Waking up felt wrong.
Sam's head was woolly and slow; he felt uneven. Distantly, he could hear the car engine rumbling. It sounded odd, but he couldn't think through the weird hum that echoed in his ears to pinpoint the difference. Dean had the stereo turned up loudly, he could feel the beat thumping in counterpart to his headache; the music didn't seem to fit.
His sense of balance was off; it felt like he was moving, but Sam knew he'd only just woken up. He stirred and tried to turn over and go back to sleep, reaching in vain for his jacket to bundle under his head where it rested against the passenger window. His arms seemed unable to respond; he must have slept on them. He tried harder, it felt as though he was moving through thick liquid; no matter how hard he tried to swim through it, he was pushed back down, below the surface.
He couldn't breathe.
Sam started to panic then, fighting to move his arms enough to break through to the surface. He could hear the music muffled through the water beckoning him up, but there was another song, louder, inside his head; a siren trying to suck him back down. He fought to open his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the blurred lights before he realised that his eyes were open; he was sitting up; behind the wheel no less; Dean wasn't there; and it wasn't the Impala.
"Evening, Sam. Feeling better?" The humming in his head stopped just as he finally recognised the song. "You've missed four phone calls now. Your brother must be real worried about you. He's just got to get a message to you."
Meg. Sam (would have) groaned.
His head felt clearer without the singing, but no less achy. He wanted to rub his eyes something fierce, but couldn't so much as get a finger to twitch. He could feel grit building in the corner of his left eye, and both were watering; Meg obviously didn't appreciate the need to blink as often as he did.
"Is it irritating you, Sammy?"
Sam desperately wanted to reply. "You are," to her; but with the echoes of the pain she could inflict still spasming within him, he didn't dare anger her.
"Very wise, young Samuel."
Sam (tried to) stare out of the window, ignoring her. He was less likely to rise if he didn't listen.
Meg stuck out his bottom lip, trying on a pout. He caught a glimpse of it in the mirror as she glanced behind. It was such a girly expression and it looked totally out of place on him.
His face changed abruptly to irritation with a strong touch of anger glinting behind his eyes. Was that what he looked like when he and Dean rowed?
Sam froze. He shut up thinking, and (would have stopped) saying and doing anything. If he could have, he'd have held his breath. He could feel Meg's disapproval, crawling heavily inside his head. Thankfully she seemed content enough tasting his fear, and he suffered no further consequences.
After a period with no further reaction from the demon than a lick of his lips, Sam relaxed minutely. Can you relax if your muscles aren't really tense? Is it a state of mind or a state of body?
He tried (and failed) to glance around to see where they were. Meg was facing straight ahead, and he could see his hands on the wheel drumming to the music, the road crawling past, the oncoming headlights causing his eyes to water (guess Meg couldn't control involuntary reactions) and a whole lot of nothing else. Unable to look around him, he started to develop an intense feeling of paranoia, as though someone was sitting just behind him, watching his every move.
"That's just me, Sammy, don't mind little old me!"
He (would have) jumped. While it was undeniably true that that demon spawn currently residing in him was a heavy weight at the back of his head and there was a definite aura of menace emanating from it, Sam swore he could feel eyes staring intently at him. The tension was building in him, although his shortness of breath and hunched shoulders were not reflected in his real body. He knew that someone was watching him, that either someone was sitting in the backseat with a hammer or that there was an axe-wielding maniac seated next to him. If he could just look…
No, wait she was inside him; no one would be stupid enough to get in the car with Meg there.
"Knives are much more effective than axes, Sammy, don't you think someone would notice a guy with an axe in the backseat? Knives you can hide," Meg informed him. Of course, she had experience as a maniac.
His voice sharpened, slicing through his head like wind on an open wound. Meg didn't like that comparison. "They all see you, Sammy, not me. You can pass for mostly normal, on a good day."
She humoured him, however, by looking around. Maybe she was unsettled by his panic? More likely though she was sated by it.
Night had fallen while he'd been out. They were driving through some town; she never allowed him to see the name.
"Isn't more fun when you don't know where you're going?"
He didn't respond, careful to keep his mind absolutely blank. It was the only fight he could bring.
"Are you going to sulk now, Sammy?" Meg actually sounded a little put out. "Just because you weren't quick enough to answer the phone is no reason to take it out on me."
Not thinking. Not thinking.
