Dean had been a stubborn son of a bitch since birth, coming into this world a week later than any doctor had predicted, and he'd been doing things his way ever since. Giving up wasn't in his nature.

But damn if this succubus hadn't discovered a weak spot.

Castiel, grace-less, practically human, had come to rescue him and gotten his stupid feathered ass caught. Dean couldn't begin to guess how the guy knew where he was. Dean had been trapped down here for five days (if his torture-addled brain was correct), but he and Cas hadn't spoken in weeks. Dean might have mumbled a silent prayer in a moment of delirious pain on day three, but he doubted Cas had the mojo for hearing prayers any more. The guy didn't have the juice to fight off the succubus when she caught him infiltrating her seedy hide-out, that much was undeniable.

"All right, Sweetheart," Dean drawled through a mouthful of his blood. He spat it at the high-heeled shoes of the haughty demoness. "Let's skip past the feeble attempts to break me. You know who I am. We both know how this ends."

She smirked full, pouty lips. "I don't think you do, baby," she said.

"Sure I do," Dean replied with empty bravado, distracted by the pain in his—everywhere—but more so by the fact that Castiel wasn't waking up. The angel had been out cold for several minutes, but at least he wasn't screaming anymore, the anguished, high-keening cries, the gasped, "I'm sorry, Dean," between each new wound, his eyes broadcasting his shame even more than his pain.

The screaming had almost broken Dean—had nearly made him give up everything to make that horrible, tortured sound stop. But now Cas lay silent and unmoving. Blood pooled beneath him on the floor, leaking from a gaping hole that went straight through his right shoulder. That was the worst of the stab wounds, but several others littered his body. Cas would need to make a trip to the trench coat store when they made it out of this alive.

His current one was beyond salvaging. Dean worked his jaw, the blinding pain and stiffness making it hard to speak. "I'm gonna break free," he said before inhaling a ragged breath. "And you're gonna get your freaky demon head chopped off."

The succubus, trussed up and stacked like a porn star, wore a hot librarian get up. She was ruining one of Dean's favorite kinks as well as his face and Cas's trench coat. The bitch would die screaming. She laughed low in her throat, tittering and chirping like a sexy bird.

"Dean Winchester," she stated. "I heard that you were insufferable, but I rather like that mouth of yours." She toyed idly with the paring knife in her hands. The rest of her torture implements lay on a table at her side. Save for that table and the chair Dean was strapped to, the room they occupied was an empty basement. It had concrete floors, work lights hung from low-hanging rafters, and a stuffy mildew smell that sank into everything.

"How about you put that mouth to good use, hm?" she teased.

"Sorry," Dean rasped. "But you're so not my type."

She tilted her head and smiled. Her body transformed, hazy at first, like a mirage, and finally all at once. Her clothes were the same, but her hair had turned from red and curly to straight and black. Eyes that had been big and blue moments before were now deep brown and almond-shaped. She looked like one of the Busty Asian Beauty girls.

"Dammit!" Dean groaned. "Leave one of my kinks untouched, would you?"

"Oh, baby," she drawled as she hiked up her skirt, revealing shapely thighs wrapped in black stockings and a garter belt. "I'm going to leave nothing of yours untouched." And then she sat on his lap, straddling him. Dean, handcuffed to the metal chair at wrists and ankles and bound with ropes everywhere else, could do nothing but hide his reaction. That's what she wanted: for him to be aroused by her. Once that happened, she would satisfy him, feed on his sexual desires, and kill him in the act. He'd encountered her type before. Sex demons were a little rarer than vampires, but they weren't usually this demented. Torture was strange for a succubus. So was the fact that she had him trapped. And Cas, too.

Maybe this was the Alpha. She seemed strong enough. And whatever the hell power she wafted over Dean to make his pain turn into sweet, agonizing pleasure, damn near knocked him unconscious from the throbbing desire. Every laceration on his skin, every bruised or broken inch of him sent jolts of sweet elation to his senses. It hurt, and it felt fucking amazing—so good that he wanted more pain, more pleasure. He wanted to be stabbed to orgasm and then to death.

