#darkspnchallenge

That voice, the voice of what used to be one of the best friends she ever had, now the voice of a monster.

He came closer and she edged away as far as her restraints would let her, but she felt his hand on her face, tracing the curve of her jaw and moving across her brow. “Get in here, Sammy,” he called out. “She's ready to play.”

More footsteps, then another voice, the other voice, another friend-turned-monster laughing at her in her helplessness. “Done playing possum?” he asked. “About time. I was getting bored.”

“Guys,” she broke in, the word a frightened whisper, “what are you doing? What's going on?”

The bed dipped to one side as one of them sat next to her, and the first voice sounded patient but condescending. “Well, sweetheart, I thought that was obvious. Sam here is bored, and I wanna have a little fun. And since we're such good friends,” he pinched her cheek and she cringed, “we knew you'd be accommodating, right?”

She swung her arm and knocked his hand away with her elbow, and he slapped her, heat flaring in her cheek and her face exploding with pain. “Ow!”

“I said,” he twisted his fingers into her hair and held her still, “you're gonna play along, and it'll be easier on everyone. Got it?”

“Dean, please…”

“Oh, sweetheart…” He yanked the blindfold off and she stared up into that familiar face, those green eyes she knew so well… gone. Black as obsidian, as a night with no moon or stars, as her hopes of getting out of this unharmed. “Do I look like I care if you beg?”

“Sam,” she burst out, turning to the man at the foot of the bed, “Sam, come on, this isn't funny--”

“I'm sorry,” he broke in, his brow furrowing in confusion though there was no emotion in his eyes, “was it supposed to be?”

Oh my God…

She yanked at the handcuffs, driving the steel farther into her wrists, kicking her legs in a useless attempt to free herself. Sam leaned down, a hand wrapping around each ankle and pressing her down into the mattress. “Dude, I thought you said you had her?” he directed at his brother.

“Aw, come on, Sammy,” Dean replied, cracking a grin, “she's a fighter, and you know I like ‘em feisty.”

She opened her mouth to scream but he smothered it with his hand across her face. “Bad idea,” he warned her. “Don't want the neighbors hearing and calling anybody, do we? No sense spoiling the fun.”

“There's got to be something to gag her with,” Sam remarked, looking around her bedroom while still holding her down.

“Nah, we don't need it,” Dean assured him, his eyes returning to their natural shade as he stared down at her. “She's not gonna give us any trouble.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek, never lifting his hand away from her mouth. “Are you, sweetheart?”

Her heart was racing so fast she thought it would batter itself to pieces against her ribs. Sam and Dean, but not her Sam and Dean… she trusted her friends with her life, and whatever the hell was going on with them right now… they were far from the men she knew.

Dean had always been something of a dork, leaning on his sense of humor more often than not and rarely passing up the opportunity to enjoy himself. But there had always been a shadow hanging over him, a weight pressing down on his shoulders and gravity in his eyes that made it a little too clear the burden he always carried. The pain, the responsibility, the guilt, a lifetime of sustained trauma he could bury but never resolve. That was gone, and she always imagined she would be glad to see the day, but what it left in its place was only darkness.

And Sam, sweet, sympathetic Sam, quick to see another's unhappiness and simply unable to not try and ease it, giving light to others while keeping the dark for himself. It wasn't enough to feel his own pain, he always had to take on someone else's as well. Atlas, carrying the world on his back. There wasn't a trace of that sweetness or sympathy anymore, no concern or caring. Nothing. Just… nothing.

Whatever had gotten into them, they were not her Sam and Dean.

Dean reached for the blindfold again, adjusting it back over her eyes. “This goes back on,” he said. “Don't want to ruin any surprises.”

“No!” she burst out, struggling against her bonds. “Dean, please, don't do that!”

“Then what about this?” Sam asked. She felt his hands disappear from her ankles and she thrashed even harder, until she felt cold steel against her skin. The blade of a knife, slowly stroking up and down her leg from ankle to knee, and she froze at the touch.

“That's probably a good idea,” Sam told her with detached approval. “You might want to hold still for the rest of this.”

“Sam, please,” she pleaded, tears filling her useless eyes, “please take it off, you--you know I--”

“I do. But the thing is, the rate you're going, you'll be blind anyway by the time you're, what, in your forties? If you're lucky? Might as well get used to it.”

The knife traveled higher, reaching the hem of the shorts she had been wearing. The tip of the blade snagged on the fabric and she flinched, letting out a whimper as she heard the tear and felt the fabric give. God, if she could just see what was happening, what they were planning, maybe...maybe it wouldn't be so terrifying…

“Hey, hey,” Dean said, his voice pitched somewhere between comforting and condescending, “it's all right, sweetheart, we're not gonna hurt you.” His hand traveled across her face, fingers brushing against her cheek as Sam kept cutting her clothes off. “Come on, you think we didn't know how much you wanted this? Like we never saw those puppy dog eyes you kept giving us all these years? We knew, hon, we just didn't know how to tell you it wasn't gonna happen.”

The bed shifted with his weight again and his hands moved to her stomach, pushing her shirt up a little at a time. “We weren't gonna get involved with you and get you killed, ‘cause that's what happens around us. Like, a lot. And we cared too much about you to get you hurt. Now, though?”

