Some hours later

Sam woke up with a marginal hangover to what sounded suspiciously like a cartoon show of some kind. He turned his head a little and squinted over at the tv set while trying to make sense of what Dean was watching.

"Spongbob?" he muttered and pushed himself up on his elbows. His head hurt, but not badly, and he had a sour taste in his mouth.

"He's funny," Dean countered and switched the set off. "You feeling a little better there?" he asked and leaned forward to eye Sam.

Sam blinked a little sluggishly, then rolled over on his side and sat up. "Got a headache," he admitted and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his dry mouth.

"Well, drinking booze on an empty stomach will do that to you," Dean countered and tossed him a bottle of water.

Sam caught it instinctively, unscrewed the cap and took a sip of it. "Stupid idea," he agreed. "What time is it?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "Eight," he countered. "We should eat something. You should eat something," he added.

"Yeah, well ..." Sam considered it for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, I should," he agreed.

"Lucky for you I've already ordered room service," Dean said and grinned at him.

Sam could sense the underlying tension in his brother that belied that cheerful grin he offered. "They have room service here?" he asked.

"Yup," Dean agreed. "I figured you might need something to eat."

Sam didn't really know what to say to that and instead just sat there, the blanket pooled around him. The thought of what he was in the process of doing kept intruding on him even though he tried to push it aside. Two hours to go and he would have to face up to this.

"Change your mind yet?" Dean suddenly asked.

Sam looked up to meet his eyes and knew that no matter how little he liked the idea, the alternative was worse. If this was what it took to get Dean out of that deal, then it wasn't that big a sacrifice. But that still didn't mean that he liked the idea. "No," he countered quietly.

"Sam," Dean started, but Sam shook his head.

"I said no, Dean. I'm not going to change my mind. If this is what it takes, then it's the least I can do. You do this all the time. Why shouldn't I?" he asked, well aware of how flawed his reasoning was right now.

"I don't sleep with demons, Sam," Dean countered. "And I most certainly don't sleep with girls I don't like," he added. "I'm just telling you, Sam, that if you don't think you can do this, it's fine. I'm not going to hold it against you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to change my mind about this," Sam persisted. "And that's final."

Dean nodded. He didn't look happy about it, but he didn't contest Sam's decision any further either. And in Sam's opinion there was nothing to talk about anyway. His mind was made up. It was simply a question of getting Dean out of that deal and he wouldn't even have to die or sell his soul to accomplish that. What else could he do?


09.50 p.m.

The door at the end of the corridor was aptly labeled with the number 13. This wing of the motel had been closed down for renovation, but that obviously hadn't stopped that bitch from taking up residence here. He stopped halfway along the corridor and just stared at that door. It seemed ominous, seemed to move slightly while he stared at it, the dark wood expanding and contracting like it was breathing. He had to mentally kick himself back into gear before he could take another step. 'You can do this. It's to save Dean. It's a very small price to pay. She could have asked for your soul,' he thought to himself, gritted his teeth and started forward again.

By the time he reached the door, he was alternating between sweating and freezing so bad he nearly shivered. 'You can do this', he persisted in his mind, closed his eyes and steeled himself against what awaited him inside. 'She's pretty. It's not a big thing.' And all the while he wondered how the hell Dean did this all the time. Sam needed to know a girl before he went that far. His first encounter with the fairer sex had, if nothing else, been proof of that. Angie. He remembered her like a painful fever dream. The unreachable, the untouchable. He had been fifteen, she had been sixteen, and she had turned all the guys on and then left them hanging, him included.

With a shake of the head, he dislodged the memory and put it back in its box. In the only serious relationship he'd ever had, Jess had been the one to take the first step. Hell, she had been relentless until he had given in, drunk and sad, on his birthday no less. But once they had got going, he hadn't been able to stop. It had been like she had broken a dam and everything just came flooding out. And she had liked it. Hell, she had said that she loved it. He hadn't been brutal, but he had been rough and she had taken to it like it had been the only thing she had ever wanted. After a month, it had calmed down, had become more normal, which she had accepted without comment. To this day he still thought she had allowed his fury in bed because she had known he needed it and not so much because she had liked it. And at first he had only been able to perform when he had been drunk. Then she had seduced him while he wasn't and their relationship had fallen into a more normal rhythm after that.

