SUMMARY: The first time Sam Winchester said yes. What other choice did he have?
DISCLAIMER: These character's ain't mine. *hides face* Yeah, okay, so I wrote smutty Sam/Ruby smut. Don't venture further if that icks you out, m'kay? And yes, I realize this may clash with the sequence of "I Know What You Did Last Summer", but I chose to ignore that small inconvenience.
A/N: For anyone expecting the regular brotherly fare...I'm truly sorry. This is completely out of my comfort zone. Unfortunately I decided, what the hell...
You've been warned, darlings.
"I know you feel like shit."
No need to point out the fucking obvious, but thanks so much.
"I just want to help," she says. In that sincere, understanding tone that makes him want to laugh. "I want you to feel better. You're killing yourself."
But he doesn't want to feel anything. Nothing at all. He's sick to death of feeling. And because his life is a cosmic joke he can't do anything but.
He has the sudden impulse to hit her. Hard. Across that beautiful, stolen face…make it not so beautiful anymore. Make it look how he feels.
And what he feels is black and ravaged and numb to the point where most days – when he manages to get vertical – he's not sure how he stays that way.
Numb to the point of wondering how he's still breathing. Numb because he tried to drown the agony a long time ago and then he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop because if he has to think even for a second here it comes, surging up to choke him, suffocate him. Can't let it claw its way to the surface or you're toast.
And Sam's nothing if not a fucking survivor.
Against everyone's odds he spit in Death's face and speared his middle finger at Heaven and Hell because his brother said to. Because Dean wouldn't take anything else for an answer. Because Dean's survival depended on his.
He always wondered why Dean thought he was worth it. Sam hopes his abandoned brother curses him while he rots.
He raises the bottle to his lips in silent salute. That's what he tells himself, anyway. Some noble sounding bullshit so he can deny, deny, deny. Because there's nothing noble about a pathetic drunk who can't save himself, let alone anyone who matters. Nothing noble about wishing for a death your brother couldn't allow. He takes a long, slow pull, waiting for the familiar burn to weave its way down and do its fucking job. For a little while he'll stop feeling. Just for a while.
Now she's inviting herself, climbing behind him on the bed. Slender arms snaking around his broad shoulders, delicate fingers trailing down his chest. He's ignoring the silky swish of her dark hair as it brushes his skin and tickles a little. The way her hands begin to move, slowly exploring further down underneath the hem of his t-shirt.
He swallows on reflex, ignoring the flush of heat beneath her skin as it rubs against his. Ignoring the rapid thud of his heart hammering out of his chest as she breathes warm and sweet, sending a prickle of goose-bumps over his skin.
"Sam," she whispers, brushing away the damp hair curling around his ears and working her lips gently along the nape of his neck. "Let me help." She's pressing closer, writhing a little harder against his back.
And… Jesus…she feels good. Really fucking good. He can't help the sharp intake of breath as she slides her hand down the taut muscles of his stomach, fingernails catching the fine hairs trailing down below his jeans.
And suddenly Dean's face, his eyes - disappointment and mingled horror - demanding what the fuck do you think you're doing?
But the image, the memory, it fades quickly. They do that now. First it was Dean's laugh – he couldn't remember what it sounded like. Then it was things he'd never bothered to notice, like his brother's touch. The way Dean would comfort without saying a word. There was one morning when he woke up in a less-shitty-than-usual motel. Hungover and sick because he hadn't slept in three days, functioning on black coffee and obscene amounts of alcohol. An uncertain hand resting on his back while he puked onto the ratty, maroon carpet. He'd been certain it was Dean. So completely out of it that he grabbed the hand and held on until he finally settled down - until his body decided it needed a break. Then a female's thickly accented voice, kindly asking if he needed an ambulance or if there was someone she could call for him. He'd sobered almost immediately.
The maid had cleaned up his mess. No extra charge and barely a disgusted grimace. Instead she'd patted his arm and rubbed out the soiled carpet with a pile of crisp, white towels originally intended for the bathroom. Sam hated the way she'd looked at him. Hated her pity and obligatory compassion.
