Dean doesn't know where Sam went, wishes he did when a tentacle whips out of the oil-slick darkness and wraps around his ankle. He's got about half a blink to yell before he hits the water and his mouth fills, and it's fetid, warm, sliding down his throat with more body than water has a right to have, bubbling back up as he chokes and coughs.
His machete is back up there on the bank, dropped as he tried to hold on, but now he's in the water with the thing they're hunting, and he's already on the same path as the last three guys this happened to.
They dragged themselves out of the woods after hours in the swamp, went crazy, then disappeared, never to be seen again. Fuck that. That's not gonna be Dean.
He takes a huge gasp of air as his head breaks the surface, then curls up under the water to get his hands on the weird, slimy limb coiled around his ankle, and tries to free himself.
Immediately, more tentacles appear, snaking themselves around his wrists. The thing is strong, pulls his arms up and away easily, and another curls around his waist. Lungs burning, it lifts him, and he sucks in air before it drags him under.
The water flows around him. They're moving, further from the bank, further from the last place he saw Sam. The next time he's almost out of air and it lifts him again, he starts to yell instead, to scream. Gets out "Sa—" before he's yanked under again, and he's got no air, his lungs are burning, feels like his head is going to explode. Right before he's about to give up, about to open his mouth and fill his lungs with swamp water, his head breaks the surface again.
He fills his lungs, gasping, not knowing where his next breath will come from, not willing to risk it all on yelling—not this time.
As soon as oxygen starts to stabilize in his body, as he expects to be pulled down again, another tentacle whips out of the water, and it thrusts into his mouth, filling his throat, and he chokes as it triggers his gag reflex.
It tastes slimy and fishy and he can't breathe through it, sucks air in through his nose, groans and thrashes as his throat contracts. Kicks at the water, until another tentacle holds his last free limb and spreads him apart. He's starfished beneath the water, only his face above the surface, and he can only see the sky, the crescent moon lightening the tops of the trees.
He's still, for just a moment, but he can feel the thing moving, the water shifting around him. More tentacles slide over his clothes, and his panic shifts into terror as they start to pull at his jeans.
It starts to make sense, some of what the guys who came before him had said before they disappeared, and Dean knows he's going to come out at the end of this alive, but it's not going to be good, he's going to go through hell, then he's going to go nuts, and it's Sam that'll have to deal with it.
Maybe there's still a chance for him. They still don't know what happened to the guys after they disappeared, from their homes, from hospitals and institutions. If they can figure that out, maybe they can undo whatever this thing, this monster, is about to do.
His jeans loosen as he feels the button tear, the zip wrenched open. They're dragged down his thighs, past his knees, get stuck around his ankles because his boots are still on. His boxers are torn away, brush his thigh as they float and finally, sink, and tentacles slide over his bare skin.
Dean bites down with a grunt as a finger-like tentacle slides between the cheeks of his ass, but another one forces it's way into his mouth, holds his jaw open so he can't use his teeth. He grunts again, groans, as the tentacle breaches his hole and pushes inside him. He's covered in this slick, slimy stuff, and it's in his mouth, too, wonders if there's something in it that's going to make him lose his mind, spares a brief thought as to whether it might be better if it was already working.
But no. He's still Dean, he's still in his head, and there's a fucking tentacle shoved up his ass, squirming and wriggling and working its way deeper inside him. His rim burns with the stretch as the girth increases, stings, like he'd expect, though the ache right up inside him as the thing opens him up is not something he'd ever thought about.
He curses his cock for a traitor as it starts to get hard, adrenaline and fear and the thing up his ass pressing, rubbing, stabbing at his prostate making him see stars. It's not fair, and he's disgusted, bile choking him and burning his nose as it seeks a way out, but his dick is stiff and throbbing as blood rushes to it and makes his head spin.
All he can do is hope it'll be over soon, doesn't know for sure what this creature wants, if it's confused, thinks he's something worth mating with. Hurry up and get off, he thinks. Just come and get the hell off me and let me go.
Something touches his cock. Something soft and slimy and...it pulls him in. He doesn't know if it's a mouth or what, doesn't want to think about it. Long as there's no teeth, long as it's not going to bite his dick off. Best case scenario, at this point.
The tentacle in his ass starts to go to town, stabbing, pressing, pulsing against his prostate. Whatever is wrapped around his cock starts to suck, and this is insane. He's being raped by a monster but he's going to come and how's he supposed go tell Sam what happened once it's all over?
That's if he can even speak when this thing is done with him.
He tries to disappear. To block it out, to retreat into his mind, but it doesn't work. He's trussed up like a turkey, tentacle fucking violently into his ass, two stuffed into his mouth, a monster sucking his dick, and when he comes, he's all there, every bit of him is present for it.
