Author's Note:

If your name is Emily. Please – for all that is holy. If our friendship holds any sanctity and you are reading this please God skip this chapter. It's got sex in it Em – sexual acts. These are not for your eyes and I would prefer it if you never EVER mentioned this in conversation. Because I will have to resort to playing squash with you. I mean it – I will.

Anyone else – go right ahead.

Recommend Soundtrack:

30 Seconds To Mars—Stranger in a Strange Land

Florence and the Machine—7 Devils

Katy B—Witches Brew

Sugarcult—Destination Anywhere

Eisley—Invasion

Chapter Nine

Unidentified Motel, South Dakota. 11.58 p.m.

Thursday 25th September 2008.

He sat with his head in his hands, fingers curled deep within the very tangled roots of his hair as though that would keep him grounded. He could feel himself floating further and further away from the body he'd trusted to keep him contained, the vessel that was now betraying his trust by letting him break free and let loose. It was always the same – always the case whenever he'd shot himself up with blood like some junkie, the scarlet nectar setting his veins alight from the inside, making him shiver, setting his eyes ablaze, his pupils dilating to an almost ludicrous size beneath his flickering lashes. And he'd ride it out, grit his teeth through the aftershocks until the high would come, the feelings of invincibility and invigoration that never failed him, though now it seemed it took a lot more to get him there than simply a couple of mouthfuls. The demon and been right – he'd been running on empty.

He hated himself for how much he needed it – the extent of his addition. It had come to a point where he'd had to beg and she, the demonic bitch she was, had seemed to find this to her satisfaction, getting off on it, making him ask her nicely, relenting only when he'd had her up against the wall, hand around her throat, threatening to do it himself and empty her completely. Even then she'd smiled. She knew fully well he wouldn't – couldn't. She was a walking bottle of blood that he could open almost anytime he needed it most. Without her he'd surely starve, and that freaked him out more than anything. He'd come to rely on a demon to survive and that was so, so wrong.

But she didn't give him time to ride out the aftermath, making Sam flinch like a startled deer as she wormed her way into his lap, her teeth grazing his ear sending a shudder through his body that he couldn't find the strength to contain. He needed at least another five minutes before it'd begin to kick in, when he'd get his strength and his wits back and actually be able to put up some sort of resistance. But the kisses she began to plant against his neck and jaw didn't stir anger in his gut. Instead, each touch of her lips against his feverish skin cast him further into a conflict he didn't quite understand and Sam found himself torn between proving his brother right and proving him wrong. To prove Dean wrong Sam would have to say 'no' and, from the way his body reacted to her touch, that didn't seem likely.

He dropped his arms as she pushed herself closer, hands resting limply against her thighs in a half-hearted defeat as she buried her fingers in his thick hair, the cold tip of her tongue tracing the veins and sinews of his neck so delicately he almost came undone at that. He was shivering far more than he would have liked, body trembling against the heat of hers, instinct forcing him to pull her closer in a simple bid to bring some sick form of warmth to his freezing skin. He could feel her self-satisfied smile against the base of his jaw, a fingernail gliding steadily down his chest to halt and hover just above the buttons of his shirt, each one coming undone beneath her nimble fingers until he was sat there bare-chested beneath her explorative hands. Her own bare skin was almost unbearably hot whenever it came into contact with his, her touch leaving behind a burning sensation as though she was branding him. And he felt branded, registered to her both inside and out as she began to play tentatively with the buckle of his belt, coming to terms with his slave-status as he made no move to stop her.

He was torn between needing her and hating her; though he found it odd how often those two coincided. Some days her presence would make him feel sick, ill, a reminder of what he was and how much of a freak he'd become. But it'd pass, it'd always pass, and he'd find himself fucked raw against a cheap motel mattress or in the back seat of a hire car, lips stained red with her blood, body buzzing off the combined high of an orgasm and the drug he'd have pumping in his veins. And this happened to be one of those nights, a night where he couldn't stand to be around his own brother, a night where he felt like conforming to his label and fucking the devil herself.

"Ruby I-"

"Shhhh," she fussed, lips pursed, fingernails digging into his cheek as she held his face tight in her hand, planting a cruel kiss against his. "Shhh Sam. You can feel it can't you – building? I can see it Sam – in your eyes."

He tore himself away from her grasp, turning his head, fighting the bonds of her overpowering touch. He knew how dark his eyes must have looked, seen it too many times before in the bathroom or car mirror after a session, how black and demonic they'd become after a feed. And he was steadily beginning to like the look – didn't feel confident enough without it, without the feeling of power that always came after he drank her down.

"Bu-"

She cut him off, her breath hot and damp against his throat, lips suddenly flickering at his ear.

"What do you want Sam."

The hunter's stomach tightened. He swallowed hard, mouth now completely dry.

"I-"

"Come on baby boy-"

He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him at the use of the term, something Dean had called him ever seen he'd been old enough to talk – maybe even before that. But he felt no endearment towards the nickname, nothing nostalgic or comforting. There was just sickness, a blind white heat in the pits of his being that threatened to make him boil over, just like in the car a couple of days before. The way he'd looked at him like he was a monster – the tears that stung his eyes as he'd turned his back on him and slammed the door in his face. And that girl – the hunter with the crimson lips and long limbs, the one that had lied and cheated her way out of a situation he'd saved her from, denying its existence, making him look like some fucking-

"Make me forget."

