Finally, the Sam/Ruby fic that actually has the sex. Prequel to "Hunger", because I felt like it was a bit of a cocktease. Well, it was supposed to be really, but you know… Sometimes, I write smut. Ideally this would have been a bit rougher but Sam's romantic streak got in the way.
They'd just gotten back from a hunt, a surprisingly fast one, considering. He took her word for it, this time. Followed the lead that she'd been so eager to give. He doesn't question why she offers up the demons that she does, doesn't ask what kind of crimes they've committed against her, whether they're working for Lilith or they're just opportunistic. He's not even killing them; he's just sending them back to hell where they belong. Saving innocent people from physical and mental trauma. Besides, he's pretty sure you can't claim any kind of moral high ground when your very blood and body have belonged to a demon since you were an infant. Demons belong in hell, he's been sure of this fact since he was nine years old. It doesn't matter who he exorcises: they're all the same. "Demons belong in hell" is what he's been told since Dean first handed him a discarded soda bottle full of holy water and a protection charm, since Bobby sat him down with a Latin primer and a book of exorcisms, since his father first sat him down with bloodshot eyes and a stubble-roughened face and told him the real story of why he and Dean no longer had a mother.
Ruby tries the bathroom door, the only barrier to the bathroom where he's currently undressing and makes a disgusted noise in her throat when she finds out it's locked.
"Are you trying to protect your maidenhood, princess?" she calls through the dingy, dented wood, "It's a little late for that."
Demons may belong in hell, but Ruby doesn't. Demon or not, she's an ally first and Sam has learned to cherish his allies, no matter how off-kilter they might be. He takes a pit stop in the shower to wash the road dirt off and even over the running water he can hear her irritation, sucking and blowing air as if everyone else in the world is using it up on her.
"What's the deal with the locked-door bullshit anyway? You have a headache tonight or something? You know I'm not the type to take advantage."
She is, though, she is the type to take advantage. It's how she gets things. It's how she's gotten everything from her stupid, amazing knife, to her coma-patient body. She's taking advantage of him too, he doesn't know to what end, yet, but all he has to do is stay one step ahead of her.
"Besides," she added, as if to herself, "I like it better when they don't struggle."
He doesn't know what that means. He doesn't care. He's been jerked back and forth by Azazel, as well as the other psykids and hunters, slap and tickle that's mostly slap…he can tolerate one renegade demon on a grudge crusade. Hell, that's practically a gift. If nothing else, it chaffs his ass a little less. He can even identify with it.
"You know I hate this," she called, and under the harshness, there's something like genuine emotion in her voice.
She needs him to be accessible, always. He needs privacy. Same tune, different lyrics. He'd never call her clingy, but she is greedy. Always demanding the option for physical touch, for mutual occupation of space, even if she doesn't want to make use of it. Centuries of being intangible will do that to you, he supposes.
He throws his head back under the hot water, hoping to release his back muscles and gain some kind of therapeutic effect from the heat and pressure. It's hopeless, though. He's stiff as ever. It's almost unnerving the way that she's filled Dean's silence. The bad jokes, the restless disposition, the junk food…Throw in some classic rock and the jokes just make themselves. She's not Dean, though, and he wouldn't want her to be. He'd feel pretty awkward about fucking Dean, for starters. He takes a moment to consider those words in all their harshness, the painted indifference that seemingly has started to sink through his skin and into his blood. It's better that way, though, he thinks. Better than being an emotionally fragile mess full of booze and bitter loneliness.
"Dean wouldn't want to see you like this, Sam. He'd tell you to get up and dry out and quit being such a pussy. He didn't give his life for this, Sam! And I sure as Hell didn't risk mine."