He doesn't waste cash on decent motels anymore.
Slowly, little by little, he's forgetting. And he shouldn't be forgetting. He should have found a way by now.
It's eating him up because he's a little relieved, too. Relieved because if he can forget, it doesn't hurt so much.
Fucking useless.
All he can do is close his eyes and hang on even if there's really no point. Even if he slips a little further with every day that passes.
She's not behind him anymore. She's swinging herself up on his lap, positioning her hips between his legs. The heat flaring beneath his skin is fierce and urgent, blood buzzes in his ears. He leans his head back, both hands grabbing around her waist, instinctively pulling her closer. He could stop but what's the point? Her mouth travels down his neck and her fingers slither through his hair. She feels so small. So soft and fragile beneath his touch. She'd be easy to break…powerless. And that, right there, that control. That knowledge that he could do anything to her, anything at all – he likes it. He likes it a whole fucking lot.
Ruby knows it, too.
Would it really be so terrible?
She's pulling him down, pressing his face against warm, bare skin. His hand works underneath her tank-top, grabbing smooth handfuls of flesh.
"Just let me," she whimpers, almost moans in that velvety voice and in an instant all he can think is no, no, no...
It takes every ounce of willpower to get himself under control. When he stops her hands, eases her off his lap, she looks for all the world like a kicked dog. Betrayed, he thinks. The hurt that flashes briefly in those dark eyes at his rejection is surprising, catches him off guard. He has to remind himself who and what he's dealing with, here.
"I can't," he breathes. Extremely conscious of how his breath must reek. How this will be something like the fifth day he hasn't bothered to shower. Horribly aware of how filthy he is. "I just…I can't."
"What the hell do you want then, Sam?" she spits. "A bag of O-Positive and an IV? Some possessed bastard squirming and screaming? 'Cause I can make that happen."
The grin she offers is ice-cold, daring him, "Say the word."
He winces, runs a shaky hand through his sweat-soaked hair while he paces a hole in the thread-bare carpet.
"There has to be something else, Ruby. This isn't...and I know he...he wouldn't…" His throat closes. He doesn't talk about Dean. Ever. And especially not with her.
"No, Sam," her gaze never wavers even while he does his damnedest to avoid it. "This is it. But if you don't want it, I'll leave. No hard feelings."
Ruby's gaze softens as she sidled up against him once more, "But I know you do." Never one to back down easily.
"Look," her voice is smooth, commanding – cutting off all escape routes. She cups his chin, forces his eyes down to meet hers. No way out. "You said you wanted your brother back. This is how you get him back. This is how you stop feeling like shit. You can finally even the odds. Level the playing field."
He grunts a bitter laugh, rolling his watering eyes in defeat.
I'm not gonna let you go to Hell.
Yes you are. Yes you are…
"I thought this was what you wanted."
He doesn't answer. Feels a tick start in his jaw.
Silence simmers uncomfortably between them.
And the loneliness...its so heavy. A heavy, cancerous thing, burrowing down in the depths of his soul. Making it hard to breathe most days.
"Fuck it," he growls.
Ruby gasps as he suddenly throws her up against the wall, hungrily pressing his mouth to hers, inhaling her scent as he hikes her legs up above his waist. And she weighs nothing at all.
So easy…
His hands are all over, possessing her.
Her hands slide easily beneath his belted jeans, urging him.
He buries his face against her collarbone and groans…overwhelmed by how much he wants her. How good she feels against him. How quickly his body responds to her touch. She inhales sharply when he yanks her head back, exposing her slender neck to his eager mouth.
He's hard and ready and wanting her. His hand moves down between them, struggling to undue her jeans. She forces his hand away. She knows he's about to do it regardless. Can feel how bad he wants to make her scream. Cause her pain. Maybe another night, she'll let him.
