#meg!sam

He doesn't feel much cleaner at all.

Just more human, in the throes of emotion again after spending so much time without feeling a thing at all. Now, he feels everything.

And everything is guilt. It's all-consuming and dark and sends a throbbing ache pulsing in his chest, up his throat. But when he blinks, his hands are physically clean, and you're standing before him where he sits on the edge of your bed. In your room.

Safe. It smells like you, subtly fragrant and warm and good.

He must be staining it, he thinks. The good. It would be better of him to leave. But your hand takes one of his before he can stand, and his fingers curl around yours without him telling them to. His grip is strong first, and then gentle.

He'll always remember how to be gentle for you. He doesn't need to try.

"Sammy." Your voice is soft. He feels like a wounded animal rather than an aggressive mutt at the sound. "Come back to me."

Another blink of his dry eyes, a bob of his throat. His head tilts up to meet your gaze and his brows pinch with silent desperation. You're still here, despite it all. He'd really like to hold you close. He would if he trusted himself to touch you further.

The thought of Meg lingers deep within his mind. Tangled and festering and not quite him. His jaw works and in an attempt to drop your hand, you secure its grip and crouch, chin on his knee.

His head tilts.

"I don't want to hurt you," he breathes, voice hoarse. "Please. Can't hurt you."

Your assurance is instant. "You won't."

"What if she's still in me?"

"Meg is gone," you insist, finger sweeping a gentle line over his knuckles. "She's gone. You can't hurt me, honey."

You reach up with your free hand to cup his cheek, and he leans into it eagerly. Unhesitant and needing and sick. His eyelids flutter shut and a long, tired sigh bleeds from him.

"I did all of it," he whispers. "and it- it was horrible. I was here, watching, but I couldn't stop-"

"It wasn't you." Your head shakes, watching as his eyes open. "You didn't do a damn thing, Sam. Okay? You didn't."

It wasn't you, Sam.

"I don't blame you for any of it. Neither does Dean, or Bobby. It's okay."

Don't blame you. It's okay.

His eyes aren't dry anymore, suddenly. And he doesn't realize it until you're a bleary mess of color and he feels something small and wet run down the curve of his cheek.

He still feels dark, but there's a smooth edge of relief that settles the uproar inside of him now. He's calmed even more so when you stand and gather him close, and he buries his face into the softness of your stomach.

It's easy to let himself believe you as you hold him and murmur all that he needs to hear; everything sweet and sure. You remind him who he is.

Sammy, not Meg. Not pain nor destruction. Gentle and kind and too full of care for it to be comfortable, you're sure. Loved, instead of just loving. By you and others and forever. He just needs to believe you again.

And everything might just be okay, in the end, once he does.

After hijacking his body, Meg had also done the same to a car, and driven with haste towards the nearest highway.

What Sam was originally mad about no longer mattered. It was nothing compared to the horror he’d felt when he realized he was swerving off the road and barrelling towards your sleepy town.

Now, he was angry, drunk, incapacitated in a very different way, and most definitely not alone.

He hated himself for this. How could he ever forget you now?

Meg had seen her chance and grasped it with her filthy claws at the first opportunity, and now he was balls-deep inside the woman he’d been crushing on for the past six months, watching your pretty face contort with every deprived word that left his sinful mouth. 

It may have been his voice, but it definitely wasn’t him. And he was horrified to find that you seemed to be enjoying it. That he was.

Though he may not be in control of his hulking, sweaty body, he could still sense. He was still aware. Meg had made sure of that, slipping into his skin just loosely enough so he could still see everything. Hear everything. Smell everything. Feel and taste everything.

And you felt and tasted exquisite. Even better than he’d imagined a thousand times over. Spiced wine. Sweet, with just the right amount of tang to leave him buzzed and slightly on edge. But Sam had already drunk enough. He didn’t need another weakness.

But the sounds leaving your mouth–the moans that made his internal breath shudder–made him question his sensibilities and scold himself in the process.

He thought about the way your nipples pierced the air, and the way you’d arched your back for him—for Meg—when she’d slid his tongue down your stomach and attached his mouth over the whole of your dripping cunt.

The way your clit had tasted when Meg had plunged—without any warmup—two of his large, strong fingers into you, straight to the knuckle.

The way you’d screamed.

The way you’d writhed as your body struggled to accommodate him, and–despite the stretch–the way you’d begged for more.

Begged him to fuck you.

To tie you up.

To strike you.

To mark and bite you.

The way your mouth had felt around his cock. The way your drool trickled down his length—warm, wet, and slick. The noises you’d made when you’d gagged on him.

The way—despite his conflictions—every perverted act made his cock pulse violently.

You didn’t seem to be the kind of girl that would be into this kinda shit, but they never were, were they? 

It was all too much. Sam couldn’t take it. 

It wasn’t the sex that bothered him. The fact that you were enjoying his body delighted him immensely. It was the circumstances. Not what you were enjoying, but how you were enjoying it. The fact that it wasn’t him. Not really.

Is this what you’d expect from him if he continued seeing you after this? No. How could he even contemplate that? How could he go on after this? How could he ever look at you again without thinking of this moment? About how much you’d enjoyed him. Enjoyed her. He’d forever feel an imposter.

“Sam—” you gasped, and Sam pulled himself out of his reverie just in time to watch his hand slash across your ass in several merciless spanks. Squealing from the impact, you balled your already clenched toes and fists, muttering a string of curses Sam figured might as well have been Enochian.

Meg had flipped you over and was now taking you from behind in a rather undignified fashion. Your hands were still bound to the headboard with his belt, and he could see the leather chafing your wrists, making them red and sore. You didn’t seem to notice, or care.

Sam’s stomach dropped.

He wasn’t opposed to kink, as long as it was consensual. But he had not consented to this. Neither had you.

Meg hadn’t done it the way Sam would have; she hadn’t awkwardly asked you out, made you laugh, bought you flowers, or taken you on a nice date first. She had simply turned up at your door unannounced and proceeded to fuck your brains out.

But to Sam’s horror and delight, you seemed to be into it. Into him. And had invited him in willingly …

~

Sam felt your eyes wander over his body as he stood on your doorstep in the dead light of night. Your hair was mussed from sleep, and you were in your pajamas. Pink flowery ones. He’d woken you up.

“Sam?” You squinted up at him. “What… what are you doing here? It’s two a.m.”

Sam’s body shrugged and he heard his voice come out, rough from the alcohol. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. Like that was an adequate explanation for his spontaneous appearance in the middle of the night.

