Chapter Text
The grass outside the bunker hadn’t been cut in ages. wild weed had grown nearly waist-high, and whenever the night wind swept up from the south, the entire field rustled in restless waves.
By the time Dean dragged Sam outside, the collar of Sam’s T-shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat. The fabric clung tightly around his throat, making every breath feel labored. Limp and half-conscious, he was hauled deeper into the grass while blades scraped across his face and arms—some sharp-edged, others damp with midnight dew.
Dean let go.
Sam hit the ground on his back in a sparse patch of earth where the vegetation thinned. The soil was soft. The back of his head sank into a cluster of wood sorrel, the tiny clover-shaped leaves trembling for a moment before going still again.
Dean stood over him, looking down.
The moonlight was bright enough to wash the clearing in pale silver, as if someone had dusted the earth with salt. Dean’s eyes were pitch black in the light, but the way he tilted his head—that crooked, amused little angle—was still unmistakably Dean.
“Oh, Sammy,” he said softly, in the same low voice he used to use back in motel rooms after the lights were out, when they’d lie in the dark talking about nothing. “You should really see yourself right now.”
Sam didn’t answer.
He knew at least two ribs were broken. His left shoulder was dislocated. His mouth tasted like rust and blood. He’d tried to trap Dean inside the bunker, but he’d failed. Dean had found him first, carrying an axe when he came stalking toward him. And when the blade swung down, Sam’s only thought had been: I’m dead.
But Dean had only buried the axe beside his head. After studying him for a few seconds, Demon Dean had smiled—a slow, wicked smile.
Now the axe lay discarded nearby, half-buried in the grass, its handle tilted crookedly toward the sky.
Dean crouched in front of him, one knee pressing casually onto Sam’s thigh. Then, unhurriedly, he began pushing Sam’s thin T-shirt upward from the hem, fingertips brushing his skin every so often.
Sam’s stomach tightened in the cold night air.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do, baby?” Dean said, fingers pressing deliberately into one of his injuries, savoring the involuntary twitch beneath his hand. “I wanted to see what you’d look like completely taken apart. Reduced to a total mess.” He hummed thoughtfully. “And then—well. I got inspired.”
He said it lightly, almost conversationally, like he was dusting off an old plan from the back of a drawer.
Sam watched as Dean closed his eyes.
The transformation was disturbingly subtle. No cinematic explosions. No flashes of light or dramatic sound. Something simply began to form behind Dean.
At first it looked like black smoke. Then the color lightened, gradually turning translucent, smooth, almost gelatinous. Jesus Christ. Tentacles. A lot of them. Sam didn’t bother counting. He just stared. They unfurled from somewhere near Dean’s tailbone, hanging suspended in the air as they slowly curled and twisted. Their surfaces gleamed wetly beneath the moonlight, coated in a thin sheen of slime that shone like a snail’s trail.
Dean opened his eyes again and smiled.
There was demonic satisfaction in it—but also Dean’s old grin, the one that always appeared when he’d successfully pulled off some smug little prank.
“Heard these things have excellent lubrication,” he said cheerfully. “Totally body-safe. See? I’m still considerate.”
The first tentacle landed against Sam’s waist without warning. The cold touch made his entire body jolt. The slime coating it was slick enough that friction disappeared instantly between it and his skin. It moved slowly—painfully slowly—sliding down the curve of Sam’s side, around his hipbone, and beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Sam clenched his jaw.
The tip was softer than fingers. And now it was stroking against the sensitive flesh of his cock.
A second tentacle brushed gently against his collarbone, slithering upward along the side of his neck until it settled behind his ear, in the small hollow there. That spot had always been sensitive. Sam could feel his pulse beating beneath it. The tentacle simply stayed there, unmoving, pressed against his skin like it was listening to his heartbeat.
“Did I ever tell you?” Dean reached over and patted his cheek. “You shake like a drowned puppy.” He grinned. “C’mon, Sammy. Don’t be shy.”
Sam stayed silent.
The night wind chilled his skin. Grass bent beneath his arms, itchy against his wrists. Then the tentacle behind his ear moved again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if preparing to crawl into his ear.
Its slowness only made it worse.
Sam stared at Dean’s face—those black eyes, the crooked brow, the faint curve of his mouth. His brother’s face. The face he’d known for decades. The face he trusted more than anything else in the world. A wave of despair crashed through him harder than the moment he’d thought the axe would split his skull open.