He felt the heat rise into his cheeks and grimaced at the sour taste of cheap whiskey and bile. He needed to build himself up or he wouldn't be able to do squat. He grabbed onto the doorframe on both sides of the door and let his head drop while trying to call up some of the rougher spots he had been through with Jess. And not rough in the bad sense either. He figured he could think of that during ... He grimaced again, feeling the distinct need to throw up for a moment. 'I should stay away from the whiskey,' he thought to himself and wished he hadn't had that much. A little would have gone a long way to numb his mind and make him indifferent to the nature of this woman. But right now, he was anything but indifferent. That demon was possessing an innocent girl. By going along with this insanity, he was practically going to rape her and he couldn't wrap his mind around the concept without feeling physically ill.

'It's to save Dean,' he reminded himself harshly and tightened his grip on the doorframe for a second. Besides, if the demon possessing this girl was that eager for sex, she had probably done it before. Then he raised his head and stared at the dark wood of the door for a moment before he raised a fist to knock. He hesitated for a moment longer, then sucked in a breath and rapped his knuckles against the door.

It swung open almost instantly. The room beyond was cozy enough. Typical motel room, actually, with a king sized bed taking up most of the floor space. The curtains were drawn and there were lit candles on every surface all around the room. They created a heat pocket which enveloped him the second the door opened. There was the vague scent of incense as well, something that smelled like a mixture between vanilla and myrrh; very sweet.

She stood there, one hand on the doorknob, wearing nothing but a black see-through neglige, her red hair cascading down over her shoulders while her eyes glinted in the cold artificial light from the corridor. "There you are," she cooed and stepped aside. "Come in," she added.

She was pretty, she had all the right curves, and her movements were sensual. He could do this. All he had to do was pretend, do whatever the hell she wanted him to do and then get out. That was all. He didn't need to pretend that he liked her or that she mattered. He was doing this for Dean. He stepped past her into the room, sent another brief look around and then turned back to face her. He wondered what Dean would say to her, figured his brother would have come on to her big time just to get them going as quickly as possible, but that wasn't his MO. He felt awkward all of a sudden; too tall, too lanky, too clumsy. He was afraid to move lest he fall over his own feet.

She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, arching her back a little. "Do you like what you see?" she asked, her voice almost a purr.

He ran his eyes over her, remembered the dream he'd had about Bela – another female he couldn't stand – and bolstered himself with the thought that if he could have wet dreams about that bitch, he could do this. His body was beginning to react to her, to the scent of the room, to the heat of the candles, and he figured this wouldn't be so bad. This would be okay. It would get Dean out of that damned deal and that was all that mattered in the end.

"When this is over, Dean's deal is off, right?" he asked and was appalled by how jittery his voice sounded. Damn, he wanted to display more self-reliance right now. He didn't want her to catch on to how nervous he was, how much he wished he was somewhere else.

"Of course. That's the deal," she agreed, pushed away from the door and sauntered over to him. "Look at you," she cooed and placed one finger on his chest. "All muscle and nervous energy." She started moving, nearly gliding around him, then placed both hands on his shoulder blades. He couldn't help the shiver that rippled through him. "Nervous?" she asked.

"No," he lied. He felt like elaborating the lie, felt like claiming that he did this all the time, thank you very much, but he couldn't get the words out and even if he had been able to, he knew they wouldn't have sounded true. He couldn't compete with his brother's swaggering attitude.

"Sure you are. But that's okay. I don't like cocky lovers," she cooed and slipped her hands onto his shoulders, then pressed her body against him. Even through his jacket and the shirt and the t-shirt, he could feel the rounding of her breasts, could feel the heat of her body and it sent a thrill through him that was equal parts arousal and disgust. "That's why I chose you. And, of course, it'll be a bit of a factor that I can brag about having bedded the potential king."

He froze. "I'm not going to be any king," he pressed out through clenched teeth. He sounded angry, but he was actually scared. She was tapping into all his secret fears. She slipped her arms around him, spread her fingers over his chest, trailed one hand lower to press her palm against his stomach, and he sucked in a breath.

"So well-toned, so young," she breathed against his back.

He was shivering now, tremors of fear and disgust rippling through him. In a weird way it was a turn-on, but the thought of what she was, of what that body behind him contained, made the experience more gag-worthy than hot. Most of all he wanted to run, wanted to break free of her grip and just get the hell out before he was forced to do something he knew would come back to haunt him, but he couldn't move, couldn't break free. Not because she held him back, but because he held himself back. This was Dean's salvation. If he did this, if he went along with it, his brother would remain with him and that was all that mattered.

