— Fester (possessed!Sam x fem!reader)
Summary: No matter how hard he tries, Sam can't keep you off his mind, and a particular demon has noticed. After a stressful hunt leads to a fight with Dean, Sam finds himself trying to dissociate, leaving him open for the taking. Meg seizes her opportunity, then proceeds to make sure Sam will never forget you.
CWs: Okay, this one's pretty dark. Triggers for non-con, non-negotiated/risky/dangerous kink, degradation, repressed desires, and lots and lots of guilt. If you are not comfortable reading any of these things, please DNI. 18+ MDNI. 🔞 There's some mutual longing here too underneath all the despair, but don't expect a happy ending or any fluff here. This is basically Meg screwing with Sam and having her version of a good time. If you like disturbing shit you might like this.
Thanks to @foxwinchester83 for the request. This never would have existed without you.
If Sam hadn’t let his guard down, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
If he hadn’t fallen out with Dean, slammed the motel door so violently it fell off its hinges, and ran until his breath was coming in shallow, wispy huffs—the stars above him no longer only in the sky, but sparkling bright and dizzying behind his eyes—then maybe he wouldn’t have ended up alone, pissed off, and incapacitated in the middle of this shit hole of a town.
If he hadn’t lost his charm.
If he hadn’t stepped into that bar.
If he hadn’t drowned his sorrows in cheap whisky that turned his deoxygenated blood into honey, and his appendages into sluggish excuses for limbs.
If you hadn’t infected his memory like a stubborn contagion he couldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried. And if she hadn’t appeared: the haunting shadow that stalked his every move.
If Sam hadn’t let the bitch inside, the dumb fuck that he was.
It was nice at first, being out of control. It had felt nice for around five minutes, letting someone take over his body and just having things happen to him. He supposed that was why he’d started drinking. To dissociate. But he’d let thoughts of you fester. He’d let you affect him, and Meg had cottoned on.
After hijacking his body, Meg had also done the same to a car, and driven with haste towards the nearest highway.
What Sam was originally mad about no longer mattered. It was nothing compared to the horror he’d felt when he realized he was swerving off the road and barrelling towards your sleepy town.
Now, he was angry, drunk, incapacitated in a very different way, and most definitely not alone.
He hated himself for this. How could he ever forget you now?
Meg had seen her chance and grasped it with her filthy claws at the first opportunity, and now he was balls-deep inside the woman he’d been crushing on for the past six months, watching your pretty face contort with every deprived word that left his sinful mouth.
It may have been his voice, but it definitely wasn’t him. And he was horrified to find that you seemed to be enjoying it. That he was.
Though he may not be in control of his hulking, sweaty body, he could still sense. He was still aware. Meg had made sure of that, slipping into his skin just loosely enough so he could still see everything. Hear everything. Smell everything. Feel and taste everything.
And you felt and tasted exquisite. Even better than he’d imagined a thousand times over. Spiced wine. Sweet, with just the right amount of tang to leave him buzzed and slightly on edge. But Sam had already drunk enough. He didn’t need another weakness.
But the sounds leaving your mouth–the moans that made his internal breath shudder–made him question his sensibilities and scold himself in the process.
He thought about the way your nipples pierced the air, and the way you’d arched your back for him—for Meg—when she’d slid his tongue down your stomach and attached his mouth over the whole of your dripping cunt.
The way your clit had tasted when Meg had plunged—without any warmup—two of his large, strong fingers into you, straight to the knuckle.
The way you’d screamed.
The way you’d writhed as your body struggled to accommodate him, and–despite the stretch–the way you’d begged for more.
Begged him to fuck you.
To tie you up.
To strike you.
To mark and bite you.
The way your mouth had felt around his cock. The way your drool trickled down his length—warm, wet, and slick. The noises you’d made when you’d gagged on him.
The way—despite his conflictions—every perverted act made his cock pulse violently.
You didn’t seem to be the kind of girl that would be into this kinda shit, but they never were, were they?
It was all too much. Sam couldn’t take it.
It wasn’t the sex that bothered him. The fact that you were enjoying his body delighted him immensely. It was the circumstances. Not what you were enjoying, but how you were enjoying it. The fact that it wasn’t him. Not really.
Is this what you’d expect from him if he continued seeing you after this? No. How could he even contemplate that? How could he go on after this? How could he ever look at you again without thinking of this moment? About how much you’d enjoyed him. Enjoyed her. He’d forever feel an imposter.
“Sam—” you gasped, and Sam pulled himself out of his reverie just in time to watch his hand slash across your ass in several merciless spanks. Squealing from the impact, you balled your already clenched toes and fists, muttering a string of curses Sam figured might as well have been Enochian.
