Take Me in Your Arms
A/N: So I actually wrote this a few million years ago but I didn't like it so it just sat around as a work in progress. Now I've finally re-written it and, well, I like it better but I'm not sure I love it. Tell me what you think?
Warnings: Drug use. Swearing.
The first night, Meg parties like there's no tomorrow, which, Sam assures her, there won't be, because Dean is going to hunt her down and send her straight back to Hell where she belongs and she is going to be so freaking sorry that she messed with them, fuck you, Meg, get the fuck out.
'Loosen up a little, Sammy, holy shit, you're so fucking annoying.'
The club is a multi-coloured strobe light, thumping music and a crush of warm, tipsy bodies on the dance floor, a whirlwind made all the more confusing by Meg's attempts to shove him somewhere under the surface of his own body, a sensation that's frighteningly similar to being held underwater, everything muted and blurred. Time passes in jumps, snapshots of sweat-slicked skin, shots of liquor burning his throat, a dark haired girl's spicy perfume, and cigarette smoke filling his lungs.
Meg drinks and dances, trades twenty dollar bills with a skinny college kid in a dark corner by the bathrooms. Blinks and Sam's on his knees in a toilet stall. Meg holds one of his nostrils shut with his finger and snorts white powder from the toilet lid through a rolled up bank note into the other.
Sam's never done drugs before, aside from a couple of rebellious joints smoked under the bleachers in high school. Weed was slow and soft and not like this at all. This is loud and sudden and violent. The powder zaps, lightening-like, through his brain. Something is rising in his chest, a powerful wave of energy that seems set to devour him at the crescendo, and the shock of it is so intense that for a few seconds, he isn't Meg. Just long enough for him to fling out a hand and sweep the rest of the powder from the toilet lid and onto the floor, where it quickly soaks into a film of stale piss, turns yellow and clumpy. Meg is furious.
'Do you have any idea how much that cost?' Her voice is a snarl inside his head, vicious and threatening retribution.
Sam comes back at her with a fuck you that doesn't sound as ferocious as he intended because his head is spinning and warmth is spreading through his limbs, cells seem to expand and float, and nothing looks real any more. Too sharp. Too shiny.
He feels his lips turn up against his will as Meg grins slyly, the muscles in his face – everywhere – beyond his control, and feels dread ripple through the high as she murmurs, 'I have a better idea.'
There's a needle in his arm when Meg wakes Sam up, a warm, slippery sensation rushing up his shoulder and spreading through his chest. The alleyway is hazy with the faint glow of street lights stretching their beams in a vain attempt to light up the murky shadows, and the concrete wall is cold against his back. The conflicting temperatures, the tingly feeling beginning to encompass his whole being, is so distracting that Sam does nothing to protest the use of his body for drugs.
Whatever's in the syringe – heroin, he's guessing – is different from the powder. There's no sudden rush in which he can attempt to gain control. There's only a soft, rolling wave of bliss that leaves him weak, light-headed, like his body really doesn't belong to him.
'Thought this was more your style,' Meg purrs gleefully. 'And we have some time to kill. They say it grabs you from the very first hit.'
Dean's gonna find me, Sam vows. Dean is looking for him right now, he knows it. He just doesn't know where he is or how far Meg's travelled since she hitched a ride inside his skin or how long it will take Dean to track him down. Dean's probably not looking for him in an alleyway frequented by junkies.
'So what?' Meg sneers. 'What d'ya think, Sammy? If I let you go, how long do you think it would be before you were scrounging around for a fix?'
Long enough to send you back to Hell, Sam promises. The alleyway is shimmering and he can't find the venom he wants to put into his threat. He feels like he's disintegrating.
'Tough words,' Meg says dismissively, slides the needle from his vein. 'You, Sammy, need to learn how to relax before we get down to business. All your pushing is giving me a headache.'
Just let me go. Sam tries to sound like he's bargaining rather than pleading. This won't end well for you.
'Who cares about the ending when we're having this much fun?' Meg drops the used syringe on the ground and pushes away from the wall, stumbles out onto the street where the lights are so bright Sam is half-blinded, and cars pass in a dizzying, endless stream, engine sounds rising and falling like music, headlights streaming like ribbons against the dark sky.
Meg makes him watch as she burns a binding symbol into his arm, makes his experience the sear of dark magic flaring hot and raw over delicate human flesh.
'Lets see if Dean can figure this one out,' Meg taunts. Sam feels his prison constrict, invisible bonds tightening and tugging him deeper below the surface, as the enchantment takes hold.
She has an endless supply of needles, syringes and dealers wherever she goes, and Sam watches her scar his veins with track marks, lets himself drift under the heavy wave of muted bliss, starts to crave it between hits, starts to hate himself for wanting it, and every passing minute makes it harder to believe in that inevitable rescue he was once so sure of.
Then Meg tracks down a hunter and makes Sam watch as she kills the man with his hands, listens while Sam screams and promises her anything he can think of if she'll just stop, please stop, please, don't do this, just let him live, and she ignores him. Warm blood gushes over Sam's hands and moments later, outside the house in the garden, he's doubled over vomiting because apparently his horror is stronger than Meg is right now.
'I wonder what Dean will say when he finds out what you just did,' the demon murmurs as she straightens his spine, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and smiles.