But he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't get hard, not when the succubus kissed him and he felt it through his whole body. Not when she ground her shapely hips on his lap. Not even when she found that spot behind his ear that always made him drip pre-cum when it was kissed, even without the use of her sex magic making everything ten thousand times more powerful. Her voice was like silk as it wafted over him.

"Come on baby," she whispered, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. "Play with me. I need to feel you."

No, he would not get hard. He knew that if he let himself give in even a little bit, her power would gain a foothold and he'd die; then she'd kill Cas or worse. So he grit his teeth and thought of salads, minivans, Crowley.

She unbuttoned her shirt, revealing a hot pink push up bra and massive honking titties underneath. Dean's mouth went dry. He tasted copper and something else, a sickly sweetness that seemed charged with electricity. Her magic, he guessed.

The succubus groped her breasts and rolled her hips over his lap.

"Play with me," she repeated. "Or I'm going to play with your pet over there." Her smile was toxic and gorgeous. If he'd seen this chick at a bar and she'd flashed him that smile, he would have been at her side in an instant, and they'd have been in the backseat of Baby not long after that. But this fake sexual arousal, this magic-induced want, it was poison eating at his veins, and he fought it with everything he had. Because he may have wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, but he was stubborn, dammit, and she was a freakin' demon.

"You're not his type either," Dean growled through clenched teeth.

The succubus laughed and tossed her head to look behind her at the unconscious pincushion.

"Do angels even have a type?" she asked, surprising Dean with a sincere question instead of a snappy comeback.

"I don't know," he answered then grunted, "Not demons."

The succubus crawled off Dean's lap with a sigh. She buttoned her shirt and tugged her skirt down. She tightened her hand into a fist as she withdrew her magic from Dean's body, and the pain flared raw-hot all over his body. It was even worse than he remembered. It made him long for the excruciating torture of hurts-so-good elation that her freaky sex-torture magic gave him. This all-encompassing anguish made him puke. He turned his head as much as he could, but he still dribbled sick on his left shoulder. He couldn't even wipe his mouth. His vision swam as the succubus crossed the room to where Cas lay face down in his own blood.

God, he hated this bitch! He hated that she tried to use Cas against him. He hated that he couldn't show how much it hurt to see his friend in pain. Hated that he had to pretend he didn't care. He'd hoped to convince the succubus that torturing Cas wouldn't break Dean. But it almost did. God, it almost did.

When she ran Cas's shoulder through, and he'd cried out like nothing Dean had ever heard before, Dean felt desperation he'd only known a few times before, namely when he thought Sam had died. Feeling those feelings about Cas was intense. Hiding them from both the angel and the demon was one of the hardest things he had yet to endure. Now when the succubus approached Castiel, it was without any weapon. Dean thought that was a good thing at first, a chance that she was giving up on using the defenseless angel as a torture device. She gazed at Dean.

"Last chance to give yourself to me willingly," she said.

Dean tried to smile. "Bite me, demon bitch," he replied.

Her features shifted again, that same heat-off-the-pavement warp coating her body. He saw her eyes change color, flashing almost green across the dark room. Her hair shrank back toward her scalp, lightening into a tan blonde. Her skin darkened into a buttery tan. Her shoulders filled out. The woman was becoming a man. Her clothes were changing, too. Jeans. Plaid shirt. Bloodstains.

A horrifying realization hit Dean square in the soul.

"No," he growled.

The mirage snapped into crisp focus, and Dean stared in horror at a living, breathing mirror of himself. The succubus knelt and looped Cas's arm over her shoulder. The angel grunted as his head lolled back.

"No!" Dean shouted, stars erupting in his vision and bile crawling up his esophagus. The demon gave him a final grin, one he'd seen on his own face a thousand times in motel mirrors across the country. It was the shit-eating, 'I'm a handsome devil,' expression, a self-inflicted mask and lie that got him out of the room and socializing with the real world when he knew any more solitude would turn him into a shell. It was a grin that flashed cockiness, confidence, and hid all manner of self-loathing and doubt. But on the demon's face, it was the biggest lie of all, and it scared Dean senseless because it was just like him.

"I'll see you later," she said and finished with a heated, "Bitch."

Dean shook. The air was too thin to breathe. He couldn't speak. Had the demon literally stolen his voice? It sounded like it. Felt like it. She took Cas away, and the door slammed closed and locked behind them.