#deanmeg

He can feel the heat from her meatsuit pressed all along his front and he forces himself to not turn his head away when she leans in close enough to let her breath brush over his cheek – 

The demon-killing blade in Meg’s hand catches under his chin for just a quick second before she’s dragging it down along his throat and digging the tip in against his clavicle.

He knows that’s where his anti-possession tattoo lives, forever inked into his skin and he’s willing to bet she already knows it too with the way the ever-sharp blade presses in and slides through the cotton of his shirt like warm butter – 

He feels the blade sever of the circle, cutting into him and he winces at the sharp way his skin splits under barely any pressure - that beading of blood beneath the metal turning thick enough to drip down and add another stain to his ruined shirt. 

“Let’s ride.” Meg says, barely a whisper - her mouth fits over his, too warm and too alive for how dead and cold she rightfully should be. 

Her tongue pushes between his lips and he’s always known that there’s something wrong with his wiring which is why he feels no surprise at all when all of his instincts tell him to kiss her back. 

He opens to her automatically, feels her lean into him as it starts - that building weight of black smoke passing directly between them – 

Her form goes down down down, forcing his mouth and throat open wide around the thickening pressure.

It stings worse than the new cut on his chest, burning hot and ice cold at the same time and it should numb his throat but he feels each and every building second of it – 

The sulphur taste of her creeps in along his gums and pushes in deeper to hook behind his tonsils, the constant flood of her inching into his mouth keeps his tongue glued down beneath it. 

He can’t make a sound around the thickness. 

The demon behind him holds him down with Bobby’s hands curled over his shoulders and he tries not to think about the other man alive inside and watching this happen – 

She keeps on pushing into him, his jaw already aching from the stretch of having his lips forced open by the seemingly never ending stream of smoke - it widens his throat, more painful then he’d expected and burns along his stretching vocal chords. 

He doesn’t even know what her end game is – 

Take over his meatsuit and what, convince Sam to walk right into the devil’s waiting arms?

Bullshit. 

Meg’s meatsuit slumps down against him as the trail of smoke slows and he doesn’t think he should still be conscious, not with her filling up all the empty spaces inside him – 

“Oh Deano, nice and warm and willing for me aren’t you?” she says in his own voice - it comes out hoarse, rough and cracked and he’s willing to bet his throat is raw, ripped up from the force of her shoving herself down into him. 

Those hands on his shoulder clench and release and he tries to hope Bobby’s still trying to fight himself free – 

“Baby, if we had more time for this I’d have a whole lotta fun riding you,” Meg starts and he watches, distantly as he shoves the dead weight from his lap - her hands run over his body, her body for now, and it’s gross and disconcerting and – 

Kinda hot actually. 

He feels the way she laughs as she walks his body to the door, the demon puppeteering Bobby following along behind –