You eyed him curiously for a moment, then seemed to accept it and welcomed him in. As Meg made his body step inside, Sam cursed your naïveté at letting a man inside your house at such an ungodly hour. You were too trusting. You should know better than this. As a daughter of a hunter, you were well versed in the creatures of the night, but had seemingly forgotten all your training when met with a familiar face. He’d need to have words with you after this.

After this? After what? What was happening here exactly?

Panic set in as Sam trailed you through your hallway to the lounge, through piles of open texts and manuscripts. Though you were in ‘the life,’ you’d managed to live adjacent to it, dedicating your time to research rather than being physically involved in hunts. It suited you better. You’d always been more a thinker than a fighter; you’d even gone to college to study occultism to help with the cause.

Sam was attracted to you from the beginning. You were incredibly studious, and your discoveries had saved Sam and Dean from several sticky situations over the past few months. He owed you a lot. More than whatever was going to happen here tonight.

“Bad hunt?” you asked, and continued to ogle Sam as he studied your lounge like it was the first time he’d seen it.

Something like that, Sam thought, but Meg didn’t answer. He could feel her impatience rattle inside him. She wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” And when Sam still didn’t reply, you rubbed your arms awkwardly, like you were warming yourself from the cold.

Sam wanted to offer you his jacket. Apologise profusely for barging in like this. Instead, he felt his lips curl involuntarily.

“Truth is,” he said, and he turned to face you, your figure tempting in the lamplight. Nipples peaking through the satin of your pajama top. Fuel to the fire of his already vivid imagination. He stepped closer, and your breath caught as he backed you slowly against the wall. “I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you. In fact, baby, I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

Meg wasn’t lying. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. That was the whole reason he’d been so distracted and screwed up on the hunt. The reason Dean had gotten so mad at him for his negligence. It wasn't like Sam to fuck up like that. Not like him at all.

Sam watched you closely. Watched you squint at him like he was a puzzle to solve. One of your cryptic passages.

Solve me, Sam thought, his mind pleading. Realize this isn’t me.

He hadn’t missed how your eyes had snapped up to his when he’d called you baby. He’d never called you that before, and he started to sweat. He would never be this forward.

He half expected you to laugh it off, to take it as a joke, or tell him he was an idiot and try to send him away. What he didn’t expect was for you to move closer. Much closer. So close he could see down your top. To your cleavage. To the perfect curve of your breasts and the way your nipples stood, now undoubtedly erect beneath that flowery satin. He didn’t have to imagine anymore. It felt like a personal attack.

If he was more himself, Sam would clear his throat and force himself to look away. Store the image for a lonely day and let it wreck him in a stolen moment of satisfaction that would promise relief, but ultimately leave him with a deep-seated shame.

But he wasn’t. And he didn’t. His body refused to obey him.

He could sense Meg’s tendrils in his motor cortex, prodding around and manipulating his voluntary muscles. His eyes. His voice. His limbs… She’d pretty much left his sensory and autonomic tracts unmanned. How generous.

A low, insidious hunger stirred below his gut, something darker than just want. Something he should fight. And he found himself staring like a dog in heat. A predator that had finally trapped its prey.

Low and behold the thing he’d feared appeared. Nature took its course, and it was fucking obvious. He couldn’t even move his arms to tuck it beneath his waistband.

A knowing smile formed on your face as you looked him up and down. You’d caught him out. Sam’s heart stuttered, and for a second he thought you weren’t just letting him look. You were daring him to.

You drew in a breath. “Fucking finally,” you said. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.”

And before Sam could register what he was hearing, you did something he had been imagining for months: you rose to your tip-toes and kissed him. And as your soft, warm lips collided with his stern, cold ones, Sam felt his internal knees weaken.

He wanted to tell you how much he’d longed for this. Longed for you. Wanted to soften the kiss and tell you how beautiful you were. How intelligent. How every time he was around you, he’d forced himself to look away, because he’d never be good enough for you. How you deserved better than him. Better than a college drop-out and a pathetic excuse for a hunter.

Instead, he was insulting you. Degrading you. Using you. Worse, he was letting Meg use you in whatever fucked-up game she was playing. He’d been negligent–again. This was all his fault. He should’ve listened to Dean and gotten that damn fugly tattoo.

The kiss was heady and demanding. All sharp lines and rough edges. A clash of tongue and teeth. With every movement your breaths were coming heavier, hotter, and you were pulling him closer, clawing at him.

Sam found his hands grappling for your clothes. Your flowery pajama pants. Hiking them down. And then his hand was between your legs, just a thin strip of cotton between his fingers and your liquid heat.

“Sam—” you gasped, as Sam cupped your mound possessively. His touch wasn’t shy, wasn’t gentle, and Sam shuddered at the thought that this was how he’d touch you for the first time. So selfish. The guilt that was his constant companion wound around his throat, constricting his internal voice, choking him harder with every effort he made to break free.

Sam wanted to take his time with you, to map your body with his mind and to notice every detail; how you liked to be touched and where, to gauge your reactions with every pass of his fingertips. But he wasn’t given that choice. This was an excavation, not an exploration.

 “Come upstairs,” you pleaded against his cheek, and bit your lip to stifle a moan as Sam started prodding you through your panties. “Please, Sammy ... want you in my bed.”

Sam heard Meg laugh, then speak to him for the first time.

She’s a brash little thing, isn’t she? I can see why you like her. A natural submissive, with a hint of defiance. This will be fun. Oh, how I love to watch them break. Better appease her first, though …

“Sure, baby,” Sam heard himself say, then let himself be pulled up the stairs.

~

This wasn’t fair. You deserved more than this. A conversation, at least. A safe word.

But Meg wasn’t big on safe words; she was only big on pain.

But this was never about harming you, Sam realized. It was about torturing him. It was always about torturing him ...

So, you’ve cottoned on, puppet?

Meg’s voice in Sam’s head rang clear as the highway had been when they’d driven here. Her voice was gloating.

You’ve always been my favorite toy, Sam. You’re so fun to play with. Big... Commanding... Full of self-loathing... You make it so easy.

Sam felt the threads around his internal voice loosen. She was allowing him to speak.

Get out of me, he growled. Leave her alone. Fuck off back to Hell.

Lighten up, Bullwinkle. She’s game. She wants this, clearly. She’s not as innocent as you think. Or are you really that dumb? Look at her.

And Sam did; he had no choice.

Meg flipped you over again so he was forced to look at your face, and he watched as your eyes rolled back in your head with every punishing thrust of his hips.

You looked like a broken doll.

Incapacitated, vulnerable, and…

Hot.

Incredibly fucking hot with your eyes glazed, tits bouncing, hair mussed, wrists bound, and legs spread wide for him.

