#spn x reader

You groan, stubbornly shaking your head even as you sway, barely able to sit upright on her bed any longer. “No, I can stay up. Told you I’d help.”

Sam softens. She has a huge exam coming up in her Legal Ethics course, and you very kindly offered to help her study. You spent the whole day helping her make flashcards, randomly quizzing her on case studies, and doodling on her notes while she consulted her textbook for answers. She’s a diligent worker, and you’re so kind as to help, even if it makes you bored out of your skull. 

“No, it’s late. Just lay down,” Sam insists, taking the flashcards from your hands and clearing the textbooks from her bed. It’s of no surprise when you abruptly plop down face first into her bed, not even bothering to cover up. She smiles, cleaning up while you snooze peacefully with your face shoved into her pillow. 

She changes into her pajamas — shorts and a tank top — before crawling into bed beside you. The mattress is barely big enough for two people, but you always tell Sam that you don’t mind sharing — in fact, you insist upon sleeping in the bed every time you come over. It always makes Sam nervous, mostly because she’s woken up from far too many wet dreams about you to be normal about the close proximity. 

You turn over in your sleep, laying on your back. Sam lays on her side, watching you sleep as she settles in beside you. How you manage to pass out so quickly amazes her; she always takes at least an hour just to get tired enough to close her eyes. The only thing that ever puts her to sleep in under ten minutes is if she masturbates, but — well, with your presence in bed, that wouldn’t be right. 

Sam lays there, watching you in hopes that her exhaustion might finally catch up to her. But time stretches on, crawling by at a snail’s pace, and Sam only grows restless the longer she stares. You make the cutest noises when you sleep — little whines and hums, scrunching your nose and pouting your lips. Sam wants nothing more than to touch your sweet face, to stroke your cheek and trace your lips and kiss you until she can’t breathe. She’s hopelessly in love with you, but of course, she doesn’t have the guts to admit it — how could she? You’re the closest friend she has. It would only make it weird if she admitted her feelings when she doesn’t even know if you feel the same way; to make matters worse, her wet dreams about you are becoming more frequent lately. How is she supposed to look you in the eye when her body can’t contain itself around you? 

She’s already getting wet from watching you sleep. Embarrassing. Sam squeezes her eyes closed, forcing herself to turn her back to you so she doesn’t get any ideas. It takes effort to ignore the sound of your breathing, the soft snores and shifting of your body. Sam grips the sheets around her, praying that sleep comes quickly. 

. . .

Your hand is between her legs.

Sam gasps the second she feels the weight of it. It’s still dark out, and she’s laying on her back, now, legs spread while you touch her through her clothes. There’s a sizable damp patch seeping all the way through her shorts, and her nipples are hard, clearly visible beneath her thin tank top. 

“Huh? What—?” Sam breathes, lashes fluttering when your fingers massage her.

“Sorry,” you whisper, clearly flustered yourself. “I woke up, and— you just looked so pretty.” You lean closer to Sam, sliding your hand up to her waistband, gently beginning to push under the hem of her underwear. “Just wanted to feel you, Sammy.”

Sam moans, legs falling apart. Your fingers glide over her wet cunt with ease, smearing her arousal up and down her folds. She lightly rolls her hips, slipping one of her hands beneath her own tank top to play with her breasts. 

“I didn’t even think you liked me,” she stammers, circling her thumb over one of her peaked nipples. “I didn’t know— didn’t know you—”

“Of course I like you, Sam,” you murmur, whispering it in her ear. You find her clit and rub slow, firm circles against it that make her hips twitch. “I like you so much.”

Sam whimpers, fondling herself firmly. She’s so wet that it’s dripping down to the valley of her ass, soaking through her panties and shorts and even dampening the bedsheets. Your words and your touch have her close to tears; she bucks into your hand, chasing the feeling. 

“God, I wished you’d say that to me. I like you so— love you so much, I—”

You snort in her ear. Sam’s still grinding on your fingers, but her brows pinch with momentary confusion. Are you laughing at her? Why would you—?

A yawn. Your arm draped over her waist. But your hand was just—

Oh.

Sam wakes with a start only to find that you’re just beginning to wake up beside her. Your fingers aren’t between her legs. You aren’t confessing your love to her. No — it was just another of Sam’s wet dreams. 

She finds you nuzzled against her, cuddling Sam with your arm tossed around her middle and your breath warm on her neck. That would explain the fantasy she was having; the wetness from her dream is completely real, though, given how her panties are currently wet and sticking to her cunt. 

“Hey,” you speak groggily — and it’s actually, really you speaking this time. You hum, tightening your arm around her before seemingly realizing you were clinging to Sam in your sleep. A sheepish smile spreads across your lips. “Sorry. You’re so warm.”

Sam can’t work up the courage to speak; she’s afraid her voice will crack something awful. She’s thankful when you don’t seem to care, removing yourself from her body and stretching. She tries not to look when your shirt rides up. 

“I’m gonna shower,” you announce, already crawling over Sam’s body. Her breath catches, and she prays you don’t feel how damp her shorts are. “Do you have a towel I can use?”

It takes a second for her mind to catch up. When it does, Sam swallows, clearing her throat. “Uh— yeah. In the bathroom, top left shelf. The green one.”

You flash a smile, grabbing a fresh set of clothes from your overnight bag. The bathroom door opens and shuts; a minute later, the shower comes on.

Sam has to wait for the sounds of the shower before she can relax, sliding a hand beneath her panties. She’s soaked — she really is dripping through her clothes. The dream felt so real; she slips her fingers between her folds, trying to recreate the feeling. It’s not the same when you’re not there, even if it was only a fantasy. 

With a needy whine, Sam rolls over to bury her face in the pillow you slept on. She can smell you in the fabric — the lingering scent of shampoo and your skin and sweat. Her fingers drag between her folds, swirling around her clit; she sighs, humping her fingers. She can hear you in the shower, humming to yourself; she imagines your body, imagines the water running down your skin. You’ve undressed in front of each other enough times that she has a good idea of what you look like naked. 

One day, she’ll have the real thing. For now, all she can do is cry into your pillow, fingering herself to thoughts of you.

Sam whines, listening to the sounds of her own wet pussy. She’s so close, biting the pillow and inhaling your scent. Her cheeks turn pink when she hears the shower shut off; she pulses against her fingers, shamefully hoping you walk in on her. Sam slides two fingers inside her hole, and her walls instantly squeeze around the long digits. Would you take pity, she wonders? Would you help her? Or would you laugh and gawk at the sight of your best friend pathetically humping her own hand? 

“Sammy,” you call from the restroom, “do you have an extra toothbrush? I forgot mine.”

Sam hooks her fingers inside of her, biting her lip as she imagines your hands working her open instead.

“Y-Yeah,” she says, turning her head to answer back and blushing at her own stuttered response. “Under the sink.”

She listens to you rummage beneath the sink, pressing her thumb to her clit. She’s close, now; her walls are clinging to her fingers, sucking them deeper. Sam moans against the pillow, panting and inhaling your lingering scent, bucking into her hand. 

“I don’t see it!” you call again. The cupboard thuds shut, muffled behind the door. “What about the medicine cabinet?”

“Ah, I think so,” Sam manages to say, barely withholding a whimper. She bites her lip, pulling it between her teeth. She rubs tight, unforgiving circles against her clit until she’s finally gushing, panting into the pillow to muffle herself as she cums. 

More fumbling around in the restroom, and then your voice calls out again. “Oh, okay! I found it!” 

Sam sags against her bed, breathing heavily against the pillow. She sighs in relief, still spilling onto her fingers.

“Good,” she calls lazily, barely managing to slip her fingers out of her panties to cover herself with the blanket. “That’s good.”

She falls asleep, knocked out from cumming too hard, while you brush your teeth and get dressed, entirely unaware of the wetness currently sitting between your best friend’s legs. 