Sam is still tacky with the hunter's blood, sticky and itchy, skin crawling, when Dean shows up and promises Meg that everything will be okay. Meg grins behind Dean's back and listens as Sam silently begs his brother to notice that something's wrong beyond the blood that stains his clothes.
Dean, it's not me. It's a demon, Dean, look at me, can't you tell?
Dean's busy inspecting blood on the windowsill. Meg scratches at the track marks on Sam's arm.
Meg's scream wrenches Sam from the murky underwater prison, bringing him to the surface in time to feel the heat dance across his skin. Steam clouds his vision as Meg swipes frantically at the holy water that sizzles against his face. He can feel the demon's agony in the same detached way that Meg must sense his elation. Dean's figured it out. Dean's going to send Meg back to Hell.
'Oh no,' Meg hisses, 'I'm not done with you yet, Sammy.'
A window shatters as Meg throws Sam through it, heedless of the sharp bite of broken shards. Meg hits the ground running, leaving behind the voices of Dean and... Jo? Where did she come from?
Meg's working hard to push him down. Sam thinks the holy water has shocked her because, though the world blurs and blinks in and out, Sam pushes back, catches snatches of Dean's voice, Meg's taunts, and he sees it when Meg holds out the gun, sees the empty expanse of water and Dean in front of him, turning, reacting, but not fast enough. Meg's closing his finger on the trigger, and the terror that washes over him is stronger than any street drug Meg has forced on him, strong enough that at the last second, the very last second, Sam jerks his hand to the side.
It's not enough to save Dean from the bullet but he takes it in the shoulder instead of the chest. Sam hears the splash as Dean falls backwards, off the pier and into the water. He can't breathe. Meg prowls forward, stares down at the still water in triumph.
'Guess we don't need to worry about big brother anymore.'
'Just a little top up.'
Sharp pinprick, needle point sliding neatly into the vein, a flood of warmth and hazy apathy. Sam thinks about black water spread out beneath him, swallowing his brother, and can't think of a single reason to keep fighting.
He's not expecting it when Meg surges out, his senses suddenly snapping back online as the darkness tears away, like someone's flipped a light switch in a pitch black room. The force of it leaves him sprawled on the floor, throat on fire, stomach flipping as the world spins. The sensation of his own skin is overwhelming. A dozen small slices from broken glass sting his arms and face, the puncture wounds in his forearm ache deep beneath his skin, and the binding symbol is intersected by a red-raw burn, all competing for his attention, but one thing wins out above them all.
Sam can hear him before the room settles into place, all frantic hands and urgent demands, and Sam doesn't care that it doesn't make sense that Dean's here when Meg left him under that flat black water because Dean is here.
"Sammy, hey, hey, you with me? Come on, kid, hey, look at me."
It's hard, like he's not yet fully in control of his muscles, but he forces himself to focus on the dark shape before him until it turns into his brother.
Dean looks bad. There are bruises forming on his face that Sam's knows must match his own fists and the bullet wound is bleeding through Dean's shirt. Bobby's standing behind him. Are they in Bobby's house? How did he get here? Nothing makes sense.
Sam swallows, trying to gather some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth.
"Y'r alive," he manages to say, barely. His voice is shaky and slurred but, for the first time in over a week, it's really his. "I thought..."
Dean pulls him up a little so he can lean against the wall, scoffing, "Takes more than one measly bullet to stop me from coming after you, Sam." One of his hands has found Sam's face, gently prying Sam's eyelid further open. His other hand moves through Sam's hair. "Did you hit your head? Your pupils are blown."
"No, I don't..." Sam loses track of his sentence as Dean's hands continue to roam, checking him over. He hisses a vague protest when Dean's fingers press lightly against the inside of his forearm. Dean pauses.
"Wait-" Sam starts, but Dean's already pushing back his sleeve, then staring, dumbfounded, at the bruises that litter Sam's skin. Sam looks at them too, wonders vaguely how long it's been since Meg's last hit.
Dean's wide eyes flicker to Sam's face and back to his arm, speechless for a long moment.
"Heroin?" he asks finally, his voice low, face tight with concern and barely concealed rage.
Sam starts to nod but then he feels a sudden lurch in his chest, a wave of uncontrollable emotion. His throat tightens and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop the sobs that break free. It's some kind of involuntary reflex, his body reacting to the shock of suddenly being his for the first time in what feels like years. He hides his face behind his hands, embarrassed by the outburst.
"Sam..." Dean says, sounding startled, thrown by the sudden waterworks – Sam's pretty stunned himself – and desperately worried. His hand tentatively wraps around Sam's wrist but, thankfully, he doesn't try to pull it away. Sam's not sure he could stand seeing Dean or Bobby's faces right now.
"Hey, kiddo, don't worry." Dean's voice is so gentle now. He obviously thinks Sam's in shock. Sam wonders if he is in shock. Maybe he's just high. "I'm gonna get you all fixed up. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make this better."
Sam wants to ask if Dean's okay but he can't stop crying and he's suddenly so exhausted that he doesn't think he'd be able to wrap his tongue around the words. He wonders whether Meg let him sleep. Maybe she didn't – he doesn't ever remember lying down while she was in him – or maybe being possessed is just exhausting. He's vaguely aware of Dean asking Bobby to help get him to the couch but he's gone before he feels them move him.
To Be Continued