Fuck. The fact that he was even deriving a single ounce of pleasure from this was unspeakable. Abhorrent. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t thinking straight.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Yeah, must be the alcohol …

With Sam’s lips, Meg smiled a sadistic grin and re-tightened her threads. Sam felt his larynx constrict, choking him quiet as Meg grasped you by the heels and sucked several of your pretty little toes into the pink flesh of his mouth.

Even they tasted sweet.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“God—” you choked out, squirming. In delight or disgust, Sam couldn’t tell any more. Maybe it was both.

Not everyone plays by the rules, puppet, Meg continued. You should know that more than anyone ... I wonder how many other men she’s fucked like this. Must be quite a few. She clearly knows what she wants.

Sam felt a rage that incapacitated him further. But he was completely at her mercy, unable to do anything to prevent this.

He pulled your foot from his mouth, your toes now shiny with his spit, and grazed his teeth along the inside of your calf, leaving several bruising bites.

A dog gnawing on a bone.

A rabid animal.

And stop lying to yourself. Your mind may be capable of deceit, but your meat-suit isn’t. The body doesn’t lie. That was all you…

That was, also, frustratingly true. Despite his intoxication, Sam hadn’t had any trouble getting it up. Of course he hadn’t—it was you. He’d imagined this moment too many times: you, naked, below him, screaming his name. He’d pleasured himself to that thought no less than ten times in the past week alone. It had gotten a little out of hand.

You want this too, puppet. Repression’s an insidious thing. Has no one ever told you that? I’ve seen how you’ve thought about her. The things you’ve imagined... You’re as sick as I am. I’m not doing anything you haven’t already thought about. I’m doing you a favour. Give her what she wants. Give in to the darkness that’s already inside you.

No, Sam thought defiantly, his vision swimming, stars falling like specks of dust. Not like this…

She wants this, puppet. If you won’t give her what she wants, then I will. You have no choice. She’s a pretty little thing. Even when she screams. I wonder what she looks like when the light’s leaving her eyes.

NO, Sam thought, but his hands were already grappling for your neck, his long, skilful fingers hovering over your carotid arteries.

“You want this, baby?” Sam heard himself ask. “You want me to fuck you up?” His voice was still thick from the whisky, and he was horrified to see you nod, dazed though you were.

Sam could hear Meg laughing in his head. This wasn’t funny. It was exactly the opposite. She was screwing with him well, making out that any aspect of this was consensual. She’d learnt that the hard way with Jo. If she was too obvious, you’d know this wasn’t him, surely? Surely you would?

“Just to be clear, you want this, right? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to hurt you, baby.” Then Meg ran a hand down the rippling muscles in his arm and flexed, making him look like a total jackass. “I’m a big guy, if you hadn’t noticed.” Again, total jackass move.

“Yes, Sammy,” you rasped, watching him beneath heavy lids, mouth parted in awe. “Of course I’ve noticed ... I’ve been waiting so long for this ... For you.”

Sam felt his stomach drop again and fall through the earth. How could you believe this was really him?

You see, Meg taunted. She’s game, baby.

The admission did nothing to reassure Sam. In fact it only made the guilt worse. Hearing that you’d wanted him too, for some time, and were willing to overlook this problematic behavior, hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t have gone like this. You deserved more. So much more. You deserved to be made to feel loved, not lusted over and debased like a cheap whore.

Meg placed his hand around your neck and squeezed, and the moan you gave in response sent shivers up his spine. With every following word that left his mouth, he felt his grip tighten, your blood pulsing beneath his fingers. “You’re a depraved little slut, huh? Who’d have thought? It’s always the quiet ones. Lose all sense of dignity when they’re being fucked.”

At that, Sam’s hands withdrew and you gasped, your breath shallow and whiny, and your eyes reflected something other than pleasure for the first time tonight. They flashed black, and Sam could see himself in them. It looked a little like fear.

Meg laughed. At you. At Sam’s clear perturbance. And then with a force he never would dare use, drew back his hand and slapped you across the face. You were so small compared to him, so delicate, it wouldn’t take much to break you.

Don’t worry, Meg said. You’re not going to kill her. I can’t deal with reapers right now. They ruin all the fun.

Sam watched your supple skin bloom from the impact of his hand, and your head loll to the side. A single tear rolled down your cheek and pooled in the crevice between your collarbones. You looked undoubtedly out of it, whimpering incomprehensibly, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for Meg. If she couldn’t have you dead, she’d have the next best thing.

Please, Sam begged, as his hand returned to collar your throat. No more. Do what you want with me, but leave her out of this…

As his fingers constricted even further around your neck, Sam couldn’t deny how pretty it looked–his hand around your throat like a gorget. It fit perfectly, like it was meant to be there.

Trouble was, a gorget was meant to protect you, and he was doing the exact opposite…

Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all, Meg chuckled. Damn this is fun.

Fuck, Sam thought, as he struggled in vain to put an end to this violent act, his vile thoughts. But it was too late; the light was already leaving your eyes, your face was turning redder by the second, and...

And…

Your pussy was clenching around him.

This was getting you off.

Told you, Meg said. She’s a freak. We’re not that different.

And as the rest of your climax seized you, Sam felt his own take hold.

He pulled out and began pumping his throbbing cock with the hand he’d just used to strangle you.

A dizzying pleasure overcame him.

Whisky in his veins.

Stars again behind his eyes.

And it didn’t take long before he was groaning in ecstasy, shooting his silky seed across your chest and face.

Through Sam’s now hazel eyes, Meg forced him to look down at you. At what he’d done. At your unconscious shell of a body he’d defiled with his pathetic lack of self-control.

A pornographic painting.

A disturbing display of his descent into depravity.

And then Meg did the cruellest thing she could have possibly done in that moment.

She left.

Left him all alone to deal with the aftermath of this mess. The emotional and physical.

Guilt swallowed Sam whole. Not only for what he’d done, but for how good it had felt to lose control, to sate the desires that that taken root deep inside his rotten, corrupted soul.

The last thing Sam heard before she abandoned his aching body–as he closed his internal eyes and admitted defeat–was Meg’s voice, crisp, clear and gloating.

I’ve ruined her for you now, haven’t I, puppet?

It was a rainy night, the sky dark as if all the stars had decided to hide from her at the same time. Meg stood in the rain, feeling Sam’s body get drenched as she stared at the house. Your house.

A grin tucked at the corners of her and Sam’s lips. Tonight was going to be a night to remember.