By now, the bedsheets are completely soaked through with Sam’s sweat. Your lips are wrapped around his cock, sucking on the flushed head, slurping up the beads of precum that bubble from his slit. He’s been on the edge for what feels like ages, but — in all fairness — he quite literally asked for this. Some mindless fantasy about letting you take over, try out all the dirty things you’ve been harboring from him — he knew you’d be ruthless, but fuck, he’s never felt more pathetic for wanting you in his life.

Sam groans, his voice cracking when he manages to speak. 

“Please,” he whines, throbbing when your mouth falls down to his balls, kissing and licking the swollen sacks. “Fuck, m’close, I need to…” Sam trails off, breaking into a whimper when you remove your mouth entirely. You laugh, the perfect picture of innocence in spite of your teasing him for the past hour.

“Not yet,” you coo, crawling over him to sit on his stomach. Even though you’re telling him no, Sam still gets excited when you move closer to him — but you’re not trying to tease him at the current moment. Instead, you reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand, sliding your fingers to the base of his skull and picking his head up. “Drink.”

Sam readily accepts. His throat is dry from whining your name, after all, and the cold water is a nice reprieve from your playful torture. He looks up at you with those big puppy eyes of his, water dribbling down his lips. You remove the bottle and hum, swiping the spillage with your thumb. 

“So messy,” you murmur, caressing his pouting lower lip. The pad of your finger drags it down, pressing between the seam of his lips until he obediently drops his head against the pillow, allowing your finger into his mouth. Sam groans when you shove your thumb in, all the way up to your knuckle, pressing down on his tongue. His cock aches painfully, standing at attention while he sucks on the muted, salty taste of your finger.

“Please?” he tries again, pleading with his tongue squirming against the pad of your thumb. Sam gets a little distracted when you drag it around in his mouth, tracing the neat rows of his molars. His lashes flutter, a weak exhale leaving his nose. 

“Use your words,” you lightly chide. “You’re usually so well-spoken, honey. Don’t tell me you forgot how to form a sentence in the past hour.”

Sam is flushed from head to toe, trying to speak around your thumb. Your condescending grin lingers, thumb still swirling around the cavern of his mouth, until you finally remove it to let him speak. The wet pop of your thumb sliding past his lips makes him moan. 

“Wanna cum,” he whines, spit shining on his lips. “Please, can I cum?” 

You hum, not yet answering him, and lower your hand to his thigh. With a light nudge, Sam gets the hint to prop his legs up, and you slither your fingers down to his ass, wet thumb pressing against his rim. The pad of your thumb circles it experimentally, causing Sam to shiver. 

“Depends,” you finally sigh, barely pressing the tip of your thumb inside him. “Are you gonna be good?” 

He scoffs before he can catch himself. You shoot Sam a chiding look, dipping your finger further inside his hole to get another whine out of him. “I’ll— Fuck, yeah, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good,” he babbles hurriedly. 

Your thumb slides out of Sam’s ass, and your hand moves to grip the base of his cock this time. “Are you sure?” you prod, massaging the thick bulge of a vein on the underside of his shaft. “‘Cause I only let good boys cum, Sam. Are you a good boy?” 

His head jerks up and down pathetically fast. “Yes, yes, I’m your good boy.” 

A laugh bubbles out of you as you lower your head, pressing a few featherlight kisses to the flushed head of his cock. “Oh, you’re my good boy? All mine? That’s cute.” You press your tongue flat against the base of his cock, licking a long, wet stripe all the way up his length. Sam melts and shakes against the mattress, yanking at the restraints so hard that his wrists are sure to be red and bruised. He pants heavily, mouth hanging open. For a moment, you pull your head back just to watch. 

“I swear, you’re like a dog,” you muse. “Might have to put you on a leash next time.”

You go down on him right after saying it for the satisfaction of feeling him throb inside your mouth. He likes it. 

“Cum in my mouth,” you mumble between sucking him off, licking up the thick dribbles of pre that smear against your lips. “Since you’ve been so good and all.”

Sam doesn’t need much more from you. When you take him in your hot, wet throat, burying your nose against the neatly trimmed hairs at his base, he’s losing it. The restraints rattle against the bedframe, and he uses what little range of motion he has to buck into your inviting cavern. He cums so hard that it hurts, his balls tightening and spilling cum into your perfect mouth. If he weren’t chained to the bed, his big hand would shove you down until you were choking on his release. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Sam breathes, slowly coming down from his intense, long-awaited orgasm. 

You take as much of him as you can into your mouth, but several globs of cum still escape past the seam of your lips. Sam thought you swallowed it all, but when you crawl up his body, you’re tight-lipped. His brows pinch, startled when you seize him by the jaw with one hand, fingers pressed into his cheeks. The gesture forces his mouth open; you lean over him, lips pursed, and a thick, creamy drop of saliva-infused cum is spat onto his tongue. Sam’s cheeks burn with a furious blush when you push his chin up, closing his mouth.

“Swallow.”

Sam gulps in a split second, embarrassingly obedient. You smile, scratching under his chin. 

“That’s it. Good boy, Sammy.”

You and Sam and Dean have been in close proximity for a month straight without a break, and it’s beginning to grate on everybody’s nerves. Theirs, because nobody can handle being with their sibling for that long and not go crazy; yours, because you’re itching for some sorely missed alone time with Dean. When you and the boys skip into the next town, cranky and complaining to each other the whole way, you declare it: two rooms, or else one of you might actually try to kill someone.

For once, the brothers don’t argue. 

Sam heads off to a room of his own, and Dean’s shoulders visibly relax when he gets you alone. He must have the same idea as you, because as soon as you close and lock the motel door behind you, his hands find your hips, tugging you closer. 

“God, I missed you,” he mumbles, full lips landing on your neck. He mouths at your skin, kissing below your ear while he hooks his thumbs through your belt loops to drag you to bed. 

“Easy there, tiger,” you muse, pausing when the back of his knees bump against the edge of the mattress. “Let me unwrap the packaging first.”

Dean groans, stealing a chaste kiss from your lips, but he’s grinning anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Hurry up, though, sweetheart. I’m not sure I can handle a striptease tonight. Might just have to tear into you like a gas station honey bun.”

A snort spills out of you as you’re taking your shirt off. He’s such a dork. 

Dean mirrors you, undressing from top to bottom — jacket gone, then his shirt, then his hands falling to your belt. He kisses you again, working the leather loose while your hands greedily feel up his sides. You’ve missed touching him like this; you take handfuls of him, feeling the softness of his muscles, caressing his waistline. With a needy hum, Dean kisses you harder, pushing his hips into your hand, silently pleading with you to free him of his jeans. You oblige. 

With your clothes discarded in haphazard piles on the motel floor, Dean makes to sit against the headboard with you perched in his lap. You make out while he circles a finger around your rim, spreading you open with one big hand while the other smears a glob of his spit around your hole. A desperate sound leaves you, and Dean gently begins to pump one finger inside you while his other hand leaves your ass long enough to reach for the remote. 

“Gotta cover up the noise,” he explains, noticing your raised eyebrow. “M’gonna screw you into next week, baby.”

You clench around his finger, lightly rolling your hips back to meet his. “We have to work on your one-liners,” you joke, overflowing with want in spite of your loving judgment. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, kissing you again while he blindly flicks the TV on. Bluish light washes over the room, illuminating one side of Dean’s face and bathing the rest in shadow. The volume is loud enough that Sam can more than likely hear it in his room, but low enough that it doesn’t fully register in your ears. When Dean nudges his hard, leaking cock against your rear, that becomes your only focus. 

For a little while, at least. 

Dean is thrusting into you from below, gently directing your rolling hips. His eyes are shut, head leaning against the headboard as he fucks you slow. It feels good, but — you’re not sure why your mind is straying now — a familiar voice is speaking on the TV. Your movements slow without you realizing it as you try to pinpoint who you’re hearing; Dean isn’t paying attention to what’s happening, at first, not until your hips crawl to a stop while he does all the work.

