Title: Tell me a lie I haven't heard before
Timeline: Beginning/mid season 3.
Warnings: Some language.
Feedback: Yes, please, and concrit will not be frowned upon :)
Disclaimer: Based on the characters and world created by Eric Kripke. No violation of copyright intended, and no profit made.
Summary/Notes: Written for fandom stockings. Recipient requested frottage and reimagined meetings. AU.
Tell me a lie I haven't heard before
Dean was having good night; his left back pocket stuffed with the two hundred dollars he'd hustled at the nearby bar, his right back pocket stuffed with the hand of a very eager, very hot blonde.
Now if the fucking door would just cooperate. Jesus.
"Gimme a second here, woman." His hand wasn't cooperating one hundred percent, the five whiskeys he'd downed at the bar saw to that, and the dryhumping really wasn't helping. The thought of just dragging her down to the Impala popped into his head, but finally the key slid into the damn lock and turned smoothly.
He barely managed to get the door open before she yanked him around, her body flush with his, eagerly pawing at him, breath hot on his neck. "I've waited for this all night, Dean."
The next thing he knew her hand snaked across his stomach, dipped down low and started palming his dick, the pad of her thumb slipping underneath his shirt to stroke the skin of his abdomen. Dean groaned as she kept stroking and rubbing up against him, almost stumbling as she shoved him backwards into the room.
"You know, for the infamous Dean Winchester," she said as her eyes flooded pitch black, "you sure take your fucking time."
*********
When Sam got back to the motel he paused outside their room, taking a minute to listen for the telltale signs of Dean getting down and dirty with his latest conquest. Sam's spent a lot of nights out in the Impala lately, reading by flashlight and waiting for their room to clear out.
After the deal, Dean had really been living it up; food, booze and women wise, and Sam didn't mind, not really. It gave him more time to look for a way out of the deal, and Sam needed all the time he could get.
The room stayed silent, and Sam decided it was safe to go in, trying to be as quiet as possible. He didn't hear Dean snoring, so his brother probably wasn't all that drunk. If Sam wanted to get some more reading done, he'd have to be careful not to wake Dean.
Sam was so busy not waking Dean that he was half-way through the room before he noticed someone standing at the opposite end, next to the bathroom door. The book he was holding slipped from his hands, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
"I didn't know the library was open this late."
It was a woman, but that's all Sam could tell. He wondered if Dean fell asleep without seeing his one night stand off, but that never happened.
"How did you get in here?" he asked her.
"Your brother's a walking penis." She reached out, flicked the light switch, and bright fluorescent lights flickered to life in the bathroom, casting a pale glow through the open door.
The woman was tall and blonde, with sharp features. The light from the bathroom bathed the right side of her face in a sickly glow, leaving the left side in shadow, but her eyes - her eyes were too dark.
That's when Sam noticed Dean; on top of his covers, still fully dressed. And he wasn't moving.
"If you-"
"He's fine." Her hands went up, gesturing surrender. "I come in peace. Honest," she said, following it up with a not so honest looking smirk.
Sam started edging sideways towards Dean, watching her carefully the whole way, kneeled down by the bed and pressed his index and middle finger against Dean's neck to check his pulse. He seemed alright, just knocked out cold, if the bruise on his right temple was anything to go by. Meanwhile his left hand went into the duffle lying on the floor, hidden from view.
Her eyes trailed him but the rest of her stayed put, comfortably leaning against a small, rickety table like she owned the place, smug certainty painted across her features.
Sam expected to wipe that look off her face soon enough, he just needed to find the damn Colt. Fast. No way knowing how long the demon planned on playing nice before it got bored and started doing whatever it really came here to do.
His fingers grazed cold steel, and a second later his hand wrapped around its handle, pulling it out just as the demon laughed mockingly from across the room.
"Oh, Sam. You can't kill me with that thing."
"That's where you're wrong. This is a special gun," he sneered, cocking it and aiming it squarely at her chest in one fluid move.
She still looked like it was all one big joke. "Not without bullets, it's not."
He pulled the trigger and got nothing but a hollow click in return.
Sam could feel a cold sweat breaking out. She'd been in their room for God knows how long. The holy water was probably down the drain by now, and so were his hopes of putting her down, of keeping Dean safe.
He swallowed, a tight feeling heavy in his chest, body tensing for whatever he had coming, "What are you waiting for?"
"Maybe I'm waiting for you to stop being such a racist."
She sounded annoyed, actually annoyed that he was suspicious, and that really threw Sam off. He blinked, confused, "What?"
She raised her eyebrows in response, all attitude like one of those stuck-up girls he'd bumped into at Stanford from time to time, the kind that seemed to think the world owed them an explanation for everything that didn't go their way.
The loaded silence dragged on and Sam remained confused, firmly planted between her and his brother.
She sighed, exasperated. "You're not exactly the easiest people to talk to." She gestured at the door, where the salt line was broken by the shuffle of Dean's feet. "I just needed to get my foot in the door," she added with a shrug, like that made Dean lying unconscious on the bed perfectly acceptable.
He still didn't move, muscles wound tight, ready for a fight. Anything gunning for Dean would have to go through him first, and he made sure she understood that.
"Your brother's going to hell." It was a cold statement of fact.
"Fuck you," Sam spat back at her.
She just rolled her eyes. "You still want to stop it? I can help you, show you how."
"You think I was born yesterday? Demons don't help people."
"You're like the gun, Sam. You're special."
She advanced on him, stopping just short of invading his personal space, but still uncomfortably close. She could probably snap his neck before he could even move. Hell, she could have handled him like a ragdoll from across the room.
Still, she hadn't, and every single book Sam had poured over so far brought him nothing but a sense of frustration and failure. Dean's year was ticking away day by day, and he was growing desperate.
So Sam finally asked, "Who are you?"
"I'm Ruby. And I'm here to help you find your bullets."