It hadn’t been easy. Once the Winchesters had gotten those pesky anti-possession tattoos, Meg couldn’t simply smoke into Sam the way she had the last time. But, skin was just skin. It could be removed, and that was what she had done.

Once she had the big lug tied to a chair it had been easy going from there. She’d torn the top buttons of his shirt when she pulled the collar aside, Sam cussing and threatening, voice deep and raw, breathing heavily in a way that she was sure would have ruined a lesser woman.

But not Meg. The hyper masculine thing had never done it for her and she had rolled her eyes pointedly when Sam grunted at her all the ways he was going to get payback. Those boys sure liked talking dirty when they were tied up.

With the tattoo gone, everything else had been easy. She had loosened Sam’s restraints and then possessed him. A final threat had died on his lips and then Meg had been at the wheel.

She sighed, Sam’s big chest moving along. There she was, back inside her favorite boy. She chuckled to herself, some raindrops dripping from Sam’s pretty hair onto his face at the movement.

Torturing the Harvelle girl last time had been fun, but ultimately unsatisfying. The little blonde had been indignant at everything Meg had said, which was cute for a while until it became immensely boring. There was also no real connection between her and Sam, making the whole thing a little too surface-level for Meg.

She liked to poke her fingers where it hurt. At the hidden bruises, the ones thought to have healed years ago. Which was where you came in.

Meg had seen you over the years, hunting alongside the Winchesters, and to say she had been mesmerized by you was an understatement. She expected a certain type of woman to work alongside the brothers – strong, sure, tough, yes, but never too much of these two things to sacrifice her status as potential damsel in distress. Never enough to not be a paradigm of supportive, soft femininity.

And then there was you.

When Meg saw you with the brothers, you never seemed like an appendage, the flavor of the week. You were demanding, didn’t hold back. You were violent in a way that made Meg shiver. Unapologetic. And the goddamn sexiest human she had ever seen.

Sam twitched somewhere inside her at that thought and Meg grinned again. Oh yeah. You had history with Sam. Meg hadn’t been sure of what kind until she had put him on again. Sure, there had been longing looks she had seen, but she wondered if things had gone beyond that.

Boy, had they.

When she searched Sam’s memory, still sitting in that chair she had tied him up in, she had found a delicious montage of all the things you and the younger Winchester had done together. She had expected sweet stolen kisses, gentle puppy love. There was some of it, but only, from what Meg could tell, at the beginning.

She had come across a memory of you on top of Sam, seen through his eyes, of course, naked as Eve, head thrown back. Meg could feel the sense memory of how you had ground yourself against Sam, your warm, delectable tightness stroking him. You had moved your hips, circled them and it had seemed like you were simply taking your pleasure, chasing it in a manic pursuit.

Oh, Sam had loved that one.

His hands had been gripping your hips, hard, not to steer you but because he was sure he would lose his mind if he didn’t hold on to something.

As you got closer, deep moans had started leaving you and you had grabbed Sam’s hands, moved them up to your breasts, your urgency and directness fascinating. Meg had felt herself, and in response Sam’s body, bite her lip at the picture. How selfishly you were fucking Sam, chasing that goal. Your eyes closed, brow knotted in concentration, soft lips parted.

Meg was sure there was love between you and Sam, but in that moment, it seemed like he was just a body you were using. She felt herself grin at the irony of that. Samesies, she thought.

Sam certainly hadn’t seemed to mind. Meg could feel the ripple he had felt when you came, the way you had squeezed him, the loud keening noise, so uncaring about who could hear. She had felt her eyes flutter as she relived that memory. Which was when she had thought of what she wanted to do.

There was a lot of damage she could do possessing Sam Winchester. She could go kill that arrogant brother of his. She could kill Sam himself, or simply wreak havoc in the human world, go after other hunters again.

But she had come to your house instead. It was the only thing she could think of.

She felt Sam stir, somewhere under her skin, at the sight of the house. With another smile spreading over both her and Sam’s lips, she walked towards the door.

The porch light was turned off, but there was light coming from inside, falling through the curtains that looked like big winking eyes in the dark. Meg found the door bell, pressed it. A deep buzz sounded somewhere on the other side. There was some music playing in the house that was suddenly turned down, and then she heard footsteps.

She could almost feel you, then, on the other side of the door. As if your body heat was pressing through the wood. You must have looked through the peephole then, because she heard a muttered: “Sam?” And that was your velvety soft voice, the one she had heard break in ecstasy.

She heard a lock being opened on the other side, and the door swung open, the light briefly blinding, and then there you were.

Meg felt a delicious tug in Sam’s body at your sight. You weren’t wearing much, a Hole band t-shirt and shorts. It was cold outside, the rain cooling the night air and Meg saw goosebumps raise on your legs as the cold crept in, the same way she would soon.

Your face had a look of surprise on it, but you didn’t seem unhappy to see the man in front of you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, voice astounded. Meg… Sam must have been a sight. Middle of the night, drenched, standing in front of a house that was out in Bumfuck, Nowhere.

Meg quickly made Sam shake his head, get some of the wetness out of it, the drops falling to the ground between you and him. For good measure, she made him run his hand into his fringe, shake that one out as well. Meg looked down. It remained to be seen if it had been enough.

The line of salt spilled across the threshold had been half-assed anyway and the water sprayed on it from Sam’s hair was enough to disrupt it. Plus, Meg was powerful. Now all she needed was an invite, because damn it if Meg Masters didn’t have manners.

“I was coming up here to visit you,” she said, and Sam’s deep, smooth voice came out, “and my car broke down a few miles back. No reception so I walked.” Then, doing her best to channel the hunter’s awkward demeanor, she pulled his hands up in a little jazzy number. “Surprise!” she added.

You chuckled, then surveyed Sam’s face for another second, like you couldn’t believe he was here. A moment later, you broke yourself out of your reverie.

“Come on in,” you said, stepping aside, the door wide open and inviting. Meg stepped forward, keeping her eyes on you. She passed the broken salt line and barely felt it. Then she was inside, inside the warmth, and you closed the door behind her.

You were standing close, looking up at Sam, and Meg simply held your gaze for a moment, looking deep into your eyes. The colors in them looked like they were swirling. Meg had never seen you this close before, except during one encounter where she had grabbed you by the collar, thrown you across the room.

It had taken her everything to not lean in and kiss you instead. So now that she got to look at you, she took her time. After a few seconds, she forced a shy smile on Sam’s lips.

“I’m getting your floor all wet,” she said and saw the corners of your mouth twitch at that. Oh yes, you were her kind of woman.

“I’ll get you some towels,” you said, still not breaking the eye contact. “Go ahead and go the bathroom. You want a warm shower?”