"You're such a bore, Sammy," Meg (he) scowled. He could feel the frown lines deepening. "I swear I don't know how your brother can stand being with you sometimes."
Not thinking. Not thinking.
"Hey I bet that's why your Daddy kicked you out," Meg taunted him. "You were just too dull to waste time and money on. And you didn't even want to hunt; he must have hated you."
Not listening. Not thinking. Not. Not. Especially don't think about that.
"Touched a nerve did I, Sammy? Oh I am sorry!" Meg did not sound concerned. Sam didn't realise his voice could even sound that…cold.
"You know he's in Hell now, right? I saw him there. A lifetime of fun."
Still not thinking. Still not…"He's chained in a room of flames. No water, only molten rock to drink; he's not too partial to it, but we make him anyway.
Not fire. Dad's not stuck like that; God no, anything but that.
"Queues of his vanquished all ready to stone him with burning coals, or maybe force feed them to him, whatever takes their fancy. He likes to be distracted from it. We've had lots of conversations about you, Sammy. He told me all about you."
Don't listen. Don't…"He told me how you always argued, about everything. Honestly, Sam, you really cried because he'd bought pink toilet paper? 'It was on offer!' he yelled at you. But ungrateful you just didn't get it."
Don't listen. He was six! Don't listen.
"He wished it was you in that coma, not Dean. You know that, Sammy? He died hating you."
Sam's insides turned cold. He'd thought that; he'd feared that. And to hear it out loud in his voice…No, demons lie, don't…
"He wouldn't have died for you, Sammy, he told me. He doesn't think you're worth it."
"SHUT UP!" Sam felt like he should be shaking with exhaustion, panting heavily, but his body couldn't be more moulded to the driver's seat.
Meg glanced in the rear view, giving Sam no option other than to see his grinning face, when on his face he would have sworn he could feel the warmth of shocked tears being blinked back.
Silence reigned for several miles, as the traffic picked up, and Meg put his foot down, content with the horror she'd set raging. Sam's cold fingers were drummed in time to the music; Meg couldn't seem to keep still in this body. It was wearing him out.
"Shh, Sammy," Meg warned him. "This is my first day back alive and I'm going to enjoy every last second of it. You wait until you've been trapped in Hell for an eternity and see how you spend your first day out. No piece of meat is gonna stop me from having fun."
He started counting under his breath; multiplying everything by two and then eight. It gave him something else to focus on that wasn't Meg. Her humming was driving him insane.
"No need to worry about that for much longer, Sammy, sane is overrated. You'll see." Meg started singing along to the music. "I'm just a puppet pulled by strings…"
He (was made to) squeal. It just sounded wrong. "It's your song! Want to duet?"
Sam (wanted to) shake his head. He could feel his heart labouring with every beat. He felt drained. He wanted Meg to shut the hell up. He just wanted to sleep.
Meg didn't let him.
-----
Meg drove through the entire night, Sam's tired eyes never wavering from the road. His fingers were beat in time to music the whole journey, his free foot tapped along. The muscles in both legs were threatening to cramp. Actually they had long since started, but Meg refused to acknowledge it with even a rub of the hand.
The car ride was becoming a blur of agony to Sam; his eyes were weighted with exhaustion. He was reduced to seeing lights speeding towards him, blinking for a half second of clarity, before they crossed again. If he had been driving his head would have nodded forwards by now, and the car would have crashed as he leant on the wheel in sleep. Meg didn't allow him to do that. She was in control, her damn tapping and humming ever-present.
His eyes were kept open, flicking from side to side as she observed everything around them. It was fun driving at night. There was hardly anybody else on the roads, just you the car and the open space. He pressed the pedal harder to the floor, exulting in the feel of the wind in his hair. He'd lowered the windows early on, and the cool air was sending tingles through his body where it brushed against his skin. It made him feel energised.
Sam's exhausted mind struggled to cope with the realisation that Meg's feelings were getting confused with his own. He (he) felt heavy. His body was feeling as though he'd started to run a marathon, made it half way around the course before collapsing in a heap with everybody pointing and laughing at him, or worse, pitying him. He (Meg) was burning with energy and life. Life she'd stolen from him.
"Oh stop your whining, Sam," the voice in his head said. "Can't you taste the power in the night? All those people lying in their beds, safely wrapped up under covers, not afraid of the dark because of all the lights outside. Ever wondered what happens when those lights go out?"
Sam knew. What did she think he and Dean did?