Dean — pent up, trying to get off (no thanks to you) — finally groans, frustratedly squeezing your hips.

“Are you tired or somethin’?” he asks, cracking his eyes open to find you staring at the television screen. He blinks, startled and somewhat blinded by the light of the screen. “What the hell are you—?”

“The Sting is on, babe.”

Your words come out so casually that it throws Dean for a loop. He blinks, still rock hard and buried in your ass. 

“Like… with Robert Redford and Paul Newman?” he clarifies, going entirely still.

“Yeah,” you confirm, craning your neck to watch. It looks uncomfortable — it’s definitely uncomfortable. When you face Dean again, rubbing the tensed muscles, your expression shifts from interest to sheepishness. “…Sorry, sorry. I’m ruining the mood. Keep going.”

Dean shoots you a puzzled expression, brows pinched. “It's a little hard to do that when you’re looking at other men.” His voice is surprisingly playful; you thought he’d be more annoyed by your distractedness. It’s reassuring enough that you feel comfortable cracking a joke.

“But it’s Redford and Newman,” you stress. “You can’t blame me for that. You like ‘em, too.”

He snorts, shifting suddenly to lay your back down on the bed. You yelp in surprise, legs flying up in the air. Dean catches them, tossing them over his shoulders with his cock still buried inside you. 

“Nah, you’re right,” Dean muses, hauling your hips up for a better angle. “Get a good look, then.”

Your head hangs off the foot of the mattress while Dean returns to fucking you, but this time, you’re free to watch the handsome con men plotting on the screen. Now Dean is watching the film right along with you, distractedly rolling his hips, stopping a few times, remembering what he’s doing, then forgetting all over again. It’s a silly, vicious cycle. You find yourself laughing, eyes pulled from the upside-down image of Paul Newman playing poker to land on Dean’s squinted gaze on the screen. 

“Are you getting a good look?” you tease, finding his forearm, wrapping your fingers around it, and giving him a light squeeze. 

Dean’s eyes flee the television to see you smiling below him, deeply entertained to know he’s equally as invested in watching the movie despite himself. He gets shy all of a sudden, rolling his pretty eyes and pinching your hip to make you jolt. 

“Hush,” he grumbles. Then, after a beat, he soothes the spot he just pinched. “Want me to turn it off?”

The immediate glare of disgust and outrage on your face is nearly enough to shrink him into a raisin. “Do you want to die?” you ask pointedly. 

“...Guess not,” he snorts, leaning down to kiss your forehead. His cock pushes deeper inside you when he does it, sending a pleasant shudder up your spine. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” you huff, rubbing his arm. “I know you know how to multitask. Figure it out.”

His grin stretches a mile wide, and he rolls into you with a tempting thrust. “Have I ever told you you’re hot when you’re actin’ bossy?”

You glow with mirth, wriggling beneath him as you try (and fail) to maintain a humble expression. “Flip me over so I can actually watch.”

“Yes, Captain,” he salutes, already sliding out to help lay you on your stomach, placing a pillow under your hips to lift you up for him. It looks like you’re prepping for a pornagraphic massage when he spreads you open, slipping inside you again. Dean holds himself up by his elbows, kissing the back of your shoulders. He’s lazier this time, watching The Sting with you while he grinds forward, leisurely sliding in and out. 

“Do you love me?” 

His question is low and sweet in your ear. You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his cheekbone. “Don’t be silly. ‘Course I do, baby.”

Dean smiles, eyes gleaming in the bluish light. “More than Redford?”

“Know your limits.”

> masterlist. > main.

A shapeshifter had you running all over the place, causing raucous through an otherwise sleepy town. You were tricked more than a few times, wasting your time and energy (and bullets). It was bad enough that the three of you had to flee the second the shifter was killed, lest the cops catch up to you. Dean drove for hours, gunning it down the highway for miles; he only stopped once for gas and to swap places with Sam once the exhaustion kicked in. You only stayed (mostly) awake to keep an eye out for any flashing lights.

It’s half past four in the morning when Sam pulls up to a motel. Dean wakes up, groggily heading inside to book a room. He looks dead on his feet already; it’s of no surprise to you when he enters the room, strips down to his boxers, and face plants into the bed. He didn’t even bother to wash the blood off his face.

Sam huffs in amusement, only barely conscious enough to head to the restroom with you. He washes his face, scrubbing away dirt and blood and grime. You do the same for yourself, sharing a tube of toothpaste so you can both brush your teeth. 

Sam heads to bed before you, changing into a pair of pajama pants and a clean T-shirt. You undress, too — sleep shorts and a Looney Tunes shirt that you stole from a gas station three states ago. By the time you crawl under the sheets, Dean is snoring loudly on the other bed, and Sam is halfway to dreamland. 

When the bed dips beside him, Sam sleepily tosses his arm over your waist, nuzzling into the pillow. He’s cute like this; he has such a pretty face, and the tranquility he finds in slumber looks good on him. You can’t resist watching over him for a while — it’s a force of habit by now. Staying awake long enough to make sure he’s safe and protected is your comfort. 

Exhaustion weighs heavy on your bones. You finally dare to close your eyes, shifting closer to Sam’s warmth, laying on your back while his breath lightly fans against your cheek.

Then, his hand moves.

It’s clearly not intentional, but Sam’s hand finds purchase on your hip, lightly tugging you closer in his sleep. It’s funny — even now, he’s possessive of you, wanting for your touch. He gives you the faintest little squeeze, and then his body sags again, causing his hand to drag over the front of your shorts.

Heat squirms its way up your body in an instant, spreading like a wildfire. The weight of Sam’s hand so close to where you’ve been neglected for weeks is enough to wake you up. A tiny huff of frustration escapes you. Of course you have to get turned on now, when Sam is asleep and Dean is drooling just a few feet away. At this rate, you’ll never get any sleep.

An idea strikes you, and you’re not proud of it: what if you got yourself off? 

Sam’s fingers twitch, resting on the middle seam of your sleep shorts. It would be so ridiculously easy to slip his hand down, to rub those long fingers between your legs. Your thighs clench at the thought of it, an ache growing deep inside you that you know you won’t be able to sleep through.

With painfully slow movements, you work your shorts down, then your underwear — just enough to expose your heat. You cover Sam’s hand with yours, watching his face to see if he’ll wake. He doesn’t. 

Swallowing thickly, you gently grip his wrist, moving his hand to cover your damp pussy. Sam stirs a bit, but only to nuzzle into the pillow with a cute, sleepy noise; his hand settles heavily over your center, and — with a painstakingly careful touch — you guide his fingers to press against your folds.

The sound that threatens to escape you is stopped by you biting your tongue. You’re more pent up than you realized; weeks of overworking yourself and being unable to get your man alone comes bubbling up. You lightly grind your hips up, humping his fingers, hesitant to press down on his hand too hard. The slickness between your legs was minuscule at first, but it’s building fast. It’s a struggle not to make a sound, to keep your movements light; it’s not even pressure. You give in enough to press his hand down a little harder, gasping when the rough pad of his fingers catch on your clit. A weak whimper draws past your lips, quiet enough that Dean blessedly remains asleep — but it’s enough for Sam to stir beside you.

“Hm?” he groans softly, still not fully conscious. Sam is convinced that he’s dreaming when he feels the familiar, wet pulse of your cunt against his fingers. It’s a nice dream, he thinks, so of course he wants to satisfy you even in his sleep. Sam cups your heat without your direction, finding your clit with his eyes closed and firmly massaging it. When you whimper a second time — louder now, edging on too loud, Sam twitches, jerking his head up with his eyes half-closed.

“Sam—” you start, cheeks burning with shame and arousal once his sleepy gaze lands on you.

He doesn’t speak, still lazily rubbing your clit. It’s as if he’s not even aware that he’s doing it at first; he doesn’t take proper notice of it until you’re sighing, bucking against his digits and sliding your hand up to squeeze his wrist. 