Meg had flipped you over and was now taking you from behind in a rather undignified fashion. Your hands were still bound to the headboard with his belt, and he could see the leather chafing your wrists, making them red and sore. You didn’t seem to notice, or care.
Sam’s stomach dropped.
He wasn’t opposed to kink, as long as it was consensual. But he had not consented to this. Neither had you.
Meg hadn’t done it the way Sam would have; she hadn’t awkwardly asked you out, made you laugh, bought you flowers, or taken you on a nice date first. She had simply turned up at your door unannounced and proceeded to fuck your brains out.
But to Sam’s horror and delight, you seemed to be into it. Into him. And had invited him in willingly …
~
Sam felt your eyes wander over his body as he stood on your doorstep in the dead light of night. Your hair was mussed from sleep, and you were in your pajamas. Pink flowery ones. He’d woken you up.
“Sam?” You squinted up at him. “What… what are you doing here? It’s two a.m.”
Sam’s body shrugged and he heard his voice come out, rough from the alcohol. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. Like that was an adequate explanation for his spontaneous appearance in the middle of the night.
You eyed him curiously for a moment, then seemed to accept it and welcomed him in. As Meg made his body step inside, Sam cursed your naïveté at letting a man inside your house at such an ungodly hour. You were too trusting. You should know better than this. As a daughter of a hunter, you were well versed in the creatures of the night, but had seemingly forgotten all your training when met with a familiar face. He’d need to have words with you after this.
After this? After what? What was happening here exactly?
Panic set in as Sam trailed you through your hallway to the lounge, through piles of open texts and manuscripts. Though you were in ‘the life,’ you’d managed to live adjacent to it, dedicating your time to research rather than being physically involved in hunts. It suited you better. You’d always been more a thinker than a fighter; you’d even gone to college to study occultism to help with the cause.
Sam was attracted to you from the beginning. You were incredibly studious, and your discoveries had saved Sam and Dean from several sticky situations over the past few months. He owed you a lot. More than whatever was going to happen here tonight.
“Bad hunt?” you asked, and continued to ogle Sam as he studied your lounge like it was the first time he’d seen it.
Something like that, Sam thought, but Meg didn’t answer. He could feel her impatience rattle inside him. She wasn’t a fan of small talk.
“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” And when Sam still didn’t reply, you rubbed your arms awkwardly, like you were warming yourself from the cold.
Sam wanted to offer you his jacket. Apologise profusely for barging in like this. Instead, he felt his lips curl involuntarily.
“Truth is,” he said, and he turned to face you, your figure tempting in the lamplight. Nipples peaking through the satin of your pajama top. Fuel to the fire of his already vivid imagination. He stepped closer, and your breath caught as he backed you slowly against the wall. “I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you. In fact, baby, I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”
Meg wasn’t lying. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. That was the whole reason he’d been so distracted and screwed up on the hunt. The reason Dean had gotten so mad at him for his negligence. It wasn't like Sam to fuck up like that. Not like him at all.
Sam watched you closely. Watched you squint at him like he was a puzzle to solve. One of your cryptic passages.
Solve me, Sam thought, his mind pleading. Realize this isn’t me.
He hadn’t missed how your eyes had snapped up to his when he’d called you baby. He’d never called you that before, and he started to sweat. He would never be this forward.
He half expected you to laugh it off, to take it as a joke, or tell him he was an idiot and try to send him away. What he didn’t expect was for you to move closer. Much closer. So close he could see down your top. To your cleavage. To the perfect curve of your breasts and the way your nipples stood, now undoubtedly erect beneath that flowery satin. He didn’t have to imagine anymore. It felt like a personal attack.
If he was more himself, Sam would clear his throat and force himself to look away. Store the image for a lonely day and let it wreck him in a stolen moment of satisfaction that would promise relief, but ultimately leave him with a deep-seated shame.
But he wasn’t. And he didn’t. His body refused to obey him.
He could sense Meg’s tendrils in his motor cortex, prodding around and manipulating his voluntary muscles. His eyes. His voice. His limbs… She’d pretty much left his sensory and autonomic tracts unmanned. How generous.
A low, insidious hunger stirred below his gut, something darker than just want. Something he should fight. And he found himself staring like a dog in heat. A predator that had finally trapped its prey.
Low and behold the thing he’d feared appeared. Nature took its course, and it was fucking obvious. He couldn’t even move his arms to tuck it beneath his waistband.
A knowing smile formed on your face as you looked him up and down. You’d caught him out. Sam’s heart stuttered, and for a second he thought you weren’t just letting him look. You were daring him to.
You drew in a breath. “Fucking finally,” you said. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.”
And before Sam could register what he was hearing, you did something he had been imagining for months: you rose to your tip-toes and kissed him. And as your soft, warm lips collided with his stern, cold ones, Sam felt his internal knees weaken.