'Think of Jess', he thought. 'Think of Jess.'

Her hand slipped deeper and he sucked in a breath, arched his back a little, balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut. But then something changed. Suddenly her hands were gone, her body pressing against his back only a memory. A little shaky at this point, he opened his eyes again and glanced around the room. Everything was as before, but she was gone. He turned around, suddenly anxious. He knew what this was. She was playing with him, toying with his insecurities. "Where are you?" he asked and turned around again, scanning every corner of the room until he fixated on the bed. This wasn't like the other beds in this motel, unless each room had its own sort of bed. This thing was big and heavy with a wrought-iron head that rose above the bed like a gate to Hell. And the wall was painted black behind it. The patterns of the twisting iron looked odd, like symbols or sigils, and for a moment they seemed to move, to swirl lazily.

The covers were rumpled, the sheets pulled away here and there, exposing the mattress beneath, and he frowned when he realized that it was flesh-colored. It didn't look like a normal mattress. Cautiously, he took a step closer and reached a hand out, intending to touch that piece of the mattress he could see, when a force from beyond suddenly rammed into him from behind and threw him hard onto the bed. He rolled over on his back and dragged himself backward a little, scanning the room. The impact that had sent him onto the bed had been pretty damned hard and his right shoulder was aching from it, but there was still no sign of her. He blinked in confusion. She just wasn't there. And he couldn't for the life of him understand what she was up to right now.

Then he suddenly became aware of the feel of the mattress beneath him. His right palm was touching a piece of the exposed mattress and it felt like ... He grimaced and pulled his hand away before shifting his attention to what should have been fabric. It felt like skin. Warm, living skin.

Before he could respond to that sensation, he realized that maybe she had the ability to make him not see her, because he suddenly felt her hand on his ankle right before she yanked him off the bed onto the floor. He pulled most of the sheets with him in an attempt to stop the forward motion and landed in a pool of flimsy fabric. He hit the floor hard, and couldn't stop himself from kicking out at where he assumed she would be. He didn't hit her, but she released his ankle and suddenly reappeared. "Getting a little feisty now?" she asked with a smile and a gleam in her eyes.

Before he could do more than think of what he should say to that, her face contorted hatefully and she grabbed the front of his t-shirt and yanked him back to his feet, then threw him across the room as if he weighed nothing. He hit the wall between the two windows with enough force to break the plaster, then slammed down on the shelving unit beneath, which broke under his weight, scattering wood splinters and candles everywhere.

Already feeling pretty battered, he scrambled to get out of the pile of debris the shelving unit had been reduced to and barely managed to find his feet before she attacked him again. She grabbed him by the throat with both hands and kicked his feet away beneath him, spilling him painfully hard onto his knees, while she increased the pressure on his throat incrementally. He latched onto her wrists, desperately trying to dislodge her hold without luck.

Then her expression evened and she smiled, releasing her hold just enough for him to suck in some air. "Did you know that S&M was invented by us?" she asked, her tone sugary. "And I like it when a guy squirms," she added viciously and increased the pressure on his throat again.

Around the time when his vision started to black out, he made a desperate attempt to break free by yanking himself backward. And it worked. But not without injury. She was so intent on strangling him, that her fingernails cut deep furrows into the sides of his neck and his left knee twisted when he fell backward.

Gasping for breath, he drew back until he bumped his shoulders into the edge of the bed. His throat hurt, both from the scratches she had left on the outside and the bruising her hands had bestowed on the inside. And all he could do was stare at her, because he really didn't get where this was going.

She stared back at him for a moment, then lapsed back into the smiley-faced demon that she really was. "What's the matter, sweety? Too much for you?" she asked and stepped forward, positioning one foot between his legs and the other next to his aching knee. Then she hunkered down. "Demons like it rough, you know. Of course, we normally don't have any bodies to bruise either, so ..." She chuckled at what she obviously considered a joke, then lashed out again, grabbed the front of his t-shirt and yanked him forward until they were nose to nose. "I prefer to tenderize my meat before I eat it," she cooed, then rose again, dragging him up with her. He stumbled a step backward when she released his t-shirt. "Get that off before I tear it to shreds," she said with a sweet smile on her lips.