He's still shuddering when he realized it stopped. When the thing up his ass stops it's assault. Still stuffed right up there, but still. It continues to suck, until Dean's balls are empty and it pulls off, but it keeps him trussed and it keeps him full.
He's light-headed. It could be the cold and it could be panic or shock, and it could be exhaustion. This stuff on his skin, down his throat, up his ass, maybe he's being poisoned. Maybe it's gonna make him crazy.
They drift. Feels like forever, but he doesn't have any fight left in him. Everything's hazy, altered. Like a crazy dream he'll barely remember when he wakes.
It happens so slow he barely notices when it starts to move again. It's all over, at first, like the entire creature is pulsing or swaying. The tentacle inside his ass swells. Bigger and bigger until he's groaning around the limbs in his mouth, his rim burning as something moves down and tries to force its way in.
His body gives and it moves past his rim, further inside him. He's barely recovered from the shock when another swelling pushes at him, but this time, slips in much easier.
Again and again, something moving down the length of the tentacle—or maybe it really is the monsters cock, and he's being filled with monster come—pushing deep inside him. He loses count, the hazy confusion not helping, but he starts to feel tight and full and like he might burst.
Maybe it's been hours. It finally starts to slow, and then, when he's waiting for the next one, it doesn't come.
He expects to feel a warm gush when the tentacle slithers free, but it doesn't happen. Then they're moving again, and Dean can see the shore.
Dean rises up out of the water, and the tentacles stuffed into his mouth like a living, fishy gag, slip free, but all Dean can do is choke. He coughs up swamp-water, kicks as the coils around his limbs loosen.
They reach the bank, and the creature lifts him out of the water and pushes him up the muddy shore.
The world might be hazy and confusing, but he's still a hunter, so at the moment it releases him and he finds purchase, Dean swings around, grabs the tentacle that until a blink before was wrapped around his waist, and he heaves.
The thing comes up out of the water and Dean sees it in the light from the Moon, and it's a shapeless mass surrounded in masses of flopping, flailing tentacles.
Dean gives it a kick before it lands on top of him, rolls, grabs his dropped machete, and he comes down with all of his weight behind it.
It slides easily into the spongy mass at the center, into the soft ground beneath, pins it like a butterfly under glass.
Dean kneels over it as it lets out a bubbly shriek, squirming and flailing weakly, and then finally goes still.
He manages to haul his jeans back up before he pitches over into the mud and everything fades to black.
He wakes to hands on him, to Sam's voice, urgent and scared.
"I'm up," he says, voice a rasping whisper, hands weakly pushing Sam away. "I'm okay."
"You don't look okay," Sam says, but there's relief in his voice as he helps Dean to sit up. "You've been in the water. Lost your shirt."
"Not all I lost," Dean says, and regrets it, because Sam'll ask questions Dean's not prepared to answer. He looks for the creature, half afraid it's not dead, that it will have slithered away, half disappointed because it's still there, skewered to the ground with his machete.
They've never seen one before, and there's no lore. Sam'll want to poke at it, see what makes it tick. He'll want to record what happened to Dean, compare it to the testimony of the men that came before him. He'll want to stay with him when he goes insane, lock him up good and tight so he doesn't disappear.
"I found one of the missing men," Sam says, as he helps Dean to his feet.
Everything hurts. Dean's ass burns, and his insides still feel full and tight. He waits for a gush of fluid from his body that'll soak his jeans, but it doesn't come. "Was he dead?"
"Bones were stripped clean," Sam says. "Found his wallet nearby." Sam let's go of Dean's arm. "Can you walk?"
Dean nods. "It ate him?"
"Something did." Sam goes back, pulls the machete out of the creature, then pulls a tarp from his bag and rolls the creature up in it. "There were shells. Eggshells."
Sam doesn't reply.
They drive for hours. Dean sleeps most of the way, never quite forgets that the creature is dead and wrapped in a tarp and stinking up the trunk. All he wants is to shower, over and over and over again, but the swamp and the creature has dried on his skin. It feels tight, like it's shrinking around him, but he couldn't just say it, couldn't tell Sam to stop somewhere so he could wash it off because that would be admitting what happened to him.
Deep down, Dean's aware Sam already knows. Wouldn't be so silent if he didn't. They both heard what those other men said, the stories they told. No one believed them.
"How many eggshells?" he asks, as the sun inches over the horizon and they cross the state line into south Dakota.
Sam's real quiet. Eyes on the road. A hand, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Then: "Dunno for sure. Maybe half a dozen? I didn't pay enough attention. I didn't know." The apology is there in his voice. Tight. Sympathetic. A trace of desperation. "We'll figure this out."
Dean's skin itches as it stretches out over his swollen middle.