She comes to him at night. Not every night, not when he needs release or punishment or a mixture of the above. She comes to him, a warm breeze, making him tingle, making him burn.
She comes to him when they both need it. With her he doesn't have to pretend, he doesn't have to hold back…he doesn't need to be scared. Something is broken inside of him and she doesn't care: she doesn't try to fix him, she doesn't make him feel guilty for the things he cannot give her, because she only wants his body: the tingle of pleasure, toes curling, breath catching.
She doesn't care that it makes him feel dirty, like he has sunken to a new low, it probably adds on her pleasure, and Dean can't muster enough strength to care.
She is there: a drop a blood, a few whispered words, and it's just them: skin against skin, her nails digging into his back, drawing blood, her breath hot against his ear as she hisses to give her more, to make her feel.
Of all the fucked up things in his life, of all the mistakes, unappropriate feelings and shit he has done, fucking a demon, Meg of all people, almost gets the cake.
If only he cared.
He loses himself in her, in her wet heat, in the way she seems to know exactly what he wants and how he wants it. It's never gentle, it's never lovemaking…it's fucking and biting and sinking.
He feels like in the Pit, sometimes, when he's alone…and when she comes to him, tasting of peanut butter and blood, smelling like raspberry and ashes, delicate skin and strong muscles underneath.
She knows his secrets, his darkest ones: the things he wants, the things he has, those he wishes he had forgotten. She never talks about them, though. She doesn't play mind games…she wants what he wants: to be unbroken, to be filled, to sink.
Meg comes to him, in moonless nights, when the silence is deafening, when he isn't there. She sucks and moves and pushes down, meeting each thrust, chuckling and panting.
She leaves…when they both feel less deafened by the silence, when they have both sunk lower but feel less empty. She doesn't talk, she never does. They don't need to, besides…what could he tell her? What could she say to him that he doesn't already know?
He is broken. He is lost. He's split in million pieces: part of him in the pit, part of him wandering upside, another, bigger chunk of himself, withering more and more with every day Sam spends in the cage and the asshole taking his place stains everything he's been.
Fucking Meg is not a big deal.
Even when sometimes it's the only thing that keeps him alive.