Supernatural; tentacles/Dean: "Slide"
Title: Slide
Author: Kitana
Warnings: NC-17; tentacles/Dean. Possibly crack. Definitely crack. Pre-series. Breathplay and dub-con. Dean’s so used to having backup that, despite his cautious, careful steps, the thing in this old, dilapidated house gets the jump on him before he’s able to notice that it’s done it.
Unbeta'ed (like most of my stuff), ~1500 words.
***
Dean’s so used to having backup that, despite his cautious, careful steps, the thing in this old, dilapidated house gets the jump on him before he’s able to notice that it’s done it. It wraps one thick tendril around his ankle, pulling Dean down to the floor. The wood of the floor cracks under the force of his weight, and he shoots instinctively, a round of rock salt scattering the thing - the ghost, he thought it was a ghost - just long enough for Dean to get back to his feet.
He skirts around the edge of the dent he made in the floor, wary, racking his brain at the same time looking for another sign of it. He doesn’t remember reading anything that would make this case more than a mere haunting, but as Dean grunts and dodges another well, hell, tentacle, he realizes that he’s got nothing and it’s a whole new ball game. It looks like a person, just a regular young man from, say, the 1840s, and Dean is having trouble wrapping his head around the snake-like feelers stemming from it, waving in the air like there’s a breeze. Last he checked, ghosts didn’t evolve. They got stronger, could move things, yeah, but this? Dean’s going to have to write the myth for this one.
In the split second it takes for him to think those thoughts, it comes at him fast, more than one tentacle splitting off from the main body. He manages to duck and shoot three of them before they get to him, but he’s too slow to hit the main body and he misses the fourth only to have it wrap around his wrist and force him to drop his shotgun. Shit. He reaches back to grab his pistol and a tendril springs from the one around right his wrist to clasp around the left one, like manacles. Dean’s able to shoot once before his hand spasms and the gun clatters to the floor.
The bullet went straight through, hitting the wall like the thing isn’t corporeal, and that just has Dean’s mind boggling further.
"What the hell are you, you son of a bitch?" Dean shouts at it, attempting to pull out of the thing’s - ghost, remember it’s a ghost, he tells himself - grasp. The limbs pulsate slick and cool around his wrists, coating them in disgusting clear ooze. That only makes Dean tug harder; the tentacles are flexible and they move when he moves, but the iron grip stays the same.
It burbles, merrily if Dean had to guess its mood, and pulls him closer. Dean can’t stop it, but he digs his heels into the floor anyway. Two tentacles emerge this time to wrap around his ankles, and damn, now he’s extra fucked because he can’t even give it a hard time. It seems to just enjoy holding Dean in the air, because it doesn’t immediately try to kill him. Instead the tentacle-ghost (that’s its new name, Dean decides irritably) just looks at him and covers the edge of his jeans and jacket with ooze. It seems that today is ‘surprise Dean!’ day, and that fact alone manages to annoy him more than his current sticky situation.
"Okay," Dean grinds out. "How about this? What the hell do you want?"
Dean just gets another burble - maybe the ghost exchanged words for tentacles? Dean thinks, then chides himself. Does it really even matter? He just has to get free long enough to kill it, whether it’s docile and wordless or not. Except he can’t think of one damn way to get out of this without use of his limbs.
The tentacle-ghost seems to have an endless supply of itself in reserve; another tentacle appears and slaps itself against Dean’s chest, soaking the spot of impact with what just has to be ectoplasm. He hopes.
"Please let that be ectoplasm," Dean mutters, watching in thinly-veiled horror as the limb wriggles into the collar of his shirt and down to touch his bare chest. He tries to suppress a shiver - slimy and cold, that’s great. It writhes against his chest, gliding over his nipples, before pulling away to rip his shirt down the wet middle. The fabric tears like tissue paper, and Dean doesn’t know whether he should be really terrified now or if he should be angry that his second-favourite shirt was just demolished.
He goes for really terrified. Multiple tentacles slither around him now, wrapping themselves around his bare waist, his feet and his legs. Dean’s shoes are pulled off and his jeans are torn nearly to shreds, including, Goddamnit, his leather belt. He doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, held up in the air by ectoplasmic tentacles with only a leather jacket between him and complete nakedness. Briefly, he wishes Dad or Sam would show up at the scene, but Sam’s off at Stanford and Dad’s on the other side of two states, and then again, it’s embarrassing enough to be like this without having witnesses.
He doesn’t even know what’s going on now, let alone what’s going to happen next, but the tentacle-ghost wiggles all of its limbs, jiggling Dean in the process, and Dean is instantly sure that this thing is giggling at him. Or something. Whatever.
What seems like millions of little feelers tickle over Dean’s skin and he tries to curl in on himself to get away from them. The tentacle-ghost has a continuous burble going now as it strokes his legs, his arms, and even, God, his dick. His body is warming up to the slide of the tentacles, and in spite of, or maybe because of, the way the tendrils grip him, caressing sensitive spots he didn’t even know he had, he’s getting hard.
He’s fucking getting hard from a tentacle-ghost. If he could press his face into his palms right now, he would… and then shoot the ghost repeatedly. Instead, he clamps his mouth shut when a tentacle drags across his lips. No matter what else happens, he is not going to let the thing tongue-fuck him or whatever the equivalent is. Hell no.
Or at least, that’s what Dean will tell himself he did. The tentacle swipes across his mouth again, then wraps around his neck at the same time another squeezes his cock. Dean’s mouth is forced open on a gasp, both in sudden pleasure and for air. Two tentacles caress his nipples in tandem with the strokes over his dick, and fuck, the ghost is cutting off his air bit by bit. Hazily, Dean struggles to suck down a breath; he gets it abruptly when the tentacle releases his neck to shove into his open mouth.
He tries to bite down on it, but it swells and forces his mouth wider. It writhes in his mouth, against his tongue like an especially fierce kiss. Dean tries to ignore the shocks of pleasure sparking up his spine, but it’s hard when it feels like he’s getting a messy blowjob and handjob at the same time all over. He can feel himself getting close to the edge, even if he doesn’t want to, and the tentacle-ghost jiggles him again. One more tentacle emerges and it slides along the length of his back in a smooth caress. It drags lower until it has wedged itself sweetly between the cleft of Dean’s ass.
Dean has enough time to think oh shit, oh shit¸ before it’s pressing into him, going where only a couple of fingers have gone before. The tendrils around his cock squeeze forcefully as the lone one twists its way inside of him. It’s so slick and jelly-like that it doesn’t hurt, even when the tentacle expands until Dean is sure he is going to explode with the fullness of it. He only feels stretched, slippery, and wet, and the tentacle pistons in and out of him easily, like he’s already been fucked out once this afternoon.
Dean screws his eyes shut; he can’t look at anything anymore, overwhelmed by the everywhereness of the presence on his body. He’s so close to coming that he’s shaking, close to tears; this is something he’s never felt before, and later, he’ll be sure he doesn’t want to.
The tentacle in Dean’s mouth withdraws, wrapping around his neck once more, and as soon as it constricts around his neck, Dean falls apart right then, coming in thick white spurts that stripe the floor in front of him. He’s not sure how long the tentacles keep pumping inside of him. He only that eventually it stops, the ghost disappears, and he’s dropped to the floor in a cool, sated heap.
Shakily, Dean climbs to his feet to grab his guns. Nothing comes up to stop him.
He vows to come up with a way to destroy the thing in this old house, as he climbs naked, regretfully, into the Impala. Just as soon as he has a fresh set of clothes.
Dean shudders a little when the engine comes to life.
And a shower. Definitely a shower.