He knows who is in that costume. He knows the attacker.
More sweat. More heat. Less air.
It definitely says a lot about how fucked up Sam is when his own dick starts fattening up in his jeans. Over the years, it has become a sort of Pavlovian reflex. Sam couldn't do much about it even if he tried.
He goes stiller, tries to think clear despite the lack of oxygen. The silicon feels strange as it grazes his cheek.
"That's a good boy."
If there was no mask, Sam could feel breath hitting his skin along with the words. But there is nothing. Definitely a mask. The dull echo from inside the limited space alienates the sound of that voice, but the more words there are spoken with it, the clearer Sam recognizes it. To Sam's frustration and horror, that doesn't seem to calm him down at all.
"All alone in such a place? Bad idea."
They had talked about this some long while ago. Well, mentioned it. Not even detailed. Sam had gotten too uncomfortable about the entire business once he realized how sincerely Dean posed his questions. As if he was seriously planning something, as if they were negotiating the rules of something. The fact that Dean decided single-handedly that they would actually put this here into action (and that they put it into action here and now) both upsets and thrills Sam. With his heart beating somewhere in between his ears, he tries to remember what he had agreed to in a frenzy between dirty talk and fantasy exchanges.
"Your little friend was right. Shouldn't have split up."
Through watering eyes, Sam watches red lights starting to gleam around the fake baby in front of him. Its face is turned away from his sight. The crying stops while the music box picks back up, remarkably slower than before.
An amused, almost shrilled laugh, a contended sigh. Sam trembles with its vibrations against his back. "I've been watching you. Kinda hoped you were the stupid kind. Must be my lucky day." A drag of what has to be a hard-on along the crack of his ass, a drawn-out hum. "Very fuckin' lucky indeed."
The forearm draws itself tighter. Sam feels his tongue swelling, taking up the already reduced space in his throat. He's starting to scratch at his limits, slowly but surely, even though Dad insists all the time that they rehearse this kind of things. But every stamina has its limitations, even with training. Sam feels his hearing going to shit, feels the bolts of heat spiking through his head, his chest. If it's inaudible, is it still a whimper?
The attacker doesn't seem to mind Sam's more and more desperate jolts. In his panic, Sam remembers how they usually end situations like this - two taps, doesn't matter where, with hand or foot of any moveable piece of their bodies. Just before he is about to let his hand rise to tap out, to communicate that it's too much, the choke-hold is being released. Sam can't remember the last time he had gulped for air this forcefully.
It's like moving a leg that had fallen asleep. Pins and needles, and where his pulse was raging so insistently just a second ago, it seems to be crumbling down into too-soft fluttering now. Without much choice, Sam sinks back against the attacker. The arm is back around his chest. He is shaking, barely standing upright with his knees suddenly made of jelly. His head lolls backwards. Oh, yeah. Sam is tall enough now for it to actually tip back a bit, to rest on his brother's shoulder.
His arms won't respond to him when Sam wants to stop a roaming hand; from chest to seam of jeans, plucking at shirt and tee until there is a way for sneaking in between skin and clothing. The cheap fabric scratches a little and is not exactly as warm as the cotton of Sam's tee. He feels himself shiver at the odd contact.
The drag is not tender - it's not supposed to be. It's lewd and rough and makes Sam's skin crawl. A faint grunt into a glove, and fingers dig deeper into the hinges of his jaw. "Now, now. Keep still, sweetheart, keep really really still. The less complicated, the better; don't you think so? Mmmh. I think you think so." The words come quickly, almost stumble over themselves. Sam has never heard this voice in this manner. For as much as he knows, it could belong to someone entirely different, not even to a human, maybe. Deranged, jumpy. Sam can barely catch his breath.
A rough tug to his right nipple, a tougher to the left. Not even Sam himself can exactly hear his yelp, but he is aware that he makes it, just like the attacker must feel it. That laugh. Fuck, that laugh. It's the worst. The hand drives deeper again, down Sam's belly. It forces itself between skin and underwear, ignores the limited space due to the belt. Sam's hips buck forward; he can't help it. The strange sensation of the gloves, the loveless groping… He sobs into the attacker's hand.