He wanted to tell you how much he’d longed for this. Longed for you. Wanted to soften the kiss and tell you how beautiful you were. How intelligent. How every time he was around you, he’d forced himself to look away, because he’d never be good enough for you. How you deserved better than him. Better than a college drop-out and a pathetic excuse for a hunter.
Instead, he was insulting you. Degrading you. Using you. Worse, he was letting Meg use you in whatever fucked-up game she was playing. He’d been negligent–again. This was all his fault. He should’ve listened to Dean and gotten that damn fugly tattoo.
The kiss was heady and demanding. All sharp lines and rough edges. A clash of tongue and teeth. With every movement your breaths were coming heavier, hotter, and you were pulling him closer, clawing at him.
Sam found his hands grappling for your clothes. Your flowery pajama pants. Hiking them down. And then his hand was between your legs, just a thin strip of cotton between his fingers and your liquid heat.
“Sam—” you gasped, as Sam cupped your mound possessively. His touch wasn’t shy, wasn’t gentle, and Sam shuddered at the thought that this was how he’d touch you for the first time. So selfish. The guilt that was his constant companion wound around his throat, constricting his internal voice, choking him harder with every effort he made to break free.
Sam wanted to take his time with you, to map your body with his mind and to notice every detail; how you liked to be touched and where, to gauge your reactions with every pass of his fingertips. But he wasn’t given that choice. This was an excavation, not an exploration.
“Come upstairs,” you pleaded against his cheek, and bit your lip to stifle a moan as Sam started prodding you through your panties. “Please, Sammy ... want you in my bed.”
Sam heard Meg laugh, then speak to him for the first time.
She’s a brash little thing, isn’t she? I can see why you like her. A natural submissive, with a hint of defiance. This will be fun. Oh, how I love to watch them break. Better appease her first, though …
“Sure, baby,” Sam heard himself say, then let himself be pulled up the stairs.
~
This wasn’t fair. You deserved more than this. A conversation, at least. A safe word.
But Meg wasn’t big on safe words; she was only big on pain.
But this was never about harming you, Sam realized. It was about torturing him. It was always about torturing him ...
So, you’ve cottoned on, puppet?
Meg’s voice in Sam’s head rang clear as the highway had been when they’d driven here. Her voice was gloating.
You’ve always been my favorite toy, Sam. You’re so fun to play with. Big... Commanding... Full of self-loathing... You make it so easy.
Sam felt the threads around his internal voice loosen. She was allowing him to speak.
Get out of me, he growled. Leave her alone. Fuck off back to Hell.
Lighten up, Bullwinkle. She’s game. She wants this, clearly. She’s not as innocent as you think. Or are you really that dumb? Look at her.
And Sam did; he had no choice.
Meg flipped you over again so he was forced to look at your face, and he watched as your eyes rolled back in your head with every punishing thrust of his hips.
You looked like a broken doll.
Incapacitated, vulnerable, and…
Hot.
Incredibly fucking hot with your eyes glazed, tits bouncing, hair mussed, wrists bound, and legs spread wide for him.
Fuck. The fact that he was even deriving a single ounce of pleasure from this was unspeakable. Abhorrent. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Yeah, must be the alcohol …
With Sam’s lips, Meg smiled a sadistic grin and re-tightened her threads. Sam felt his larynx constrict, choking him quiet as Meg grasped you by the heels and sucked several of your pretty little toes into the pink flesh of his mouth.
Even they tasted sweet.
What the hell was wrong with him?
“God—” you choked out, squirming. In delight or disgust, Sam couldn’t tell any more. Maybe it was both.
Not everyone plays by the rules, puppet, Meg continued. You should know that more than anyone ... I wonder how many other men she’s fucked like this. Must be quite a few. She clearly knows what she wants.
Sam felt a rage that incapacitated him further. But he was completely at her mercy, unable to do anything to prevent this.
He pulled your foot from his mouth, your toes now shiny with his spit, and grazed his teeth along the inside of your calf, leaving several bruising bites.
A dog gnawing on a bone.
A rabid animal.
And stop lying to yourself. Your mind may be capable of deceit, but your meat-suit isn’t. The body doesn’t lie. That was all you…
That was, also, frustratingly true. Despite his intoxication, Sam hadn’t had any trouble getting it up. Of course he hadn’t—it was you. He’d imagined this moment too many times: you, naked, below him, screaming his name. He’d pleasured himself to that thought no less than ten times in the past week alone. It had gotten a little out of hand.
You want this too, puppet. Repression’s an insidious thing. Has no one ever told you that? I’ve seen how you’ve thought about her. The things you’ve imagined... You’re as sick as I am. I’m not doing anything you haven’t already thought about. I’m doing you a favour. Give her what she wants. Give in to the darkness that’s already inside you.
