The Devil You Carry
Chapter 2 - But It Does
Chapter summary:
Something follows them out of the case—and this time, it doesn’t let go.
What’s said in the dark doesn’t stay there. And some truths… don’t disappear once they’ve been heard.
👥 Characters:
Dean Winchester
Sam Winchester
Reader Insert (Y/N)
Others: multiple demons, Castiel, Crowley.
🔞Rating:
Mature
⚠️ Warnings:
Possession, Demon manipulation, Psychological torment, Emotional vulnerability, Non-consensual body control, Injury (stab wound), Blood, Sexual themes (non-graphic), Humiliation, Angst.
A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/88739631
——————————————————
You don’t stay in the bathroom as long as you want to.
At some point, the water running becomes too loud, too obvious — like you’re hiding in there instead of just taking a minute — and that thought alone is enough to make you push yourself upright.
You splash your face with cold water, more out of habit than anything else, and grab your toothbrush like going through the motions will somehow reset everything. Like you can walk back out there and it won’t feel like anything’s changed.
It has, though.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But enough that you feel it.
You dry your hands slowly, watching yourself in the mirror one last time — checking, without really knowing what you’re checking for — before you reach for the handle.
When you step back into the room, Dean’s changed.
Fresh shirt. Jacket back on. Like he’s already moved on from last night, from whatever happened, from everything that’s still sitting heavy in your chest.
Of course he has.
Sam’s still at the table, laptop open, coffee halfway gone.
Dean’s pacing slightly now, keys in hand, that restless energy already creeping back in.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between you both. “You good to go?”
You nod before you can overthink it.
“Yeah.”
Your voice comes out steady enough, which feels like a small win.
Sam closes his laptop, pushing himself to his feet.
“Second victim’s place is about twenty minutes from here,” he says. “Hospital already released the body, but we might still get something from the house.”
Dean nods once.
“Then let’s not waste time.”
⸻
The drive is quieter this time.
Not tense.
Just… quieter.
Sam runs through what little they’ve got — timelines, witness statements, anything that might give you a clearer pattern — but there’s less conversation between the three of you than there was yesterday.
Less joking.
Less back and forth.
You sit in the backseat again, watching the road blur past the window, letting Sam’s voice fill the space without really focusing on every word.
You’re aware of Dean, though.
Of the way he drives.
Of how relaxed he looks — one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift — like nothing’s different, like last night didn’t happen, like you didn’t hear him this morning talking about it like it was just another story.
You tell yourself to stop.
You don’t.
“—so if it’s the same thing,” Sam is saying, “we’re looking at short-term possession again. Few hours, maybe less.”
Dean nods.
“Yeah. In and out. Fast.”
You lean forward slightly.
“Which means it’s not settling in,” you say. “It’s just… passing through.”
“Or it’s being forced out,” Sam adds.
Dean glances at him.
“By what?”
Sam shrugs.
“Could be something else hunting it. Could be it’s unstable. We don’t know yet.”
You sit back again, folding your arms loosely.
“Or it’s testing something.”
Dean catches your eye briefly in the rear-view mirror.
“Testing what?”
You hesitate for half a second.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “Pattern, maybe. Seeing what it can get away with.”
He watches you for a moment longer than necessary — just long enough that it feels like he’s trying to read something more than what you’ve said — then looks back at the road.
“Yeah,” he says. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The house is bigger than the last one.
Not massively — not enough to stand out on the street — but enough that it feels a little more spread out. A couple of extra rooms, maybe an extension at the back. The kind of place that probably made sense when it was built, but now just feels… slightly off in its layout.
More space than necessary.
More places to check.
Dean cuts the engine.
No one moves straight away.
You feel it before you even step out.
Not strong.
But there.
That same faint, wrong edge in the air — subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but once you do, it’s impossible to ignore.
You push the door open anyway.
The cold hits first, sharp enough to wake you up properly, and then—
There it is.
Stronger than before.
Not overwhelming.
But enough.
You pause just slightly beside the car, eyes flicking toward the house.
Dean notices.
Of course he does.
“You feel that?” he asks, quieter this time.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
Sam steps out on the other side, glancing between you both.
“What?”
Dean shuts his door, gaze fixed on the house now.
“It was here.”
Sam’s expression tightens slightly.
“Recently?”
You glance toward the front door, something in your chest pulling just slightly — not fear, not exactly, just… awareness.
“Very.”
There’s a shift between the three of you then — subtle, but familiar.
Whatever this is—
It’s close.