"Oh, we're gonna have lots of fun, won't we." The hand pulls back, leaves Sam on the edge and whining yet again. He shivers at the familiar sound of a zipper that is being undone behind him, but he wills himself to keep still. If he was a real victim, he'd obviously fight more - but this is a game and Sam is not particularly Sam, just like the attacker is not particularly Dean. These are roles they are playing. It's a game. "Down," growls that voice. Judged by this particular tone, Sam has no doubt that the attacker has his hand on his dick.
Sam hesitates, partly because he has a feeling "the boy" would be too scared to move, partly because "Sam" really really wants to be pushed around. He is strange like that - but it had been Dean who had prodded and prodded until Sam's fantasy bloomed into something much less superficial than a simple rough fuck. Maybe Dean just enjoys costumes and acting a little too much.
So the attacker is not gentle when he rams his knee into Sam's back of the knee, just like his grip on Sam's jaw switches seamlessly over and up into his hair. The pull is strong enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes, strong enough to overpower the impact of knees against floor. With his mouth finally free, Sam rips it open to gulp for air, can't hold back a whimper. The slap to his face takes him by surprise, actually, and he is genuinely shocked for a few seconds before he is spun around and shoved into the attacker's groin face-first. His hands shoot up in an instinct to push himself off, away, but that earns him another slap, now to the top of his head. It makes an impressive thud and drives Sam's teeth against each other. In his sneakers, his toes curl.
"If you're gentle with me, Ill be gentle with you."
Sam shakes with a sob, then without it. Those hips roll against his cheek. He keeps his mouth away, lips rolled in between his teeth. Sam's eyes are pressed close. He hasn't been this turned on in ages, and if he is really really unlucky, he won't be able to be satisfied with this being a one time thing. Shit. Dean and his damn, stupid, raging hot ideas.
One hand gets lost. The next second, those familiar six-and-a-something inches are being slapped against his cheek, his temple. "C'mon, c'mon." Impatient, almost hissing. The mask makes it sound even more alien, distant, aggressive. Easier to get lost in. The fist in Sam's hair directs his head to turn despite his efforts for the opposite. It feels like his hair is about to be ripped from his head, so Sam has not much room to play with.
That cockhead is already wet with precome as it slides over his sealed lips. Sam tries not to breathe through his nose - the costume seems not to be washed too often and the cheap polyester soaks up sweat way too generously -, swallows his mouthful of spit. Another one of those reflexes. He isn't aware of them most of the time because they never feel out of place. They are from Dean, for Dean. But this isn't Dean right now, not really. It's very different. And yet, Sam can't bring himself to dislike any of it.
A thumb goes for his upper lip, pulls it out and up. "C'mon, no need to be shy, baby. Between the two of us: I have a feelin' mine ain't the first cock you've had in your mouth." Sam tries to squirm away despite better judgement. The fingers prod against his gums, under his lips. It's seriously uncomfortable, even without the unpleasant imaginations about where these gloves might have been before. "C'mon. Open up." Digits try to pry open his teeth, but he clenches them shut. It's only halfway conscious, though. The thrill of the situation keeps Sam tense if he wants it or not.
The fingers retreat eventually. A small victory. Something like hope flickers deep in Sam's stomach. A swift movement from the attacker later - and it really doesn't take longer than a second -, something cold and smooth is being pressed to Sam's cheek. Sam's eyes snap open.
He recognizes it immediately. Dean must have kept it in his boot. "Still shy?"
The knife's blade shifts on Sam's skin as he slowly lets his jaw drop open. The attacker's cock slips into the offered space immediately. A satisfied chuckle. "That's what I thought."
