There's a swamp in Louisiana, not far from a small town, where three men have drowned. There's a couple of survivors, one who claims to have been attacked, and another who claims to have seen his friend attacked.

Neither of them will talk.

The swamp has been cordoned off. Local law enforcement, along with park services, while they didn't believe the 'crazy talk' from the survivors before they clammed up, nevertheless know that people have died.

Dean and Sam pull up under cover of darkness and duck under the tape strung around the trees. They're both armed with a machete.

In hindsight, they shouldn't have split up. The swamp is vast, twisty. The creature—whatever it is—could be anywhere.

But Sam goes one way, and Dean goes the other.

From the corner of Dean's eye, there's the flash of Sam's flashlight through the trees, while he shines his own out over the fetid water.

It's perfectly still. There's no breeze to ripple the surface or drag branches through the water. There's nothing there. Dean searches the shoreline until Sam's light is no longer visible, and he's ready to give up.

Standing on the muddy edge, he pulls out his phone. Water laps at his boots, and he pauses, alert.

He looks out over the water, but his flashlight is off, stuffed in his pocket when he went looking for his phone.

There's the faintest splish, barely audible, then something comes out at him.

It's fast, no more than a dark, shadowy blur coming right at his face. He drops his phone, opens his mouth—

No sound comes out as something lances into his mouth, a slender, soft, slimy bitterness slicking his throat and blocking his airway. He chokes, tries to grab at it to pull it free, but something wraps each of his wrists and he can't find the strength to fight them. His fingers tingle and tears leak from his eyes as he struggles for breath and this is how he's going to die.

The men drowned, though, swamp water in their lungs the proof of it. This is different, a different monster? The thing in his mouth seems to pulsate, the tip, pressed against the back of Dean's throat, ejects something, a thick fluid that fills his throat and squeezes out to fill his mouth.

He swallows, a reflex. This is bad, it certainly can't be good, and also, it damn well isn't swamp water.

Then the thing blocking Dean's throat is gone, withdrawn with a rhythmic bump of protrusions across his bottom lip. He knows immediately what they are, what the circular bruises on the victims limbs were from, he's watched enough tentacle porn to know and regrets it now, because he lives in a world where tentacle monsters could exist, even if he's never heard of them before.

Dean coughs, spits, sucks air into his lungs. He tries to yell, but nothing happens. Tries to fight, but his legs go out from under him. Whatever slimy substance the creature just pumped down his throat contains some kind of paralysing agent, because he can't speak, he can't move.

He can only breathe, can only strain to see in the pitch dark.

Something wraps around his ankle, and it drags him into the shallows. Mud squelches up under his shirt, cold and gritty. Now he's going to drown, pulled in by a monster who wants what? Food? Lots of things like to eat decomposed flesh, and its three previous meals were found and taken away before it could enjoy them.

He waits for his head to slide beneath the surface, but it doesn't. The creature stops pulling with his shoulders on the shore, his hips and legs floating, and it seems to crawl, or slither, or undulate up his body to cover him.

All Dean can see is a glutinous mass, long, tapering appendages as they arrange themselves around him. They don't need to pin him down, he can't move a muscle. He'd talk to it if he could, demand to know what it wants, what it's going to do to him, but he can't make a sound, can barely swallow—and he does, because that thick bitterness still coats the inside of his mouth and if he could he'd even drink the swamp water to get rid of it.

Theories about previous victims race through his thoughts, because he's given up on finding his own escape, can only hope that Sam will return or come looking for him.

The creature—whatever kind of overgrown giant squid or mutant octopus has him—is doing something. With a kind of focused industry, it's moving over his legs and torso. It starts tugging at him again and this is it. His head will go under the water and he'll die.

Dean is dragged an inch further into the water, and he shivers as cold spreads over his lower body. Something tugs at his waist, and denim tears. Something squishy and slimy touches his hip, wraps around his waist.

If he survives this, he's never watching hentai again, because he knows what's coming.

Something he saw on television once, a nature show, comes back to him and he watches the replay in his mind as an octopus squeezes itself through a tiny gap to escape its tank. He's never trusted octopuses since.

It's far easier to let his mind drift to the Discovery Channel than to focus on what's happening to him, but reality pulls him back as one of the long, thick, slimy tentacles fits itself down the back of his jeans as his lower body floats in the water. It squeezes past the waistband of his shorts and into the crack of his ass, thickening again as it finds more space, forcing his cheeks apart.

