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Champagne for the Survivor

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“I’m going to need you to stop struggling now,” Michael says conversationally to the mirror. Reflected in the glass, his Dean Winchester meatsuit struggles and squirms. He’s clawed his way back up to the surface. Again. It’s becoming an irritant.

Michael felt him – scrape, scrape scrape – during his meeting with the werewolf pack leader. It wasn’t anything God’s first angel couldn’t handle, of course. But it was… a distraction. And here Dean is, just under the surface, screaming even now. What he’s saying, Michael doesn’t bother to make out.

But controlling Dean Winchester is like dangling a small and desperate animal by the tail. Just for fun, just to see what it might do, Michael loosens his grip.

“I’ve found some free time as of late,” Michael says, as if his meatsuit weren’t speaking. “Your memories… I can’t even pick a Greek tragedy to compare. Tell me, does Sam even know?”

In the mirror, Dean’s nostrils flare. But he’s speechless now, the look in his eyes calculating. He thinks this is his opportunity to expel Michael. It’s adorable.

“Does he?” Michael continues. “Know the filthy things you think about him in the dark? Does he know you bite your tongue until it bleeds?”

Michael unzips their tuxedo trousers. In the mirror, Dean’s eyes widen, show white, as he’s compelled to do the same.

“You son of a…”

“Shh,” Michael says, places his fingers to his own lips. The motion shushes his vessel in the mirror, too. The small animal is back in his clenched fist again.

“Let me see…When did it start?” Michael tilts his head, searching Dean’s memories. “Oh. Oh my. That is quite a long time ago. The first time you…”

To Michael, his meatsuit – even this “perfect” one – is merely functional. Sure, it’s pleasing face and charming smile are useful, but really, it’s he who brings everything else to the table. He especially hadn’t spared any thought for the utility of its reproductive organs…

Until now.

He removes Dean Winchester’s cock from their trousers and gives it a lazy stroke. “…The first time you did this thinking about little Sammy? Oh yes, this memory is one of my favorites. How tightly you clenched your eyes shut.” He gives himself another stroke.

In the mirror, Dean is stroking himself, too, even as he struggles against Michael. It tickles.

Michael grinds his next words out slowly: “How hard you tried not to.”

“I wish I could have known him then,” Michael continues. “How you remember him.” He’s found a rhythm, the one he knows Dean likes, and Dean in the mirror is powerless to stop him. Pre-come shines at the head of his meatsuit’s thick cock. He looks at it in the mirror, interested. “Long legs, big hands, dick sucking lips. And your imagination, Dean, is… powerful.”

Michael has found a locked compartment now, way deep down here in these shameful fantasies about Sam. He smiles, showing teeth, as he disintegrates Dean’s most powerful mental lock with the flicker of a thought.

It’s dusty in here. Dean hasn’t dared to recall this fantasy for such a very long time.

He flings the memory open wide, shines light through it like a movie projector for both of them to behold:

Sam is disheveled, clothes torn, in front of Dean, on hands and knees. Blood is smeared around his mouth. It drips from his chin.

Michael prods harder into Dean’s memory. Sam drank demon blood? Multiple times? Interesting.

Dean, behind Sam, is slowly unthreading his leather belt from its loops. He snaps the leather once, and Sam flinches away.

“How could you?” Dean says.

“I’m sorry.” Sam sounds very young.

Delving deep, Michael can see the tears in Sam’s eyelashes now.

“I won’t do it again-“

“All you do is lie,” Dean growls. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.” With that, he throws the belt around Sam’s neck. Sam struggles back, wild-eyed, but Dean repositions the flat of the leather, moving it up to cover Sam’s mouth.

“Bite it.”

Sam does. His eyes are wide as, behind him, his brother winds the belt’s two loose ends around his hand. The buckle digs into his palm.

He spears Sam then. Plunges in. Takes. Only takes. Sam, in front of his brother, tries to speak around the belt tight against his lips. The muffled words sound like: “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

It’s quick, this fantasy in Dean’s most secret vault. Michael watches Dean punish his brother with the belt and with his cock until he sees Dean’s body slacken. In his fantasy, Dean has gripped the belt so tight that his fingers grew stiff and arthritic around it. When he manages to peel them away, the buckle has gouged a smear of bright red blood across his palm.

In the here and now, Michael regards his meatsuit in the mirror. Dean’s head is thrown back, and he’s hard at work, stroking wanton and rough. As memory-Dean wipes the blood down Sam’s defeated back, Michael watches Dean-in-the-mirror tremble, then come in thick ropes that spurt onto his hands, his stomach, his thighs.

Michael, outside the mirror, doesn’t follow suit.

Honestly, Michael hasn’t been in charge for a while now.

He allows Dean to come to that realization on his own. At first, in the mirror, Dean’s breaths come ragged, like an overworked beast of the field. Then he meets Michael’s eyes. What Michael sees there next is satisfying. Oh-so-satisfying. It’s the sight of Dean Winchester realizing that he is lost.

“Sammy doesn’t have to know,” Michael says. Then suddenly all he’s looking at in the mirror is his own consciousness, inhabiting the meatsuit who told him yes.

Elsewhere, Dean Winchester sinks slowly to the bottom of the ocean.