Sam just stared at her for a moment after bringing one hand up to cover his bruised throat. He felt vulnerable now and it wasn't hard to imagine right now how he would feel without any clothes on. The urge to run, to get the hell out of here now, grew steadily.

"If you make a break for it, lover," Dawn cooed, "then Dean's deal comes due tonight. I'll call the hell hounds on him and he'll be shredded meat before you make it back there." She grinned. "Not that you'd be able to stop it."

The threat sounded very real and if that piece of paper she had held up really was Dean's contract, then Sam couldn't back out. "I want to see it," he rasped, cleared his throat and took a hesitant step back.

"See what?" she asked and even managed to look a little confused by that request.

"You can read my mind. You know what I mean," he tried.

She smirked. "Contrary to what you might believe, I can't read your mind, sweety. But I can read your emotions," she said, stepped forward and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. Almost gently she pushed it off his shoulders and released it. He didn't try to stop it from slipping off his arms and it landed on the floor behind him when he let his right arm drop.

"I want to see the contract. I want to know if it's real," he managed, his voice nearly failing him. He was generally disgusted by her right now and had no living clue how he was ever going to give her what she wanted. His mouth had gone dry, his lips felt cracked, and the sense of the bleeding gouges on the sides of his neck didn't exactly increase his libido.

Dawn placed her palms on his chest and eyed him closely for a moment. "You don't believe me?" she asked.

"No," he agreed. He couldn't keep the shiver at bay that kept rippling through him. He had never in his life wanted to run away from something more than he did right now.

With a grimace of distaste, she stepped back. "Fine. You can see it. But after that ..." she said and smirked.

Sam had never truly been in a situation where he was being objectified, but he recalled an incident where one of Jess' girlfriends had been through a rather grueling experience of attempted rape and he could generally identify with the situation right now.

Dawn turned around and retrieved the roll of paper, which she then held out to him. "Read it and weep. It's a real sob-story," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sam reached out for it and hated the light shiver of his hand. His fingers were icy cold at this point and he had a hard time focusing on the roll of parchment for a moment when he unrolled it. The text was brief, concise and it was signed with a bloody lip-print. It looked like what he would have expected of a contract like that. He released the lower edge of the paper and it rolled up on its own.

Dawn snatched it back with a smile. "Do you believe it now?" she asked.

He swallowed, then nodded once.

"Fine. Let's get on with it then, shall we?" Dawn asked and threw the roll of paper aside. She stepped back up to him and pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "Make an effort, Sam," she said when he made no move to help her. Her tone was derisive, a tad annoyed, and he figured he'd better put in an effort of some sort before she decided to rip his throat out for fun.

He pulled his shirt off himself, then pulled his t-shirt over his head and threw it aside. He didn't know what to say to her, didn't want to aggravate her and found no pleasure at all in the way she ogled his chest.

She raised both hands, spread her fingers out and laid her palms against his chest. "Smooth," she cooed. "Nice body tone," she added and glanced up at him. Before he had a chance to counteract it, she shoved him backwards and he sat down hard on the mattress. Even through his jeans he could sense the odd surface and it made him shudder involuntarily. His immediate reaction was to try and get up again, but she forced him back down, then straddled his knees and sat down on them. "What's the matter, lover? Don't you like my bed?" she whispered huskily.

The mere thought of having to lie back on this bed, to feel this weirdly alive skin beneath him, made him fight her when she tried to push him backward. She stopped shoving and leaned back a little. Before he even saw it coming, she suddenly slipped a hand behind his head, wove her fingers into his hair and tightened her hold on it to the point where it hurt.

"Let's lay down some ground rules here, shall we?" she said, her tone tight and angry. "You do what I say when I say it or your brother goes to Hell right away. Do I make myself clear?"

He couldn't nod because her hold on his hair was so tight. "Yes," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"Stop fighting me," she warned. "I'm not really expecting much participation from you, but if you keep this attitude up, there will be Hell to pay."

He swallowed and struggled to keep a grip on his raging emotions. He really wanted to shove her off him and get off this hellish contraption of a bed, but it would seem that any move he made against her would result in Dean's demise.

She released her painful hold on his hair and got up and backed up a few steps. "I knew you would be difficult," she claimed.

"I'm not fighting you," he pressed out and couldn't help glaring at her. She was pissing him off at the same time as she was scaring him. She was powerful enough to throw him around like a rag-doll and she obviously held both their lives in her hands right now.