He barely registers the glint of steel as she pulls out the blade, making a clean slice down the inside of her forearm. Barely notices the warm crimson begin to flow, smearing between their bodies.
The final moment before she brings her wrist to his lips and whispers, "Trust me."
He doesn't remember if he even hesitated.
What he does remember is the liquid fire scorching his tongue. Sliding thick and treacherous down his throat. Hot and alive and tinged with the tang of sulfur.
So easy.
His blood screaming and pulsing, his stomach muscles clenching in anticipation and he drinks greedily, feeling more alive than he has in fucking months.
This was right. This was what had been missing the whole time.
And he understands. Power. It may corrupt absolutely but in the moment everything else is irrelevant. Everything except getting what you want.
He wants this like he's never wanted anything before.
He's through laying down, being collateral damage for some fucked up destiny he never asked for.
Because this...this is how. This is how he fights back. And it feels so damn good.
When he can't bear it another second, when he's full to bursting, he breaks away, dragging in gasping, labored breaths. His blood singing, practically vibrating and he's so fucking close. She's perfected a deep rhythm, kneading an intensely sensitive spot. The building pressure spasms and coils in his stomach. He shoves harder into her hand, wordlessly urging her to take him all the way.
Because now she's in control, has him right where she wants him. And she loves it just as much as he pretends not to. A wicked smile tugs at the corners of Ruby's lips and she slows down...only a little. He punches his fist against the wall, dangerously close to her head, growling incoherently into her hair because he's not getting what he wants and enough with the bullshit. With a rough, deliberate pull she finally sends him over the edge. His fingers dig painfully into her ribs as his body goes rigid. And then he's trembling against her, feverishly riding out the waves, coming down from this new high.
And then it's over, over too quick.
He cries out, panting raggedly as he releases her and collapses to his knees. She kneels in front of him, guiding his lolling head down onto to her chest, stroking his hair back from his glistening face.
He's shaking all over, grinding his teeth. His head's swimming. He can't catch his damn breath. He thinks maybe this is it. He's dying.
"See?" She's purring into his hair. "This is how it was always supposed to be. You're ready. You're so ready."
"Don't sound so disappointed," he sneers, voice muffled in the dip of her shoulder. He pulls away, scrambling back until his head hits the mattress. He hunches over the carpet, wrapping both arms around his stomach, senses overwhelmed and hurting. What happens if he can't control it? Can't contain it? He realizes he's only a few sudden movements away from spewing his insides all over her. Fight or flight...
Because, god... oh, god, he can feel it slithering in his gut, black and evil and wrong. He can feel the orgasmic power racing like an electric current through his veins like it will explode through his skin any second now. It's alive and it's burning and begging to be released. It wants out…
What have I done?
He's sick and twisted and…
...a freak.
"Ready to turn the tables, Sam Winchester?"
He manages to make it into the bathroom before his boiling stomach revolts. Ruby is immediately on his heels, standing watch while he vomits into the sink.
He's body ain't having none of it. So he quits fighting and just lets it happen. He's never felt so empty or wretched in his life. Sick to his stomach even though he's already craving for that intoxicating fucking feeling even as he's purging the source, watching it splatter into the basin. Already wanting it back.
"Lightweight," Ruby sighs tenderly, reaching out to massage his spasming muscles. "We'll take it slower."
"Get - " he retches mid-sentence, wiping his bloody mouth before rising to his full height. "- out."
"What – "
He doesn't let her finish. Instead, he catches her oozing wrist in his large hand, enjoying the way she flinches, uncharacteristically cautious all of a sudden.
"You heard me. Leave."
"Whatever you say," she glares up at him, pulling her wrist out of his grasp. He lets her. "I'll call you tomorrow."
He sinks down on the bed, watching disinterestedly while she picks up her shit. He grabs a fresh bottle, swallowing down several gulps of the whiskey, hoping to burn away the rancid taste of copper and bile coating his throat.
"It'll get easier, Sam," she smiles sweetly before closing the door. "I promise."
That's what he's afraid of.
END
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