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Dean had brushed his teeth vigorously after he'd gotten back to the car. Sure, he'd broken open Sam's emergency supply kit, but he'd rather deal with his brother's germs than have the reminder of resurrected demon sploosh on his tongue.
And maybe it had taken him a few minutes to calm his pants down, but that was habit, not genuine arousal. He did not want to sleep with Abaddon. Josie might have been one hell of a looker, but she was gone, her body nothing but a demon's meat-suit.
He cranked up the classic rock on the drive from Oregon to Kansas. The music didn't help, but focussing on the road kept his mind from wandering back to what Abaddon had done to him… with him. And really, what could he have done? Said no and then have her make good on her threat?
"Dude, are you okay? You haven't said a single word the whole trip. You didn't even sing along to Metallica."
"I'm fine."
"Really? Because that's the most you've said in a day?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Sam, okay?"
He'd left hell behind so long ago, but being back there? Abaddon telling him that what he'd gone through, what he'd done to other souls, was nothing? Dean headed straight to his room and screamed inside of his head until the pain in his chest wasn't as distracting.
Cases popped up and were dealt with. Some close calls letting the Ezekiel out of the bag. When Crowley asked to call Hell, Dean delegated that to Sam and Kevin, and headed out to help Cas. Dean pulled his car over into a rest area on the way back from Idaho, needing to rest his eyes before dealing with any more heaven and hell news, with Sam's questions, with… fucking Crowley.
He woke, the smell of sulphur rousing him to high alert in moments. Red hair, pale skin, a cat-that-caught-the-canary grin. Please, let me still be asleep. This is all just a nightmare.
Dean tried to get up but Abaddon's hand stretched out and pushed him back down. She was on him in seconds, demonic strength keeping him laid out. His body took in the sights of her breasts, the feel of her straddling him, pressing her bare cunt to the crotch of his jeans. Fuck, not now!
"Is that for me?"
Dean stopped himself from engaging in banter, remembering where his smart-ass mouth had got him last time. Abaddon ripped his undershirt open, splaying her hands across his chest. She was leaning towards him just so and Dean couldn't help but remember how warm her breasts had been as sucked her nipples. Her hands slid down his body as she arched back, pushing those beautiful mounds of flesh out. One of her nipples was plump and ripe for biting, the other still looked soft.
She undid his belt and he made a desperate attempt to grab her wrists and keep her from taking his jeans off. But it wasn't her wrists he grabbed. His hands found her hips pulled her higher and he sucked the sweet shy nipple of her breast into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it and nipping at it until the bud was as full as the other one.
Abaddon sighed, moaned his name, and Dean's ego swelled with the thought that in this way, he could have the upper hand with her. He was good at sex, great at it—whether he really wanted to do it or not. And if this was the game Abaddon wanted to play, then so be it. She sat up and he followed her, her nipple slipping out of his mouth when she gently pushed him away.
Just focus on her body, on sex, forget about the demon. Dean tugged his arms out of his shirts, tossing them away as Abaddon returned to unzipping his jeans.
A bit of awkward, yet careful, wiggling on his part and Abaddon had him as bare as she was. She gripped him and lined him up, engulfing him in her soft, wet warmth.
She clenched around him hungrily as she bounced on him, rolling her hips and rocking back and forth to switch up the rhythm. Dean latched onto one of Abaddon's nipples, anything to divert his attention away from who—what—was fucking him. He thrust up into her, loving how deep she took him.
All he could feel were the nerve endings firing, the too-much, not-enough stimulation that had him eager for more and desperate to finish. He lifted his face to bury it into her neck, holding her to him, his fingers threaded into her dark ginger tresses.
"You like me riding me, don't you, Dean?"
"Yes." His response was immediate, a whispered admission of guilt he couldn't keep under lock and key, not like this.
So tight. So warm. His hips pistoned of their own accord, his brain switched off, body on autopilot as he lost himself to her. Even her nails raking over his back sent him closer to the edge. So close.
She pushed him down, back to the floor, her back arched, breasts all over the place as her body bounced on him. He held onto her hips as he thrust to meet her, matching her rhythm to fuck her as deeply as he could.
Abaddon bent forwards, placing her palms on his chest, nails digging and gripping tightly. Her tight pussy slid over him and he tried thrusting ever deeper inside of her, her warm cunt slurping up every inch of him.
The sound of their flesh slapping together, the smell of sweat and musk, the tight heat he felt wrapped around him. She kissed him and his mouth opened to welcome her sulphuric tongue. Fuck, this is so wrong.