Because he could no longer say—or even wait for—Dean to save him.
Another tentacle coiled around his wrist with brutal force, yanking his arm over his head and pinning it into the grass. More followed immediately after, extending from behind Dean with eerie coordination, like they’d rehearsed this. One locked around his left ankle. Another slipped into his jeans and hooked behind his right knee. Together they forced his legs apart. A thinner one slid through the collar of his shirt, gliding down between his clavicles, over his sternum, before splitting into two strands that wrapped tightly around his nipples.
Dean braced one hand beside Sam’s head while the other gripped his jaw. Then he shoved his thumb into Sam’s mouth and pinned down his tongue. The gesture was rough. And somehow intimate.
“Tongue down, baby,” Dean murmured. “If you bite me, you’ll find out exactly what happens next.” His voice stayed calm. Patient. “I’m still planning to do this the gentle way. Don’t disappoint me.”
His thumb pressed hard against Sam’s tongue, forcing his mouth open. Saliva spilled from the corners of his lips, trailing down his jaw and into his neck. Another tentacle slithered along Dean’s fingers. It brushed Sam’s lips. Finger-thick, but softer at the tip—like a paintbrush soaked in ink. It dragged wetly across his mouth before sliding inside.
The sensation was deeply wrong.
Smooth. Tasteless. Slightly colder than human skin. Nothing Sam had ever felt before.
But it was strangely careful at first, moving only in the front of his mouth, tracing slow circles against the roof, occasionally brushing his gums. Dean’s thumb still held his tongue down, and Sam could taste the salt of his skin there—familiar and unfamiliar at once.
“Remember that motel called Alice when we were kids, Sammy?” Dean asked casually, adding another finger to pry his jaw wider, exposing the wet interior of his mouth around the tentacle. “You got so sick you dehydrated yourself. Dad chewed me out for it.” He laughed softly. “I was pissed off. Guilty too. You were delirious and fought me every time I tried to get medicine into you.”
Dean pushed his fingers deeper into Sam’s mouth.
“I told you if you didn’t swallow, you weren’t getting better.” His smile sharpened. “So eventually I just forced the pills down your throat.” He tilted his head. “Just like this.”
Sam barely remembered that.
What he remembered instead was the motel air conditioner rattling all night long. Dean piling every blanket onto him while he slept under his own jacket. Dean’s rough, calloused palm resting against his burning forehead. It had scratched slightly against his skin. And it had made him feel safe.
Now Dean’s fingers and the tentacle worked together inside his mouth, relentless even when they pushed deep enough to trigger his gag reflex.
“See?” Dean said softly. “That resistance of yours failed again, Sammy.” His voice carried almost affectionate amusement. “And this time, I’m not even pretending to ask what you want.”
He pulled his hand away suddenly. Sam’s throat spasmed instinctively. The tentacle inside his mouth slid deeper, pressing against the back of his throat—but didn’t stop there. It advanced slowly, almost thoughtfully, as though allowing him time to adjust to every inch.
The slime coating it made the process easier than it should’ve been. Slick and obscene. Sam’s throat muscles clenched and relaxed helplessly around it, forced to accept it.
Then he felt it descending.
Down his esophagus.
The sensation of something pushing deeper inside him from within. It hurt. Not enough to tear him open, impossibly enough—but too deep. Far too deep. Sam could barely breathe. Finally the movement stopped. A moment later, something cold began pouring directly down the tentacle and into his stomach. And it kept pouring. And pouring. Until his abdomen felt faintly swollen. Even for Sam, this had crossed into something grotesque.
At some point Dean had rested a hand against his chest, palm spread over his sternum while his fingers lazily toyed with one of the nipples held captive by the tentacles.
“Breathe through your nose, Sammy,” Dean said in the same tone he’d once used teaching Sam to shoot. Calm. Focused. Absolute. “I’m not letting you die too easily before we’re finished, baby.”
Sam finally remembered how to breathe. He inhaled sharply through his nose. Grass. Dirt. Sulfur from Dean’s skin. The scents flooded his lungs together while the thing in his throat continued filling him.
Too much—
Sam’s vision blurred. Moonlight dissolved into a pale white haze. Time lost meaning after that. He could focus only on breathing—and on not choking when the tentacle withdrew just enough to provoke another violent gag reflex before sliding back in again.
