Chapter Text
(this is--it. we are… here.)
When his thoughts settle enough to form coherent shapes, Sam is able to deduce that the thing inside him is not a demon. It’s definitely not an angel, because he can’t remember being asked anything at all, dream or otherwise; one moment, he was breaking into an abandoned hunting cabin in search of clues for their current hunt, and the next…
(here.)
The thing is, Sam knows how demonic possessions work, possibly more intimately than any human that’s lived in a long, long time. He knows from both being possessed and pulling demons out of other people that demons… fill people, taking their shape like water and squeezing their consciousness to some tiny, ignored place. Everything from there is instinctual and seamless, like breathing.
With this thing, though--
(us. together.)
There’s spaces in him that are empty, like his mind is a glove filled with something that has no idea what a hand even looks like. His vision shorts in and out, hazy and oddly coloured when it works. His joints move in unnatural angles as Sam wrestles for some semblance of control; his kneecaps are knocked sideways and his elbows crack when they’re twisted into shapes that shouldn’t be possible--there’s a point where the stress is overwhelming and a bone snaps, tearing through the skin. He feels the pain distantly, like a pebble through the sole of his shoe. His jaw is hanging open, tongue drooling, and his fingers twitch aimlessly, until whatever it is that’s in him can figure out how to use them.
Until then… it talks.
(we are one. to move… to hunt… to kill.)
Its voice resonates in his head, the clearest sensation in a muffled universe. It speaks with his voice, curling carefully over unfamiliar syllables but gaining confidence and speed quickly.
(you are new, strong, but full of holes.) there’s a pause. (full of… residue.)
He turns abruptly, his neck cracking with the motion. His vision clears enough to see Dean sitting on the floor, his legs trapped underneath a large beam and blood caking one side of his face. He’s staring up at (them) Sam in abject horror. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s seen his brother look so terrified.
(The last time he died, maybe.)
“Get out of him!” Dean yells, but it isn’t a threat, or the kind of bravado that Sam has seen a million times before. Dean sounds helpless, and something that feels like pleasure curls warmly inside him.
(his body doesn’t scream as loudly as yours. maybe it’s time to open and find out why.)
(Sam) lurches towards him, one leg twisting fully in its socket. A twitching hand manages to pick up his knife. Dean looks like he’s going to throw up.
(Sam) is reminded of nature documentaries and parasites blooming from the hollow bodies of their hosts, riding their bodies in a bizzare, left-of-middle fascimile of their real selves. Demons and angels could never debase themselves this way; to them, hosts were nothing but necessary evils, to be worn and thrown away when used. This creature, though…
(Sam) thinks he might have a chance.
For all that his body is twisted like a pretzel, the hand that places a blade against Dean’s throat is remarkably steady. Dean holds himself stock-still, barely daring to breathe. He isn’t even looking at (Sam) anymore, like he’s given up on believing this wreckage of a body could possibly hold him at all.
“Dean....” (Sam) grates, his jaw audibly creaking.
Dean closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. The warm pleasure is now thudding excitement, and the parasite unfurls further along his nerves, feeding.
Sam takes his chance. It only takes a concerted impulse to a few specific group of muscles to change the course of that blade and send it plunging with remarkable force into his own chest. Blood seeps, then pours, then gushes, and the creature recoils, screaming. (Sam) crumbles to the floor in a tangle of badly twisted limbs, his chest straining to push out its last few breaths while drowning in blood.
Even through the agony of the creature and the screaming and the twice-removed pain from his own body, Dean’s anguished screams are clear. Sam wishes he could reassure him. Lucifer has promised him that he will live to be the devil’s host, and he has already delivered on that promise before, as many times as Sam has dared to test it.
He’ll be back, Sam thinks, just as everything starts to tip into black. His body has not yet served its purpose, after all.