Sam stares straight ahead into the costume, the opened fly, a thatch of wiry pubes. In the red light, there seems to be no colors but two: all there is is black where there is no light, and red where there is some. The attacker's dick is dry and straining against Sam's tongue, then his throat. He chokes, but that doesn't stop the man from pushing deeper. One fluid push and it's buried to the hilt, Sam's nose smashed into curled hairs, eyes watering and throat seizing. His stomach convulses and he wants to push off, needs to - then, the blade presses harder against his skin. Not hard enough to cut, no; Dean puts more pressure on the blunt edge where the side of the knife is held up to Sam's face. But Sam gets the idea, even though he is not too sure if he will be able to go through with it like this. Deep throating is one thing, but this here is different. They never did it like that. Naturally, actually. Who would do it like this in a normal scenario? With the attacker's hand holding him in place by his hair, Sam tries to breathe through his nose, tries to dull his instincts. His fingers curl over his thighs and dig into jeans, into flesh underneath. His back arches involuntarily in an effort to make his neck longer, to make more desperately needed space inside of his throat. If it gained him any, the attacker claims that for himself, too.
"God, yeah," Sam hears. It shouldn't feel like praise, shouldn't make his dick throb where it strains against the fly of his pants. The fact that the attacker sounds just as breathless as Sam feels like wakes a strange feeling of pride in Sam.
His head is pulled back by his hair, the knife still on his cheek, still a threat. If Sam moved, it would cut. The idea that the attacker is just as skilled with weapons as Dean whereas the boy is nothing but a regular teen, not as skilled, as defendable as Sam, turns everything a notch better yet again. Sam feels heat rush into the back of his eyes, his cheeks. That dick falls from his mouth and he gasps for air, coughs violently. Maybe a moment or two before it's back, plunging right back down his throat. It's wetter now, the slide easier, but the sensation of being suffocated is just as present. Sam feels tears roll down his cheeks. Physical reflex. Purely biological.
A deep fuck begins. The attacker thrusts generously, always pulling almost back out before pushing Sam right up against his pubic bone. Those blissful grunts are muffled by the mask, but Sam can hear them even over his own choking. "Yeah," it groans, "definitely not the first dick."
The knife slips a bit while the attacker fucks his throat. Sam keeps perfectly still, highly aware of the slowly warming metal, its graze down his skin. A contended hum and the tip of the blade ghosts down Sam's jaw, his throat. Sam can barely keep still with this much adrenaline in his blood. The pressure of his blood, the unyielding hammering of his pulse makes his body thrum along, especially on his neck that is so bare and stretched out. The blade tickles down there and Sam stiffens yet again, whines from somewhere deep down, somewhere where the attacker's dick can't reach to muffle it.
"Look at me."
Without much thought, Sam's eyes fly open and look up.
He doesn't know what he expected. Still, he recoils at the mask's sight, despite knife, despite iron-tight grip in his hair, despite everything. Sam wails, would have done so even without the slip of blade into skin, without roots of hair being pulled from his scalp. The attacker throws away the knife to use both hands on Sam's head again, to keep him in place and impaled on his dick.
Out of all the costumes, it had to be this one.
"It's alright, baby boy, it's alright." Sam imagines hearing a giggle and hates his brother. His hair is let go again; the pressure of palms with the force of strong arms are enough to keep him here, to move him. The attacker starts fucking again, and Sam feels trapped like never before. Overshadowed by pure panic, the thrill is like nothing he knows. "So tight all of a sudden. Mmmh. Do I upset you this much, hm? You scared, little baby?" Sam isn't given a chance to answer. "Wanna feel it again. Look at me. Keep lookin' at me. C'mon."
Sam obeys, even though every sense and instinct in him tells him not to, even though he can barely keep his eyes open through the sting of tears, even though the minimal lights don't show much detail of the mask. The latter makes it even worse though, because Sam has a very vivid imagination.
He sees the red nose, the harsh contrast that promises a white face. That grin is distorted, too wide, too red. Sam imagines outlines of sharp teeth, like a shark's. The wild curls of that wig should look hilarious, but they don't. A frilly, cheap collar. Cheap, striped suit.
Even Sam himself feels his throat seize up. Over his urge to cry and run away, he doesn't care much for the pleased moans from behind that mask. He stares up, immobile but for the distressed shake in his muscles, blinks through tears, through the urge to advert his eyes.
The cut on his throat starts stinging after a while, and it confuses Sam. He almost forgot about it. Now, when he thinks about it, he realizes that the music box's tune is being played in reverse now, that the mobile has picked back up. He has no idea how long he has been on his knees, how long the attacker has been using his throat. When Sam blinks rapidly, he takes in the clearer picture thanks to the mobile's lights. He wishes he hadn't.