"Get up," she said dispassionately.

That was not a request he considered hard to follow and he rose instantly. His back stung a little from where he had impacted with the wall and his left knee felt hot and heavy at the moment. A bag of ice would easily deal with that little twist. All he had to do was survive this night and both he and Dean would be okay.

But there was the underlying concern of what she had in mind and how she was going to go about it. His initial thought had been that this would be much like his one-night stand with Madison, only without the mutual attraction and the getting-to-know-each-other part, but Dawn had already proven that she was into things that turned him off big time.

She waggled a finger, urging him forward. "Come on," she cooed and smiled.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, then another, unsure of what she was going to do. He expected an attack of some sort. The second he cleared the sheets pooled on the floor, the selfsame sheets slipped back onto the bed, covering the mattress.

"Is that better?" she asked and she actually sounded like she gave a damn.

A little unsure, he glanced back at the bed, which now looked perfectly normal. "Yeah," he muttered and returned his attention to her.

"Good," she said with a smile, then made a sweeping gesture toward him.

It generally felt like he was hit in the chest by a battering ram and it hurtled him backwards onto the bed. Totally winded by the invisible impact, he managed a groan and draped one arm over his chest. That one was going to hurt in the morning.

She stepped up onto the bed and stopped with one foot on either side of his hips and just looked down at him. "What a sight," she cooed, dropped down on her knees, leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of his head. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" she asked with a smirk, then brushed the fingers of her left hand along his jaw-line. "Now that would be a pity, wouldn't it?" she continued and grabbed his chin in a vicelike grip. "Let's see how much you can squirm," she added.

Too late did he realize what she had in mind when she slipped her right hand down over his belly and shoved it into his jeans. Any touch made his skin tingle, but what she did could not really be called a touch. It was more like a clawed grab of a steel trap that instantly sucked the air out of his lungs and made his abdominal muscles contract painfully to counteract the sheer agony her hand was causing. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was that he couldn't move his arms. They were locked down somehow and all it allowed him was to ball both hands into fists when she slipped her left hand up over his mouth and stifled the grunt of pain he would otherwise have emitted.

If squirming was what she wanted, she got that in spades. Any move he made was geared at getting her to loosen her grip and did the opposite and the pain was so intense, red-hot and icy cold at the same time, that it made him nauseous. He clawed his fingers into the covers beneath him while her left hand muffled any sounds he could make.

He couldn't breathe and felt tears stinging his eyes from the red-hot fire poker pain that made him want to curl up and beg for mercy. He hated what it did to him, hated how it made him feel, but he knew he would not be above begging for release if she allowed it.

As suddenly as she had clamped down on him, she released him again, a satisfied look in her eyes. He sucked in air through his nose and briefly closed his eyes while trying to ignore the throbbing pulse in his crotch. She sure as hell didn't fight clean.

"Shoes off," she whispered, waved a hand which accomplished this without his participation, and then she removed her hand from his mouth. "Now you know what will happen to you if you don't play ball, sweety. I hope my intentions are clear?" she asked.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak right now. He still had the distinct need to curl up on himself to protect himself against further assaults, but he couldn't really move much right now. His arms were still locked down by her power and with her straddling him like she was, there really wasn't anywhere to go.

"That's my boy," she cooed and sat down on him, locking him in place. He tried to shift, tried to estimate how much leeway she gave him, but it wasn't much. "So show me. What have you got?" she asked.

He had no idea what exactly she wanted him to say to that or do for that matter. At this point he could almost hear his teeth creaking from the pressure he put on them to keep his mouth shut.

She ran a long nail along the right edge of his jaw. "Are you always this boring in bed?" she asked and she sounded a tad annoyed now.

"I can't move," he pressed out between clenched teeth. He really had no interest whatsoever in giving her anything right now and there was the added concern that her ministrations might cause pain in certain areas if she did manage to arouse him, which at this point he doubted strongly.

"Oh, yes, of course," she said and chuckled. "How silly of me," she added and released his arms. Then she grabbed his wrists and brought his hands up to inspect his palms for some reason. "You have nice strong hands. I bet you can be an animal in bed," she cooed. "Make an effort, Sam. I want sex and lots of it. Young stud like you must be able to drag it out all night."

"Not if you keep hurting me," he growled. The fear of her power was slowly transforming into anger now and he wasn't sure for how much longer he would be able to keep a lid on the frustration he felt building inside him.

