Title: Sympathy For the Devil
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Words: 2300
Summary: Sam Winchester as played by the demon formerly known as Meg.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for Born Under a Bad Sign, and also won't make any sense if you haven't seen it anyway. There's a major scene from the episode that didn't make it in here… I wanted to write it, but—it didn't fit. Alas. Title is, of course, a song by the Stones.

Possession was to theft what rape was to sex; it was more than taking over, it was taking everything a person had as if you had the God given right to. Possession was sinking your metaphysical fingers into a set of literal ones and holding on with your teeth, it was hijacking your victim's body and soul.

Exorcism was possession was reverse, undoing the bind with fire and screams.

And the demon did scream.

It just figured that the old man would guess the secret to undoing her little magic trick, burning off the brand she'd so carefully carved into Sam's arm. She shouldn't have forgotten about Bobby, not when Sam's memories and her own both confirmed the man's competence.

But she'd been so distracted by the sight of blood. So close to Sam's face that she could sense it on his tongue.

The magic dragged her, pulling her out through his head and shoving her out between his teeth. It sent her straight into the fire, the more efficient route to Hell.

Without Sam's eyes, she couldn't see; without his skin, she couldn't feel. The burn hurt like hell anyway, and even without a pair of eyeballs she knew the expression of relief that was spreading across Dean Winchester's handsome face. Handsome despite the bruises and blood, relief despite the pain.

All she wanted was to land one more blow on that handsome face.

She'd get another chance.

Jo was pretty but not so very smart, and it was hysterical to see her so terrified of Sam, who was more like a puppy than a predator. Of course, the woman knew something was wrong – she'd known as soon as Sam had walked through the door, but she was too young, too green, too plain dumb to trust her own instincts.

Her breath hitched as Sam threaded the knife through her hair.

Sam wasn't here anymore, obviously, and it was almost a relief to be able to drop the pretense of his personality. Sam was cute, Sam was smart, Sam was exhausting.

Was it such a crime to want to be herself?

"Sam!"

And there was the night in shining armor, the unlucky hero cursed to save day after day, already too late and didn't have a clue. It was time to get back in character, and the demon sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "Dean, you have to stop me!"

But of course he wouldn't. And behind Sam's face she smiled, because, right now, she knew that better than anyone.

The demon hadn't heard a word from the peanut gallery in an age and a half, so she was surprised when the voice crept into her thoughts. It was distracting, when here she was trying to lead Dean Winchester to the house of the recently departed Steven Wandell.

don't you fucking dare, don't

It was Sam's voice in her head, barely still able to string a thought together but she understood him anyway.

He hadn't made a noise since he'd heard Dean's voice on the phone, and the demon had thought he'd withdrawn completely into the dark. She raised Sam's hand – the brother was distracted by the road and his own thoughts – and rapped her meat puppet hard on the temple.

shut up, she thought at him. there's no point in whining

Sam was clawing at the base of her skull, and his nails had a bite to them, even if he was only half awake. if you if you, he thought right back at her, if you hurt him

She laughed at him silently, though the face she showed his brother was one of a deep and troubling concern. you mean if you hurt him, she answered.

No—

your body, your hands

If he still had his English he would've threatened her with vehemence and venom, but he didn't. He was only half awake. Instead all she felt was a wave of anger cold enough to send a shiver down her spine. His hate was so strong it had a tang to it.

"Sam?"

bother me again, she told Sam, carefully constructing mental images to fling at him along with her words, i'll cut open his stomach and make you tear out his guts with your teeth

She could have gone on, but she didn't have to. The Sammy-within went still like her threats had killed him.

"It's nothing, Dean," she told his brother. "I'm just—it's nothing."

Playing Dean Winchester like a harmonica should have taken more effort than this. For every one of his obnoxious qualities, she stil had to admit that the man was good at what he did – and no matter how good she was, no matter how many memories and thoughts and feelings she had access to, she still had to be doing something wrong. Something should have set those warning bells jangling.

Instead, he was turning Sam's hands over, cringing and fussing about Steven Wandell's blood that was just about everywhere.

"Sam, what the hell happened?"

And now she had to speak.

She thumbed through the Stanford dictionary stored in Sammy's head, filtered the words through the functions of his personality, added the waver of a frightened man-child: "Dean, I don't remember anything."

Sam's voice, but not his voice – close, but not quite – and she kicked herself for the fun she wasn't going to have because of it.

Dean just melted.

He sank onto the matress and dropped his head into his hands, groaning, and covering his eyes and face. That disappointed her, because his eyes were pretty under normal circumstances, and now they were wide and terrified. She hated him so much that even the slightest signs of pains were a pleasure to her – but she'd get more chances.

So she put one of Sam's arm around his shoulders, and Dean didn't complain.

The demon couldn't believe how close he was, not after all the planning and plotting she'd done in Hell. He was finally right here. She was holding her own mortal enemy; she was tasting the salt on his, smelling his blood, sweat and tears. She thought about sinking Sam's white teeth into the skin of his neck.

She expected some kind of protest from her meat puppet, but the boy was silent, still and blissfully sleeping.

Sam had tried to stop her from stealing the cigarettes, with his shuddering fingers, and that was such a small thing.

He didn't try to stop her from burning a curse into his flesh with a Bic lighter, his feeble mental voice didn't flinch when the smell of burning flesh filled the room.

