Author's Note: Written for the Supernatural Het Love LJ community's challenge of "What can you do in fifteen minutes?" Apparently, this is what I can do in fifteen minutes, on the dot. So here you go, some more Sam/Meg, and probably the last from me. Why do I love her whole possession gig so?
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. And I don't feel like typing out a big fancy disclaimer.
Black Smoke, Black Lungs
It was warm. Sure, in Hell it was hot, and floating through the expanse of Earth's atmosphere was cold, but here, inside Sam, it was warm.
The possession had been quick. Quicker than she would've liked, but there wasn't much she could do about it. After all, it wasn't easy to be faster than a Winchester. By the time Sam noticed the blot of black smoke in the sky, like ink smeared against a net of stars, he was already choking on demon.
Get used to it, she'd told him.
"Meg" left Sam's groceries where he'd dropped them; he wouldn't be needing them where they were going. (Milk and bread didn't exactly sit shotgun when joy riding.) Maybe Dean would show up later, and clerks would say, "What, you mean that guy that bought two bags of stuff and then just walked off?" Part of her hoped so, imagining the look on Dean's face. Another part reamed the notion, just so Dean could stew in uncertainty awhile longer, scared of what might become of poor, unsupervised Sammy.
She spent the first hour stalking the sidewalk, growing accustomed to how his body moved. It felt amazing, every sinuous muscle flexing, tensing at her command; then releasing, excited blood rushing to the corners of his body. She stretched every inch of skin, took time just to breathe. Her usual targets were women – it had been years since she'd been in a man's body. And now it wasn't any man's body she was in, it was Sam Winchester's. Truthfully, she'd imagined the way he'd feel inside her body, but this was just as divine.
Better yet was the battle in his head. It began weary, tired, like he'd just woken from a long and solid slumber. Questions flickered behind his eyes – those pretty, pretty eyes – followed by realization, shock. Emotions ran rampant in his brain, looking for an outlet, seeking refuge. Then the screams started. She had to stop herself in an alley, pull his body over for a few minutes just to fully linger in his rage. At his shrillest, she was braced against a wall, panting for breath, strong fingers digging into clammy brick. Phantom fury raced through his veins, like every cell in his body was exploding.
But he did quiet down eventually, choosing to fight her with stoicism. She frowned when the silence hit, but Sam was a smart boy: he didn't want to give her more pleasure than necessary. So she hit the street again, composed and a bit sour, tuning out the sound of Sam clawing at the cracks of his skull.
She looked at the world through his muted browns, watching the people amble by, pathetic and without purpose. She liked the looks girls gave her – gave Sam – like wary prey. When she was in a woman, men cast her predatory gazes. Mine, they said, a primal rumbling deep in their throats. Always a want, never a need. But girls stared at him long after he'd passed, silently begging him to look back. It was nice to be on the giving end of those possessive glances for once, watching as women delighted in his attention.
Meg stopped at a gas station, dipping below the incandescent lighting and inhaling the scent of diesel. She entered, musing wonderful ways she could mess with Sam's body. Junk food lined one shelf, human poisons too slow for her needs. Opposite that was a rack of magazines, and she toyed with the idea of spending all Sam's money on naughty picture books, just to see the clerk's expression as he slid "Hot Sluts in Heat!" into a bag. Then she looked to the back wall, cans of every shape and color gleaming behind frosted glass. A six pack or two might quell Sam's incessant scratching, but it would also put a wobble in her step. Rejecting that thought, Meg decided on her personal favorite.
Five minutes later she was on her way out, a pack of Marlboros peeking out of Sam's jeans. A cigarette balanced between his lips, a shock of white against the smog and lamplight. Grinning, she flicked the stolen lighter; the flame ignited and sent a puff of smoke down Sam's unwilling lungs. Meg choked back his inexperienced coughs, feeling his puppy eyes water.
I told you, Sammy, she taunted, letting his features tug into a smirk as she took another long drag. I'm a cancer.