Flash-fic set during the period Dean spent in hell. Rubys POV intrigued me a lot, so I decided to give a try! Hope youll like it
Every woman likes to feel beautiful
The truth is that every woman, dead or alive, fallen from Heaven or vomited from Hell, loves to feel beautiful an useless and quite fictitious adjective, which somehow, in the right situation, ends acquiring suddenly a meaning.
You, honestly couldnt care less.
Youre there for a reason. If you do what you do, its definitely not because youre looking for someone who overwhelms you with flowers or takes you out for dinner. If you lose your time in that way, it is to pursue your aim. Which has nothing to do with that stupid slut whose body youre in, or with her voice, so hateful that sometimes youd just like to sink your fingers in your throat and vomit.
If you behave like this, its for your purpose. If you smile to him. If you listen while hes speaking. If youre holding him between your thighs.
And yet, sometimes, you feel like youre vacillating. It happens when you lose yourself thinking that for him its different. He believes in your crap. Hes throwing himself away, for you. Hes throwing himself nobody knows where you thought you knew, but youre not that sure anymore. Fuck, there are a few things you can be sure about, with his tongue in your mouth.
Maybe, at least now, youre a bit beautiful. Its a ridiculous sensation, but if a man takes your face in his hands, threading a finger in your lips, staring at you with such eyes that would deflower a nun on the spot, pushing his cock inside you so hard that he could smash you, and rubbing his chest against your breasts, maybe you dont disgust him that much, do you?
The truth is that every woman, in these situations, should stop thinking, and oh, youre ready to swear on the head of any fucking demon that neither Hells flames are so hot, and that your hips will smash at the next crack.
The first time has been the convincing imitation of a documentary about the coupling of two jackals. During the second one, youve been knocked against the wall so hard that, if youd been alive, you would have risked a cranial trauma. This must be the fifth, or the sixth, and you realize that youve never had the possibility to look at him properly.
And well, fuck, you forget too often of how, after all, youve been lucky. His hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes dim, his mouth open and his skin soaked, and that slut dead and buried should just thank you, seen the honor youre giving to her equipment. No doubt she never fucked such a spectacle.
He pushes his wet mouth against yours, tightening your hips between his fingers and emptying himself inside you, you tie your arms around his shoulders, throwing back your head. You let him collapsing his face in your neck and take it out on you murmuring something indefinable and pissed, because Sam is always, perpetually and anyway pissed.
You give your breath the time to regularize a bit, before caressing his hair and kissing his cheek and lips. You lean your forehead against his.
Its alright, Sammy. you breathe into his mouth, like every time. Its alright.