How does it know? Did the creature evolve to do this? Why on earth is it doing it to men? It can't be about breeding, and no animal fucks it's food before storing it away for winter—

But most monsters they've encountered are intelligent. They're not animals, so this can't be an animal. A lot of monsters kill for the sake of killing.

And there are monsters who do fuck their food.

Dean hopes that in this monsters case, it's going to be a big mistake. It's wasting time, and Sam will be along at any moment—

Something—the firm, slick tip of a tentacle—probes Dean's asshole. The slime on the creature is thick enough that it's not washed away in the swamp water, and it slips in easy.

Dean would have squawked if he'd had control of his vocal cords. He can't even twitch, can't even clench to force it out.

The creature's unique ability to squeeze into tight spaces means that it fills him quickly, swelling inside him before it stretches him open until he's so full he can think of nothing else.

Then it stiffens, like a massive cock, until he's afraid that he might just split right open, before it starts to thrust.

Inside, Dean's crying out, because it hurts, but he can't make a sound. He knows, now, why the survivors won't talk—this happened to one of them, and the other witnessed it.

If he dies, he hopes Sam never knows what killed him, what happened to him before he died.

Except that Sam is here, too. Once this creature is done with him, what will stop it from doing the same to his brother?

He'd given up. Too easy, because he was only thinking of himself. Dean starts to fight, because that might be the only thing that'll save Sam.

The paralytic is strong, but it has to have a limited effect. If he can only kick his leg, splash so Sam hears it...

Nothing happens. All he can hear is the soft ripple of the water as the creature fucks him up the muddy bank.

Then a rasp comes out of him as the hard shove of the tentacle inside him moves him further through the mud.

Dean moves his fingers through the mud at his sides. Can't grasp a handful, but his fingers move. Bend. Shift. A soft grunt comes from his throat and he endeavours to suppress his vocalizations as much as he can.

It might serve to warn the creature, and he could end up with another tentacle down his throat.

Hoping it doesn't notice, he flexes his fingers again and bites his lip as the creature seems to get further inside him. Tears leak from his eyes and he squeezes them shut.

The creature starts to shiver, lose the steady rhythm it had before. Its thrusts are just as hard, but without the pull back that shoved him up the bank with each beat.

Dean's machete is way up the bank somewhere, but there's a knife in a sheath in the back pocket of his jeans. It'll be caked with mud, but it's still there, Dean can feel it, hard against the cheek of his ass. If he can just get his fingers to work enough to reach it—

A stray tentacle starts to move up Dean's chest. It shivers, as the monster shivers. It slimes it's way up Dean's throat, touches his lip.

Not again, fucker, Dean thinks, as his fingers curl around the knife. He pulls it free, and the blade shines in the moonlight—

The tentacle stabs past Dean's lips, filling his mouth, his throat. He tries to bite down and it pumps that same slick bitterness into him, and thrusts until he can barely breathe.

He sucks air noisily through his nose and panics. Tries to bite down, but he can't. The blade falls from his fingers into the mud and he can't move again.

The tentacle in his mouth thrusts until he's drooling, spit and bitter slime. The tentacle-cock in his ass twists inside him and, again, makes long, steady strokes.

But it's different. He can feel the suckers rubbing over something inside him, something that sends sparks through him and makes his cock twitch.

It's like a fresh new torture and he wants to scream, but his dick gets harder. How can something so horrifying make him come? But it's going to.

He opens his eyes. Sees a flash of light. Feels the footfalls through the ground. Wants to send Sam away again, the twist of hope for rescue and the horror and shame of what's happening to him a struggle inside him.

The tentacle keeps thrusting into his ass, the other down his throat until he chokes, the suckers pressing against his prostate over and over—

"Dean!"

Dean coughs and chokes as he starts to come, warmth spreading into the front of his jeans where it was previously cold. The tentacle stills in his ass and starts to pulsate.

"Dean!"

The flash of moonlight on cold steel, a fleshy wet sound as it hits the monster, first sliding through the tentacle in his mouth, which goes limp, but Dean isn't capable of spitting it out.

Sam's machete swings again, and the entire creature shudders. Something hits the water with a splash, rocks Dean's lower body as it continues to float. Sam swings again and there's a massive tug inside Dean and he'd scream if he was able.

Sam kicks the body of the creature away. Dean watches as it floats far enough that it can't possibly be still attached to him, and starts to sink.

