Foreword: Long time no see guys! I'm currently working on edits to Icarus, and hopefully I'll be updating FF here with the changes in some relatively soon time frame.

General warnings: Non-con, mentions of self harm, possessed!John Winchester.

He could feel it burning under his skin, bubbling like acid injected straight to his veins. He couldn't fight it, how could he be so damn stupid. Everything in his body fought the digits he dialed into the hotel phone, until suddenly a grin split over his lips, a foreign laugh bubbling in his throat as he whispered, "Alright Johnny. ...You win."

The line clicked and John blinked, only vaguely registering Bobby Singer grousing what the hell he won and John better not be fucking drunk again. He barely rasps out that Bobby needs to take his boys for the night, they were only a few hours away, thank Christ. Bobby grumbles something about taking away his keys when he gets there, and John hangs up. He's not fucking drunk. God, he wishes he was. He could lock himself in the Impala to sleep it off and let Dean and Sammy have the beds for the night. But instead, he has Dean and Sam lock themselves in the Impala, gives Dean the keys and tells him no damn joy riding, he was only fifteen, and turns away before the manic grin can split over his lips.

Smart boy, Johnny. The things I would have done to those pretty lips.

"Don't you even think it," John growls under his breath; he knows this dangerous game he's playing, how with just one thought, he's gone. His boys would be dead. He's never fumbled for the salt so fast, lines the door with it as well as the windows. It's all he can do; the moment he grabbed for the paint to mark a devil's trap his wrist twisted until he was brought to his knees. He tsked himself, shaking his head, "Naughty naughty Johnny."

John shakes his head, wincing in pain as he rubs his wrist. "Get out of me, you son of a bitch."

A hum, and he can feel the grin again, Oh no no, not yet. You're much too fun. Chasing me around like a smitten teenager, Johnny, I'm blushing.

John growls again, feral and threatening though he knows it's a mouse rearing at a tiger. The demon can change his mind at any minute, but John didn't fucking care. He despised this monster with every cell of his body; he'd cut his own head off to get him out.

John's thoughts go stock still when an exaggerated, full body shudder quakes through him. You make a man feel dirty when you get all primal like that. Beheading? My my, that's...

John feels his own tongue slide over his lips slowly, carefully, and the color drains from his face in sheer mortification.

"Stop that! You— you sick piece of shit!"

Careful there, John John. You sound a might bit crazy talking to yourself like that.

John clenches his teeth, takes a slow breath. His nails dig into his arm, hard enough to break the skin; fighting for some semblance of control. He thinks frantically, trying not to focus on one idea for too long lest the Yellow-Eyed bastard hears him.

John flicks his knife out, readying to slice into his arm and cause just enough pain to get back control when the blade jerks up to his neck, holding itself steady there.

Ah ah ah. Don't want to damage the goods.

John grunts, trying to pry his own hand away, and then realizes how ridiculous that is. He's forced on tiptoe by his own hand, the edge of the blade close to cutting his carotid.

"Go ahead," he forces out, "Kill me. My boys will find you."

A deep sigh, and the blade lowers. He wrist flicks and the knife is sent careening across the room, far out of reach.

You ruin all my fun. No, Johnny, I have something else in mind for that tight, military body.

John shudders of his own volition that time, a tremor of repulsion before his hand wraps around his own neck. He expects to be strangled, but instead his thumb swipes over the vein, up over the curve of his ear so that fingertips catch on the shortly cropped tresses. Hairs stand on end at the back of his neck, heart jumping once in his chest. He tries to stop his hand, force it back down, but it remains there, sliding back down his jaw, his neck to his Adam's apple, and then tugging at his overshirt. John's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, words failing him. In the back of his mind, the Yellow-Eyed fucker laughs.

I've made you speechless already? You're a cheap date.

Finally, his tongue unsticks, "Get your damn hands off me—"

Nah ah. Not mine, John. Yours. You're going to give yourself some much needed John time tonight.

John fights every footstep made for the bed, biting his tongue hard enough to taste the flood, fingernails digging bloodied crescents into his palms, but it does nothing. It's fruitless. John stares with wide, shell-shocked eyes when his body sits on the motel bed, lingering dust of the ill cleaned quilt filling his nostrils of the cheap room.

"Stop it..." he whispers, the words forced as the control slips, taking over more as he shrugs off the over shirt, tugs off the one underneath over his head. "Stop. It."

I love it when you beg, I really do John, but save some for later.

Every time the thing says his name he can feel a knife twist in his gut, gnarled like sickness and hate spreading like liquid fire through his nerves. He's pushed back hard against the bed, shoes kicked off before scrambling up to rest against the pillows.

"No." No. "No." He's not sure if he's speaking it or growling it in his mind, but either way, it doesn't matter. The demon is in his mind, he knows his thoughts. He can feel the monster rooting around in his head, searching as his fingers curl, nails catching at the base of his stomach and dragging up his chest. John moans before he can stop himself. The fucker was rooting for his sweet spots. Fuck.

A deep, filthy groan filters through his thoughts, a wild grin tearing his lips wide.

I. Am speechless. Nails drag over his stomach again, up to his nipples to catch the buds hardening against his will. John grits his teeth like he's in agony; he is in agony.

I wonder if Mary dear was this rough to you.

"Shut up! Don't you dare talk about her!" John snarls suddenly, gaining back just enough control to wrench his hands away in sheer anger. The outburst makes another groan spill like water through his mind, sloshing inside his head. It's boiling. John chokes on his breath in surprise when his dick twitches.