“Couldn’t sleep, hon?” Sam mumbles to your warm cheek, awake enough now to put a little more intention behind his touch. His middle finger experimentally drags between your folds, feeling how they undulate to meet him. 

You nod, nails digging into his forearm when he hooks one thick finger into your sopping hole. Your cunt squeezes around him, pulling him deeper with every languid thrust of his middle finger inside you. Another moan starts to fly past your lips, but Sam picks his head up and smushes his mouth against yours.

“Have to be quiet,” he reminds you, smothering your sigh with his words. “Don’t wanna wake Dean, baby.”

He’s still kissing you as you nod a second time, restlessly snapping your hips up to meet his finger. A second one enters you, and Sam uses his thumb to play with your clit whilst his other fingers remain buried inside you. The wet clapping of his palm against your pussy makes you shamefully horny; a tiny part of you hopes Dean wakes up and catches you two, if only to fulfill a desperate thrill within you. Not that you’d ever admit that.

You squeeze around Sam’s fingers and, even though he’s still bleary-eyed from being woken up like this, he fucks you with his fingers, waiting to feel you gush. He kisses you sloppily, muffling every sound that threatens to erupt from your lips, until your walls swallow him up and spill over. You lift your shaking hips to meet his hand, and he doesn’t stop the movement of his fingers until you’re slumping against the mattress, pawing at his hand to get it away. Sam slows, kissing you deep before gently removing his hand. He wipes your cum off on his pants, then caresses your side. 

“Better?” he asks, voice gravelly from sleep.

After a hum of confirmation, Sam settles beside you again, quick to return to his rest with his nose buried into your neck. You smile lazily, pulling your shorts back up despite the mess, and close your eyes.

You are a dull, weak-minded thing. No amount of plastered smiles or feigned confidence could ever change that. That’s not your fault — most humans are just as weak, if not weaker. You should count yourself lucky that you’re not as mushy-brained as the other bodies I’ve inhabited. Most humans are sludge; lumpy little meat sacks who can hardly think for themselves. Minions molded from clay, puppets on a string — they’re easy to manipulate, yes, but boring. 

You, however — you’re an interesting one. Most humans shrink to the back of their minds when they’re possessed, cowering and sniveling in the darkest recesses, but you press right against my presence, squirming for space. All humans long for control, I’ve come to realize, but you are of the rare breed that starves for it. You’re desperate, pushing against me at every turn — even when I found you, jumping into your brain for the first time just a block away from your home, you fought me. A futile attempt, of course — such a silly thing you are, thinking you could bat me off like a fly — but an impressive one nonetheless. 

You’re quiet now. Still nudging your way around, trying to find an opening, but you’re exhausted. It’s almost like being half-asleep, don’t you think? Like those nights where your body hits the mattress to rest, but your mind is still turning? Or do you find this experience closer to sleep paralysis, I wonder? Your body is unmoving, no longer yours, and you get to see every little thing I use you for. Is this as scary as your party trick? Are you laughing now? Your heart is racing — that much we share. You can’t hide your frantic mind from me. It was hardly ever yours to begin with.

You’re just his type. I’ve crept up inside his mind, too, so I’d know. The moment I found you, I knew you’d be the perfect vessel. This time, the Winchesters won’t escape so easily; Father did tell me I was always too impatient. My mistake — I see that now. I know better. The brothers can wave around their little anti-possession charms all they want, but I don’t need to use their bodies to get to them this time. I don’t mind playing with my food, either; you’re a cute little piece of bait. Might as well make good use of you. 

. . .

When your best friend and next-door neighbor is murdered in his sleep — stabbed to death thirty times, throat slit for good measure — the cops question you first. You’re a shaking, sniveling mess, crying into the palms of your hands as you’re questioned at the precinct. You garble out what answers you can manage between sobs, and the officers send you pitying looks. Not the suspect they’re looking for. Just someone who happened to be out of the building on that night, someone who keeps finding themself at the center of a tragedy. They release you, sending you on your way, and I leave the police station still wiping snot from your nose. Disgusting. 

I have to tell them it was me. I have to go back.

No, you don’t. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

It’s my fault. You made me turn fucking crazy.

Oh, wouldn’t it be so much easier if that were the case?

I return you to your apartment building, red-eyed from all the tears. I didn’t have to work those out of you — they’re all yours, no prodding at your weak brain necessary. Easy work. 

The Winchesters show up to your door the next day like flies to shit. 

When I swing your door open, they’re dressed in black suits, looking perfectly respectable for a pair of shithead hunters. “We’re with the police,” Sam says, greeting you first with a fake ID. 

The brothers are posing as detectives today, investigating the string of murders that have occurred in and around your building for the past three weeks. Three bodies — well, four now, with your little friend out of the picture. Only your neighbor down the hall, Nadine, survived the attack, but she’s in the hospital now. (The brothers already tried to speak with her, but she’s comatose. Nothing to get out of her.) 

Dean similarly flashes his badge, then flicks it closed before I can read too far into the fake name on the card. Probably some rock star’s name. His words come out with practiced professionalism: “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“But I was just at the station,” I say for you, allowing a bit of your actual trepidation through.

“It’s just a bit of follow up,” Dean clarifies. “It’ll help us get a clearer understanding of the situation.”

His voice is grating. If I didn’t already have a plan in mind, I’d rip out his vocal cords and eat them in front of his dumb little brother. Unfortunately, I need him to keep them — long enough for me to hear him screaming for his poor brother, at least. 

“…Okay,” I say, taking a few tentative steps back. “Come in.”

Dean enters first, nodding once in acknowledgement, then Sam. They look around your apartment curiously, seemingly searching for some clues of a demonic presence. It’s silly how they don’t notice what’s right under their noses. 

“Can I get you anything, detectives?” I ask. “Coffee, water?”

“Coffee, if you don’t mind,” Dean answers, taking a seat at your two-person dining table. Sam opts to stand beside him, giving you the chance to sit if you’d like. He’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?

With a nod, I head to your kitchen, searching the cabinets for a mug. 

“Can you tell us where you were on the night of the incident?” Dean asks, calling to you from several feet away. 

“At the hospital, visiting my neighbor Nadine,” I call back, plucking a mug from the shelf above your head. “She was the last person to be attacked before River — my friend. She lives down the hall from us.” 

“So you spent the night at the hospital?” Sam clarifies.

“Yes, I did. She’s been comatose for a few days.” I pour the coffee into the mug, then pause. “Do you take cream or sugar, detective?”

“Neither. Did you notice anything off about your friend? Maybe he mentioned someone he knows behaving strangely?”

I glance to my side to make sure neither of the men can see when I lean over, spitting in the ceramic mug with a smile. A surprise touch of sweetener, if you will. 

You’re disgusting.

I return with the coffee in hand, walking slowly as I pretend to think. “Well… Now that you mention it, he did say something like that. Our landlord has always had an attitude with us — Nadine, too — but River said he’s been extra creepy, I guess. Irritable and nosier than usual. I came home one day and he was just… standing outside the building, staring at me.” 

Sam tilts his head curiously, like a puppy tempting its owner for treats. “Does your landlord live nearby?”

“In the building, yeah,” I answer. “He’s sort of our handyman, too. He’s always fixing something.”

“So he must have a key to all the units,” Dean suggests, more statement than question. He shares a look with his brother, communicating in that silent way that siblings do. Dean nods, then, leaning forward on the table. “Do you live alone?”

“I do,” I say, shoulders sinking. I fix your expression into one of wariness, eyes darting between the brothers. “Am I… going to be safe?”

Sam’s pity is apparent. He looks down at your worried face, those eyebrows of his pinched upward with his own sense of concern. “It might be a good idea to leave your apartment for a few days. Just to be cautious.”

I make your body slump forward against the table, anxiously chewing on your lip for good measure. “I don’t know. I can hardly afford this place, and that was with River helping me on rent. I don’t have anyone left to stay with, no extra money for a hotel—” I manage to make your voice crack, and your eyes become glassy. “Everyone’s getting anxious. They think I had something to do with it.” I swallow, dropping your eyes to your hands, fiddling with your fingers. “I don’t want to die here.”