He'd never asked her about Hell, about getting out. He's never asked her just what it is that Dean could be seeing and feeling, although sometimes his curiosity bordered on perverse. He chose to imagine these images for himself instead, creating tortured visions of trauma and terror as he lies in bed, mind going full throttle, riding too high on guilt and demon blood to sleep. He wonders what it'll be like when he finally goes…boys who drink demon blood don't get into heaven, that much he's sure of. He wonders what she'll do when it happens, the inevitable day when some creature is quicker on the draw than he is. Will she cry? Get angry? Maybe even kill the sonofabitch. Probably kill the sonofabitch, if nothing else. She'd have to return to whatever it was she was doing before, minus her Boyking weapon of mass destruction. It's stupid for him to think like this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Like they're fucking married or something—
Damn.
Dean would tell him he's going soft. That he's stupid for getting all sentimental about a violence-loving, shit-talking demon simply because she's taken pity on him, taken him into her veins and her bed. Actually he'd probably say something like "Get your head out of your ass, if her fingers aren't already too far up there. She's using you!" But Dean's opinion doesn't matter anymore, does it? It doesn't matter that she's using him either, so long as he gets wants out of it. So long as he gets to see Lilith squirm and gasp and bleed the same way she made Dean do. He'll destroy as many of Ruby's pursuers and ex-allies as she wants so long as she teachers him how to do that.
"You're using up the hot water, babe," she shouts, "Not like it matters."
She's right, actually. The shower's gone cold and he's fooling himself if he thinks it's going to do anything for his back. The real problem isn't his back anyway. The problem is that he's itching. It's making him tenser, making his blood pound faster. It's gotten stronger, the longer they've been together the—call it what it is—craving has gotten stronger. It's unnerving, really, how easily he'd taken to the blood, especially since he'd originally found the concept repulsive. His attempt to revive his psychic thing, his powers out of the blue had been a spectacular failure, and painful. Turned out his powers didn't did like being repressed the way they had been, needed cultivation and perseverance, and goddamned if those old skull-splitting headaches hadn't come back ten-fold. He couldn't give up though, he couldn't. This pain was punishment, just like the rest of this mess. Punishment for failing Dean, for letting him down. She'd offered it first as a pick-me-up, "Just a little boost". Some boost. He acted disgusted but he'd never tell her that after that initial hit wore off, he'd felt every part of him screaming for more.
And he's jonesing again, craving again, more and more these days. It's balls is what it is, but it's also proof that he's getting stronger and he can deal with that. He should be afraid of what it means that he wants it needs it, the stuff that had been Yellow Eyes'—Azazel's—key to it all because he might as well be good for something, him and this dirty, cursed blood. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, sucks to suck, really and there it goes, his concentration is breaking, feels like someone is twisting a pin inside of his head, creating a tiny little stress fracture in his brain, small and tinny-sounding like a crack in a porcelain figurine. He massages his temples, uses the borderline-frigid water to try and rub the weariness out of his eyes. He realizes that he's hard, which makes no sense given the cold shower and the lack of anything particularly exciting occurring tonight but he's come to recognize it as a symptom of the craving, sexual arousal in addition to the physical. He doesn't know why and for once in his life he really doesn't want to. He hasn't had a whole lot of opportunities to examine the chemical composition of demon blood outside of the Croatoan incident and let's hope that opportunity never arises again. His skin might be bubbled up with goose bumps but he's burning up from the inside: heart racing, veins straining.
"You can't scrub it clean, Lady Macbeth," Ruby calls, as if she can hear his thoughts even though he knows she can't. Her talent only extends to reading his tells and convincing him that she's wormed herself inside his head, but that knowledge isn't any less unsettling, "We both know that any more brooding is a straight-up waste of water."
Ruby's simultaneous distain and attraction to what she called "that sweet nature of yours" had always been a mystery to him, but who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Admitting defeat, he shut the water off and began to towel off his hair, opens the door with his dick in plain view. Why the hell should he care? She's seen it before.
"Did you see it?"
She lowers her eyes to his junk and smiles.
"Hard not to."
"No, I mean Macbeth. Did you see it back when came out?"
"I had better things to do than hang around B.O.-ridden theatres."
"You were from England, then?" He continues drying himself. She seems pleased that he's back within grasping distance, though she's demonstrating it with her usual annoyed façade.