Sam chuckled and finished the thought for him. “We don't.”

She gasped aloud as the knife slit her shorts along one leg from hem to waist, feeling the tip scrape across her thigh and catch on her underwear, leaving them in place and moving to the other leg. Meanwhile, Dean's hand pressed flat to her belly, fingers edging up to the underside of her breast, nails scraping the sensitive skin and provoking a shiver.

“I mean, we care,” Sam amended, “but it's more like nostalgia, you know? When you only feel anything because you used to feel something?”

“So we're gonna give you what you always wanted,” Dean told her, slowly pushing her bra aside and fingertips ghosting across her breast, “and then, it's our turn.”

Sam's knife made quick work of her other leg and she felt the ruined garment yanked away as Dean shoved her shirt and her bra out of the way. Her first instinct was to shrink in on herself, to protect herself from whatever they were about to do, even as Dean's words knocked something loose. Yes, she had wanted them for so long, longed for them, dreamed of them… but this wasn't them. Not her Sam and Dean. One look in their eyes and it was too obvious.

But… she didn't have to look… she couldn't. Maybe… maybe it was better this way, her sight stolen from her so she couldn't see who was doing this to her. If she couldn't see, then maybe she could pretend, and this Sam and Dean could be the men she knew and loved.

Maybe.

The knife traced across her belly as a large hand palmed her breast, kneading and cupping, and part of her still recoiled, unwilling, but she squeezed her eyes shut under the blindfold and clenched her fists, heedless of the handcuffs, trying to force her mind away. This wasn't happening, not this way, at least. She had fantasized this often enough, their hands on her bare skin, their words in her ears, and pushing her thoughts back to her dreams, she felt her body begin to respond in kind…

She felt the tip of the knife flick her nipple and she let out a yelp she quickly stifled as a hand slid into her underwear. Biting down on her bottom lip, she focused on the fantasy rather than reality; thick fingers pushed past her lips and into her cunt, and she swallowed her whimper as a soft laugh of satisfaction fell on her ears. “She's already set to go,” Dean remarked, sounding amused. He pumped his fingers in and out and she couldn't help but roll her hips in time to his rhythm, making him laugh again. “Eager little slut, isn't she?”

“Let me see.” The knife left her breast and she felt a tug, heard a tear, and her panties were gone. She knew Sam was watching, she could picture it, standing there staring at Dean's fingers disappearing again and again into her body, shiny and slick with her juices…

“Dude, she just keeps getting wetter…”

“Move over.”

Another finger thrust into her and she let out a cry, hating herself for the way it felt so good, how she loved the things they were saying, the idea of them using her turning her on a little at a time.

“Yeah, she won't be any trouble, will she? She wants it, like a good little whore.”

“You see that? She's damn near soaking onto the sheets. She's in heat for us, the horny bitch.”

A moan tumbled from her lips as the fingers inside her twisted, circling her clit and stroking her g-spot, and she bucked up into their hands before she could stop herself, taking them in deeper. A hand caught hold of her hip, pushing her back down onto the bed, and two fingers slid from her. She heard exaggerated slurping and lip-smacking, and Dean said, “Damn, sweetheart, you sure are tasty.”

“You should eat her out,” Sam told him. “Go on, look at that.” He withdrew his finger and slapped her cunt, and she gasped. “So juicy, she's just begging for it.”

“Hit it again,” Dean ordered, and Sam obeyed, and she cried out again, rising into a shriek as the weight on the bed shifted and two broad shoulders pushed her legs further apart, lips and tongue falling on her stinging cunt with obscene relish.

If her ankles weren't tied, she would have thrown her legs around him and held him in place. It's Dean, she told herself over and over, it's Dean and there's nothing wrong, and God that's so good… She moaned as his tongue worked her clit and his fingers reached inside her again, sending shock waves rocketing through her body, taking her higher and higher.

The flat of the blade pressed softly against her cheek, turning her head slightly to the side, and two long fingers thrust into her mouth. Sam… She tasted herself on his skin and didn't hesitate to comply when he said, “Suck.” She swirled her tongue across his knuckles, stroked along the pads of his fingertips, cleaning herself off him and choking when he pushed deeper. Saliva pooled in her mouth and spilled onto her chin, running down her face and along her neck. The knife traveled across her cheek and down her neck, tracing back to her breast, flicking her nipple again, and she whined past his fingers in her mouth.

“What's that?” Sam asked, taking his fingers away. “Didn't catch what you said. Do you like this?” Another flick with the knife.

She keened, arching her back and jutting her chest forward. “Sam!” she burst out.

Dean growled between her legs and nipped her clit with his teeth before sucking, curling the fingers inside her until she squirmed and wailed, “God--Dean--”

“Come on him,” Sam ordered, pressing the tip of the knife into her breast just short of breaking skin. “All over his face. You want to, don't you, you dirty little slut…” The knife pressed deeper, and she let out a cry of fright and pain. “Do it,” he said, “or I'm gonna make you bleed.”