"I meant from our side, Sam. That smell of fear humans get when they wake up to scratches, and blood, and faces in the window. You'll love it!"
He wished that he could block his ears, shut out the sound of her. He'd tried singing in his head, but all that happened was she joined in. He wanted unbearably to close his eyes, and sleep; anything to get rid of the voice and the thoughts. He wished he could answer his cell, which kept shrilling at intervals throughout the night. He wished that he didn't feel Meg's thrill of excitement as she talked about hurting things. He was so tired though that even if he could have moved (which he couldn't) he didn't think he'd be able to lift up a finger, let alone an arm.
Sam was freezing. The air blasting through the windows was chilling him, and Meg had only dressed him in a tee and jeans; apparently everything else smelled. She even had him driving barefooted.
"You can feel the engine better this way," she interrupted. "Feel the power under your foot, throbbing, contained. What damage I could do if I just pressed a little harder, maybe turned the wheel like this…"
Sam felt his hands tensing as they prepared to move. "No!"
"Ah so you are still awake in there," His hands eased off the wheel. "Just checking you hadn't dropped off. It's not as though there's any one else to hit around here anyway." She sounded upset with that.
Sam concentrated on (trying to) regulate his breathing – which actually wasn't irregular at all. He wanted to rest his head in his hands, wanted to shake in relief.
"Oh I see," His voice sounded amused. "First time driving since the accident, huh? Didn't mean to scare you." Meg drew out the sound in 'scare', teasing him.
It wasn't an accident. "It wasn't an accident!"
"You meant to kill your Daddy? Sam, you're further along than I thought you were, well done, hon!"
He wanted to defend himself, but he didn't have the energy, and there was a small part of him (not the Meg part) that was terrified of what she meant. It was no use arguing, Meg could twist around anything he thought, and she was using it to torture him. He was safer just not thinking.
"Good luck with that!"
Sam retreated within himself.
He felt cold. It was a peculiar feeling. He felt like he should be shivering; he felt like he was shivering; but he wasn't moving, wasn't generating any heat. The hairs on his arms were rigid with tension. His muscles felt tight with cold and exhaustion; his head was thick with tiredness and possession and his stomach was empty.
Meg swung his head up at that, glancing at him in the rear view again. It was a disturbing feeling to see yourself looking back at you knowing that it wasn't you. Sam found himself studying his face looking for any sign that he wasn't himself, however Meg withdrew his gaze and placed it back on the road before he was done.
"Food, Sammy," she absorbed his last thought. "That could be fun; it's been a while since I could eat solid food. Of course that's your fault so maybe you don't deserve to have any."
Sam said nothing. Not that he could have even if he'd have wanted to.
"Oh don't be like that, Sammy. Stop taking things so personally. Look at it like this, I'm only borrowing you."
"It's stealing!" He mentally cursed himself. Why couldn't he just shut up? Why did he have to rise each time?
"You always have to have the last word, Sam. You've this burning need to be heard. It's getting tiring."
You're getting tiring. Don't think that!
Fortunately Meg just laughed. "How about we make a deal? You shut up for two hours, and I mean no thinking, no thinking about doing, no doing, and no speaking; definitely no speaking. And I'll stop for food soon."
It sounded like a good deal. It wasn't as though he could do or say anything anyway.
"Trust me, Sam, you're making one hell of a lot of noise back there, I swear you're giving yourself a headache. Now have we got a deal? I fancy a good fry up."
Sam (wanted to) groan. "Why couldn't you take over Dean? He'd love that."
A warning twinge shot through his chest, leaving him (feeling like he was, but not actually) gasping for breath.
"Your brother is not my idea of fun." His voice sounded dry. He needed water. Now that he'd thought about it, he was consumed by a terrible thirst, which Meg, naturally, ignored.
"He'd fight all the time, Sammy. He's not like you, you're malleable." Sam (tried to) gather himself, uncomfortable with what she was implying.
"He'd never give in, not for a second. He's just like your father. Dean would have answered the phone; hell, I'd never have made it out of the motel room in him."
Meg paused her diatribe to be sure that Sam felt her words cut into him. "You're too weak."
What sucked the worst about that? Sam was thinking exactly the same thing.
"So, Deal? Or no Deal?"
A/N: We'll finally get off the road in the next chapter; some good stuff hopefully coming up. Ever wondered how to perform an exorcism from within? Oh, and that thing with the toilet roll? Apparently I just would not do yellow. It still has to be dirt-cheap…