No, Sam thought defiantly, his vision swimming, stars falling like specks of dust. Not like this…
She wants this, puppet. If you won’t give her what she wants, then I will. You have no choice. She’s a pretty little thing. Even when she screams. I wonder what she looks like when the light’s leaving her eyes.
NO, Sam thought, but his hands were already grappling for your neck, his long, skilful fingers hovering over your carotid arteries.
“You want this, baby?” Sam heard himself ask. “You want me to fuck you up?” His voice was still thick from the whisky, and he was horrified to see you nod, dazed though you were.
Sam could hear Meg laughing in his head. This wasn’t funny. It was exactly the opposite. She was screwing with him well, making out that any aspect of this was consensual. She’d learnt that the hard way with Jo. If she was too obvious, you’d know this wasn’t him, surely? Surely you would?
“Just to be clear, you want this, right? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to hurt you, baby.” Then Meg ran a hand down the rippling muscles in his arm and flexed, making him look like a total jackass. “I’m a big guy, if you hadn’t noticed.” Again, total jackass move.
“Yes, Sammy,” you rasped, watching him beneath heavy lids, mouth parted in awe. “Of course I’ve noticed ... I’ve been waiting so long for this ... For you.”
Sam felt his stomach drop again and fall through the earth. How could you believe this was really him?
You see, Meg taunted. She’s game, baby.
The admission did nothing to reassure Sam. In fact it only made the guilt worse. Hearing that you’d wanted him too, for some time, and were willing to overlook this problematic behavior, hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t have gone like this. You deserved more. So much more. You deserved to be made to feel loved, not lusted over and debased like a cheap whore.
Meg placed his hand around your neck and squeezed, and the moan you gave in response sent shivers up his spine. With every following word that left his mouth, he felt his grip tighten, your blood pulsing beneath his fingers. “You’re a depraved little slut, huh? Who’d have thought? It’s always the quiet ones. Lose all sense of dignity when they’re being fucked.”
At that, Sam’s hands withdrew and you gasped, your breath shallow and whiny, and your eyes reflected something other than pleasure for the first time tonight. They flashed black, and Sam could see himself in them. It looked a little like fear.
Meg laughed. At you. At Sam’s clear perturbance. And then with a force he never would dare use, drew back his hand and slapped you across the face. You were so small compared to him, so delicate, it wouldn’t take much to break you.
Don’t worry, Meg said. You’re not going to kill her. I can’t deal with reapers right now. They ruin all the fun.
Sam watched your supple skin bloom from the impact of his hand, and your head loll to the side. A single tear rolled down your cheek and pooled in the crevice between your collarbones. You looked undoubtedly out of it, whimpering incomprehensibly, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for Meg. If she couldn’t have you dead, she’d have the next best thing.
Please, Sam begged, as his hand returned to collar your throat. No more. Do what you want with me, but leave her out of this…
As his fingers constricted even further around your neck, Sam couldn’t deny how pretty it looked–his hand around your throat like a gorget. It fit perfectly, like it was meant to be there.
Trouble was, a gorget was meant to protect you, and he was doing the exact opposite…
Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all, Meg chuckled. Damn this is fun.
Fuck, Sam thought, as he struggled in vain to put an end to this violent act, his vile thoughts. But it was too late; the light was already leaving your eyes, your face was turning redder by the second, and...
And…
Your pussy was clenching around him.
This was getting you off.
Told you, Meg said. She’s a freak. We’re not that different.
And as the rest of your climax seized you, Sam felt his own take hold.
He pulled out and began pumping his throbbing cock with the hand he’d just used to strangle you.
A dizzying pleasure overcame him.
Whisky in his veins.
Stars again behind his eyes.
And it didn’t take long before he was groaning in ecstasy, shooting his silky seed across your chest and face.
Through Sam’s now hazel eyes, Meg forced him to look down at you. At what he’d done. At your unconscious shell of a body he’d defiled with his pathetic lack of self-control.
A pornographic painting.
A disturbing display of his descent into depravity.
And then Meg did the cruellest thing she could have possibly done in that moment.
She left.
Left him all alone to deal with the aftermath of this mess. The emotional and physical.
Guilt swallowed Sam whole. Not only for what he’d done, but for how good it had felt to lose control, to sate the desires that that taken root deep inside his rotten, corrupted soul.
The last thing Sam heard before she abandoned his aching body–as he closed his internal eyes and admitted defeat–was Meg’s voice, crisp, clear and gloating.
I’ve ruined her for you now, haven’t I, puppet?
And as much as Sam didn’t want to admit it, maybe she had. Because he now couldn’t imagine having you any other way.