There was a sharp pain as she dug her nails into him. His hips snapped once, twice—he held her as he spasmed his release into her vessel. He choked on her, eyes widening as he couldn't breathe, her twisted soul invading him, spilling into him as he spilled into her.
Then, it was all her.
Dean hadn't known possession would be quite like this. Over three decades of training and hunting, and he'd managed to escape this level of invasion.
Josie's empty vessel dropped off as Dean stood up. His body acted, his voice spoke, but he had no control. Like being in the passenger seat while the driver's flooring the car to try and jump the Grand Canyon.
He couldn't even close himself off from it, Abaddon's flayed soul entwined with his, forcing him to watch and feel.
Dean walked out of the room and snatched a lesser demon. "Put my old carcass on standby. Don't let anything happen to her."
The malformed shadow of a soul hurried to do his bidding. Next, Abaddon found him clothes, a blood-red shirt of material so soft it slid like water over his skin, black slacks and socks and shoes.
He was in a nightclub between one heartbeat and the next, bodies of all kinds dancing to the loud music blaring through the sound system. It would be only too easy to abduct someone here without anyone the wiser.
His brain had switched to predator mode without his permission, every person here a potential target. But there… a white blouse, modest, perfectly corruptible.
Dean's hands gripped the denim snug against her ass, one hand slipping around to rub at her crotch, the other sliding up to hold her against him, palming the small swell of her breast.
She smelled clean, though her scent was beginning to rotten as her fear took over and she struggled to escape him. One guy tried to be a hero and Dean's hand on her crotch reached out and grabbed the guy's throat. Inhuman strength corded his muscles and a single wrench of his hand snapped the man's neck to the side.
The woman he held screamed as the guy sank to the floor. As much as Dean could feel that Abaddon would love nothing more than to turn this nightclub into a blood-soaked battlefield, his body and the screaming girl's left.
They appeared at some location, and Dean felt sick as his eyes took in the sights around him. Dried blood painted the walls in streaks and spatters. Knives were laid out on tables, whips hung on the walls from rusted nails.
Screeching and pleading met his ears and Dean wished he had the control to let the woman go. But Abaddon ignored the cries and Dean's hands affixed the woman, wrist by wrist and ankle by ankle, to a saltire cross.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" Instead of answering, the girl simply kept pleading with him to let her go. "Your name!"
Dean could feel the woman's full body flinch as his soul mirrored the movement. He wanted to apologize, get her out of this place, let her go home.
"Taylor."
Dean repeated the name, letting his tongue get a feel for it. His hands smoothed her styled curls away from her face, lifting her neck up gently to gather her blonde hair and let it drape down. "Well, Taylor, I'm Dean, and I'll be your torturer for this evening."
Her pleas filled the air as he walked over to a table of knives and wheeled it near the cross for easy reach. Dean selected a gut hook and placed his right hand between Taylor's breasts.
She had stilled and gone silent when the knives came into her view. Dean let the tiny hook of the knife catch on the scoop of Taylor's blouse, sliding the sharp blade down and then dipping it along her skin to slice through her bra as well.
When her shirt had rent from hem to hem, he flipped the knife around in his hand. Dean walked in between her spread-eagled legs and curled his index fingers around the edges of her shirt, pushing them off to the sides and baring her torso to him.
She started crying again, softer, most likely not to anger him. He unbuttoned her pants, unzipped the short length of teeth, and used the gut hook to rip the seams of the denim until her jeans were separated into leggings.
Cotton-white panties met his eyes, a little satin bow at the waistline. He set the knife back on the table and ripped the panties in half, relishing in Taylor's sudden scream.
Dean knelt down and licked a long stripe from her cunt to her clit, the grapefruit-like taste dancing on his tongue. Her soft hairs on her mound tickled his nose as he kissed and sucked her clit until she was dripping for him.
He licked his lips and wiped his mouth with his hand, his thumb running along his septum, the crook of his index finger catching the wetness at the tip of his nose.
He stood up and his eyes roved over every inch of Taylor's flushed body all the way up to where her eyes were screwed shut. Dean knew she was trying to disassociate, wished he could do the same. Instead he undid his button-down and shrugged out of his shirt. Taylor's blue eyes opened wide when the sound of his own zipper broke through the calm and quiet. They stared then, not at his face or his crotch, at his chest.