"Might've been in England. Can't remember. Long time ago."
"Germany, then? The home of the Malleus Maleficarum that got you all killed in
the first place?"
"What's with the quiz show? You're really killing the mood here." She'd been playing with her hair, flips it over her shoulder, annoyed. She always gets like this when he asks her about her past, who she used to be-still might be, for all he knows. She thinks it's a ploy, some way to access her vulnerability but his tone aside; he'd really like to know. Normal lovers ask each other these things so why can't he. Especially when she and every other thing with black eyes knew his damn life story.
"What mood?" he can play the flippant game too.
"Sammy, you're aching. I can smell it."
Her name might not be Ruby, might be Rachel, or Rebecca or Regina. Might not even be close. Might be something thoroughly unsexy and inelegant like Edith, or Hilda, that's a name for a witch or Ethel or, god forbid, Gertrude. "Sounds like a stripper name," Dean had said about Ruby and-Jesus, he's cracking up again.
He huffs, Ruby smirks.
"Don't try to deny it. You could cause terminal damage with that thing," she nods to his dick, "Your pupils are constricted. Poor baby, look at you." She takes on a treacly, nurse's voice, "You should know by now you don't have to ask."
What a joke. Of course he has to ask because if he didn't, well…
He'd just be an addict.
Her eyes flash black and he allows her to lead him to the king size bed, pulling him down, down, down, so much stronger than she looks. She pulls the knife from the side table and runs it down her arm, slowly and sensually, like she's unzipping a cocktail dress. He'll never see her all done up in a pretty little dress. He'd never ask and he's sure she'd laugh at him if he did. The blood blossoms from the cut, streaking down her arm in ribbons and it's so damn beautiful that Sam could just watch them, mesmerized, if that wasn't such a waste. He raises her forearm to his mouth and laps at the blood moving closer to her hands, her little fingers, tracing it back to its source. He begins to suck softly at the source wound and she moans, low and loud. She uses her other hand to begin unbuttoning her shirt, a fitted flannel with nothing underneath but a bra. She pulls her arm away from his mouth long enough to graze the middle of her chest with a bright splash of red. Drawn to it like a dog, he licks her sternum, finds himself dragging his tongue across the top of her perky little tits. Arms free, she undoes her bra and drops it in the no-man's-land between the side table and the bed. He takes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing it up hard. He sucks, lightly at first, slowly applying his teeth. Cycle, repeat, of course. He kisses his way down her abdomen and unbuttons her jeans, works them midway down her thighs. He pulls her underwear down gently, like he's unwrapping a wet, pink little present. Positioning his tongue between her lips he moves it up and down, steady pressure, faster, faster—
"Fuck me!" She groans, "Sam, fuck me!"
She tastes like nothing. He opens her up and eases himself in. No need to bother with condoms as she's assured him that her very dead body couldn't conceive. Never had a period since she took up residence, she says. Somehow, he believes her. She wraps her arms around him; he can feel the sticky blood making contact with his back. "Harder!" She screams, "Harder!" She digs her nails into his back, making little squeals of pleasure as he comes. They climax together, or she wants him to think so. She releases him and offers her arm again, though he's not sure why she's still bleeding, if she should still be. But then again, it's not like she's going to bleed out, is it? He's content to accept it, to lie here like this, while she rubs his shoulder as he sucks her blood. It feels like an eternity before her cut begins to heal itself and he plays with her hair, feeling her pert little nose gently nuzzling his neck. She finally pushes him away, complaining he's too hot, too touchy-feely.
"'S gonna be all knotted," she says about her hair, pushing his hand away and turning to her side. He doesn't ever want to take his hands away from that soft skin but he has to, like usual. He reluctantly moves to his own side of the bed and finds himself staring at the ceiling, mind racing yet feeling clearer than it has in a week. He can't sleep. Not now. He forces on some shoes and heads for the door, the vague goal of exerting some of this newfound energy in mind. It'd be a bad idea to go hunting this time of night, but right now he feels like he can take on the world.
Maybe even Lilith herself.