Closer than it should be.
Dean adjusts his jacket slightly, already slipping into that sharper version of himself.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s move.
Dean knocks first.
Firm. Controlled. The kind of knock that usually gets an answer, even when people don’t want to give one.
Nothing.
He waits a beat, then knocks again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
You shift your weight slightly, glancing toward the windows, trying to see past the reflection of yourselves in the glass.
“Maybe they’re not—”
Sam moves before you finish.
“Dean.”
You follow his line of sight.
There’s blood.
Not a lot — not immediately — but enough. A dark smear along the side of the house, half-dried, like someone tried to wipe it away and didn’t quite manage it.
Dean’s already moving.
“Round back.”
You follow quickly, the three of you stepping carefully along the side of the house, the air feeling heavier the further you go.
The blood trail gets worse and more obvious.
Drops now, not just smears. Leading somewhere.
Leading you.
It stops at the sliding glass doors round the back.
Although one of them slightly open.
Dean slows, just for a second, then pushes it the rest of the way with the tips of his fingers.
“Hello?” Sam calls in, voice carrying through the house.
Silence.
Not empty.
Just… quiet in the wrong way.
Dean steps in first.
You follow just behind him.
Sam comes in last, pulling the door closed behind you.
The place has been torn apart.
Not completely — not like a full ransack — but enough.
Drawers half pulled out. A chair knocked over. Something glass shattered on the floor near the kitchen, pieces crunching lightly under Dean’s boot as he moves further in.
There’s more blood here.
Spattered now.
Not clean.
Not controlled.
Something happened here.
Something fast.
Dean scans the room, jaw tightening slightly.
“No bodies.”
Sam nods, already moving his gaze toward the hallway.
“Which means they either got out…”
“Or got taken,” you finish quietly.
Dean glances at you.
“Yeah.”
There’s a beat.
Then Sam exhales, shifting slightly.
“We should split up. Cover more ground.”
Dean hesitates for half a second — not long, but long enough that you notice.
Then he nods.
“Stay sharp.”
⸻
The hallway feels narrower than it should. Or maybe it’s just the silence.
You move slowly, careful with each step, eyes scanning everything — doors, corners, shadows that don’t quite sit right.
Your hand brushes lightly against the wall as you pass, grounding yourself in something solid.
Normal.
Everything is normal.
It’s just a house.
Just another case.
Just—
You stop.
There’s a door slightly ajar.
You push it open carefully.
Bedroom.
Nothing immediately wrong.
Bed unmade. Wardrobe half open. Clothes still hanging, untouched.
Too untouched.
Like whoever left didn’t have time to think about it.
You step further in.
And then—
It hits you.
The smell is strong.
So strong it makes your stomach twist slightly.
Sulphur.
You turn slightly, scanning the room again, more carefully now—
And something shifts behind you.
Before you can react—
A hand clamps over your mouth.
Your body jerks, instinct kicking in immediately, but whoever’s behind you is stronger, arm locked tight around you, holding you in place.
You try to shout—
Nothing comes out.
Your pulse spikes, breath coming sharp and fast against the hand pressed over your mouth as you struggle, twisting, trying to break free—
“Hey there, pretty girl.”
The voice is wrong.
Too calm.
Too amused.
You look up—
A woman steps into view in front of you.
Smiling.
Not warm.
Not friendly.
Something else entirely.
Your stomach drops.
You fight harder, trying to kick back, trying to get any leverage—
It doesn’t work.
Her eyes flick over you, slow, assessing, like she’s already decided exactly what she wants to do with you.
Then—
Black.
Her eyes turn black, and the smile sharpens.
“It was real nice of you,” she says lightly, “to bring the Winchester boys along.”
Your chest tightens, panic flaring harder now.
“I was getting bored.”
She tilts her head slightly, considering you.
“I think I’ll enjoy ripping their throats out while you watch.”
Your body tenses violently, adrenaline flooding through you as you struggle harder—
“Or maybe…” she adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I’ll make you do it.”
Something in you snaps.
You twist hard, bringing both feet up and kicking forward as hard as you can.
Your heel connects with her stomach.
She stumbles back with a sharp exhale—
And that’s all you need.
You bite down hard on the hand over your mouth.
The man behind you swears, jerking back—
His grip loosens.
You wrench yourself free but you don’t get far.
Pain explodes through your thigh.
Sharp.
Hot.
Immediate.
You gasp, the sound tearing out of you as the knife sinks in, your leg giving out beneath you as you drop to your knees.
