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It is fuzzy around the sides-like a life out of focus.
“Ungh.” Push. Push. He can feel the elastic push-back of flesh, it must be painful, he must be hurting something—someone. It is definitely someone, this person feels good; there is warmth that is familiar; but he is unwanted, there is no fight, no resistance but he can feel the repulsion even as he passes through a resistant ring of tissue to a warm, tight canal that hugs his erection giving the false impression of invitation.
The sides cleared to the sharp edges of a dream and a realization of his separate consciousness: one engulfing itself in this subconscious assault and the other remembering this horrifying lucidity and the carnage that always followed. Sleep fitting him uncomfortably, Sam shuddered…revolted.
In the safe world of dreams the view became panoramic and the body beneath him became clear, it was Dean writhing in pain beneath him. Something animal aroused in him, responding to the heat in Dean’s struggle. Sam pushed again into the deep tissue of flesh. He angled upward slightly to hit the sensitive bundle of nerves buried deep inside his victim. Dean moaned and choked back tears; invoking another violent push. Sam’s thrusts became frantic, an arrhythmic pounding. Sam smirked at his brother’s discomfort and thrust again, this time drawing tears from the twisted face beneath him. Fuck! His senses and his memory combined to create a panicked and desperate want to make Dean scream from forced pleasure, pain, anything...
Sam shot awake in a sea of sweat. He surveyed the plain, filthy motel room, and took note that his brother was safely dozing in a separate bed a few feet away. He sighed. The same nightmarish visions had haunted his sleep for weeks. Always visions of Dean struggling beneath him coupled with the sick satisfaction of deriving pleasure from another man’s pain. Sam sighed deeply and attempted to push the covers of his sagging bed away, only to discover with considerable disgust that they were sticking to him.
“Ungh,” flashes of Dean’s naked skin ran through Sam’s mind as his brother stirred. A heap of hideously patterned motel covers were thrown aside as Dean sat upright. Sam ground his teeth and walked quickly toward the tiny bathroom in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable quip about the damp spot gracing the front of his boxers.
Sam slammed the door behind him and leaned against the cheap, rotting door. He palmed his face in an attempt to wipe away the vivid images from his dreams. Dean’s pained moans and screams haunted him now. He felt broken inside knowing that he took such pleasure in these…fantasies of Dean lying helpless beneath him.
“Sammy, zip up and get out!” Dean grumbled after pounding on the other side of the door.
“Yeah, just hold it for a damn minute, alright?” Sam tried his best to sound sleepy. The last thing he needed was the third degree about his wrong, dirty dreams. He just wanted to crawl back into bed and fall into a black, dreamless sleep.
He opened the door to face the sleep-worn visage of his fantasy victim. “Mmmph,” was all the conversation Dean could muster as he pushed past his brother. Sam walked out of the bathroom and into his bed. He stretched out on the bed and glanced to his right. The clock informed him that it was 3 in the morning in its dull red glow. Sam sighed again. He knew there would be no drifting back into the arms of sleep tonight. No comfort, no rest, just dull blips of sadistic joy and perverse violent desire.