Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the characters …
Author's Note: If you've followed my other fics, you'll see I've deviated a bit from the usual, but we'll see where this leads…
Firstly, I have to give credit to Vanessa at SFTCOL(AR)S who threw out the plot bunny "… would like to see a story where Sam is seduced by a ghost…" from which this fic grew.
No spoilers, this could be set anytime in Season 1 or 2. I must warn though that there are mild sexual references and a few swear words that slipped off the boys tongues (although I tried to remove most of them before posting here) so if this offends you, best to stop reading right now.
As the dust settled, Sam rose clumsily to his feet, momentarily disorientated by the grit in his eyes and the grime in his throat. The well aimed shot may have dispersed the spirit, but it had also brought down a large chunk of ceiling in the barely standing dilapidated house.
Vision still clouded, his eyes fell on his brother who'd been a little too close to the plaster that had fallen and had taken the brunt of the impact. Dean lay still against the wall, covered in a fine layer of debris and for a moment the worst case scenario crossed Sam's panicked mind until he saw the small cloud of dust billowing with every breath Dean took.
Stepping with care, he moved towards Dean, desperate to ascertain how badly he'd been hurt. The translucent figure materialising again between himself and Dean stopped him in his tracks and he belatedly realised his mistake in failing to retrieve his weapon that lay discarded on the floor where he'd dropped it only moments before. Heart pounding heavy in his chest, he knew he needed to reach a weapon, something to defend them with, something to draw the spirit away from his fallen brother.
A small moan emanated from his brother, but he still hadn't moved and Sam's worry upped a notch.
"Hey, over here bitch," he yelled, desperate to give Dean more time …a chance.
His sigh of relief was short lived as the ghostly figure turned towards him, the smile on her face sending an eerie chill down his spine. She must have been beautiful when alive, Sam thought in the back of his mind before pushing the creepy notion away. Now her eyes echoed a hollowness filled with desperation as she sought to punish those she believed had wronged her, now her last moments of life were being prolonged even in death in some misguided and twisted way.
He took a step back in retreat, instinctively distancing himself from the grotesque silhouette yet urging her to follow and move further away from Dean.
His fingers groped at the waistband of his jeans as he stepped purposefully backwards, feeling for the knife he usually tucked there. Usually, but not today. Today it was heavy in its absence, a tool he hadn't remembered to grab in his haste to follow his brother out of the motel room. His gut instincts had been right; they'd rushed into this hunt ill prepared and too blasé, treating the local haunting with less respect than it deserved.
His well worn boot heels bumped into the wall behind him and he realised he had no where left to retreat. With no weapon in hand he felt naked and exposed, knowing it was inexcusable to have left his gun lying on the ground without another weapon to take its place. God, it was one of those cardinal rules their father had drummed into them from the moment their small hands were strong enough to carry a weapon. Now his life was being held at the mercy of some soulless spirit, and even worse, so was his brother's.
He watched as Dean shifted slowly, becoming more alert, and he wanted to yell at him to hurry the fuck up, but couldn't, not without compromising his safety.
His eyes locked with the ghostly apparition as she moved towards him without haste. He stood still and tall, a fine sheen of sweat beading his forehead, a small trickle of moisture weaving down his face.
He stared at her as she took the final few steps to reach him, hypnotised by the intensity in her eyes as they locked onto his. She was the hunter and he was her prey – caught, trapped, unable to move.
"No" he said in a choked whisper.
A delicate pale hand reached out and cupped the side of his face and he stood mesmerised, unable to twist away, a pit of revulsion rolling in his stomach at the close proximity.
He wanted to run, to escape, but invisible binds held him still, strength of will alone not enough to force his body to obey his instinct to flee. His eyes remained locked with hers and he stood rigid as the woman's hand reached up and ghosted across the exposed skin on his neck, the touch feather light and gentle as fingertips stroked his bare flesh. The fine hairs on his exposed neck rose against the gentle pressure of her fingers as a shiver ran down his spine and he tried in vain to unlock the spell she held over him and will his feet to move, to kick out …anything.
His fingers curled tightly into fists at his side.
A gentle tug pulled his head down as the woman rose of tiptoes and tilted her face to meet his. He wanted to turn away, angle his face away from hers but he involuntarily bowed his head and followed her lead.
Cool ghostly lips met his and he clenched his lips tightly closed under the onslaught, fighting the gag reflex at the back of his throat at the inhuman touch. Her lips were cold where they should have been hot, dry where they should have been moist and sweet. She kissed him with desperate fervour, like she needed him to live, to exist, to make her whole.
Her lips sent out a blast of cold ice, seeping through his body, transferring the heat from his body to hers, leeching the warmth from his skin and leaving him with small tremors running through his lanky frame.
He could feel his chest tightening as the cold spread, his heart slowing, each thump loud and strained until it became a struggle to focus on anything but the here and now as his body bowed into her embrace.
His mind, encased in his unresponsive body, wanted to fight, but she pressed closer still, her whole body aligning with his, forcing him back against the wall.
He was freezing, the blood thickening in his veins, moving too slow to warm his body.
Her hands came into full devastating contact with his skin, sending a ripple down his spine. Cold caressing hands ran down body, lifting the frayed edges of his shirt and burrowing under the fabric made soft from too many washes.
He felt repulsed and violated all at once, body locked in a prison with a mind that was free.
He held himself rigid as she moved against him, agile fingers tracing the taunt lines of his flat abdomen before moving up and stroking over his chest, trailing over every ridge and dip in muscle, taking her time exploring under the rucked up shirt.