The woman steps closer again, expression shifting into something almost irritated.
“Oh,” she says, tilting her head. “Now you’ve done it.”
She yanks the knife back out.
The pain spikes—
Then drops, not gone, but distant, like it’s already starting to fade at the edges.
You barely have time to process it.
Her body arches suddenly—
And then—
Black smoke spills from her mouth.
Fast.
Violent.
You try to move—
Try to crawl back—
But you’re too slow.
It hits you.
For a second, you don’t understand what’s happening.
Then it forces its way in.
Your body jerks violently as it enters, breath catching, lungs burning like you can’t get enough air—
And then—
Everything changes.
It doesn’t feel like you expected.
There’s no sudden blackout.
No instant loss of awareness.
You’re still there.
You can still see.
Still hear.
Still feel.
That’s the worst part.
Because your body—
isn’t yours anymore.
Your fingers twitch.
Not because you moved them.
Your hand presses against the floor.
Not your choice.
You try to pull back—
Nothing happens.
Your breathing steadies.
Too steady.
Controlled in a way that doesn’t belong to you.
The pain in your leg is still there, but dull now. Muted. Like it’s been pushed to the background, turned into something distant and unimportant.
Like your body has decided it doesn’t matter anymore.
Or—
something else has.
You try to speak—
Your mouth opens.
But the breath that leaves you doesn’t feel like yours.
Footsteps.
Fast.
“—Y/N?!”
Dean.
Your chest tightens—
You try to move.
Try to answer.
Try—
Nothing.
Your head lifts slightly.
Not because you did it.
Because it’s being made to
Dean doesn’t hesitate.
The second he sees you on the floor, he’s moving — fast, gun already out, eyes flicking past you to the figure still standing behind you.
The man.
The one who grabbed you.
“Dean—” Sam starts, just behind him, but Dean’s already closing the distance.
The demon lunges first.
Too slow.
Dean drives the blade forward without thinking, muscle memory taking over, the angel blade catching the man clean in the chest.
There’s a sharp, strangled sound—
Then black smoke spills from his mouth as the body collapses.
Still.
Gone.
Silence drops heavy in the room for half a second.
Dean doesn’t even look at him again.
His attention is already back on you.
“Hey—hey, look at me.”
He drops to his knees in front of you, one hand coming to your shoulder, steady but careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he’s too rough.
Behind him, Sam moves quickly into the room, eyes scanning once before landing on the woman crumpled on the floor.
“Was that you?” he asks, glancing between the body and you.
Dean barely spares it a glance.
“Doesn’t matter.”
His focus is entirely on you now.
“Talk to me,” he says, softer this time.
You feel your head lift.
Not because you do it.
Because you’re made to.
Your mouth opens.
Your voice comes out—
and it sounds like you.
“I’m—” a shaky breath. “I’m okay.”
The demon leans into it.
You can feel it.
The way it shapes your voice, pulls your expression into something convincing — something just unsteady enough to be real.
Pain.
That’s what it chooses.
Your hand moves to your thigh, pressing over the wound, and this time you do feel it — a dull ache instead of the sharp agony from before.
Muted.
Manageable.
Not yours.
“I didn’t—” your voice falters slightly, like you’re trying to catch your breath. “She—she stabbed me—”
Dean’s gaze drops immediately to your leg.
“Son of a—”
There’s blood.
Not pouring, not catastrophic, but enough.
Enough to matter.
“Alright, okay,” he mutters, already shifting closer. “Stay with me, alright? Don’t—don’t move.”
You almost laugh.
You can’t move.
Not really.
Dean reaches for his jacket, already pulling out a cloth.
“We need to get you out of here.”
“I can walk,” you say quickly.
You can’t.
But the demon makes you shift anyway, forcing your weight onto your leg just enough to sell it.
The ache spikes slightly—
still distant.
Still wrong.
Dean’s hand is on your arm immediately, steadying you.
“Easy,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t gotta prove anything.”
Something twists in your chest at that.
The demon ignores it.
———
The drive back isn’t as quiet as before.
It can’t be.
Dean keeps glancing at you in the rear-view mirror, like he’s checking you’re still there, still upright, still breathing the same way you were five seconds ago.
“Start from the top,” he says after a minute, voice tighter than he probably realises. “What happened in there?”
The demon answers for you.
You shift slightly in the backseat, one hand still pressed to your thigh, keeping pressure on the wound.