Beneath him, more tentacles were stripping off his jeans.
They worked together seamlessly: undoing buttons, dragging down zippers, shoving denim and underwear beneath his thighs. They moved like different limbs of the same creature, requiring no communication at all.
His cock sprang fully hard into the cold night air. The reaction hit Sam with delayed, horrified shame. And confusion. He couldn’t comprehend how his body could respond like this. There wasn’t an ounce of desire left in his mind—only fear and humiliation. But his body clearly disagreed.
Dean smiled at him.
“Well, look at that.” His voice dripped satisfaction. “Fast response time, Sammy.” He licked his lips. “You’re confused now, sure. But pretty soon you won’t need your brain anymore.” His grin widened. “You’ll turn into a desperate, greedy little slut.”
“My slut.”
Sam’s eyes widened uneasily.
Then he felt a tentacle wrap around the base of his cock.
Another approached.
He tried to twist away, but the one in his throat thrust deep again, deliberately triggering a brutal gag reflex that made his entire body convulse. Tears burned hot at the corners of his eyes.
And then he felt it.
A tentacle so thin it was barely thicker than a needle. It coiled loosely around the head of his cock before the tip pressed delicately against his urethra. Sam tried to struggle. But his mouth was stuffed full. No words emerged, only a muffled sound deep in his throat. He tried to move his legs, but several tentacles pinned his ankles mercilessly to the ground while the thin one circled the slit lazily, coating it in slime before beginning to push inside.
This felt completely different from the invasion in his mouth. Nothing had ever touched him there before. It was unbearably sensitive. The tentacle was tiny, but Sam felt every millimeter as it stretched him open inch by inch, crawling deeper into his urethra with maddening patience. It secreted its own lubricant as it went. His legs were trapped. His wrists pinned. All he could do was claw helplessly at the ground. Grass stems snapped beneath his fingers. His knuckles turned white.
His eyes burned. When tears finally spilled down his face, Dean leaned forward and licked them away.
Meanwhile, the tentacles around his nipples began moving in earnest. One twisted left. The other right. Tightening. Loosening. The asymmetrical rhythm, combined with the simultaneous stimulation above and below, scrambled Sam’s brain completely. He couldn’t tell which sensation overwhelmed him more. He only wanted to escape.
But there was nowhere left to go. Tentacles covered every part of him. Dean himself barely moved.
His black eyes reflected the moonlit image of Sam tangled beneath the writhing mass. He watched with open appreciation: every shudder, every involuntary arch of Sam’s hips, every muffled noise leaking helplessly from his throat.
“Hm,” Dean murmured. “Guess it’s time for the main event.”
He snapped his fingers. A thick tentacle pressed wetly against Sam’s ass.
It was larger than the one in his mouth, curved subtly at the tip in a way that felt horribly intentional. It didn’t thrust inside immediately. Instead it rotated slowly as it pushed in, spreading slime across every inch of him as it entered.
The lubricant warmed once it touched his skin, creating a strange sensation somewhere between mint and heat—faintly burning, persistent. Sam’s hips jerked upward involuntarily. At the same moment, the tentacle in his throat shoved deeper again. This was insane. Completely insane.
Sam wanted desperately to close his eyes and pretend this was a nightmare—but when he did, his body only became more sensitive. Dean grabbed his jaw again and forced his head up.
“Look at me,” he said.
Sam opened his eyes.
The thick tentacle inside him bottomed out at that exact moment. The thin one in his urethra moved with it in horrible synchronization—both ends of him invaded at once, thrusting in and out with obscene imitation of sex. His cock remained painfully hard, incapable of softening. Every movement reverberated through him from the inside. And suddenly it felt like his mind was somewhere very far away. Pleasure—terrible, invasive pleasure—was eating through the last territory of coherent thought. Every movement stole another piece. Eventually, of course, it would win.
“Sammy—Jesus, you’re crying.” The words left Dean’s lips in a hush that was dangerously close to reverence. He released Sam’s jaw, his hand shifting to wipe the tears from Sam’s cheek with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. A mockery of an apology. But the scent of sulfur still clung to his fingers, and his eyes remained pools of endless, obsidian black. “Damn,” Dean murmured, tilting his head as he studied Sam’s ruined expression. “You look so devastatingly pretty when you cry.”