Another cry formed in her throat and she held her breath, focusing on the sensations in her cunt, reframing it in her mind where they didn't tie her up and threaten her, and she asked for it--not just fantasized, but asked them for it, enthusiastic and willing, and she didn't have to feel guilty for giving in to save herself.

She could deal with that later.

The pressure built and broke, rolling through her body as she moaned and cried, hips bucking up until someone held her down again and Dean didn't let up until she went still, panting and trembling in aftershock.

Sam lifted the knife away from her breast and pinched her nipple, getting a feeble squeak in response. “Good girl.”

Dean moved away from her, fingers sliding from her while his other hand stayed at her hip. “You wanna get a taste, Sammy?” he asked.

“No,” Sam replied, “I've got another idea.” There was a beat of silence, then he went on, “I found this in her nightstand.”

Dean's weight disappeared from the bed. “She's all yours.”

She wracked her brain, trying to think what Sam could have found, but there was barely an instant before she heard a quiet buzzing noise, then another instant for her to register it before he pushed her vibrator into her.

Her body jolted in shock. She never used the toy so roughly, or so deeply, or at the highest setting, at least not at first and never all at once. It was pain and pleasure, hurt so bad but felt so good, and a large hand pressed over her mouth quickly smothered her scream while Sam worked the vibrator without a hint of compassion. Their voices faded into the background as agony and ecstasy wrestled each other for victory and before she knew it she was coming again and again, and Sam still didn't let up. Tears fell from her eyes as she screamed and sobbed for mercy, muffled as they were, and she was going to explode if he didn't stop soon--

“Hey, come on, now, wake up…”

Dean's voice, regaining a little clarity, and she was still blindfolded but she could see him, right there in front of her, not a trace of darkness in his eyes…

Was that another orgasm tearing through her, or was it all the same one, unending and unfaltering and driving her insane?

“You gotta wake up…”

Sam, but not the Sam torturing her with pleasure, she could hear the urgency of his concern in his voice…

“Don't listen to that,” Dean told her, the other one, with the blackened eyes. “You think this is something you want to wake up from? You think you can?”

“Listen, it's not real, wake up!”

“Oh, it's real, sweetheart. It's as real as you always wanted.”

She couldn't catch her breath, everything felt foggy around the edges, like she was about to lose consciousness… or regain it…

“You don't want to leave us,” Sam said. “You know you don't.”

Her heart was about to burst and she was ready to fall apart. They sounded so sure, and she almost believed them… she didn't want to leave… She had dreamed of them for so long…

They weren't real.

With a gasp like the first breath after a deep dive, she opened her eyes and felt reality--sweet, literal reality--rush back in. She was cold, her wrists hurt like hell, and she was hanging from a pipe in a dingy basement, the cuffs binding her in place cutting deep until blood ran. And Sam and Dean, her Sam and Dean, stood before her, one holding a blood-stained silver knife and the other working to get the cuffs off.

“Hey,” Sam greeted her, sheathing the knife and giving her a relieved, and wonderfully warm, smile. “Welcome back.”

“We told you not to go after it on your own,” Dean scolded, picking the lock on the cuffs. “What the hell were you thinking?” The cuffs sprang open and he pulled her into a careful but no less comforting hug, and everything fell into place again. They were hunting a djinn--just one pissant little djinn--and their caution had seemed overblown to her. Get in, get out, don't let the bastard touch you, no problem.

No problem as far as the first one went, anyway. She never saw the second one coming. The last thing she remembered was smokeless blue flame and brilliantly patterned tattoos as its skin made contact with hers.

Thank God the boys knew where to look when she turned up missing.

Sam pulled her in for a hug after Dean let go, and she leaned gratefully into his embrace. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “I'm fine. It's dead, right?”

“Which one?” Dean asked darkly. “There were three of them holed up down here.”

She blinked. “Three?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed. “Next time, maybe don't take off without backup?”

“Yeah… maybe not…”

Dean shook his head, putting a hand in the middle of her back to steer her along. “Come on, Xena, Warrior Princess,” he said, “let's go get you patched up.”

The three of them headed through the abandoned factory to the Impala parked outside. She traded her grip on her injured wrists, applying pressure to one then the other while her mind spiraled to the acid trip the djinn's poison had given her, the fantasy world it sent her to.

She had known the Winchesters for many years, hunted with Sam when he was without a soul and had a brief run-in with Dean when the Mark of Cain turned him into a demon. She had seen both of her friends at their darkest, and the djinn shaped her hallucination around them. Tying her up, stripping her, scaring the hell out of her before having their way with her…

“Djinn keep you trapped in your nightmares, right?” she asked as she got into the car.

“Depends,” Sam answered, climbing into the passenger seat. “Some of them do. It's either that, or a vision of your deepest desire.”

Her stomach shifted uncomfortably. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, starting the engine. “And it's nowhere as cool as it sounds.”

She fell silent as they drove away, puzzling. She had crushed on, pined for, and lusted after the brothers for nearly as long as she'd known them, and both of them working to get her off seemed like the ultimate in wish fulfillment… apart from the circumstances of it. The violation. The darkness. Part of her had flinched away in terror at it, another part reveled, and it left her confused and a little unnerved.