“There were two of them,” you say, breath just uneven enough to sound real. “I didn’t hear anything until it was too late. One of them grabbed me from behind and—”
You swallow.
Let your voice falter slightly.
“—and the other one… she just stepped in front of me. Like she’d been waiting.”
Sam turns slightly in his seat.
“Did she say anything?”
“Yeah.” A small pause, like you’re replaying it. “Something about you two. Said I’d brought you to her.”
Dean’s grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
“Of course she did.”
You shift again, letting out a quieter breath this time.
“She stabbed me after I got loose. I didn’t… I’m stupid for not seeing it coming.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. That’s enough for now.”
It isn’t.
You all know that.
But no one says it.
———
By the time you get back to the motel, the ache in your leg has settled into something dull and constant — noticeable, but not enough to stop you moving.
Not enough to make them question it.
Dean shuts the door behind you harder than necessary.
“Sit,” he says immediately.
You lower yourself onto the bed, slower this time, letting it look like the pain is catching up with you.
Sam’s already moving, grabbing what supplies they’ve got.
Dean crouches in front of you, hands steady as he carefully pulls the fabric away from the wound—
And then he stops.
His expression shifts.
Not panic.
But close.
“Yeah… okay, that’s deeper than I thought.”
Sam steps closer.
“How bad?”
Dean exhales through his nose.
“Too deep for me to just wrap and forget about it.”
You feel your body tense—
Not your choice.
The demon reacting, calculating.
Dean glances up at you.
“I’m gonna call Cas.”
Before you can even process that—
He’s already standing, loving towards the end of the bed in the open space.
Dean runs a hand over his face, then looks up slightly, jaw tightening just a fraction.
“Cas,” he says, like it’s a command more than a prayer. “We need you.”
There’s a beat.
Then—
The air shifts.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Castiel appears in the room, trench coat slightly rumpled, eyes already scanning the space like he’s walked into the middle of something he doesn’t fully trust.
“Dean,” he says.
Dean doesn’t waste time.
“Hey, Cas. We need your help.”
“What happened?”
“Demon,” Dean says quickly. “Stab wound. It’s deeper than it looks.”
He gestures toward you.
“Can you heal her?”
Castiel steps forward—
Then stops.
Something in his expression changes.
Subtle.
But immediate.
His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to place something that doesn’t quite fit.
“Dean,” he says slowly.
Dean frowns.
“What?”
Castiel’s eyes don’t leave you.
“That’s not Y/N, that a —”
Your body moves.
Fast.
Before Dean or Sam can react, you’re already on your feet.
The pain in your leg barely registers now, pushed aside completely as the demon takes full control.
Blood smears beneath your fingers as you drag them across the bedside cabinet surface in one sharp, practiced motion—
A sigil.
Dean’s head snaps toward you.
“—Y/N, what are you—”
Castiel looks down—
Recognition hits too late.
You press your palm down into the centre of it.
Light erupts.
Blinding.
Violent.
And Castiel is gone.
The room drops back into silence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
You straighten slowly.
Dean’s staring at you now.
Sam too.
Confusion first.
Then something else.
Something colder.
You tilt your head slightly.
Smile.
And finish the sentence Castiel didn’t get to.
“—a demon.”
Your eyes flash black.
Dean’s the first to move.
Not forward — not yet — but enough that the shift in him is obvious. His shoulders square, jaw tightening, something dark and sharp settling behind his eyes as everything clicks into place.
“Get out of her, or I swear to god —“
Your body tilts slightly, almost curious.
The demon smiles.
“Dean…where are your manners?” it says lightly, voice still yours, still familiar in a way that makes something twist in your chest. “No ‘are you okay?’ No ‘Y/N, can you hear me?’”
Its head tilts a fraction more.
“Straight to the point. I like that.”
Dean doesn’t react to the bait.
Not outwardly.
But his grip on the blade tightens.
“I said,” he repeats, slower this time, each word edged, “get out of her.”
You take a step forward.
“Now come on —“
Dean moves instantly.
Blade up.
Sam’s gun raised.
Not shaking.
Not hesitating.
“Don’t.”
The word cuts through the room, sharp enough to stop anyone else.
It doesn’t stop you.
The demon just laughs.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
“Whatcha gonna do?” it asks, glancing between the knife and the gun like neither of them matter. “Stab me?”
It leans forward just slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his.
“You know if you kill me—”
A pause.
A smile.
“—you kill her too.”
Something in Dean’s expression flickers.
Gone almost instantly.
But it’s there.
You feel it.