New tentacles kept finding places on Sam’s body. Some wrapped around his balls, applying pressure with their entire slick surfaces—not crushing, more like being held inside an enormous soft hand. The one in his mouth kept thrusting shallowly in his throat, endlessly, perfectly synchronized with the thicker rhythm inside him. His jaw had gone numb. His whole body felt full. Every place that could be entered was occupied by slick, moving tentacles. They didn’t injure him. They never quite pushed beyond what he could survive. They were simply everywhere.
Dean slid his fingers gently into Sam’s hair, fingertips resting against his scalp. His thumb traced slow circles like the beginning of a spell while the tentacles inside Sam moved deeper and faster.
Too much.
Too many sensations layered together until Sam felt ruined beyond repair.
He wanted—
God help him. He wanted more. Why was he still fighting this?
The tentacle in his mouth withdrew slightly, allowing him room to breathe.
Sam gasped desperately, eyes wet, throat full of saliva and slime. The tentacle hovered near his lips afterward while the others continued relentlessly inside him. The thin one in his urethra felt deep enough to reach his bladder. A broken sound escaped his throat.
The tentacles kept moving with mechanical endurance, each maintaining its own rhythm. The thick one inside his ass thrust slow and deep, grinding against his prostate. The two on his chest kept tightening around his nipples, pain blooming sweetly before dissolving into tingling warmth. The one around the base of his cock held tight enough to stop him from spilling anything. And the thin tentacle in his urethra never stopped moving at all. The aching fullness there drove him nearly insane.
“Shh.” Dean’s hand stayed buried in his hair. “Almost there, Sammy.”
Sam didn’t know what almost there meant. But he understood something was changing inside him.
The slime the tentacles secreted felt like it was seeping directly into his bloodstream now, spreading through his veins. His hands and feet began tingling—not numb from lack of circulation, but melting into a strange, warm softness, as though every nerve ending in his body had been soaked open in warm water.
Then he felt the heat.
It spread outward from deep inside him. At first it was tiny, like a candle lit in the middle of an endless night. The flame barely illuminated the surrounding darkness, but its warmth was real. It settled low in his stomach before climbing upward—past his diaphragm, into his chest. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t even uncomfortable. Just warm. Warm in a way that made it feel like his body was slowly softening from the inside out.
Dean withdrew his hand from Sam’s hair and began gently toying with his earlobe instead.
“Feel that?” he murmured fondly. “It’s starting.” His thumb stroked slowly across the soft skin there. “It’s gonna make you feel so good, Sammy. It’s gonna turn you into what you were always supposed to be.”
For one fleeting second, Sam wanted to shake his head. Wanted to throw all of them off. But his body no longer listened to him. The heat sank downward again, spreading through his limbs. Everywhere it touched, his muscles loosened. Suddenly the thick tentacle inside him met no resistance at all. Wet sounds accompanied each thrust now. His throat had softened too, opening eagerly around the thing filling it. Every trace of nausea vanished completely.
His cock ached with how hard it was. He wanted more. God, he wanted more. Why was his mouth still empty? Why wasn’t something filling it already?
No. No—Somewhere very deep inside his head, a faint voice was still screaming. But it sounded distant now, muffled behind thick glass. He couldn’t make out the words anymore. Only the emotion. Fear. Despair. But he couldn’t feel those things anymore. All he felt was heat, and the pleasure of the tentacles thrusting inside him in endless layered waves that still somehow weren’t enough.
He became something built only to feel. And he no longer wanted them to stop. He loved their rhythms. The thick one inside him grinding against that sensitive spot that made his toes curl. The thin one in his urethra retreating slightly before pushing back in with agonizing slowness. The ones around his nipples tightening until moans slipped uncontrollably from his throat.
Moonlight washed over Dean’s body, outlining him in cold silver. Tentacles spread behind him like the limbs of some deep-sea creature unfurling in the dark, moving with eerie grace, almost reverence.
Sam tried to speak. Only breathless sounds came out.
Dean’s fingers slid down the side of his face and settled over his throat, thumb pressing lightly against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
“Now, baby,” Dean whispered, “what do you want to say?”
Sam opened his mouth.