Meg smiled. “I would love one.”

The bathtub was an old claw foot, and Meg moved her hands over Sam’s body, rubbing the warmth of the water pouring down on her into it. It wasn’t sexual, but running her hand over the thick biceps, fingers tracing the valleys of his abdomen and grabbing onto the thick hair, pulling it by the root, made Meg excited to use the body.

She couldn’t wait to see your reaction to it, she thought, as she turned off the water, climbed out, long legs making it easy. There really was an advantage to tall flesh suits.

She admired Sam in the mirror. Even though he wasn’t what she went for she couldn’t deny that he looked like a work of art. She grabbed the towel you had gotten for her, wrapped it around Sam. She wondered if it would be too brash to go out and meet you like this. It might make things move quicker.

Because if Meg knew one thing, it was that she wanted to have you before she started hurting you.

She closed her eyes then, searched into Sam again. Rooted through his memories as if she was reaching both hands into a bucket full of sand, clawing her way through. She found one of the last ones of you then.

You were standing with your back turned to Sam. The perspective was strange, and then Meg realized Sam was sitting down. You were running your hand over your face and then you turned around.

“But it’s crazy, right?” you were saying. You had a concentrated look on your face and Meg felt Sam’s sweet little heart beat at that. Boy, he really carried a torch for you.

You leaned against the table opposite Sam, and Meg realized this was a motel room. One with garish wallpaper and stuffy comforters.

“It’s not crazy,” Meg heard Sam say. “It’s just opening the possibility that this life might not be it forever. I think it’s good.” You were chewing your lip, staring off into the middle distance. Meg saw a little smile form on your lips.

“It’s full of all this old furniture,” you said, and looked over at Sam. “Claw foot tub, giant vases, rugs like you wouldn’t believe. They’re probably so dusty I’ll die on my first week living there.” Sam made a chuckling sound.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll just have to come visit you and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

You turned to him fully, then stood straight, slowly walking towards him. Meg smiled at the memory. How she could see all of you, watch you as you approached. She felt you run your hand into Sam’s hair and then Sam closed his eyes at the touch. It meant she couldn’t see you anymore, but damn it if the way you gently gripped his hair, tugging at it, didn’t make up for it.

“You’re gonna come visit me, Sammy?” you said and Meg felt Sam nod. He opened his eyes, just as you were moving to straddle him. Sam’s hands went up your thighs and to your ass, and Meg could feel the fullness of your cheeks fill up her hands.

“You gonna help me christen my new house?” you said, voice quiet, breath on Sam’s face. “Fuck me in every room?”

Meg brought herself back to the moment. She could feel her own arousal at the memory make Sam’s body react. She looked down at herself, the towel around her waist already slightly raised in the front. It wouldn’t do for Sam to walk out with a big old boner.

Sam must have made good on his promise to visit you at your new residence, because in addition to the towels you had given him a t-shirt that, by the sheer size of it had to be Sam’s, and some sweat pants. Meg slipped into the soft fabric, ran her hand through Sam’s hair once again and then left the bathroom.

You had been right about the place – it looked almost like a museum. Whatever interesting personality had lived here before had decked the place out. There were stuffed birds on the walls, looking down at you with shiny eyes, large wooden frames with painted pictures that seemed to only be swirls of color to Meg. Rugs, just like you had said, everywhere.

When Meg entered the living area, you were standing with your back to her, before a low sideboard that had bottles of liquor on top. Meg walked up to you, slowly, enjoying the view. She wanted to sink her teeth into the creamy backs of your thighs, run her nails over the stretch of skin of your neck.

You turned around when you heard her, two tumblers of clear liquid in your hands.

“So,” Meg said in Sam’s low, rumbling voice. “All moved in?” You grinned, raised the glasses.

“The important stuff at least,” you said, then passed one of the glasses to Meg. She sniffed it.

“I know you prefer the dark stuff,” you said, raising your own glass, clinking it against Meg’s. The demon inclined her head.

“So long as there's a little bit of a burn,” she replied. The grin that spread on your biteable lips told her you had caught her meaning. You took a sip, then put the glass down on a little side table next to you, one that had gold-plaited giraffes as legs, crossed your arms.

“So you just drove out here, middle of the night,” you asked. “How come you didn’t call ahead?” Meg took another slow sip, letting Sam’s long fingers splay over the glass. She could see your eyes flicker to them, taking a slow, shallow breath. Good to know.

“I thought about you,” she finally said, licking some of the drink off her lower lip, which made you part yours in response. “And before I knew it, I was driving up here.” You chuckled.

“That’s very un-Sam Winchester of you,” you observed. “Just heading out, throwing caution to the wind.” Meg grinned at you over the rim of the glass.

“Maybe I’m learning,” she said, voice low. You chuckled, picked up your glass again and then, to Meg’s disappointment, started moving away. You walked a few steps, stopping before an old record player. Meg realized the music had stopped and watched as you removed the record, carefully sliding it back into its sleeve. You sorted it back into a large pile, then let your fingers run over the side, looking for what to play next.

“Dean okay?” you asked, half distracted. Meg nodded, but kept watching you as you selected something, took out the record. She had managed to separate the brothers before possessing Sam, and the last time she had seen the older one he was stalking around, machete in hand.

“You know,” she said, “Dean’s Dean.” You chuckled.

“I know exactly what you mean,” you replied, just as you put the needle down. You picked up your glass again, turned to Meg.

“I have some stuff from lunch left,” you said. “You hungry?”

Meg couldn’t help but grin. She was very hungry.

You seemed to take the expression on Sam’s face as confirmation and took another sip, probably planning to move to the kitchen next. But food was the last thing on Meg’s mind.

Using Sam’s long legs, she strode towards you just as you turned to put your glass down, crowded in behind you and pushed you against the sideboard you had been standing next to. You gasped, but the heavy breath you took in the next second told Meg she had struck the right cord.

She put the glass down on the surface as well, then leaned forward, Sam’s long arms caging you. You followed her lead, leaning forward as well, and Meg stretched herself over your back, breathing you in as if she could get high off your smell alone. She pressed Sam’s face into the back of your neck, the softness and smell of your hair driving her nearly insane, then brought one hand to your front, spreading it just beneath your breasts, while the other one ran over your hip to the inside of your thigh.

“Sam,” you breathed, surprise in your voice that confirmed what Meg had suspected: Sam wasn’t a very forward guy, not someone who tended to be the aggressor. But you seemed to like it, one hand going over the one that was roaming the inside of your thigh, the other reaching behind you, fingers twisted into Sam’s t-shirt to pull him closer.