Sam severed the tentacle inside him. He can't see it, because it's behind Dean, the severed end in the water below him.

Sam grabs the tentacle still in Dean's mouth and pulls it free. Dean spits up slime. Sam grabs Dean under the arms as if to pull him out of the water.

"No," Dean rasps, all he can manage, and wills Sam with his eyes to do nothing, to leave him.

"Dean?" Sam drops him, and there's a look on his face that is all terror.

Dean manages to shake his head. "Para—" he gasps, but it's all he can manage.

Sam's look of terror mixes with confusion, and then, "paralysed?"

Dean blinks once. The pulse inside him starts to slow. He feels so full.

Sam starts to breath hard. "Did it...did it break something? Or...is it chemical?"

Dean coughs, spits up some of the slime. Sam wipes it away from his mouth, rubs it between his fingers. "Will it wear off?"

Dean blinks.

Sam seems to relax. "I can get you back to the car—"

Dean blinks, twice. "Leave," he mouths. "Please." He can't do this with Sam watching. The thing inside him has stopped pulsing, it's dead, or finished, or something, but it hasn't deflated like it did to get inside him, it's still large, and hard, and every time Sam tries to move him, every time he moves with the shift of the water, the suckers rub against his insides.

He might be able to remove it when he gets movement back, but not with Sam here. Sam can't know what it did to him.

"I'm not leaving you."

Dean closes his eyes. Once he can speak again, he can convince Sam to go. Once he can move, once he's not at risk of drowning.

With luck, the thing stuck inside him will deflate while they wait.

---

They sit in silence for ten minutes until Dean can speak again. Another twenty for him to convince Sam to leave and before Dean can move, stand, before Sam leaves him there.

When Dean can no longer see the movement of Sam's flashlight, he strips out of his jeans and wades into the swamp, pushing aside the monster parts as they float around him.

It's still inside him. Still hard and swollen as if it's Dean's own body that keeps it that way. It's difficult to move, with each step it shifts against his insides, pressing against that place that made him hard before and is making him hard again.

He's so full, of the tentacle, of the stuff it pumped into him.

He crouches in the water. It laps at his waist. The tails of his shirt float as he reaches behind him.

He groans as he pulls, deep, throaty. Suckers scrape against his prostate and his cock starts to throb. "No," he says as he keeps pulling. "Not getting off on this, not gonna... Oh fuck."

He stops, but all that happens is the dismembered tentacle seems to suck back inside, suckers rubbing, making it worse...or better, but he won't admit to it.

"Come on, Dean," he says. "Like a bandaid." He draws on it again, not too fast, he's sore enough all ready, but as fast as he can, as firmly as he can. He cries out, hopes like hell that Sam can't hear him, and if he can, that he respects Dean's request to leave him the fuck alone.

He's got to stop, or he'll come. The thing sucks back in again, and Dean whimpers. So close. Grips the base of his cock to stop himself, but even that touch feels good. Can't help but stroke and try to pull the thing out again.

Dean strokes his cock and pulls on the thing inside him, wonders just how long it is because it feels like it's 3 feet long, must have coiled up inside him and now, as it's coming out it feels so good. He's got to let go, just to feel it rub him on it's way back in.

"Gotta stop," he tells himself, "gotta end it". Another firm tug, and it finally slips free, and he's coming, spurting pale ropes into the swamp and sinking to his knees in the silt, water lapping at his chin as he rocks with the aftershocks.

He crawls to the shore and collapses on the bank, in the mud. Drags his jeans toward him and pulls them on. The fly is busted, and he pulls his shirt around him to hide it as best he can before he goes to find Sam, and the car.

---

Sam's got his worried face on.

"Quit it," Dean says. He's okay. It was all mud and slime that came off of him in the shower, no blood, even though he expected it. Sitting won't be fun for about a week, but physically, he's had worse injuries and kept going.

"When are you going to tell me what happened?"

Dean breaks their gaze, gingerly lays himself on the hotel bed. "I'm not," he says. "It's dead, we don't gotta figure anything out anymore. It's over."

"Okay," Sam says.

Dean knows Sam will assume the worst, and he won't be wrong. He'll figure it out, Dean can already feel Sam's eyes on him when he moves. It's not something Dean can ever truly deny.

But goddammit he's going to try. He's repressed worse. He's been to Hell. He doesn't like to be reminded that sometimes, he got hard downstairs, sometimes he got off downstairs.

This is nothing.

fin