Dean’s eyes dart to your mouth, to your lip stuck between your teeth — he can’t resist your sweet face either, apparently. “One of us’ll stay here with you,” he decides. “Don’t you worry.” 

Sam doesn’t have any qualms about this, it seems. “Yeah. We’ll keep an eye on you.”

My gaze shifts to Dean, who lifts the mug to his lips, finally taking a sip of his coffee. I almost let a smile crack across your lips when he hums gratefully — the added saliva must be delicious.

“Thank you, detectives,” your voice says, and I wipe your eyes with the end of your sleeve. 

The brothers excuse themselves, then, insisting upon searching the apartment. I pretend not to listen as they discuss the sulfur the found on your friend’s windowsill (intentionally left behind by yours truly, of course). They argue over who’s going to watch over you for the night, too, playing a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors to solidify their decision. Thankfully, Dean is a notorious loser, so my plan remains intact; Sam is appointed as babysitter, and Dean is relegated to stalking the landlord for the night. 

Sam isn’t sure of what to do with himself once he’s alone with you. He spends the longest time pacing your apartment, poking his head out the window. I watch him, pretending to do chores while he hovers all around the room. 

“You can sit, if you’d like,” I call on his behalf (and yours — I can feel your own anxious thoughts stirring against my consciousness). 

He lifts his head up, smiling shyly, and takes to sitting on your couch. He sits at the very edge of the cushion, so afraid to relax that it might as well kill him. I linger in the kitchen for a while, thinking up all the ways I can torture him before Dean gets here. I’ve already determined that Dean wouldn’t kill his own brother under any circumstances, so that leaves the task to me. I could cut Sam up like your friend, perhaps, but slower this time. Maybe I’ll even chop him into small enough pieces, fry them up, and feed Dean a batch of Sammy sandwiches. 

You squirm inside your head, disconcerted by the imagery I inject into your brain. I nearly laugh aloud; you’ve been so squeamish ever since I chopped your friend up and beat your neighbor half to death. You can take two more. There’s no other option. 

I fill a glass full of water and bring it out to Sam, finally ready to play with him for a bit. I hold it out to him, putting on one of your best smiles. 

“Water?”

Sam looks up at you. He was watching the news on your television, boredly idling time away. Your presence alone is enough to fluster him. 

“Oh, thank you,” he says, reaching to take the glass.

Then, without my permission, your hand trembles. Before Sam can grasp the water, your fingers twitch of their own accord, jerking back. The glass drops, shattering to the floor between our feet. 

“Fuck,” I hiss, white-hot fury flaring up. 

What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

Oops. It was an accident.

Liar. If you don’t get your shit together, I’ll—

“Are you okay?” Sam asks worriedly, already standing. He’s careful not to step on the glass, looking down to make sure you weren’t injured. 

“Fine,” I lie easily, playing at being embarrassed. “Muscle spasm. It happens a lot.”

Sam nods, thinking nothing of it. “Don’t move. I don’t want you stepping on any shards.”

He hurries off to your kitchen, retrieving a towel and, with a bit of instruction, he locates a dustpan. Sam kneels down alongside you, working together to clean up and dispose of the shards. I let your hands brush against his a few times to make him blush and smile at you. Your stupid little “accident” wasn’t such a terrible waste of my time, it seems. 

“Thanks,” I say, molding your voice into the perfect level of warmth. “Sorry for spilling it all over you.”

Sam looks down at his wet pant leg as if noticing it for the first time. He shakes his head, glancing back to meet your gaze. “Oh, that’s alright. It’s just a little water.”

“Still…” I offer him a fresh towel, shooting him a sweet, apologetic smile. 

He takes it from your hand, grazing his fingers over yours and lingering just a moment too long. “Thanks,” he murmurs, all softspoken and shy. He sits on your couch again, dabbing at the damp fabric. I follow after him, sinking into the cushions and gearing up for what’s to come. 

“You know… Don’t shoot me if I’m wrong, but you’re not actually a detective, are you?”

Sam freezes in the middle of drying off. He falters too long for him to reasonably play it off, but he still tries anyway. “I— Well, I am. In a way.”

“Right,” I muse coyly, watching him squirm and blush. “But you’re not a real cop.”

He sputters for a moment, then grins sheepishly. “No, not a real cop.”

“Uh-huh. I knew it.” I face him on the couch, leaning closer with a feigned dose of curiosity. “What, then? A private investigator?” 

“Of sorts,” Sam answers. 

He’d never tell a stranger that he’s a hunter, of course — not even you — but that’s not the point of my questioning. It’s the intimacy of it, the playfulness. Human laws of attraction at play. Ask him a few personal questions and he’ll fall into your lap like a dog. 

“So what’s really going on here?” I wonder, eyeing him. “Have you and your partner—”

“Brother,” Sam clarifies, cutting in. “He’s my brother. Dean. And I’m Sam.” He pauses for a beat at my bewildered expression. “We, uh, use fake names. Just to keep us safe from any snooping.”

It’s not the best lie, but you’d believe it if I weren’t here to set you straight. I nod, accepting his word without question. 

“Okay, Sam. Have you and your brother figured out what’s happening?”

Sam is slow to answer. He’s trying to find some way to explain the case without saying “a demon possessed your grouchy landlord,” but once he has his head on straight, he starts talking: “We think that, uh, your landlord has a grudge against his tenants so he’s trying to pick you all out one-by-one. Dean’s keeping an eye on him to make sure you’re not the next victim.” 

I melt your expression into one of concern. “So… what about the mood change? Is he on drugs or something?” If I were a human actor, I bet I’d be a star by now with the work I’m putting in. 

Sam seems pretty thankful that I managed to give him an out by mentioning possible drug usage. It saves him from having to come up with another shitty lie on the spot. “Yeah, yeah. Something like that. We thought he might have left traces at the crime scene.”

“Wow,” I sigh, leaning your body against the couch. “I never would have guessed. This is so… messed up. I can’t believe it. That asshole.”

I can feel your anger flaring up at that line — good. I can borrow it for my performance. It’s helpful when you let a little bit of yourself shine through so I can gain a few extra sympathy points with this puppy-eyed freak. 

You’re fucking cruel.

It’s what I do best.

“It’ll be alright,” Sam assures you, wholly unaware of our little conversations. “We’re gonna catch him. He won’t hurt anybody else.” 

“But he already got River,” I say, managing to amp things up with some waterworks. “And the doctors don’t know if Nadine will wake up. Even if she does, she might never walk again. It won’t be the same, all because of him.”

My Oscar-worthy monologue strikes a chord within Sam. He looks you up and down, taking you in with a mournful stare.

“I get where you’re coming from,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry about all of this. But I swear, at the very least, I’ll keep you safe. Okay?”

I swallow, blinking at him through your wet lashes. “Okay.”

Sam nods once, grateful for the confirmation. He glances out the window; the light is fading fast as night draws in, dimming your apartment. He seems flustered all over again, clearing his throat. 

“It’s late, you know. You should try to get some sleep. It could be a long night.”

What a gentleman. I can tell he’s itching to get his hands on you — when he was talking alone with his brother earlier, I could hear Dean going on about how, if Sam has to be the one to watch you, he might as well get lucky, too. Sam got all nervy about it, but Dean wasn’t wrong to assume his brother is in need of a tender hand. I could have him any damn way I want — I’ll keep myself occupied with Sammy here, and come morning, Dean will waltz in to find his little brother’s intestines painted across the walls. 

Don’t.

Your little voice knocks against my presence — firm and immediate — but I ignore it. It’s not your decision what I do with your body, anyway. 

“I don’t really wanna be alone right now,” I murmur, looking at your feet. A fresh tear springs out, slipping down to your chin right on cue. 