If you liked Sam to be rough, you were in for a treat tonight. Because Meg was a giver, through and though.

“I thought about you the entire drive,” she groaned into your hair, and found it was the truth. She had thought about you, roaming through Sam’s memories but also her own. Imagined your shape, how she wanted to twist you, first in pleasure and then in pain.

“Nearly had to pull up on the side of the road a few times, take care of myself,” she groaned against you.

“Fuck,” you moaned in response, and then you were pushing Sam’s large hand between your legs, pressing his thick fingers against you. Meg could feel heat there. You were a responsive, little thing.

Meg pressed against you there, felt a shudder run through you. But then you pulled the hand away, squirmed out of the confines of Sam’s big arms.

“Come on,” you said, a little breathless, and then you were tugging Meg along, both of your hands around Sam’s. Up the stairs you went and you had to turn so you wouldn’t fall, and Meg swatted at your ass, it’s lovely roundness that she wanted to bury her teeth in. It made you giggle.

You pushed open the first door at the top of the stairs, dragging her along. It was a bedroom, and from the little bit of it that Meg saw before you pulled her in, it was the room you had most made your own. It still contained knickknacks and dust traps, but it was mostly clean, and the bed looked new.

She didn’t see much more, because then your arms reached around her shoulders as you looked up at her, then pressed your lips against her. Meg’s eyes fell shut and Sam’s followed suit. You actually tasted sweet, only the distant burn of the alcohol disrupting the candy-like quality of your spit. Lips soft and pillowy and your tongue, when you pressed it into her mouth, wet and demanding.

Meg ran her hands over your back, then down to your ass, squeezing the flesh there. You groaned against her and before Meg knew what she was doing, she was picking you up.

You wrapped your legs around Sam’s hips and Meg squeezed your ass again, harder this time. She half expected you to pull away, tell her not to be so rough. You didn’t. Instead you moaned into her mouth again, a touch of desperation to the sound. Meg felt her head spin.

She walked over to the bed and tossed you down on it. You bounced off the mattress, hair flying everywhere and then Meg was on you, pushing her face into your neck, running her tongue, well, Sam’s tongue, along the salty expanse. You gasped, held her close when you buried your hands in her hair.

“Jesus,” you groaned, “what has gotten into you?” Meg ran her teeth over your skin, felt goosebumps break out over you. She pulled back, looked into your face.

“I’m just desperate for you, sweetheart,” she purred. She was pretty sure Sam Winchester had never called anyone sweetheart in his life, but you didn’t seem to care.

Pushing against Sam's broad chest to turn him around, Meg let you get on top of her. You straddled her, kept kissing her, your t-shirt riding up with how hard you were pressing yourself against her. Meg’s hands and lips roamed over you, needy for every little bit of you she could get to. Her hands where on your ass again soon, because she just couldn’t get enough of it, and she pulled you towards her, forcing you to sit up.

Your head was above her and you were looking down at her, hair disheveled and lips red from kissing. Meg wondered if this was what humans meant when they talked about seeing God. She was distracted quickly when you ground herself against her, but with how you were positioned, your heat rubbed against Meg’s chest. Sam’s chest.

Meg pulled you in harder, encouraging you to grind yourself against her. You did, eyes closing briefly, shuddering breath taken and then Meg pressed her hand between your legs. She was delighted to feel that you weren’t wearing underwear under the loose cotton shorts, and pushed them aside, touched you.

Meg closed her eyes, leaned her face against your breasts when she finally felt you. It was so much better than she had imagined, better than Sam’s memories could have prepared her for. That boy simply had no sense of poetry.

You felt like the point where ocean and land met, the roar of waves in her ears, fingers pushing into the sand just after the tide had retreated, soft, warm, between two states of being.

You whined when Meg’s fingers entered you, two of them, with her thumb clamping down from the front, the center of your lust caught between the three digits. You bucked at the intense feeling, but Meg held you fast, and soon you pressed yourself against her, searching out more of her.

Your head fell back, and you moaned, then leaned forward again, hands going to the base of Meg’s neck, ten fingers grabbing her hard as you kept rutting yourself against her. High-pitched whines left you that Meg had to close her eyes at, would have liked to bottle up and keep for herself.

You tightened around her fingers, opened mouth pressed against hers, not kissing but something close to it. You came with a cry that sounded like half pleasure, half excruciating pain and Meg swore she would remember that sound forever. She felt you shake against her, what she had done to your body causing movements in you that were beyond your control.

“Sam,” you moaned, just as the shaking was dying down.

Meg’s eyes fluttered open. Yours were still closed where you were resting your face against Sam’s, lips opened pornographically, panting.

Meg lowered her eyes, lowered them to her hand where it was still between your legs.

Where Sam’s hand was still between your legs.

She swallowed, felt Sam’s throat contracting. Felt your hands on his shoulder blades, running slow circles. It wasn’t guilt she was feeling. That emotion had long ago been burned out of her. But something like regret. Regret that it wasn’t her name you had said.

Your lips met Sam’s temple, then his cheek. “That was incredible, Sam,” you muttered.

Well, Meg thought bitterly, she might as well have fun.

With a grunt coming from the hunter’s body, she flipped you around, on your back. You gasped, but your face showed your enjoyment, your excitement at Sam’s demeanor. Meg pressed your legs open, ground Sam’s hardness against you. You bit your lip.

“Fuck me,” you whispered and Meg pretended just for a second that you were talking to her, really talking to her. She pushed herself up a little, meaning to position herself so that she could take off the sweats.

You ran your hand over Sam’s back, lower and lower, until you reached the hem of his t-shirt. You pulled it up, intending to feel his body fully. Meg moved his arms so you could.

“Oh God,” you said, and Meg felt something almost like disgust that the sight of Sam’s overworked torso would cause such a reaction in you. She expected better of you.

But when she looked at you again, it wasn’t lust on your face, but worry. Your hand went to Sam’s chest, Meg flinching at the sudden feeling.

“What happened?” you asked, frowning, and Meg looked down.

There it was, the big angry red patch of skin where she had burned off Sam’s tattoo. Her demon powers had sped up the healing process but not to the point where the wound couldn’t be seen anymore.

She looked back at your face and your eyes widened. She could have gotten away with it, she thought. Maybe.

But whatever you saw on Sam’s face gave it away. That it wasn’t really the sweet, tall hunter that was on top of you, but something else.

You were fast. Your hand was reaching towards the night table before Meg could react and then she felt what she thought was the table lamp come down on Sam’s head.