The demon does too.
And it enjoys it.
Sam shifts to the side slightly, trying to angle himself without drawing too much attention, eyes scanning quickly — looking for something, anything—
“Don’t bother Sammy”
The demon doesn’t even turn its head.
It just—
moves.
A flick of your hand.
Barely anything.
And Sam is thrown.
Hard.
He slams back into the wall with a force that knocks the air out of him, a sharp grunt escaping before he even has time to brace himself.
“Sam—!”
Dean turns—
That’s all it takes.
Another movement.
Dean’s body jerks violently sideways, lifted and slammed into the opposite wall, the impact loud enough to rattle the room. The blade clatters from his hand as it hits the floor.
You feel it.
Every part of it.
The movement.
The force.
But it’s not yours.
Your body stands perfectly still in the centre of the room.
Watching.
Dean tries to push himself forward—
He can’t.
His body locks, pinned in place like something invisible is holding him there, pressing him back harder every time he tries to move.
Sam’s in the same position.
Both of them trapped.
Straining.
Breathing harder now.
Pain written across both their faces.
The demon exhales softly, almost content.
“Honestly boys…You two really should start expecting this sort of thing by now.” the voice said, and it was your voice, but the tone was all wrong. It was lower, smoother, dripping with a lazy amusement. “Let’s get cozy”
You take a slow step forward.
Controlled.
Measured.
The ache in your leg is gone completely now.
Like it never mattered in the first place.
Like nothing does.
You stop just in front of Dean.
Close enough.
Too close.
He’s still fighting it.
Still trying to move, muscles tensing against something he can’t see, can’t break.
“You look tense, Dean. All that effort.” She chuckled, a soft, mocking sound. “It’s useless. You know it’s useless. But you keep trying. It’s one of the things she adores about you. That stubborn, beautiful defiance.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. “Let her go.”
The words come out low. Controlled. Dangerous.
The demon smiles wider.
“Oh, I’m not holding her,” the demon said easily, your body moving with a slow, almost lazy confidence that made your stomach twist. “She’s right here.”
A small pause.
“She can hear everything.”
Inside yourself, you lurched.
No—
“Little screams in the back of my head,” she added, amused. “Begging me to stop.”
A breath.
“It’s adorable.”
She leaned in close to him — your face inches from his — and you hated how clearly you could see him like this. The green in his eyes. The way his breath hitched just slightly despite everything.
The demon inhaled, as if savoring his scent.
“She’s been looking at you for a while,” the demon continued, softer now. “You didn’t notice?”
Dean’s voice came out rougher.
“Stop talking.”
“She notices everything,” the demon went on, like he hadn’t spoken at all. “The way you do that little half-smile when you’re flirting… or pretending not to care. The way you roll your shoulders before a hunt, like you’re bracing yourself for it—like you already know it’s gonna hurt.”
A soft breath left her, like she was savouring the memory.
“The way your jaw tightens when you’re trying not to say something… like you’re holding it all back.”
Her head tilted slightly.
“And the quiet things…” she added, softer. “The little hum you make when the food’s good. The way your fingers tap the steering wheel when a song hits just right.”
A pause.
“She notices all of it. It’s her favorite bedtime story.”
A faint smile.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means everything,” she cut in smoothly.
A beat.
“Don’t listen to it Dean, it’s not Y/N talking, you know that! Y/N, listen to me—”
The pressure tightened instantly.
His voice cut off into a strangled sound as his body jerked against the wall, his chest heaving like he couldn’t quite get a full breath in.
“Ah—” the demon exhaled softly, like she’d just been interrupted mid-thought and found it mildly irritating. “No.”
Your hand lifted slightly, fingers curling in the air as if you were holding something invisible between them.
Sam’s body followed the motion—tightening, locking, the air leaving him in a strained, choking gasp.
“Sam, Sam, Sam…” she crooned, almost fondly. “Always the clever one. Always the one who thinks he’s got it all figured out.”
Her eyes dragged over him slowly.
Measured.
Assessing.
“But you don’t know me,” she added, quieter now. “You don’t know anything about me.”
A sharp breath forced its way out of him—whether from pain or stubbornness, it was hard to tell.
“I know exactly what you are,” he managed, strained but steady. “Parasite.”
The demon’s mouth twitched.
Not offended.
If anything—
pleased.
“You lie, you manipulate—” he continued, pushing through it, “you get in people’s heads and twist everything until they don’t know what’s real anymore.”
A pause.
Then—
a soft, almost appreciative hum.
