Every once in a while, Meg got these silly urges. It could be as simple as dressing a certain way, or as complex as zapping to a private island. Visiting the Playboy Mansion was quite interesting; she might have to do that again. But for as scary and powerful a demon as she was, she was a wimp to her own will and desires. It had definitely gotten her in trouble, but it had also led her back to her boys. Sometimes, in dark moods, every inch of her would ache to the point of tears at the mere sight of the brothers, muscle memory of the exorcism when she'd first met them. But that was before… Well, before everything.
But thinking about everything meant thinking about everything. The mistakes she'd made, the people she'd killed, the lives she'd ruined. Before her boys, when she felt low, she'd drink until she felt bloated – which got her into the early stages of drunk where everything was fuzzy and covered in stardust – and have sex with a stranger. Now that she was living in the bunker, she needed more creative ways of cheering herself up. Unfortunately for her bunker-mates, most of her methods involved tormenting them.
She zipped up the sides of her heeled boots before easing herself to her feet. She did a small dance as she adjusted her pleather skinny jeans – this vessel had wider hips than any she'd inhabited before, but she definitely wasn't complaining. One tug at her gold sequin tank top and the tuck of a lock of hair behind her ear, and she deemed herself ready for aggressive cheering-up. Each click of her heels – although the thicker hiking boot design made it more like a light "thunk" – gave her confidence as she strode from her bedroom to the common area. She connected her phone to the Bluetooth speaker Dean kept in the open kitchen. She started blasting Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and immediately started swaying her hips and mouthing the words. Hoisting herself up to sit on the table, she swung her legs up and slowly straightened up. Once she was comfortable in her footing, she began to dance – flipping and fluffing her hair, swinging her hips, running her hands over her curves.
Dean stumbled out of his bedroom, his bleary eyes and the sheet marks on his arms indicating he'd been napping. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice soft and gravely. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. "What are you doing?" Though he succeeded in getting her attention, she offered no explanation; instead, she just directed her dancing at him, complete with bedroom eyes. He shifted uncomfortable for a moment. "Get down, Meg," he requested. "You're going to bang up your vessel." She still gave no indication of being able to hear him. "Meg. Meg!" He huffed angrily, going to his brother's bedroom. She smiled, finding amusement in his frustration. When Dean dragged Sam out, who also was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, her amusement doubled. "Can you get your girlfriend down?" Dean requested, gesturing tiredly at her.
"Meg, what are you doing?" Sam asked, his voice thick with sleep. She offered no verbal response; she just continued to dance, her mood already improving from just thoroughly confusing the two hunters. With a small huff of realization, Sam continued past her into the kitchen. He opened one of the cabinets, shuffling through a few boxes.
"Really?" Dean objected loudly over the music. "You're going to make coffee?"
Sam shook his head, stifling a yawn as he drew his hand back. In his palm, he dumped several packets of sugar – stolen by the fistful from coffee shops and diners along the road – and shuffled back over to the table. He stood in front of her, waiting until they made eye contact before he moved again. Still locking gazes with her, he tossed the sugar in a small arc so it flurried down on her. It took her a beat, still maintaining eye contact, to register what had happened; after it settled in, she broke into a huge grin. She turned off the music and eased herself to sit on the edge of the table, still grinning wildly.
"Alright, weirdos," Dean sighed, rubbing his jawline, his callused palm scratching against the grain of his scruff. "I'm going back to bed. Keep it down." He stalked back to his room, swinging the door shut soundly behind him.
"Good night, weirdo!" Meg chirped, raising her voice slightly to follow him down the hall. She continued to look in that direction, past Sam, still smiling. As she brought her attention back to him, she dabbed her tongue against her bottom lip and lightly bit down. "Thanks," she whispered.
"For what?" he questioned with a small smile. He shifted closer to her, his hands sliding along her thigh before immediately retracting them. "Sorry, but pleather? Really?"
She stuck her tongue out at him good naturedly. She then scrunched her eyebrows, his finger thoughtlessly moving up to smooth out the wrinkles. "You know the difference between pleather and real leather?"
His eyes flashed dangerously. "You'll learn the difference too."
She bit her lip again, harder. "Thanks for cheering me up, pretty lawyer boy," she clarified, her voice huskier than just a moment ago. He bent closer to her, his lips whispering against hers. "I was just thinking too much," she added, her eyes sliding closed in contentment.
"Let's not do that, then," he responded in kind. He pressed a kiss to her lips, bringing his hands to rest on the table on either side of her hips. She kissed him back with a small sigh, threading her fingers into his hair, and happily stopped thinking.