She flinched back, reared up, not far, but it was enough for you to push yourself off the bed, away from her. You landed on your wonderful ass with a loud, painful sounding thud, and then you were scrambling to get up. Meg slid off the other side of the bed, rushed around it.

You fled towards the door, getting there two steps ahead of Meg. You threw it shut behind you, but it only bounced off Sam’s hard body. You opted to run down the gallery instead of down the stairs. Meg wasn’t sure if you were running anywhere specific, or if you were simply panicking.

Her question was answered when you came to a stop only a little way down the hallway and suddenly Meg couldn’t move. She looked up on instinct. Devil’s trap. Hell, how she hated those things.

“Who the hell are you?” you spat at her.

“It’s me, honey,” Meg replied, Sam’s voice tripping over the words and the tone she said them with. There was fear on your face now, and Meg thought it made you look even prettier than what she had done with Sam’s fingers had.

You turned your head then, rushed a few steps further down the gallery. Meg threw a hateful look at the trap, but she could see the plaster of the ceiling already shake at her insistence. A long chasm ripped through it then and Meg shook herself. Stuff like this could stop the small fry, but she was the biggest, meanest fish in the ocean.

When she looked down, you were closer than she had anticipated. The holy water you sprayed her with burned, made her flail. She would have liked to grab you, hold you, but with the pain she had to be quick. She couldn’t risk you running past her, down the stairs. She really didn’t feel like going out into the rain again.

The back of Sam’s large hand impacted with your head and you were thrown into the paneled wall. Another advantage to possessing the friendly Winchester giant – it was easy to knock out little things like you.

After you collided with the wall, you tumbled to the floor. Meg wiped some holy water off her face, then kneeled down.

You were groaning, eyes squeezed shut. Meg ran her hand into your hair, gripping it tight, pulling you up. She waited until you blinked your eyes open, managed to focus on her. See Sam’s face and the sick grin spreading over it.

Then she threw your head down against the floor. Your head rolled to the side and you were out like a light.

“Damn shame,” Meg muttered, running one finger over your lips.

Meg saw you were waking up by the movement of your shoulders, your brow wrinkling, probably at the intense pain in your head. Your eyelids fluttered, and Meg imagined you on her hand again.

You looked up, not sure where you were, but then realization dawned on you. You tested your limbs, or tried to, the arms stretched up over your head pulling against the rope, the same with your legs. You flinched when you realized that they were connected to each other, the rope running along underneath the dining table you were tied to.

Meg could see the first signs of panic on your face when your eyes fell on her. She wondered if you would start begging right away, or if she would need to squeeze it out of you.

You stilled when you saw her, Sam’s large body leaning against the back of the couch only a few feet away. You calmed your breathing, held her gaze. Not too bad, Meg thought. She wondered if you had been in this kind of situation before.

“Who are you?” you asked again, and there was almost no tremor in your voice. Meg brought Sam’s hands to his chest.

“It’s me,” she said, in her best Sam imitation. It was over the top, too eager, too earnest, she knew, but it was worth the disgust it made twist on your face.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she continued, “but I can’t stop.”

“Cut the crap,” you said, and Meg had to give it to you. Mouthing off when you were the one tied up. A brat. Meg should have known.

She grinned, pushed herself off the couch and walked towards you, languidly.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” she said. She reached the table, and leaned over you, arms spread wide. She raised one hand, hovering it over your stomach, not touching.

“What you should worry about,” she continued, “is what I’m going to do with you.” You frowned at her.

“Torture me?” you asked, voice challenging. “Take out my insides? Feed me my spleen?”

Meg laughed, the sound of Sam doing the same surprising in her ears. She realized she had never heard Sam laugh. She wondered if you had.

“I didn’t know you liked dirty talk,” she said in his deep baritone.

“How about,” you said, moving a little, maybe to get yourself into a more comfortable position, but it moved your hips, Meg’s eyes shooting there inadvertently.

“You tell me what you want to know,” you continued, “and then I tell you to go to hell?” Meg leaned down, bringing Sam’s face closer to yours.

“You think you make the rules here, baby doll?” she asked. You raised your chin, a defiant look on you.

“I think,” you said, “you’re some piece of shit demon who got lucky and grabbed a Winchester. And I think you’re in over your head.”

“Yeah?” Meg asked, and ran the back of her index finger over your cheek. You barely flinched. She brought Sam’s face even closer to yours and you held her gaze, stared her down. Her other hand went to your torso, and she twisted her hand into the fabric of your shirt, pulling it tight against your skin.

“I’m gonna open you up,” she whispered against you, Sam’s lips just barely grazing your skin. “I’m gonna take you apart, touch parts of you you didn’t even know existed.” Your eyes fell shut at the abject horror of what Meg was describing and then…

And then you moaned. Meg blinked. What?

It could have been a whine. It could have been fear. Immediately, Meg wasn’t sure. She pushed herself up, away from you, looking down and studying you. Your eyes flew open. There was no shame on your face, no shock. Whatever it had been, it didn’t seem to bother you. But damn if it hadn’t put Meg off her game. Were you into this?

“I’m—” she started, but she wasn’t sure where she was going. You kept staring at her, and if Meg would have had any decency left in her, she would have blushed.

Instead she walked over to the little side table she’s set up, the one with the giraffes for legs. You turned your head, your eyes following her.

There was a tray on the table and one of your kitchen towels laid over it. With a flourish of her hand, Meg pulled the towel away, dropping it to the floor. Under it were an assortment of knives she had found in your house: a bread knife, long serrated blade dull from usage, a smaller hunting knife, as well as one that looked like a cleaver, but flatter and longer. She looked your way, but you only raised your eyebrows at her.

“Dramatic reveal much?” you asked. It took Meg everything to keep the shocked look off her face. What the hell was wrong with you? She shook her head.

“You know no one’s going to come for you, right?” she asked. She motioned to the body she was in. “Sam’s not gonna break through and be the hero. His hands are gonna open you up and he will be powerless to stop it.” She picked up the cleaver-like knife, stepped closer to you.

“Dean’s somewhere out there, looking for his baby brother but he won’t find you. And you have enough angel warding up in this place to keep Clarence away.” Meg chuckled. “So you can talk yourself up all you want, but I will make you scream.”

You frowned at her and Meg wasn’t sure why. Then she realized what she had said. Clarence.

“Meg?” you asked, voice low. Meg opened her mouth, shut it again. Your hands pulled against the restraints, but you winced when you felt the tension of the rope pulling your legs.

“Meg, it’s you, right?” you asked.

Goddamn it. Goddamn it.

How was she fucking this up so badly? First the burned-off tattoo, now this – how were you getting her to trip up so hard?