"Ah, you're hampered by such things, are you?" she asked and released his wrists.

He let his arms drop and just lay there and stared up at her. The urge to recite the exorcism rite was overpowering, but he knew what would happen if he did. She would kill Dean and that just wasn't going to happen.

Her pupils expanded and contracted in beat with her heart, a slow almost hypnotic pulsation while she held his gaze and a smirk slipped over her lips. "You really want to hurt me back right now, don't you?" she asked. "Why don't you take a stab at it, huh?"

A shake of the head was all he offered her. He wasn't going to fall for this ruse. It might satisfy the angry beast curled up in the pit of his stomach, but his rationality kept him from moving.

"Fine," she whispered and leaned forward, bending over him until their noses almost touched. She grabbed his shoulders. "Then I'll make the first move, shall I?" She chuckled, delighted at her own evil, while she got up on all fours and sent a look down between them.

Sam raised his head a little to see what she was looking at and winced. She was using her power to unbutton his pants and it sent a frantic burst of panic through him that overrode any sense or reason. But his attempt to rear up, to get her off him so he could protect himself against her, ended in misery. With enough force to nearly squash him, he was hammered down into the mattress. The force squashing him was so intense that he groaned in agony.

It did nothing to stanch the panic, but it did divert his attention away from what she was doing for the moment it took her to wrestle him out of his jeans and shorts.

She arched an eyebrow. "Impressive," she muttered, then grinned. "Let's see if we can coax a little life into you, huh?" she added and ran a hand over his chest.

So suddenly that he nearly gasped, she released the pressure on him, settled down on him again and laid both palms on his stomach. For a long, tense moment she just sat there and stared down at him, then tilted her head to the right and for all intents and purposes, her hands became live wires, sending a steady pulse of pure electricity through him. It was the most intense sexual feeling he had ever experienced and it turned him on like nothing else could.

Sucking in a breath, he reared up, not even sure of what he intended to do. In part he wanted her to stop because of what it was doing to him, but the baser part of his nature wanted more, much more. The intense sexual current she sent through him made him forget who she was, what she was, and what she had so far done to him. All he wanted was what she wanted from him. The primitive part of his brain took over, shoving aside sense and reason so viciously, he couldn't think straight.

He curled the fingers of his right hand into her hair behind her head and yanked her head backward while his left hand found her right breast and curled around it hard enough to bruise her. But she didn't exactly seem to mind. She arched into his touch and moaned when his lips found the side of her neck.

The fabric of her neglige was in the way, so he tore it off her. He released her hair and clawed his fingers into her back, removing the offensive garment with a vicious yank.

"That's more like it," she rasped. She was naked underneath and he clawed his fingers over her skin to her hips to shift her, slid one hand up between her breasts and pushed her backward, arching her back.

At that moment, her hands lost contact with his skin and the intense current rippling through him stopped abruptly. It sobered him instantly and he stopped moving for a second, then pulled his hands off her and dropped back on the bed.

"Now what?" Dawn growled and straightened up to eye him. "Are you really that fickle?"

"Fuck you," he countered vehemently. He was all kinds of turned on right now, could definitely see this through if he had to, but his rationality and his sense of decency and honor got in the way. It would eventually deflate his passion completely and leave her wanting and that wasn't a good thing in this case. "If you want anything out of me, you better keep that current up," he added, hoping she would go for it. It unhinged his mind, made him think of nothing but sex, and he figured he could justify that to himself later much more easily than if he had to do this in his present state of mind.

She eyed him for a moment, then smirked. "Oh really? You like that, do you?"

"No, I don't," he countered angrily. "But it keeps my mind off what you are."

Her eyes narrowed lightly, then she zapped him by touching a finger to his belly. And it was anything but pleasant. It generally felt like being electrocuted. "Like that?" she asked with a smirk on her lips.

He grunted at the painful contraction of his muscles. "You bitch," he hissed.

"You think I'm going to make it easy for you?" she snapped and when he raised his head to glare angrily at her, she hammered a fist into his face, nearly breaking his right cheekbone. Then she grabbed his chin and pulled him upward until his back was at a painful angle. "The price of a soul is pretty damned high, sugar," she sneered. "You're gonna bleed and hurt for it. After all, it's your fault that your brother condemned himself to Hell. You got yourself killed and now he has to pay the price for being such a pathetic loser who can't exist without his family. He's a pathetic excuse for a life form. He has no self-worth, no life outside of protecting his little brother." She leaned in close and for a moment he could smell sulphur on her breath. "You want to know what he saw in that dreamworld you two got yourselves stuck in? You want to know what he went up against?"