That tiny screaming voice still existed somewhere deep inside him, but he couldn’t understand it anymore. All he could hear was his own body—the wet thrusting sounds inside him, the exquisite drag inside his urethra, the pressure on his nipples, his own heartbeat pounding louder and louder.
“P… please.”
Dean smiled.
“Go ahead,” he coaxed. “Tell me what you want me to do, Sammy.”
The thin tentacle slid slowly out of his urethra. Painfully slowly. Almost mercifully. But the moment it left, something worse replaced it. Sam wanted it back.
The stretched-open place inside him clenched greedily around emptiness, every contraction reminding him what had been there moments ago. Transparent fluid leaked from the slit of his cock, running down the shaft mixed with slime. The thick tentacle inside him stopped too. Right at the entrance. Not moving. The others gradually stilled one by one.
“No…” Sam gasped, tears flooding his eyes. “Don’t stop. I need…”
He needed to be filled. It was the only thought left in his mind.
“Dean—please, Dean.”
Dean lowered his head, black eyes narrowing with pleasure before pressing a sweet kiss to Sam’s lips.
“That’s my good Sammy.”
The thick tentacle slammed back inside him. No teasing. No grinding. No slow entry. Straight to the deepest point. A strangled moan tore from Sam’s throat—the desperate relief of finally being full again.
“Wanna come?” Dean asked, forehead resting against his.
Sam nodded frantically.
“Wait a little longer, baby.” Dean’s voice turned cruel in the gentlest possible way. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Then every tentacle pulled away at once. The emptiness nearly made Sam cry out. He stared at Dean wide-eyed, cock still painfully hard, his body clenching helplessly around absence. He needed them back. God, he needed them back so badly it hurt.
“Tell me, Sammy,” Dean said after kissing him again, “what do you want?”
Sam swallowed hard.
When he heard himself speak, his voice sounded ragged, feverish, wrecked.
“I wanna be filled, Dean. Please.” His breathing shook. “Everywhere. I want everything filled.”
Dean remained still.
“Dee.” The word slipped out through tears. A childhood word. The one Sam used before he grew old enough to stop needing it aloud. Dean had never stopped calling him Sammy—but Sam only used Dee when things were truly bad. Now he stared at his brother with dazed eyes full of nothing but desperate hunger. “Please.”
Something twisted across Dean’s face.
For one brief second, something cracked inside those black eyes. Green flashed beneath. Bright, wet green. Then he blinked, and it vanished.
“Of course, Sammy.” The demon grinned again. “I always take care of you. Big brother’s job, right?”
The tentacles returned. This time there was no order. No careful division. They flooded him all at once. The one behind him drove so deep Sam lost the ability to make sound entirely. His head fell back, throat exposed in a pale arc beneath the moonlight. The one in his mouth was thicker now, stretching his jaw painfully wide. The one inside him had grown larger too, ridges along its surface grinding perfectly against his prostate with every thrust. And the thin one in his urethra kept him balanced perpetually between pleasure and pain.
Tears streamed down Sam’s face again. Not from suffering. His body no longer belonged to him at all. Long hair clung messily against his cheeks. Beneath the moonlight he looked almost holy—like a desecrated saint somehow left beautiful anyway.
Dean wrapped an arm around him and pulled him upright against his chest. The change in angle drove the tentacle inside him even deeper. The one in his mouth finally withdrew when he reached the point of unbearable overstimulation and, mercifully, didn’t return. Absurdly, Sam felt grateful for that. Dean’s arm stayed wrapped around his chest, palm pressed over his heart. And for one fleeting second, Sam wanted nothing more than to curl completely into Dean’s embrace.
He wanted Dean there. His brother.
“You gonna hate me for this, Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded suddenly tired against his ear. Sam shivered at the warm breath brushing his skin. It took him several seconds to understand the question through the haze in his head. His throat hurt too badly to answer properly, so he only shook his head firmly.
Never, Dean.
“You should,” Dean whispered.
When Demon Dean finally dismissed the tentacles and entered him himself, Sam’s head dropped weakly against Dean’s shoulder. Above them, the sky glittered with stars. Tiny beside the moon. Like grains of salt scattered across black cloth. His body still accepted Dean greedily despite his exhaustion. Their heartbeats had almost fallen into sync now.
But… did demons even have heartbeats?