“Mm,” she hummed. “Still clinging to that, huh? That you understand people. That you can read them.”
She took a step closer to him this time, your body moving with that same unnatural ease, like the pain in your leg, the room, the situation—none of it mattered.
“Maybe you should’ve stayed at Stanford,” she murmured. “Finished that nice, safe little law degree. Pretended you actually knew how the world works.”
A smile spread across her lips—slow, pleased.
“Because if you were as smart as you think you are…” she added softly, almost thoughtfully now, “you’d know I’m not lying Sam.”
A pause.
The air tightened.
“Truth is my favourite weapon,” she said, voice dropping just slightly. “It cuts so much deeper than fiction.”
Her attention slipped from him like he’d already served his purpose.
Back to Dean.
Always back to Dean.
She continued, voice smoothing out again, calmer now. “I’m not twisting anything.”
A step closer.
Closing the distance again.
“I’m just… removing the filter.”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
Your hand lifts — and this time, you step forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Predatory.
Dean’s chest rises and falls hard as you stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel your breath, close enough that your knee almost brushes his.
You can feel him.
That’s the worst part.
You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the tension in his body, the way his pulse kicks just slightly faster—and you hate that the thing inside you feels it too.
Enjoys it.
Your hand lifted again—this time slower—hovering just in front of his chest before settling there, palm flat, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.
“Speaking of truth. Let’s try a little slice.” She paused, letting the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable.
“You wouldn’t believe how many nights she’s spent with her hand in her panties thinking about you, Dean.”
Inside, you recoiled. A wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed through the trapped remnant of your soul.
No. No, no, no.
Dean’s expression shifted from anger to something more complex—disgust, confusion, a flicker of something else she expertly pounced on.
“See that?” the demon whispered. “That little crack. You’re wondering if it’s true. You’re wondering what she thinks about. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.”
She paced away, then back, controlling the rhythm of the room like a conductor.
“It’s not just the obvious stuff. Not just the fantasy of you kissing her, or pushing her up against a wall. It’s the details. The sound your leather jacket makes when you move. The specific calluses on your right hand. The way you’d probably be rough at first, all that pent-up frustration, and then… soft. She imagines you getting soft with her. She imagines you letting her see you soft. That’s the real fantasy, Dean. The vulnerability. She wants to be the one you’re not tough with.”
Dean’s head turned just enough to look at Sam for a fraction of a second—
Not doubt.
Not quite.
But something unsettled.
Something the demon caught immediately.
“Oh, don’t look at him,” she said lightly, almost amused. “He can’t help you with this.”
A small tilt of your head.
“In fact, baby brother Sammy there…” she added, glancing briefly toward Sam again. “He’s known all along.”
Sam spoke from his wall, his voice calmer, trying to reason.
“You’re trying to distract us. This is a game. Just a game.”
“Everything’s a game,” the demon agreed, turning her head toward Sam. “But some games have points. My point is to peel her open right here in front of you. To let you see all the little wet, wanting secrets she keeps so neatly tucked away.”
She focused back on Dean.
“She thinks about your mouth. A lot. How it would taste. Probably like cheap beer and desperation. She’d like that. She thinks about your hands on her hips, gripping too tight, leaving marks. She wants marks. She wants proof.”
Dean was breathing heavily now, the invisible bonds seeming to tighten with his rage.
“Stop using her voice.”
“It’s her voice,” the demon countered, leaning close again. “Her throat, her tongue. I’m just borrowing it to tell you her truths. She’s right here, Dean. She’s hearing every word. And she’s mortified. The shame is hot. It burns. And it tingles.”
She traced your fingertip along the edge of his plaid shirt collar, not touching him, but almost.
The intimacy of the gesture was a violation.
“She’s imagined this scenario, too. Not with a demon, of course. But with you. Alone in a room. Tension so thick you could choke on it. The moment where you finally look at her and see it. See the want. And then you’d either walk away… or you’d walk toward her. She’s played out both endings in her head. The walk-away one hurts. The walk-toward one… that one makes her sweat.”
Inside your prison, you were begging.
Silent and desperate.
Please stop. Please don’t. He’ll never look at me again.
The demon heard it.
She smiled with your lips.
“She’s begging me to stop now. ‘He’ll hate me,’ she’s crying. But he won’t hate you, little mouse. He’ll just know you. And knowing is so much more interesting than hating.”
Dean jerked against his bonds, a futile, violent spasm. “When I get you out of her, I’m going to send you back to hell in pieces.”
