Chapter Text
They're in on a month of searching for ways to pop open purgatory. Sam needs his brother like he needs oxygen, and Meg...she's tired of not having anyone to watch her back. So here they are. Outside some diner in Carolina, and the demon too old for her borrowed skin starts to feel the itch to run. She's never been the type to settle well.
Her fingers hold the cigarette like it's a gun, and every drag is closer to clicking the safety off and blowing away any poor sap stupid enough to stand in the firing line.
Sam is a sap, but he's not stupid. Meg can acknowledge that. Well 1 out of 2 is close enough so she's aware she could destroy him.
"You smoked when you possessed me too." He remarks, hands in his pockets, oversized shoulders rolled in. Like he's trying to make himself small, small as she feels right now, she wonders if he does that a lot. If standing out feels dangerous so he forces that staggering presence down, even though he could run the entire world easily.
"They don't call it a habit for nothing, hotshot." Her crimson painted lips play at a smile that doesn't say 'wolf' for once. "Ok but...can you even get addicted to things? Wouldn't it be whatever skin you're wearing?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes at her usual brand of snark. "Look. I'm out here for a smoke break, I didn't plan on discussing the logistics of demon addictions rates, or baring my tainted little soul today." The line of her mouth flattens in irritation and...caution. Her walls begin to go up. The comfortable feeling of the vapors in her lungs mingling with the essence of who (what) she is, dissipates. The Winchester huffs sharply, brow furrowed in the way of a man who studies things, trying to comprehend their clockwork. Meg doesn't like knowing that he probably could, no, /would/ spill her secrets, or worse, that given a sweet word or two she'd sing like a damn canary voluntarily. "Stop." She barks. "Stop what?" His eyes are almost kind, ready to really listen and she hates him for it.
"Looking at me like I'm your next project." The half finished cigarette crushed under her boot, and she turns on her heel. Back towards that junker he insists they drive.
Sam's lips start to move like he may form words in response, but chokes them down, squares his shoulders back to imposing magnitudes, and follows her. This song is not done yet. She will not run, as interestingly enough, her taste for menthols is outmatched by a tired boy king who's lost his way. Just like he will not speak to the things he dreams of late at night, her name resting on his tongue, closest thing he knows to a prayer.