"You don't know my brother, you bitch," he pressed out. She zapped him again, making him lash out at her, which resulted in him being squashed back down into the mattress.

"Well, I'm going to tell you. He tangled with himself, with what he'll become when he goes to Hell. That boy has so much pent-up anger at daddy that he's never been able to vent that it won't take more than a year for him to become a demon. Everything he fears, everything he hates, everything he resents is going to boil up in him." She chuckled. "He really, really hates himself. He thinks he isn't worth anything if he doesn't have his little brother around to protect. He doesn't think he's worthy of being loved."

"Shut up," Sam pressed out. Although he on some level knew that Dean had self-worth issues, he hated having it spelled out like that. "Just shut the fuck up, you bitch," he snarled.

His reaction seemed to please her to no end. She slapped him hard across the face, splitting his lip in the process, before she raised herself a little, grabbed his straining erection and guided him home.

It had to be the first time in his life that sex had ever made him nauseous and rather than touch her, he clawed his hands into the sheets beneath him for a moment. Remembering the nature of the surface beneath him, he released his pained hold on the sheets and instead curled his fingers into the wrought-iron head of the bed and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to block out what was happening to him.

Either to keep him 'interested' or because she took pity on him after all, she suddenly placed her hands on his stomach again and reapplied that current that cut through his defenses like a hot knife through butter and shoved his conscious, rational mind out of the way.

It allowed him to participate and he did so viciously until she had enough of his heavy-handed treatment and hammered him back down on the mattress with a burst of energy.

He lost track of time, lost sense of how many times she hurt him during their intercourse, and he was utterly spent by the time she was satisfied.

When she finally released her hold on him and removed her hands, cutting the current off that had kept him up and going, the pain from countless bruises nearly overwhelmed him. He draped an arm over his face, wincing at the soreness of his right cheekbone, and pulled one of the sheets over him when she got off him.

He heard her bustling around the room for a while and wished desperately that she would just get the hell out and leave him alone.

Then the mattress gave beneath him and he felt her run her fingernails over his arm. "Sam," she whispered, grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm away from his face. She eyed him for a moment, a gleam in her eyes. "Aw, poor baby," she cooed sarcastically. "You're all worn out." She released his wrist and rose again, now fully dressed. "You can let yourself out, sugar," she added, turned around and left the room without another glance back.

He just lay there for a moment, his gaze locked on the ceiling above him, his mind twisting through this experience and his stomach rebelled against the treatment he'd been through. With an effort, he got off the bed and barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up what little he had eaten the night before.

It was only when his stomach stilled again that he realized that something was off about this bathroom. He raised his head and glanced around, then lurched to his feet despite the aches and pains every movement caused. The walls were covered in what looked like black mold and it was stretching along the floor too, up the sides of the toilet. It was especially heavy in the shower stall. "Oh shit," he rasped and backed up, bumped into the door and hurriedly retreated from the room.

As quickly as he could, he found his clothes and got into them, winching with each bruise, each scratch her fingernails had made. His busted knee was throbbing hot and painful. It would take time before he got back on track after this.

As embarrassing and demeaning as this had been, he kept thinking about the outcome, that Dean was now free of the deal. A sudden thought made him glance around the room, but there was no sign of the roll of parchment she had shown him and it made him frown. But maybe it had disintegrated now or something. The deal he had made with her had been fulfilled and that had to mean that Dean was safe.

What he needed most of all right now was a shower. A long, hot shower. He felt the distinct need to wash her scent of him, to scrub until he was raw to just get rid of the feel of her, the sulphuric smell he had caught occasionally.

His neck hurt where she had gouged him, his throat hurt, his back ached and he still felt the tingle of the current she had used to keep him in line. His right cheek felt hot and painful and so did the other bruises she had given him.

With an effort, he got his shoes on, rose from the edge of the bed and limped toward the door. Then he stopped and glanced back at the bed. The mattress, which had seemed so disgustingly alive the night before, was just a standard mattress now. The rumpled sheets had blood stains everywhere and he made a face at the thought. "Never again," he rasped, opened the door and left this hellhole behind.