Sam takes pity on you, gently laying a hand upon your back. “It’s okay. I’ll be here all night.” He leans towards you, providing a comforting shoulder to cry on. I lean your head against him, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He’s blushing — how cute. 

“You promise?” I ask, looking up at him through your lashes, batting them innocently. Sam shares a similar look of innocence — he’s so naive. You’d think the guy would know better than to trust the first sweet thing that falls into his lap by now. 

“Promise,” he answers, his voice rough. He’s breathing a little heavier, flustered from every point of contact. Let’s take it a step further, shall we?

I move your hand to touch his knee, causing Sam to stiffen. Your fingers twitch, thumbing at the outer seam of his jeans before traveling higher, grazing his inner thigh. Sam jolts under your hand, shifting an inch away from you. 

“Woah,” he breathes out, eyes flitting up to your face. 

Retracting your hand, I gnaw at your lower lip with feigned nerves. “Oh,” I gasp, looking at him with wide eyes, then putting on a shy look and averting my gaze. “Shit, I’m sorry. I thought— I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Sam cuts in, placing a steady hand on your shoulder. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Tears well up in your eyes, and your head drops into your hands rather pathetically. Your shoulders shake as you weep. “No, that was really dumb. I’m so— so stupid.”

Sam squeezes your shoulder reassuringly, inching closer to you again, turning to face you better in the process. “Hey, stop. You’re not stupid.” It takes everything in me not to grin into your palms when he puts his arm around you, tugging you closer. “I think you’re just… feeling a lot right now. I get it. Seriously.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to…?” I trail off, voice muffled.

His cheeks burn bright red at the sound of your suggestion. He swallows thickly, licking his lips. 

“I… I’m not sure. I think—”

I lift your pretty head up, still teary-eyed. With a weak smile, I search his expression. “You think I shouldn’t.” It’s a statement, not a question. He catches that much. 

Sighing, Sam shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you should.”

I purse your lips, observing him. The weak, sniffling shit is dropped in favor of a teasing air. Leaning into his arms, I bring your hand back to his thigh. 

“You think I don’t know what I want? Is that it?” I ask, sending him a sultry look from up close. His breath hitches as your hand lightly massages his thigh, picking at the loose threads on the seam of his slacks. “I don’t lose all sense of desire just because I’m grieving, Sam. I can decide for myself.” 

You’re feeling squeamish inside your own head, now. I can feel it. While Sam is bracing his hands on the couch cushions, you’re holding onto the edges of your brain, pulling yourself up and trying to shove me out. You can’t. You won’t. 

Stop it. Stop touching him.

Your hand skims down the inside of his thigh, tracing the seam up to his crotch. 

Leave him alone. Please.

But he likes it. Don’t you see how he shifts, how his breath quickens? 

I don’t want to do this. I want my body back. I have to stop.

Boo-fucking-hoo. 

Your hand grips Sam’s groin, squeezing his length through the denim. He’s not hard just yet, but the blood is beginning to rush down now, making him twitch under all the layers. Sam’s hand flies down to squeeze around your forearm, gently pushing you away even though some part of him surely wishes to pull you closer. 

“Hold on,” he rasps, lashes fluttering as I start to climb into his lap. Your hands are already reaching for his belt buckle, leaning in to press a firm kiss to his mouth. That’ll shut him up for the time being.

He takes a second to halfheartedly kiss you back, clearly uncertain about how fast you’re moving. I yank his belt off, tossing it beside him on the couch — I’ll be needing that later — before hastily unbuttoning his pants.

“Sam,” I breathe, kissing him hurriedly, trailing your mouth down to his neck whilst unzipping his pants. “Please. Get me out of my head for a little while.” 

That’s a sick fucking joke. Psycho.

I know, right?

“I— I don’t know,” Sam stammers, putting his hand on your hips — not to pull you, but to gently nudge you back. He’s tense, conflicted. “I think I need a second, okay? Can we just— Ah.”

He cuts himself off when I abruptly shove one of your hands down his boxers, curling your fingers around his cock. Sam jumps beneath your weight, bucking his hips before shying away from the touch, but I refuse to relent so easily. I squeeze your hand around him, feeling him up and rubbing the pad of your thumb over a thick vein on the underside of his length. He chokes on air, trying to push you off more urgently. 

“I— Stop it, stop,” he pleads, even as he twitches in your hand.

Leave him the fuck alone. For the love of God, just leave him the fuck alone. 

God isn’t here right now. Stop being a little bitch. 

I mouth at his neck, teeth skimming the underside of his jaw, then below his ear. His breath catches despite all of his struggling — isn’t it so pathetic how he doesn’t want to hurt you, even now? — and I can’t help but grin, stretching your lips across your face where he can’t see. I bite down on his neck a touch too hard, making him yelp. The sound makes me giddy. I sink your teeth in even harder, pulling at his skin, ripping into it to make him bleed. The taste of iron fills your mouth, and — oh, I’m sorry, but I have to indulge a bit here. I laugh, lapping up the blood that dribbles down his neck, until Sam finally gets the good sense to shove you off.

“What the fuck,” he gasps, clamping a hand over his wounded neck. 

Your body hits the floor with a heavy thud, and it stings a bit, but I’m still cackling, licking the blood off your lips.

“Oops. Guess I got a little too excited, Sammy.” 

He looks scared. Startled. Confused. Realization dawns upon him. 

“Meg,” he says gravely. It’s hilarious how fucking terrified he sounds with his dick hanging out of his slacks. He shoots up, hastily tucking himself into his boxers, and I push your body up to your feet, a cocky grin still painted across your face. 

Your voice comes out deceivingly sweet. “Did you miss me?”

Sam doesn’t move for a moment. His eyes dart to his belt on the couch. So do mine. 

Two bodies launch themselves at the couch in sync. I grab the belt first, pulling it out of his reach, but Sam tackles me to the floor. He wrestles me for it, grunting and scrambling above me. I knee him in the crotch, and he winces, giving me just enough time to shove him off of your body. It’s my turn to be on top of him, pulling the belt taut and pressing it against his windpipe. 

“That’s better,” I say, grinning wildly. “You like being on the bottom anyway, don’t you Sammy? Maybe I’ll just play with you like this while we wait on your brother, huh? I know you like this body. They’re your type, right? I picked them out just for you.” 

I move your hips, grinding them against Sam’s while he struggles beneath your weight, scratching angry red lines down your forearms in an attempt to push your hands away. Having a demon inside you does wonders for your strength, don’t you know? 

Go fuck yourself.

A little hard to do, honey. I’d technically be fucking you. Unless that’s what you want? I can pencil it in after I kill Sammy’s big brother. 

You nudge against me in your brain. Squirming, slithering, pushing and shoving. Hilarious. Your hands press down harder against Sam’s neck, hard enough that his eyes are starting to roll back. By the time Dean makes it back, his little brother will be gutted like a fish on the floor beside your couch. 

I’ll kill you.

That’s cute.

Get out of my body.

No way.

Fine. I’ll kill us both, then.

You give me a good, hard shove inside your brain. Hard enough that your head aches with a sharp, pinching pain that makes my control over your hands falter against the belt. It’s not enough — I take over again, grunting, but your work isn’t over yet.

You feel your way around in your own mind, shoving through memories and brain matter. You stir everything up, rifling through the finely filed drawers of your head and tossing out every document. It’s all suddenly scattered — memories from your childhood, of last week, of beating Nadine down the hall, of your roommate’s blood on your hands. 

What do you think you’re doing?

You focus on that memory, on the blood. The knife in your hands, the way River’s scream was muffled into his pillow. How the blade went through him so fucking easily. The blood that bloomed under his clothes, soaking the fabric, then his sheets. Meg’s laugh coming out of you, and the blood that sprayed into your mouth when she took hold of your limbs, possessing you and scraping your whole being from the inside out, hollowing you into her vessel. You taste River’s blood, and Sam’s, and your stomach turns.

You vomit. It’s abrupt, splattering onto the floor and splashing onto Sam’s face. He has the last minute sense to close his mouth, at least, turning away from you and scrunching his nose.