“Promises, promises,” she sighed, feigning boredom. But her eyes—your eyes—glittered with renewed interest. “You’re all bluster. It’s another thing she finds endlessly attractive. The big, bad hunter who’s secretly just a bruised man. She wants to kiss the bruises. Metaphorical ones. Real ones too.”
She was digging, as promised. Not with a shovel, but with a needle. Pricking at tiny, hidden pockets of longing and shame, letting them seep out into the cold air of the room.
“It was only last week,” the demon continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “after that ghoul hunt in Nebraska, you took your shirt off in the motel room to check your side. Just a scratch. She watched. You didn’t see her. She memorised the line of your back, the shape of your shoulders. She stood there for five full minutes after you went into the bathroom, just… feeling the image in her head. Then she went to her own room and laid down in the dark and touched herself, thinking about you”
Dean’s face was pale now. Not with fear, but with a kind of naked exposure. The demon was stripping him too, by exposing the secret gaze that had been on him for months.
Sam tried again. “Dean, don’t listen. It’s what they do. They twist things.”
“They reveal things,” the demon corrected, turning to Sam. “They lift the lid and let the stink out. And this one… she’s been fermenting for a long time.”
She came back to Dean, her posture now less playful, more intense. A slow, deliberate predator.
“You’ve really never noticed?”
She reached out with your hand and slowly, deliberately, placed it flat against the wall beside Dean’s head. Not touching him, but claiming the space.
“She wonders what you’d sound like. Not your voice. The other sounds. The grunts. The sighs. The sharp intake of breath when you finally… let go. She collects sounds in her imagination. She has a whole soundtrack for Dean Winchester in her head. And it’s dirty. It’s all sweat and friction and your voice breaking on her name.”
Dean closed his eyes, a brief retreat.
“Please,” he said, and the word was so raw, so stripped of its usual bravado, that it hung in the air like a confession.
The demon’s smile turned vicious. “Please? Is that for me? Or for her? Do you want me to stop telling you the truth? Or do you want me to stop making her hear it? Which pain are you trying to end, Dean?”
She dropped your hand and stepped back, surveying him. “You can’t protect her from this. You can’t protect her from herself. This wanting… it’s been in her long before I got here. I’m just the microphone.”
The demon goes quiet for a moment.
Not because she’s done—but because she’s choosing her next move.
Then a small tilt of your head.
Almost curious.
“You know she’s jealous, right?”
Dean’s brows pull together slightly.
“Jealous of what?”
There’s no bite to it this time. Just confusion.
And that alone is enough to make the demon smile.
“Of every woman you’ve ever looked at,” she says lightly. “Every one you’ve spoken to like they mattered for more than five minutes. Every one you’ve taken back to the motel”
Dean’s jaw tightens.
“That’s not—”
“She notices,” the demon cuts in smoothly.
Your fingers hover near his chest again, not touching—just there, close enough to feel.
“She notices the way you come back,” she continues, quieter now. “Hair a mess. Shirt half done up. Looking like you’ve just been — ruined.”
The word lingers.
“She hates that,” the demon adds. “Not because you do it.”
A small tilt of your head.
“Because it’s never her.”
Dean exhales sharply.
“That’s not true.”
The demon’s smile widens slightly.
“Oh, but it is.”
Your gaze holds his.
Steady.
Unblinking.
“She sits there the next morning pretending she doesn’t care,” she continues, softer now. “Pretending she didn’t hear you come back. Pretending she didn’t picture it but she always does.”
Something shifts in Dean’s expression again.
Smaller this time.
Harder to read.
“She gets frustrated,” the demon says, almost thoughtfully. “Not at them.”
A beat.
“At you.”
Your fingers finally brush lightly against his shirt.
Just once.
“Because she wishes,” the demon murmurs—
quiet.
Close.
“—she was the one who did it.”
The internal screaming was now a dull, hopeless throb.
You were exposed. Completely, utterly.
The demon wasn’t just telling Dean your secrets; she was proving to you how deeply they ran, how every casual interaction had been secretly catalogued and eroticized. The humiliation was a living thing, squirming inside the shared space of your possessed body.
There’s a shift.
Dean watches you — properly this time.
Not just reacting.
Thinking.
“What I don’t understand is, what are you getting out of this?”
The question cuts cleaner than anything he’s said so far.
The demon pauses.
Not because she has to—but because she enjoys that he asked.
Your head tilts slightly, studying him like something newly interesting.