Strangely enough, when he strains back and away from the attacker this time, those hands let him go. With too much power being put into the movement, Sam throws himself to the floor, bangs his head against the crib. The baby starts crying again and Sam scrambles over the floor in panic, tries to crawl away, get to the knife, maybe.
But it's gone, and when Sam looks up again, it's safely back in his attacker's hand.
As if he was hypnotized, Sam stares at its elegant twirls in those fingers. Skillful indeed. Coughing and urging to regain his breath, Sam grabs his throat with one hand. His fingertips feel sticky.
A languid step towards Sam. "Let's see if there's any other tight places hiding for me."
New panic, new heat. Oh God. Sam lunges over the floor, but the attacker is quicker and steps down on his calf, pins him down like this. Sam tries to pry that foot off, but everything inside of him dies away when he catches a glimpse of the oversized red boots. He wails as the attacker kneels down over him, not because he is afraid of the knife that is pressed back against his throat, right next to the already there cut, not because he is about to be violated. The costume is the worst. He is legitimately scared out of his mind, and it's not even play. Dean knows. He knows too well.
"Aw, don't cry." A harsh thumb rubs some wetness from Sam's cheek. He feels like he is about to be sick. "A smile would suit you so much better. Like me. See?" Sam knows the attacker bows down closer to Sam's face, right next to it. Again, Sam is being pulled around by his hair, forced to face the mask. When nothing happens, the hand gives a beyond mean tug that makes Sam yelp anew. "I said: See."
So Sam opens his eyes. So Sam sees.
Tiny, black eyes, red-rimmed, no eyebrows. A grimace. Sam didn't only imagine the teeth.
"Smiling is good, trust me." That voice makes itself soft, cheerful. It just makes it worse, especially with the reversed lullaby in the background. "I should know. I smile all the time!"
Sam can't breathe.
"Don't look away."
Sam is paralyzed. The attacker shoves and rearranges his body like he wants to. No idea how, but Sam lands in the crib, right next to the baby doll. The crib's front has been removed. "Pants off," Sam hears, but even when he tries to move his fingers to comply, they won't listen to him. An unnerved sigh from above him, a reminding push of the knife under his chin. Sam's belt is being removed, his jeans and shorts pushed down to his knees. Lying on his back, naked from the waist down, Sam is shaking like a pile of leaves, unable to move, eyes wide, pulse raging. The cut hurts. The press of the knife under his chin, against his throat, keeps him from swallowing or breathing correctly. He doesn't know if he could do these things even if the weapon wasn't there.
He jolts at a slap to his weeping cock. "Slut," he hears. Another slap, fresh tears. He could come from that, right now, right here. It's too much, too everything. The attacker strokes him once, twice, before discarding Sam's cock again. It drools a thick bead of precome onto his belly.
Knees knock Sam's thighs wider apart and the attacker fits himself between them. Sam's ass is hanging off the edge of the crib, his head jammed against the still there bars on its other side. Fixated on fulfilling his task of staring at the mask, the hotslick push of cockhead against his pucker takes him by complete surprise.
"Damn," he hears.
No. This is never gonna work. Never.
Sam's chest flutters under his flat breathing, and he keeps staring. The attacker hums a thoughtful, "Hm, hm, hm," as he slides his cock up and down Sam's crack. The pressure intensifies every time it passes Sam's hole, insistent, as if it would contemplate breaking in despite the resistance. Here, those reflexes don't come. Usually, Sam's ass opens up like a Christmas present under Dean's dick, so easy that it's almost scary. But no way, not like this. Sam can't think straight, has no control over his body that tenses in complete fear. More pressure as the tip of the attacker's dick now rests solely against Sam's opening. There's a lot of spit, but it isn't anywhere near enough. It won't work.
"Not a move."
The knife lifts from Sam's throat. He gulps for air immediately but has to keep himself from being too hasty as the blade tickles down his chest, belly. It grazes his cock, making it jump. An excited giggle from behind the mask, and Sam tightens even more. Crinkling of plastic from somewhere between his legs. "Not a move," he is reminded. With a knife this close to his balls, that wasn't exactly necessary though.