Dean's eyes lowered and he took in the deep scratches breaking the lines of his anti-possession tattoo. "Yeah, that. Well, this body hadn't exactly wanted to get possessed, even inked himself as proactive protection. But I still got him. Like I've got you now. I felt this cock of his in my previous vessel, let myself get off on it, knowing I was going to use him to have all sorts of naughty fun. And, lucky you, you're his first. He's still in here and I'm making him watch and feel everything I'm doing to you. I can hear how much that saviour-complex of his wants to let you go, probably as much as you would rather be anywhere else right now. But I'm the one really calling the shots."
Dean could hear the loud scream the moment his vision went dark. It returned and he saw Taylor's renewed attempts to struggle out of her restraints. Dean stepped out of his slacks and went over to the wall where he picked out a short flogging paddle. He brought it over to the cross and let the tendrils of leather trail along Taylor's skin as he slowly followed the perimeter of the lathe. He flicked it when he reached the right side of her torso, the leather snapping against the tender flesh of her nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from her.
The flog whispered gently against her skin once more until he reached her other side. He could see her muscles tense up the closer he got and the leather tendrils cracked against her other breast. Taylor jerked her body away with a mewling groan. Dean let the continued the flog's exploration as he made his way around her legs and back up to between them. Her beautiful, glistening cunt, still dripping with want.
Dean gripped the flogger by its thongs and rubbed the flat side of the paddle-ended handle against Taylor's clit. Strike one. Taylor screamed and jerked away from him, her voice starting to sound raspy from abuse. Strike two. She pleaded for him to stop. Strike three. More screaming. Strike four. Her legs shook and her breathing quickened. Strike five—six—seven. Taylor was coiled and gibbering. Strike eight. She squirted on him as her body released its tension, shaking anew, red-faced.
He shoved himself inside her wet pussy, felt her walls clench around him. Dean grabbed the flogger by its handle once more and flicked it at her breast, alternating between her nipples. Taylor arched and jerked, sucking in breaths and letting out moans, nearing the cusp of hyperventilation. He pushed the handle against her mouth like a bit, stilling his thrusts.
"You're going to want to bite down for this next part."
He reached to grab a knife—hunting—and placed the flat side of the cool blade lightly on her nipple. Dean thrust into her roughly, her breast sliding under the knife. Her screams filled the silence as the tip of the blade dug into the pert nub, slicing into the sensitive flesh. He repeated the torture on her other nipple. The blade slid down her stomach and Dean looked up at Taylor's face, absorbing every detail. The tear tracks, the wide eyes as she shook her head, silently begging him to not cut her there, her mouth stretched wide to accommodate the girth of the flogger's handle and still bite down on it, the drool escaping from the corners of her mouth.
The knife trailed up from her mound and the moment Taylor relaxed, most likely thinking she had escaped clitoral mutilation, the knife sunk into the side of her stomach and slid smoothly to the other side, rending the flesh and muscles and diaphragm as if they had no more resistance than soft butter. The air hitting her exposed nerves and organs brought her out of her shock; she gasped and gulped as his hips kept pumping into her, causing the flogger to drop away from her mouth.
Dean's hand went to her throat as he choked the life out of her, his other hand tossed the knife back on the table and spread her stomach open. Dean could feel the demon's glee at seeing his cock jostle the insides of Taylor's body, the warmth of her blood spilling out and spurting on him with every thrust. He could feel her vaginal walls contracting around him as her body struggled to live despite the blood loss and lack of oxygen to her brain.
It was in this state Abaddon kept him, thrusting, watching himself inside of her, digging his fingers into her stomach to brush against the head of his cock. And fuck if it didn't physically feel good even as his mind was locked in a silent scream at the wrongness and horror of it all. Taylor was slack now and Abaddon still hadn't stopped fucking the woman with his body. He wanted to vomit at the thought that he was fucking a dead body, that he was close fucking a dead body.
His hands gripped her breasts and his mouth latched onto a nipple; he sucked the cooling blood into his mouth, the metallic taste coating his tongue.
"This is just the start, Dean. They'll get younger, older, some I won't even tease with pleasure, others I'll keep alive just to rape again and again as they dehydrate and starve. I'll tie up families and make them watch each other getting flayed alive bit by bit. Fuck!"
The orgasm hit him in a potent rush and Abaddon shared it with him. Dean watched himself empty into Taylor's body, the small swirl of white mixing with the exposed blood, a macabre version of creamer poured into coffee. He could feel himself languidly letting the dead woman milk every drop of cum from his balls, but Dean couldn't stop moving.
When his hips finally stilled and he went flaccid, it was sweet relief to slip out. He collected his bloody clothes and reached inside and up into Taylor's chest, gripping her heart and yanking it from her body.
"Time to get a new toy, lover-boy."