Sam didn’t know why that thought still existed somewhere inside him. It felt like his body and soul had split apart, leaving part of him curled quietly in the corner of his own mind, thinking disconnected thoughts while the rest drowned. Dean had died. Then Dean had become this. Sam had searched for him for so long. He’d done terrible things trying to bring him back. He’d become something monstrous himself in the process. Lied to innocent people. Hurt people. So maybe he deserved this.
At least the demon tormenting him was Dean. So it was okay. It had to be okay. Dean wasn’t the same Dean anymore—but he was still Dean. Sam had to believe that.
Then why did it still hurt so much?
Orgasm crashed through him in endless waves. His body arched helplessly backward while every muscle locked tight. Dean’s arms held him steady, refusing to let him escape. Every thrust struck the same place with devastating precision. Sam shook violently in his brother’s arms. Trying to curl inward. Trying to flee. He clawed upward blindly, grabbing Dean’s forearm across his chest. During one spasm his nails bit hard enough to break skin.
Dean didn’t pull away. He let Sam claw him. Let bloody fingernails sink deeper into his flesh. Then he lowered his head and kissed the pulse point at Sam’s temple. He was kissing him. Compared to the tentacles, the softness of Dean’s tongue inside his mouth almost felt comforting.
Sam felt impossibly full. Not painfully. The fullness itself had become pleasurable somehow. His body reveled in being used this thoroughly. In being entered by Dean. In being a vessel for his brother’s cock.
He’d forgotten the tentacle around the base of his cock had loosened long ago. When he finally came, his eyes rolled back completely. The orgasm hit with terrifying force, obliterating him instantly. His toes dug into the grass. His fingers sank deeper into Dean’s arm. The back of his head slammed against Dean’s collarbone. He might’ve cried out. He didn’t know what name came out. Maybe Dee. Maybe something else.
He didn’t know when Dean came either. He couldn’t see his face. He only remembered Dean lowering him gently back into the grass afterward. Without Dean’s warmth and the tentacles around him, the ground felt cold. Wood sorrel pressed against his skin again.
Sam lay there panting, chest rising hard beneath the moonlight, eyes half-open and unfocused on the sky above. Dean fell strangely silent. He reached out and wiped away the half-dried tear tracks on Sam’s face. Then he lay down beside him.
The tentacles were gone now, withdrawn back into the darkness behind Dean as though they’d never existed at all. Dean stretched out one arm and guided Sam’s head onto his shoulder.
Grass whispered softly around them. The moon drifted farther west.
“Dean,” Sam whispered tentatively. His voice was ruined from too many orgasms, barely more than breath.
“I’m here,” Dean answered.
Sam relaxed instantly. Whatever else had happened, knowing Dean was here—that was enough. He rested obediently against Dean’s shoulder. Questions drifted through his exhausted mind: Why had the axe missed? Was Dean truly a demon now, or still somehow Dean underneath? But he was too tired to chase any of them. So Sam pretended everything was normal. Like they’d just gotten back from a hunt and collapsed together to rest afterward. He wove the lie carefully for himself. He’d always been good at that. Then he closed his eyes.
Dean realized his fingers had slipped into Sam’s soft hair again. His thumb moved slowly through the strands, brushing away bits of grass caught there.
Dean always took care of his little brother Sammy. That instinct lived in him as deeply as breathing or fighting. For a moment he stared at his own hands with raw hatred.
The night deepened around them.
Sam slept naked beneath his palm, body covered in bruises and marks, muscles still solid and strong beneath the damage. Broad back. Sharp lines along his spine.
Objectively speaking, Sam wasn’t small anymore. He hadn’t been for years. But to the human part of Dean, Sam would always be the little brother he had to protect. Even though Sam’s hands could kill monsters just as easily as his own. Right now those hands lay open and defenseless against the grass. Even asleep, Sam’s face still carried that same unguarded trust in Dean.
And Dean had ruined everything.
The realization hit him like static under his skin.
“God,” he whispered hoarsely. “What did I do? Sammy… my Sammy.”
Dean pulled him closer. His eyes had turned green again. And he was crying.
But demons didn’t cry.
When the demon resurfaced fully, all it felt was endless irritation and confusion. This was ridiculous. It should kill Sam now and be done with it. Sam was a weakness, and demons weren’t supposed to hesitate. But in the end it only sat there stiffly, arms still wrapped around Sam. Unable to hurt him. Unwilling to let him go.
tbc.