Something tears. Sam has a clear idea of what is happening. His heart hammers fast and hard against his ribs. He is sweating bucket after bucket, and the tiny space of the crib makes him even more anxious. Considering how constipated Sam feels, even with lube it probably won't work. Still, the idea earns him hotcold showers down his back. Dean is gonna try anyway, isn't he. He is very deep in his role. He will force it in. Oh God.
More tears, a sob, as Sam is hit by realization. The knife gently bumps against his sac, making his thighs quiver. He hears slick sounds, feels the attacker's hand brushing his ass. "Please," Sam whimpers.
That head tilts up to him just a little. The hand doesn't stop. "Shhh," comes a whisper.
Sam sobs harder. "Please, I've- Ive never done this, I've...!"
His own words are still burning in his mouth, turning his head another shade of red, as the attacker lunges over him to cover him with his body, knife back under Sam's chin, mask so close to Sam's face that Sam can smell it again, close enough even to hear the man's breath coming sharp and labored against the inside of it. Sam doesn't know why he said that. They didn't discuss this. The idea of him being a slut had been established between them, because, honestly, it fits Sam. But a virgin? He feels like a virgin. Knows he isn't, ha, oh Hell no, but this isn't reality anyway, is it? He stares up into the unreadable face, mouth tense under the threat of the knife biting into his skin. Waiting. Waiting for Dean's reaction.
A low, feral sound; fierce pain - Sam's mouth bolts open for a squeal, but the attacker's hand is quick to cover it yet again. While his asshole is being forced wide, without prep, without anything but an entire pack of lube and force, Sam screams into the gloved palm of his attacker.
It's beyond intense, beyond pain. Where it should feel familiar, it absolutely doesn't. He really is a virgin, he really really is.
Well, not anymore.
The glove on his mouth, under his nose, is covered with lube and smells and tastes like it. Sam can barely breathe, can't move, tries to relax around the cock spearing him. It shoves deeper until there's nowhere else to go, until they're flush against each other. The pressure is dull, overwhelming.
"Mmmh, God." A delighted groan, a shifting into a more balanced position over Sam. "Nothing like a delicious little cherry for dinner." Sam can hear that grin.
After what feels like no adjusting time at all, the attacker starts to pull back. Despite the lube, the friction is intense. Sam yowls. It feels like being pulled inside out. "How's that feel? Hm, feels good for me." A thrust right back inside, right home. Sam shivers while the attacker chuckles from deep down his chest. "Good decision, gooooood decision."
Slow rolls, insane drag. It shouldn't feel this good to be hurting this badly, and Sam sheds tears of shame. There's fucking your brother, and then there's fucking your brother like this. Sam feels disgusted about himself while dwelling in that exact same burn. Dean's dick hasn't felt this fat in ages, almost ready to burst. Sam feels too small, too helpless. Too perfect. This won't last long for neither of them.
After a few moments, Sam feels serious relieve in his guts. Muscle memory. So the attacker fucks faster, harder. Sam melts under the stabs. Lube runs down from where it is fucked in- and outside of him right down to his tailbone. They're soiling this place, a damn haunted house; oh fuck, a baby's crib, for fuck's sake. The knife disappears from his throat and Sam is only halfway aware of how it gets thrown away, because the now free hand replaces it immediately, bears down on his windpipe, his Adam's apple. Sam feels his insides clutch down harder again, and the attacker has more leverage now, puts most of his weight on his hands and plows Sam hard enough to make the crib clatter over the floor.
About to come out of his skin, nostrils flaring wide in desperation, Sam's hands grab the attacker's forearms, eventually slip down to wrists, without much power, without anything. The skin underneath the costume seems to be on fire; Sam can feel it seep through the fabric. He digs his nails in as he is choked harder, on the brink of not getting any air at all, all the while being fucked hard and so so good, pressure hammering into his insides and dragging over his prostate. When those fingers dig into his throat even tighter, sealing his windpipe completely, Sam's vision vanishes as his climax overcomes him.