Tension filled him further as he felt one hand wander lower and more than anything he wanted to break free from his enforced prison and push her away.
Desperate lips pressed against his harder, pushing his head hard against the wall until the rough brickwork scraped his scull and he wanted to yell for her to stop, to tell her 'no'. Whatever had happened to her in life, whatever harm she'd endured, it wasn't him, he wasn't responsible …it wasn't his fault.
Icy fingertips traced along the line where rough denim met firm flesh, exploring and dipping below the waistband. He wanted to cry out with shame as his body responded.
Oh god, no no no…. he chanted silently as his eyes swept the room looking for any escape, coming to rest on the unfocused gaze of his brother stirring against the far wall.
He watched mesmerised as Dean grappled for the shotgun lying by his side and wanted to yell at him to just shoot already, uncaring if he was in the line of fire. Time seemed to come to a standstill as Dean pushed himself up, raised the shotgun, took aim and fired. The blast reverberated through the room and he felt the impact of small pellets of rock salt, his proximity to the target too close to come away unscathed.
As the woman's figure dispersed, the release on his entombed body was instantaneous and with no force to keep him upright he slid down the wall and sank to the floor.
Taking the first full lungful of air in what felt like forever he struggled to catch his breath, wiping a sleeve over his mouth to remove invisible traces of the woman. His whole body throbbed with pain, sensation slowly coming back to his cold limbs.
Concern for his brother and fear that the woman would return spurred him to his feet. Using the wall for support he stood on shaky legs as he waited for his body to regain its natural balance.
Making his way over to his brother, he leant a hand on his brother's shoulder, as much to steady his shaky legs as a sign of comfort. Seeing the fine line of blood seeping from below Dean's hairline he tilted his brother's face up towards his own.
"You okay?" He asked; voice thick and rough.
"Yeah …was just ah enjoying the floor show."
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Sam held two fingers in front of Dean's face, hoping his brother wouldn't notice their slight shake.
"Fingers? …Two …God Sam, hope I didn't break anything up."
"Fuck you Dean."
"Nah, think it was you she had her sights set on Sammy boy….So ah, what did it feel like?"
"You're kidding me right?"
"What …ah, so Sammy doesn't kiss 'n tell."
"What are you, like thirteen Dean?"
"I'm just saying, from my angle, it looked like she slipped her tongue…"
"From your angle Dean? If you'd gotten your ass off the floor a bit sooner and…"
"And what? Ruin your first bit of action in …how long Sam?"
"Can you get your mind out of the gutter for one minute …we gotta find her bones …salt and burn her sorry ass back to hell before she drops in for a repeat performance."
"Huh, twice in one night…"
"I swear to god, if you didn't already have a head injury I'd give you one." Sam bent down and picked up his discarded gun.
Two hours later Sam stepped under the warm spray of the shower, letting the heat from the water wash some of the residual chill from his body.
He'd waited and let Dean have first shower, wanting to clean and dress the small scalp wound on the top of his brother's head. This time Dean had come away lucky, sporting only a killer headache and a few scrapes and bruises that he'd snubbed off as nothing.
After the first up close and personal encounter with the ghost they'd been on high alert as they'd searched the abandoned house and grounds for her body, finally finding it in a small marked grave at the rear of the property. She'd made a couple more appearances, trying again to get her hands on Sam to finish what she'd started, but they'd managed to ward her off each time with a well placed blast of rock salt. He didn't think he could have gone another round with her, but wasn't going to admit to Dean how much the encounter had affected him – that would just be giving his brother too much ammunition to work with.
He let the water flow over his skin, washing away all traces of the night.
When the water ran cold he finally stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, using another to wipe away the excess moisture from his body. After brushing his teeth and pulling on a clean pair of sweats he made his way back into the bedroom, climbing into his bed with a sigh of exhaustion. Relieved to see that Dean was already in bed, he pulled his covers up to his chin and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress and coarse sheets.
"You know Sammy, next time you want a bit of action, make sure they're breathing and…."
"Go to sleep Dean." Sam interrupted, too tired to deal with his brother's twisted sense of humor.
"You know, maybe she just picked up on all your repressed sexuality."
"I'm just saying…"
A choked chuckle emanated from the adjacent bed. "Night John-boy."
"…Kinda kinky, you know, getting it on with a dead chick." Dean just couldn't help mutter a last retort, disappointed that the dark hid the blush he knew would be staining his brother's skin and thereby saving Sam from further ridicule.
"Shut up and go to sleep Dean."
Sam closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him, hugging the blankets close.
Sam shifted restlessly in his sleep as dreams assaulted his weary body. Phantom fingers trailed over his skin, leaving a trail of cold in their wake. He pulled the covers in closer around himself to fight off the chill coursing through his body.
Images shifted in his mind. A pale face leaning into him, pressing down, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. A cold hand sweeping across his chest ...icy fingers embracing the back of his neck.
He jerked awake, freeing himself from the vivid dream. He couldn't help but look around; making sure the figure from his nightmare wasn't in the room, beside him, touching him. His eyes rested on his brother, snoring softly in the next bed, and he released his pent up breath, willing the tension leave his body.
Just a nightmare.
Exhaustion soon dragged him under again, sleep claiming his body, nightmares invading his dreams.
Despite the mild weather he couldn't seem to get warm.
Author's Note: Hope the rating was appropriate. Please let me know if you think it should be changed.
I haven't marked this fic as completed – still deciding whether to leave it as is or to keep going with a bit of hurt/sick Sam as a consequence of the hunt …but I fear it will then be just like other fics I've written. Reviews, criticisms and advice appreciated! Bit out of my comfort zone with this one.