Fucking disgusting — what are you doing? How—?

“Get out,” you cry, spitting saliva and vomit from your mouth. Your throat burns from the stomach acid that came up. It’s your own voice, your own control, that takes over for a brief moment. Meg seizes it back, but by now, the belt is already loosened.

“What the fuck?” Meg growls in your throat. She glares down at Sam — and the vomit now covering you both — and before she can go back to suffocating him or gutting him or whatever the fuck she wants to do, you scramble your brain again, remembering everything: birthday parties, the smell of fresh laundry, the time you tripped on the stairs and totally ate shit in front of your friends, the blood and your family and last summer and burning yourself on the stovetop.

Meg is assaulted by your thoughts, distracted by all the little inconsequential nuggets that slip into her share of your head. She tries to thrash against it, but it only leaves your body crumbling to the floor, rolling around and convulsing. It’s not so unlike the prank you used to pull as a naive child — but this time, it’s the real thing.

Sam coughs, gasping for air the second you collapse beside him. He scurries away from you, watching in horror as you seize against the hardwood floor. Your eyes roll back in your head, and blood is starting to trickle out of your nose and ears. He watches for a split second before scrambling to get his phone, hands trembling as he calls Dean. His brother answers with something snarky about how he’s supposed to be getting laid right now, but Sam’s raspy voice quickly puts the comment to bed.

“It’s Meg,” Sam cries into the phone. “Dean, you have to— It’s Meg, she’s back!”

You’re still on the floor, back arching into the air, limbs stiff and jerking about. Spit foams up at the corners of your mouth. Meg is fighting to keep your body — or maybe she’s trying to jump ship — but you won’t let her go. You won’t let her hurt anyone else. 

I’ll rip him apart, then his brother, then you, if you don’t stop. 

Fuck you. You’re scared.

Don’t be stupid. 

You are. You don’t want to go back to Hell.

I could scratch your eyes out right now. 

Try it.

You let out a groan that turns to nearly a shout. Sam watches, eyes wide as you manage to get to your feet. He braces himself for a fight, but to his surprise, you start walking to the window. Your limbs keep jerking every which way, and you stumble and trip, but you somehow slap your hands against the glass.

What the hell are you doing? Quit it.

You first.

I won’t die from this, you little idiot. I’ll jump into somebody else. 

But I can still hurt you, can’t I?

You unlatch the window, climbing out and rolling forward onto the fire escape.

Dean bursts through your door at that moment, the Colt in hand. He lifts it to you, aiming it at your back. Before he can pull the trigger, Sam skitters to his feet, rushing to his brother.

“Wait, wait!” Sam shrieks, standing in the way. 

“Move, Sam,” Dean hisses, already advancing toward you. He barely glances at his brother, but he can surely smell the vomit. 

“Dean, just hold on a second!”

There’s a clatter as your body clamors against the fire escape. Sam jumps into action, running across your apartment to climb out the window after you. He grunts as he lands on his shoulder, reaching out to you. 

“Please, wait. Don’t,” he warns you, watching you grip the railing. You’re seven stories up — it would be easy to jump over the ledge and get rid of this thing inside you. It would take you with it, but at least that would make up for everything it made you do.

You fucking imbecile. Fine — jump. You fucked everything up, anyway.

You’re starting to climb over the edge of the railing when your head is suddenly thrown back. It almost feels like you’re vomiting again. Something heavy is released from your body, funneling out and trembling through you as it escapes past your wide-open mouth. Your skin burns all over, white-hot pain that seeps out of your pores like boiling water being squeezed from a sponge. Sam watches beside you as Meg hastily escapes your body, retreating to who-knows-where. 

The second she’s gone, you collapse against the fire escape in the fetal position. You’re shaking like a leaf, rattling the metal beneath your weight. Sam gets closer to you, touching your ankle, and you whimper, curling in on yourself and away from his touch. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Sam says, his voice soothing despite how it trembles when he speaks. 

“It’s still— still in me,” you stammer, muttering to yourself. You’re hyperventilating, lightheaded and dizzy, but you still shove yourself onto your hands and knees. “It’s still in me. I have to— have to—”

Your hand grips the railing, dragging your body upwards. Dean pokes his head out the window just in time to see Sam crying out your name, holding you back from jumping over the side. 

“Stop, stop,” he says in your ear. “It’s okay. She’s gone, okay? It’s just you.”

“No, no,” you mutter, clinging to the railing like a cat that won’t retract its claws. “It’s in me, it’s still there, I feel it.”

“It’s not. It’s not. I promise. I’ve got you,” Sam assures you, forcibly tugging you back from the edge. He hugs you against his chest, restraining your arms and refusing to let you go. The lack of fight left in you is reassurance enough to him that Meg truly has left your body.

Dean tucks the Colt into the back of his jeans, watching Sam rock you back and forth with a grimace. You’re both bloody, covered in your vomit, and — as much as it makes him sick — Dean notices that Sam’s pants are hanging wide open. He doesn’t want to think of what he might have missed before his little brother managed to call him, much less speak it aloud. 

“Sam,” Dean calls, his voice deceptively steady, “we have to go. The neighbors are gonna start asking questions.”

Sam nods, but he doesn’t let you go yet. He keeps his voice low and calm, speaking directly into your ear so only you can hear.

“We’re gonna go, okay? Together. I just need you to hold on to me, that’s all.”

You want to tell him that you can’t, how you’re afraid that the second you move, that thing — whatever it, or she, is — will take hold of you again. Her roots are still in you, winding down each limb and wrapping around your spine. Broken away, yes, but not gone forever. She lingers like the vomit in your mouth, bitter and acidic, sworn to keep growing inside you long after she’s gone.

. . .

You can still recall the exact moment it happened in crystalline quality. 

You were on your way home from work, walking down the crowded sidewalk as the sun was setting. It is, and has always been, one of your favorite sights: when the sky is pinkish-orange and the gooey sun melts into the horizon. Some days, you stopped to stare before crossing the road, taking it all in. The sky always looks like one of those pretty Bob Ross paintings. You can imagine the brush strokes, the cadmium yellow and bright crimson that spill into the scenery. 

It was while you were stopped that it came to you. It felt like a tap on the shoulder. You turned your head, thinking someone was behind you, probably about to tell you to cross already — but there was nothing, no one. The streets were suddenly emptier than they were a moment ago. That wasn’t so unusual — there tends to be less traffic near your apartment building — but that tap on your shoulder felt so real. You figured your senses were playing tricks on you, so you brushed it off and crossed the street. When you reached the corner across the road, the back of your neck went cold. The little hairs stood on end, and you stumbled when a freezing gust of air whistled past your ears, strong enough to nearly topple you to the ground. 

The last thought of your own was, What the fuck?

Then that chilly air wrapped around you, slipping into your ears, your nostrils, your parted lips. It wriggled inside through your tear ducts, clawed beneath your clothing, slipped all around your limbs and absorbed itself into your pores. You gasped, knees buckling. A new weight suddenly inhabited your body, phasing into your skin and taking hold of you. An intrusion. A theft. Your hands started to move of their own accord, fingers twitching without your consent. Then your legs did the same. Your spine straightened, and your expression was molded into perfect neutrality. 

What the fuck, you thought again, what the fuck is happening?

Hey there, pretty. Don’t be scared.

It was dreamlike, the feeling that came over you. A strange sort of dissociation, watching the world pass as you made your usual way back home. You thought you were having some kind of episode, a sudden out-of-body experience. You became a passenger to your own body, riding along. With every other step, you thought it would finally be over, that your body and mind might catch up to each other, that you might feel your limbs as your own again. 

But it didn’t end. You didn’t wake up. You weren’t allowed control. That strange, cloudy voice inside your head held an air of amusement, eating away at your brain, a parasite to your motor functions.

Oh, honey. You don’t have a clue what’s coming.

. . .