His come hits his stomach and easily reaches up to where his tee is still clinging to him, but all he feels is the hot rush of his nerves, his blood. Suddenly, both hands bolt away from Sam's face, resulting in a scarily deep haul for air from a wide open mouth. Sam's eyes fly open as well, find the mask, the toys, the dancing lights on walls and ceiling. He is still coming, still being fucked. The hands return just as suddenly as they had left, pressing everything closed gain, back into desperation, back into that incredibly tiny space where there only is Sam and the mask and the heat of his body, the screams of his lungs. Somewhere in the fuzzy corner of his perception, Sam can hear those familiar staccato grunts building up to what he knows is the attacker's orgasm, the clown's, held back and muffled, but Sam knows them. Another blink of an eye of air, sealed back up, and Sam feels how his insides are getting fucked sloppy with more than just lube. He still hasn't stopped coming himself.
The clown does it one, two, three more times before his hips start slowing down. The pressure finally lifts from Sam's face and throat, become a warm, dead weight instead of cruel grip, and he swallows mouthful after mouthful of air; finally. He coughs, feels more tears running down his cheeks, into his ears, feels pain settling in everywhere in his body. The clown nearly collapses on top of him, obviously wrung out by exertion.
Those hands drift to Sam's face, cradle it. The clown's forehead connects with Sam's. Its nose grazes Sam's, and he cringes.
"Baby," Sam hears. A breathless voice. Not jumpy, not artificial.
Dean gets up on one elbow and pulls the mask from his head with obvious efforts. Sweat flies and hits Sam's face. Under all the plastic, Dean is completely soaked. The gloved hands are back, but the forehead is skin, just like the nose, the lips. Dean tastes like salt and stink and silicone, like cheap popcorn. They're on a carnival here, after all.
"Baby," Dean repeats. "Sammy, baby. Hey."
As an answer, Sam brings his shaking arms around his brother's back and tugs him close. After all the violence, Dean's soft mouth feels like Heaven.
It's uncomfortable to say the least when Dean pulls his by now limp dick from Sam's ass. Sam tenses visibly, and the rush of come seeping out from his sore hole isn't nearly as pleasurable as usually. "Fuck," breathes Dean. Always concerned. "How's it feel?"
Sam wants to say, "I'm good," but only the "ood" actually makes it outside.
"Shit," Dean breathes. He runs his hands over Sam's face, wipes away tears and sweat, sticky strands of hair. He inspects damage as he feels down Sam's throat, hisses as he thumbs at the cut. "Shit. Fuck. I'm so sorry."
"No, no, I should've been more careful. 'S it hurt?"
Sam shakes his head as visibly as he can.
Concerned frown, but Dean seems to believe him. His hair is dripping wet and sticking into every direction. Those damn freckles. The stupid bumpy nose. He is so beautiful that Sam feels like crying all over again.
"Man," Dean exclaims. A smile explodes on his face, making him beam in the barely lit room. "That was... Wow."
Sam mouths the word "yes" as he returns the smile.
He is being kissed again, softly, gently. Dean pets his head, brushes his hair back. When his big brother lies down next to him in the crib, Sam immediately rolls to his side and presses himself up against the warm, familiar body, slightly curling in on himself. Dean wraps his arms around him. They stay like this for a while.
Sam's breathing sounds a little funny, but it's probably gonna be back to normal in a few days. No fucking idea how they are gonna explain this to Dad, but Dean surely will have a plan ready for that. He always has.
The lullaby has returned back to normal. The red lights are gone, replaced once more by warm, pastel colors that paint animals out of light on the ceiling. They float in a gentle pace. Somewhere outside the room - very distant, maybe in an entirely different world -, they hear someone scream, then laugh. Dean's heartbeat slowly calms down where Sam is listening to it right against his chest.
Sam will have to get up eventually, get back to his friends or at least tell them goodbye. If he zips his hoodie up all the way, maybe he can hide the marks and the cut (even if he feels like showing them off, actually). He probably isn't gonna fool anyone though. He looks thoroughly fucked, one way or another. Tired and satisfied, Sam sighs. He tucks himself a little closer to his brother. Maybe they can sleep here. Dean must have a key to the room. Would explain how nobody came in here, at least. Dean always thinks of everything.
"So much for the deposit for the fuckin' costume," Dean sighs eventually.
Unseen, Sam smiles.