He didn't say a word. She even waited for a comment, after she put the lighter down. Nothing. She chuckled.

"And now Sam, sweetie." She ran her fingers over the burn, relishing the pain that shot up to Sam's shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers. "Now you're really mine."

Dean's not stupid

Dean Winchester wasn't stupid, the boy wasn't wrong about that. It was the reason the demon had waited nine days to call him, because she knew without his little brother it wouldn't matter how smart he was. He'd be too lost to think and too panicked to care.

it won't work

The demon shook Sam's head. His control was so strong his lips were moving along with his thoughts, and his strength was rooted in his conviction. The little brother had so much faith. It was almost touching, in a pathetic way.

Dean picked up on the second ring. His voice came in almost clear, through the hissing static. "Sammy?"

Sam was useful at that moment. She channeled his hysteria. "Oh, God, Dean, I—"

"Where the hell are you, are you okay?"

Sam wasn't okay, Sam would never be okay again if she could possibly help it, and Dean was going to know that before he died. "Y—yeah, I'm… I'm okay. I'm okay, but Dean, you gotta—you gotta—"

"Hey, hey hey hey, calm down! Where are you?"

She didn't want him showing up right away, not when she still had so much more to do. And she didn't want him thinking Sam's thoughts were coming in loud and clear. "I'm—motel. I don't know what it's—

the… freeway north of the… It's just south of Armarillo, it's called…" What was it called? "It's called the Vista Ranch Motel, room one-oh-nine."

"Alright, don't move. I'm on my way."

She almost choked, and it wasn't even part of the trick. Human emotions were hard to control, and they didn't always want to behave when you let them out to play. "Hurry, Dean."

He'd already hung up.

It took a second for everything to stop, for Sam's eyes to stop stinging and his breathing to slow, for that darn heart to stop rattling in his chest. It took a moment of quiet, a few calming breaths.

And then she was back in control, and she laughed out loud. "Not stupid, you said?"

To that, Sam didn't say anything at all.

Steve Wandell dearly, clearly didn't want to die.

And Sam Winchester desperately didn't want to kill him.

The demon wanted to focus on the dying man's face, instead her concentration was glued to her hands. Sam's hands. Huge hands that shook like twin jackhammers at the worst possible moment, that thwarted her whenever they could.

god god god god god god god god god god god god please god

"It won't help!" She shook Sam's head sharply, anything to stop that maddening repetition.

Wandell thought she was talking to him, clearly. His eyes bulged and he gurgled.

"He's dead already!" she shouted. The shaking didn't stop, the fighting didn't stop, even if Sam knew it had to be true. They were all coated in the sticky red stuff, he had to know what that meant. "Knock it off!"

Sam's struggles just got worse, even as the struggles below faded.

"Look." She leaned in close to Steve Wandell's tortured face, and then she let Sam see through his own eyes. She gave up control for just one moment.

And she didn't have to fight to get the power back. When he gave it up, and for a long time after, he was still screaming.

The average passerby wouldn't have noticed a damn thing, except for the fact that Sam Winchester suddenly dropped everything he was carrying. That had been a to-go bag from Burger King and two large fountain drinks, along with a fistful of loose papers.

The air sure smelled nice here. Even if the demon had no idea where here was.

Sam's head rocked side to side for just a second, the movement helped her adjust, and then she bent him down. His hands shook as she reached for his food, the papers were already lost to the wind.

There was a bus stop, not fifty feet from where Sam was standing. That was convenient in more ways than one.

She made her way – okay, Sam's way – over to the bench and laid her prize out as she sat. It was a big bag, but she was still surprised to find five steaming hamburgers, enough to feed a family. Which in all fairness the Winchesters technically were, but it still seemed a little excessive.

Growing boys did need their food.

And so did she.

She ate every single one of those fucking hamburgers. Sam's stomach was awfully empty, and the one sense she couldn't mimic without a human shell was taste. It seemed such a small thing, such an insignificant disgusting human trait she certainly could have lived without, but…

It tasted so damn good.

GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT was beating like a drum, not a sentence but a feeling. Thick and hateful. It was Sam Winchester as he sounded to himself, under normal circumstances the very voice of compassionate reason, today the picture of panic.

She licked a dollop of ketchup off Sam's fingers.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE

"Right," she said, pulling at Sam's vocal chords and pleased to hear them speak for her, in a low and pleasant voice. "You think that matters?"

CAN'T DO THIS

"Sam," she said, and there wasn't anyone around to hear her talking to herself. To think Sam was crazy. The irony of it made her grin – or, really, to twist up Sam's face in an imitation of a smile. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Sam tried really hard not to think of anything at all.

"Cute," she said, because it was funny that he thought he could give her ideas she hadn't thought already – it was adorable to see him choking on his brother's face, the image so clear even as he tried to hide it from her. "Oh, not him. Not yet."

The demon shoved Sam to the back of his own mind. He'd soon resort to bartering, not long after he'd stoop low enough to beg. She'd enjoy all of it, every small step towards his realization that this was the worse nightmare he was never going to wake up from.

But right now she wanted him to shut the fuck up.

The soda was mostly gone, sloshed onto the pavement when the cup fell. She picked it up anyway, sucked on the straw, and the liquid inside was just like she remembered. Sugary sweet. She licked Sam's lips. She smiled.

"It's good to be back."