The sheets are soaked beneath your back. You’re frozen against the bed from the second you wake up, disoriented and panicked. Every breath you take is labored; it feels like there’s a physical weight on your chest, like hands pushing down on your ribcage, pressing you into the mattress. Your mouth is wide open, poised to speak or scream or something, eyes darting all around wildly. 

Unfamiliar ceiling. Snoring several feet away. An uncomfortably warm room. A stuttering air conditioner.

A full two minutes pass before your recollection catches up to you: You’re not at your apartment anymore, but a motel. Dean is sleeping on the pull-out couch across the room. Sam sleeps on the queen bed six feet to your right, close to the front door. They brought you here to hide you from the cops and, more importantly, to make sure they’ll be ready if Meg — the demon that previously possessed you — decides to come back. You’re still reeling from that information, still grappling with the truth of demons and monsters being real. If you hadn’t been possessed, you’d think the Winchesters were crazy, too. 

Still, neither the truth nor their presence is a comfort. Sure, you can breathe a little easier now, but only by an infinitesimal amount. You manage to sit upright but remain stuck in the bed as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, for that commanding voice to return. You can almost feel her even now: like a warm breath on the back of your neck, like hands on your shoulders. A cold chill runs down your spine, your breath picking up all over again. You squeeze your eyes shut, clamping a hand over your neck where the tiny hairs are raised.

Nothing. Quiet. Just the metallic rattle of the air conditioner and the breathing of two near-strangers. 

Still unsettled, you slide out of bed, silently padding across the dark motel room. You don’t like the darkness. You don’t like not knowing if she’s here, somehow, maybe inhabiting a new body, waiting to jump into yours again. The shadows on the walls bend toward you menacingly, leering at you until you find the safety of the restroom. You close the door and flick the light on, sighing only when the tiled area is illuminated. The fluorescent light above the mirror buzzes, and the new noise is an added comfort. 

You avoid your reflection, too afraid to find someone else looking back at you. Instead, you move to sit on the toilet lid, and then the floor so you can lean against the smooth outer side of the bath tub. It’s more comfortable, and you prefer having the ground beneath you. The solidity of it is a relief; you splay your fingers across the cold floor tiles, staring at every corner of the small bathroom. You want to memorize the grout, the obviously painted-over mold on the ceiling. You could spend hours staring at the cracks in the fixtures, the dead and dried up bugs behind the encased tubes of fluorescent light overhead. At least this memory might be better than the whole entire last week of your life. 

You have your cheek pressed against the lip of the bath tub when the rapping of knuckles sounds at the door. You startle, picking your head up, staring at the door. 

“Hey,” Sam calls, voice low and muffled through the thick layer of wood. “You okay in there?”

When you try to speak, your voice rasps. Too dry. Dehydrated. You swallow what little spit you can produce and try again.

“Yeah,” you reply. One word, and that’s all. A sustained beat of silence drifts between you and Sam, long enough that you expect to hear his footsteps retreating. 

Instead, he speaks again: “Can I come in?”

The thought of being alone with him terrifies you. You haven’t been alone with Sam since that last day in your apartment, with your wandering, traitorous hands and vomit on your chin and his blood that you can still taste even now. The shame inside you has festered into a physical knot in your stomach, pulling itself taut, tensing your muscles. Whatever short-lived peace you had within the enclosed space is quickly shrunken down. 

Sam calls your name, gently prodding for a response. Your jaw tenses, and you think you might be sick when you, for reasons you’re unsure of, say “Yes.”

The doorknob turns slowly, and Sam pushes his way in with the air of someone approaching a startled animal. He’s so tall, towering over you when he clicks the door shut behind him. He looks down to see you huddled on the floor by the tub, appearing utterly exhausted. The pity in his expression makes you glad that you didn’t look in the mirror when you walked in — do you really look that bad? It’s a ridiculous thought to have, but you’re self-conscious of it nonetheless. 

“Hey,” he whispers first, halfway to crouching down across from you. 

“Hey,” you echo, not meeting his eyes. You note that he’s about to block the door, and it makes you uneasy. The comfort of an escape is the last thing keeping you sane in his presence. Where else would you go if she came back? 

“Not by the door,” you say, forcing the words from your throat.

Sam blinks once, then changes his trajectory without question. With what little space remains in the restroom, alongside his broad frame, there’s nowhere else to go but beside you. You didn’t quite think that part through, but you suppose it’s the lesser of two evils.

“I saw the light on,” Sam explains unprompted, sinking down to sit on the tiles several inches from you. He pulls in his long limbs as much as he can to give you extra space — or maybe that’s meant for himself. You can’t blame him if that’s the case. Either way, you appreciate it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, looking down at your hands. You’re not sure what you’ll find there, but you’ve exhausted staring at all four corners of the restroom, so your palms will have to do. 

“Weird dreams,” you mutter, embarrassed to admit it. It feels juvenile. 

Sam holds not an ounce of judgement in his kind eyes. You can only meet his gaze for fractions of a second at a time, or else the guilt and shame within you will grow large like an untreated cancer. 

“What about?” he asks. Sam has a feeling he already knows the answer. 

Lips pursed, you shrug, tucking yourself into a tighter position. “It’s the same thing every night. About when it— when she found me.” Your thoughts stray to the past week all over again, prompted again to drown in your misery: a week of sleepwalking, conversations that aren’t yours, hands that hurt and kill and take without warning. A painful knot forms in your throat, bobbing with every swallow. 

“I still feel everything,” you say quietly — like sharing a secret. “I don’t know where I start and she ends. I don’t know which parts are mine,” you mutter, voice rough and trembling. 

Sam nods solemnly, sitting tightly beside you. He’s close, but not too close. He’s not sure if he can stomach being touched by you, even though he knows Meg is far from you now. It makes him feel guilty just thinking that; you, the real you, wouldn’t hurt him. At least, he’d like to think so.

“I know the feeling,” he replies, matching your tone. “What Meg did? That wasn’t you. Even if it feels that way, it wasn’t you.” 

His voice is soft, kinder than you believe you deserve. Your heart aches at the sound of it. You chew on your lower lip, hard enough that your teeth peel back a scabbed layer of skin. Blood seeps onto your tongue. You grimace, but you can’t stop worrying the skin between your teeth. At least the blood is yours and not someone else’s.

“Did she make you do things, too? When it happened to you?” you wonder, hesitant to ask but morbidly hoping he suffered, too, so you don’t have to feel so alone or crazy. 

Sam swallows, looking down at his lap. He wrings his hands. “Yeah. I don’t remember most of it, but… yeah.”

His troubled expression makes your heart sink. How someone as tender as him could still carry on and be so, so trusting of you is nearly unfathomable. He has a blind, unwavering faith in others — that much is obvious. 

“For what it’s worth,” you start, eyes darting between his face and his hands, “I’m really sorry.” 

Sam doesn’t respond at first. He swallows, jaw set as memories flash in his mind: a bloody knife, a slit throat, your hands touching him so roughly, vomit on his cheek. 

He shakes his head, daring to meet your flighty gaze. “You don’t need to apologize,” he reminds you, “but thank you. I’m sorry, too. That it happened.” 

It’s been a while since you last cried. You haven’t been able to work out the tears even though you’ve come close more times than you can count in the past week. Even now, the most you can manage is a pair of misty eyes. Most people would probably sob themselves to sleep after this kind of thing, wouldn’t they? Does your own lack of reaction mean something is well and truly wrong with you? Is Meg still lingering inside you, slithering up your insides again, violating some part of you that you can never get back? 

Sam sees it: the self blame. He’s hardly able to let go of his own shame these days, but your reaction — subdued as it may be — is enough of a mirror for him to lean in, hesitantly holding his hand out to you, palm up. He feels safer when he’s the one to extend his touch first. It takes a minute for you to see it; when you do, your eyes dart to Sam’s as if asking for some kind of permission. He nods once. 

You take his hand, and it doesn’t heal you, but the ache inside you finally turns loose. 

> masterlist. > main.