One night, she had a nightmare. It was actually more of a night terror, a night hell. She woke up screaming, sobbing, breathless and tangled inextricably in her tears and blankets. Her cries woke the whole bunker, even Cas. For a while, Dean, who was next door, had heard her crying in her sleep, but he hadn't gotten up yet. Then she screamed, something earsplitting and heart rending and just so broken that he shot out of his strangely empty bed.
She'd lost everyone, he knew. No wonder she was so hurt. She cried out for all of them, for Cas and Dean and Charlie and even Kevin, but mostly she cried for Sam. When Dean heard the broken way that she said Sam's name, felt the need that laced those three letters, that one syllable that carried so much meaning, both for him and for her, he knew that it was over.
He'd been wanting her for a while. Ever since she'd sauntered back into their lives, he'd felt a tingle of something when their eyes met. He'd originally assumed that it was hate, loathing, the past, or a bad taco, but he'd had to admit it: she meant more to him than she should, and he felt an everlasting guilt over it. But he knew that Sammy had been crazed, almost driven mad with love and lust and his sheer need to just be held that they'd just gravitated towards each other. And there was nothing that Dean could or would do to break that.
Of course, she was different, now. They'd found her, and instead of killing her (again), which hadn't seemed to work all that well before, anyway, they'd cured her. Not as part of the trials or anything. They just wanted to see if it would work. And now, she was different. Sam was the only tie she had to some form of twisted affection that she'd once known, but he wanted her as much as she did him.
Dean opened his door, just in time to see a shirtless Sam pad noiselessly into her room. This was good. They needed each other. It was dangerous and codependent and full of something that could poison them both, but it was better than what either of them had had in the past. They could be open with each other. Despite the past, she made Sam smile. Dean smiled and went back to bed.
Sam pushed the door to her room open, shutting it gently behind him as soon as he had cleared the doorframe. She was sitting up on the pillow, knees tucked up against her body, tears streaming down her face. She hiccuped as he approached, eyes wide, and he thought with a touch of grief that she'd never looked so lost.
He sat next to her on the pillow, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling her head onto his shoulder, the dark waves of her hair grazing his shoulder blades. Their hair mingled and she breathed in his smell, trying to let herself be consoled by the soothing sounds he was making, the sweet little coos that came out of his mouth. His tattoo was right in her line of vision; she reached out with a slender finger and traced the anti-possession ink gently as they moved simultaneously and slid down under the covers.
She should have felt exposed. This was the first time she had had a guy in her bed for a long time, much less a guy like Sam Winchester. She was only wearing a black tank top and panties, and his hands were pressed against her, one on her lower back and the other on (she gasped almost inaudibly) the back of her upper thigh. She was vaguely aware that Sam was whispering something like, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here, you're okay," but the part that really mattered was that he was here, he would stay.
It was in that moment that she realized that she loved him. It was a crazy kind of love, one that she thought she'd had before, but it was completely different now. He was a train wreck that she couldn't tear her eyes from, a black hole that she was slowly being drawn to, but she couldn't stop herself from it. Everything about him was just so inexpressible, so different yet similar to what they'd had before. He still had that same passion and anger pent up inside him, born from a childhood of loss and battle, but he was calmer now. This time, he was the other Sam, the one who would hold her close through the night until she fell asleep again. She knew, though, in her heart of hearts, that this was what she'd wanted with him all along, all those years ago. Sam. She'd always needed/wanted/couldn't live without him. Her legs slipped into a position where she was perfectly nestled against his body, and he eventually stopped speaking, letting the silence and their shared breaths say what he felt.
One night, she had a nightmare. And mostly, she called for Sam. But instead of the usual hell that came with sleep, with Sam there to hold her, for once, Ruby wasn't afraid to dream.