“That’s an interesting question,” she murmurs.
“You’re talking a lot for someone who says they’re in control,” Dean adds, quieter now. “So what is it? You stalling? Or is this all you’ve got?”
A flicker of amusement crosses your face.
Brief and sharp
“Careful,” she says lightly. “You’re starting to think like him.”
A glance toward Sam.
Then back to Dean.
And this time she doesn’t dodge it.
“No,” she says simply. “I don’t get anything from it. Not in the way you mean.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “Then why do it?”
Your shoulders lift in a slight shrug.
“Because it hurts.”
The words land flat.
Honest.
And somehow worse because of it.
“I don’t need anything from this,” she continues, quieter now. “I don’t need leverage. I don’t need information. I just like knowing it’s going to sit with you. That it’s going to stay.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “You think this changes anything?”
The demon smiles.
Slow.
Certain.
“Oh, it already has.”
Your fingers lift again, hovering near his chest — not touching yet.
“She’s going to remember this,” she says. “Every second of it. She’s going to remember that you heard everything.”
Dean doesn’t move.
But something in his expression shifts.
“She’s going to have to look at you,” the demon continues, softer now, almost conversational, “and wonder what you’re thinking. Whether you believe it. She’s going to question every look, every word, every moment between you.”
Your fingers press lightly against his chest again.
Grounding.
Claiming.
“And you?” she adds.
A faint tilt of your head.
“You’re never going to un-hear it.”
Silence stretches.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
The demon watches it settle.
Watches it work.
“That’s the fun part,” she murmurs. “Not the moment. But what comes after.”
Dean exhales sharply. “You’re trying to break her.”
“No,” the demon says softly. “I’m letting her break herself.”
Dean opened his eyes. They were hard now. Resolved. “I’m going to kill you.”
“You might,” the demon said, shrugging your shoulders. “But you’ll have heard everything first. And you’ll never look at her the same way again. You’ll see the want in her eyes every time, even when I’m gone. It’ll be a ghost in the room. A little phantom of desperation that she can’t ever bury again. I’ve done my job already. The unraveling is so much more fun than the killing.”
She leaned in one last time, her voice dropping to a breathy, intimate whisper directly beside his ear.
“The last thought she had before I took her? In that moment when the black smoke rushed into her mouth? It was of you. Not of fear. Not of Sam. Of you. And it was a thought of regret. That she never told you. That she never got to try. Now, you know. And she knows you know. That’s the knot I’ve tied. Enjoy it.”
She pulled back, looking satisfied, ready to perhaps continue, to dig even deeper into other vaults of secret desire.
But the room’s atmosphere shifted.
A new scent cut through the sulfur—expensive cologne and something older, like burnt parchment.
The pressure in the room changed, the demon’s hold on the Winchesters wavering for a fraction of a second.
A man appeared near the doorway, not having entered, but simply being there. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his expression one of mild, bored annoyance.
Meredith,” he said, his voice a dry, British-accented blade. “You’re making a scene.”
The demon—Meredith—turned your head toward him. Her confidence didn’t falter, but it tightened, becoming more formal.
“Crowley. I was just having a bit of fun. Cleaning up a loose end.”
“Fun is one thing,” Crowley said, stepping into the room with a sigh. “Psychosexual puppet shows are another. And you’ve borrowed a vessel without filing the proper paperwork. This one,” he gestured toward you with a dismissive flick of his hand, “is on a protected list. Nuisance, really. But rules are rules.”
He looked at Dean, then at Sam.
“Boys. As ever, you’re in the middle of something messier than you can handle.”
He turned back to the demon possessing you.
“Time to go, dear. The lease is up.”
The demon inside you bristled. You felt the protest ripple through her—your shared consciousness.
“I was just getting to the best part.”
“The best part is always the exit,” Crowley stated flatly. He raised his hand, a simple, effortless gesture.
The demon’s control snapped.
You felt it like a rubber band breaking inside your skull.
Then, you slammed back into yourself.
Your knees hit the cheap carpet.
Your own breath, ragged and real, tore into your lungs.
Your vision blurred, swimming with the afterimage of Dean pinned to the wall, his face stained with the knowledge the demon had painted there.
You heard Crowley’s voice, cool and distant. “She’ll be disoriented. Probably embarrassed. Do try to be gentle, for once.”
And then, the scent of cologne vanished.
You were on the floor. Dean and Sam were free, stumbling slightly as the force holding them dissolved.
They were both looking at you.
The silence was louder than any scream.
——————————————