"Wh-wh—"

You forget, sweetheart. I'm in your head. I'm in your body, and... Another, exaggerated moan. When you get all possessive like that, I just. I can't control myself.

John can't breathe. The hands drop to his jeans, agile fingers deftly wrenching the belt free. A hand slides down to cup his dick through the denim, pressing his palm down in slow practiced circles against the twitching flesh. John bites his lip on a moan and thumps back against the pillow, thrashing his head to escape the sensation. All it does is make his dick pulse harder, swell faster against his hand as the twisted voice gasps inside his head, boiling the heat in his mind. John lets out a miserable, shaking exhale that's so dangerously close to a sob the humiliation makes his eyes burn and his throat constrict. Yellow-Eyes is practically panting.

You can't win. The more you fight, the more you turn me on. And for a second, John hears the voice outside of his head, whispering heat against his ear. So please, Johnny, I beg you. Keep struggling.

John clenches his jaw so hard he hears it pop, his hips betraying with the rest of his body as they buck up into the touch, forced to hold himself there as his fly is undone, jeans pushed down to his thighs as well as his undergarment. His cock is near fully hard now, red at the tip and glistening. John feels himself drooling, and he never believed he could loathe this monster anymore than he already did. Seems he still had a few surprises in life.

That's good, Johnny. Nice and cut like an All-American Kansas lad.

"Go to hell," he chokes out, mind on fire with Yellow-Eyes invading it, unable to string together more thought than that with the fire bubbling in his head.

Baby, not without you. He growls it out this time, against his ear again and John can't tell if he's just imagining the heat of breath he feels. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head when his hand closes around his cock, giving it one, firm stroke before squeezing the head. He gasps despite himself as his hips stutter up; not at the hands of the demon this time.

"Oh, god," it's not pleasure; just shock, and vile hatred of his own body. The humiliation is too much. He can't watch this. But his eyes wrench open suddenly, head forced forward so he watches the hand glide over his dick, coming towards his mouth so that the fingers enter his mouth and he feels his tongue wrap around the digits slick with pre-come. There's a moan and John can't tell if it was him or the demon. He doesn't know which is worse, now.

You always suck your fingers like this or am I just extra special? Yellow-Eyes is practically crooning while John feels his tongue wet his palm, and his hand moves back to his cock, sliding over it faster, squeezing harder and the ache of pleasure that zings up his spine makes his eyes roll back. His hips jerk upwards and John digs his fingers into the covers, eyes watering from being forced open, unblinking, watching every move of his stolen hands squeezing the tip, back down, up again, forcing more glistening liquid from the leaking slit. His other hand reaches up, and does something John hasn't done before—pushes his nail into the slit and scratches slowly up. John bites his tongue on a cry, hips snapping wildly up in surprise at the sparks that shoot through his nerves, heat coiling tightly in his stomach and he almost, almost comes, but he doesn't, hand instead clenching tight around the base. The demon laughs, taunting John Winchester as he writhes and arches his back with the near release, nail still sliding back and forth over the slit until he's seeing stars and can feel the pleaseon his tongue like a poison.

You love it rough, don't you Johnny? Haven't had it that way in a long time. You miss it, you crave it. It feels so damn good.

"It feels like hell," he trembles out, but his hand fists faster over his swollen, aching dick now, pulse hammering against his palm from the orgasm still teetering just out of reach; the demon isn't fooling around anymore, other hand mercifully dropping from the slit to instead cup his tightening balls, drawn up close to his body. Oh god, he's close, he's so close. The hand clenches around his balls, almost enough for cruelty but it stops short and all he feels is another spike of pleasure.

That's it Johnny, such a good lad, keep it up, I can taste how close you are. Another tug and John can only buck his hips and gasp a curse to the ceiling, breath spasmodic as he gets closer, closer, another squeeze and John's mouth parts on a silent cry, head tipped back to bare his throat. His chest is heaving, he needs, he's—fuck—!

Come for me Johnny, let me hear you scream like you screamed for her.

He doesn't scream, not aloud. A splitting, tortured cry pierces through his mind as his breath catches in his throat, spilling in thick ropes of come over his chest, his stomach and fist. It's the most powerful orgasm he's had in ages. His hips are still twitching when he pulls his hand away, flat on the bed so he doesn't touch anymore, nothing stopping him. Swallowing hard to try to get some moisture back in this throat, he opens his eyes to stare blearily at the off-white ceiling. He feels nothing but the cooling come on his stomach, the shame chilling his body as the heat of his orgasm dissolves. There's nothing. He's gone. He's—

Not so fast. Three. Two. One.

There's a pounding knock on the door, and John hears Bobby's voice on the other side. He's irate. He's never heard him so angry, something about the heat and child abuse and how dare he leave two kids alone in a broken down car. John tries to stand, but he's rooted down. His throat tightens. There's nothing. He can't speak. Bobby keeps pounding at the door. Finally, his voice speaks but Johnny doesn't.

"Just do what I said, Singer!" John calls out, but it's not him, goddammit, it's not him, "Get your drunken ass out of here!"

God, fucking, no. Bobby stops pounding. He hears a hard slam at the door that sounds like a kick, and Bobby storms away. Two car doors slam. Another two slam. Tires screech and fade away. Bobby's gone with his kids. He's gone.

And. Curtains.

And then, he's alone.

A/n: I got inspired by the sheer desire to have Azazel fuck with John mind, body, and soul. Hope you guys enjoyed.

As always, any comments and notes are greatly appreciated