Meg walked closer to you, laying the cleaver down next to you while she looked down at you.

“The one and only,” she said, but there was no bravado in Sam’s voice. She saw you study his face as if you were trying to see her behind it.

“Why me?” you asked suddenly. Meg didn’t understand.

“Why did you come here?” you asked, your voice calm. “I mean, you could have gone for Dean, or even Cas, but…” You didn’t finish what you were saying, simply let the sentence taper out. Meg leaned forward.

“You know Sammy really cares about you, right?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. You scoffed.

“So you thought making his body torture me would be fun?” you asked, and then something went over your face.

“You tried to fuck me,” you said, sounding unbelieving. “You… you made me come. Why?” You frowned at her. Meg was staring down at you.

How had you ended up having a conversation? She should have buried herself inside of you already, be covered in your guts up to her elbows. Why were you talking?

“Meg,” you said again, and her eyes went to your face. You were looking at her, something soft in your eyes. Those perfect lips slightly parted. Meg thought you looked as beautiful as the sky when it stormed.

“Meg, untie me,” you said. Meg didn’t move, frozen.

“I want to touch you,” you continued. There was that pull again, that need, which Meg felt translated into Sam’s body, but also it was tugging at her, her real self.

“It’s okay,” you said, voice now almost a whisper. “Just let me touch you.”

It was dumb, Meg knew. What she wanted to do was the kind of stupidity she had always considered herself to be above. But she couldn’t resist. It was like you were putting her under your spell, commanding her.

She grabbed the cleaver, raised it. You flinched for a moment, but then you held still when she brought it down on the table above you, cutting the rope that was holding you. It dropped to the ground and you sat up, at the same time wringing your hands to get the rest of the rope off you. It dropped away too and then you swung your legs over the side of the table.

You reached for her then, grabbing Sam by the biceps, pulled her in. Now it was her turn to flinch, but you quieted her.

“Ssh,” you said and then you were pulling her in, pulling her to where she was standing between your legs. You looked up at her, your hand going to her face and you ran gentle fingers along her. Then your fingers were back in her hair again and you led her closer to you, the expression on your face almost needy all of a sudden.

You wanted her, Meg thought. Her. Not Sam’s body, but her.

Your lips met, and it felt like Meg was kissing you, the physical limitations of how that could work forgotten. She imagined you for a second, black smoke curling in your mouth while you ran your tongue through it, and she shivered in your hold.

“It’s okay,” you said, so quiet that Meg could have imagined it. You kissed her again, harder this time, more demanding, and this time Meg knew that the sound that left you was a moan, could feel it travel through her, into her mouth and down into where she sat inside Sam.

She was mad with lust, she realized, and she wasn’t sure if there was anyone in the world who could satisfy that lust but you.

The front door burst open with a bang and you flinched back, both of you looking in the direction it had come from. From the way the house was built, you could see into the front hallway.

There, rain dropping off his hair, stood Dean Winchester. And in his hand, Meg saw, eyes widening, was the Colt.

She didn’t think Dean would shoot his brother. She would almost bet on it. So the threat of that wasn’t what made her decide to leave.

It was the look on your face. A look of relief. You had played her.

Meg thought about snapping your neck for a second. About feeling your skin under her fingers one last time.

With a grunt of disgust at herself, she realized she couldn’t.

So she raised her head, mouth ripped open. At the very last second, Meg flipped a switch. Then she smoked out of Sam and he dropped to the ground at your feet.

Meg came back into her previous meat suit, still sitting next to where she had tied up Sam. If Dean had found her in his search for his brother, he hadn’t harmed the body.

Meg put it on, but the comfort of its familiarity wasn’t enough to cover for the strange feeling inside her. Like heartburn or some sort of pinched nerve. You had really convinced her that you had wanted her instead of Sam.

She stretched her neck, but nothing could alleviate that feeling. She wondered if she should cry, if that would help. Meg had never cried in her entire life. No, that wasn’t true. As a human she had cried a lot. But never as a demon.

She stood up with a sigh, betrayal sitting heavy in her chest. It was a betrayal. To make her feel like that, only for it to be a lie.

And yet.

Sam had been slumbering inside her, but his eyes had seen what Meg had seen. Only at the last second had she tweaked his subconscious to forget. Sam wouldn’t know anything of what had transpired from the moment Meg had possessed him.

She wondered why she had done that. Sure, Sam would bend over backwards to find out what she had done to you, find a way to blame himself. But it would have been lovely torture to let him know what Meg had made him do to you, how you had allowed her to touch you.

Heaven and Hell loved playing hot potato with the younger Winchester and Sam’s body had been used in many a plot for power. Adding this one on top might have cracked him.

But, Meg realized, she didn’t want to share. Didn’t want him to know.

You had been hers, in those few moments, even if it had been a lie, and she didn’t like the idea that someone else could see, could watch.

Oh, the irony, she thought.

Meg ran her hand over her meat suit’s arm. She could almost still feel you there, as if your hand had burned into her real self.

She wondered if you could feel it too. If you still felt her smokiness run over your tongue.

There was a single roughed patch of skin from the rope on your wrist, but with the way Sam was dabbing at it you’d think it was a stab wound and you were bleeding out.

“I can’t believe I let this happen,” he said, for around the hundredth time.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said, for the hundred and twentieth time, running your free hand over his hair. Sam shook his head.

You studied his face. It wasn’t the first time Sam had been possessed, and even though he said he remembered nothing, you wondered it that was true. You prayed it was. Because you weren’t sure if you could hide the truth from him otherwise.

You cared about Sam, deeply. You might even love him. You loved his mind, his kindness, his soul. Adored his body. He made you feel good in a way that no one else had ever managed.

But when he had caged you in your living room, and then when he had picked you up upstairs, it had made you feel like you would die from the fire he set alight in you. Sam was gentle, sweet. Scared of his own strength. The way he had touched you had been different.

The truth was, in the back of your mind you had known something was wrong, different about him. You hadn’t expected demonic possession, but a quiet voice inside had told you that something was off. Your reasonable mind had wanted to sit him down, talk to him. Figure out what was going on.

But you hadn’t. Hadn’t stopped it. Because how Sam had touched you was how you had wanted him to touch you. That neediness. The desperation. Like you could stop the world from turning if only you got close enough to each other.

And so you hadn’t said anything. Had quieted that small voice, ignored it. For the sake of being touched like that.

You must have sighed, because Sam looked up at you. You forced a smile on your face, ran your fingers over his cheek. You could hear Dean cluttering around in the next room. You wished he would leave. Wished you could have Sam for yourself. Just for a little bit.