"Your name?" she murmured, the leather of his belt hissing violently as it was pulled free of the loops of denim, clanking noisily as it hit the floor tiles of the kitchenette.

Sam turned his head, catching her eyes, deep and brown and borderline black.

"Everything."

And she was gone before he could say another word, not that he had anything else planned. He could already feel a sense of arousal unfurling in his stomach, something that finally managed to bring a flush to his skin and banish the cold for at least a little while. He already felt stronger in himself, strength flooding back as the substance in his veins took effect, as the addiction finally began to kick in and give him wings. He found himself gone into a sense of nothingness long before she'd removed his jeans and boxers, the garments thrown haphazardly into a growing pile in the corner. Even without her he knew he would have forgotten his name, so lost was he in the growing tide of feeling and sensation he barely even noticed her ease his legs apart, palms burning his thighs as she wrapped her arms around him to hold him there in place, not even drawing on her supernatural strength to keep him under control, comfortable in the fact he wouldn't fight her.

And he had no desire to fight her, falling as he did against the white sheets of the motel mattress, night sky opening up against the faded white tiles of the ceiling. Sam Winchester was adrift in a mass ocean of bleached thoughts and memories, their beings so pale and effects so minute he simply had to spread his arms and legs wide and close his eyes to tune them out, floating atop wave after wave of troubles and anxieties like a salted piece of driftwood, worn down and battered but light enough to ride out the worst of things.

"Ruby, who's Sa-"

Sam bit off the finality of his question as a warm, wet and entirely wonderful sensation set his body alight. His eyes snapped open, his body bowing against the bed as she took him deeper, cold palm gripping the base of his cock, nails of her free hand digging painfully into his ass as he squirmed in her grasp. He gasped as he tried to catch his breath, his previous words wasting what little air he'd had in his lungs leaving him floundering like a fish out of water. She released him, fingers tracing the hills and valleys of his hips and abdomen with such precision it was as though she already had him mapped out, her tongue gently caressing the sensitive skin until he was almost driven out of his mind. Sam threw his head back, his hands gathering and constricting themselves in the sheets of the bed as her head came forward even more, ends of her long hair tickling the insides of his thighs. He was still floating, still riding out the waves but they were getting steadily wilder and, like his eyes, darker. He was getting lost in the rhythm of her mouth around his dick, almost losing it as she began to hum what sounded (and felt) to him like The Ace of Spades. Every fibre of his being was drawn out and strung taught, his ribs pressing hard against the confines of his chest as he sucked in whatever breaths he could manage between his steadily lengthening moans.

Arousal pulsed through his body, a feeling that almost managed to cancel out the acidic sensation of the demon blood that bathed his insides with its supernatural touch. He was almost there – almost completely gone. But she was unrelenting, cruel in the ways she worked him. She'd feel him come close, his body trembling beneath her touch but she'd back off, work him slower, barely touch him, forcing him to come back down until she had the pleasure to drag him back up high again.

"Please – God Ruby – fuck. Please."

Either she was feeling merciless or she'd just had enough, but the demon seemed willing to comply with the hunter's broken, somewhat vague, demands and allowed him swift release, her frozen palm now working his cock alongside her playful tongue until his body hit its limit, the bridge of his body collapsing in as he fell back, her hands releasing him as she rode down from his orgasm, the tremors of which rocked his body in a fit of shivers and shakes. But she wasn't finished with him despite his state, and Ruby climbed back into him, her tongue penetrating the weak wall of his parted lips allowing Sam a taste of what he'd 'graced' her with, the Winchester barely able to deny the oncoming storm. Her kisses were hard, her hands even more so as she continued to work his tender flesh with her fingertips, tears stinging his eyes though he had little strength left to fight her off. If she wanted to make him come again she was going about it the right way, but instead of giving him that satisfaction she left him half hard and broken against the bed, a gentle kiss against his temple and a soft ruffle of his hair the last contact he'd have with her that night.

She unfurled herself from his long and tangled limbs, Sam's eyes barely able to focus on her as she leant in to him, lips once more fluttering at his ear, breath now somehow cold against the nape of his neck. Sam's fingers achingly released the sheets, his vision clouding, head neither here nor there as she bid him goodnight.

"What's your name?"

"I don't know."

"What can you remember?"

"Nothing."

"And who owns your ass?"

Sam managed to hiss, though it sounded more like a sigh, even to him. He closed his eyes, head lolling back against the crook of his arm as he rolled onto his side, away from her prying gaze, feeling far more exposed than he'd ever felt before – far too visible – far too vulnerable.

She smiled.

"Good boy."

( )

Aston Lodge, Brookfield, Missouri 3.33 p.m.

Friday 26th September 2008.

They'd driven home separately, Rebekah driving alone in her battered baby with only Alistair for company, Sid riding alongside Jo with Jen and Siv as medical support and Richard driving. Sky and Axel has gone with Shane and Ty, Beck not really trusting the little boxer to survive the journey considering how much he loved sticking his head out the window. At the end of the day there was no window, and the likelihood of him falling out was far greater than the chance he'd stay seated. Sky had gone with her cousin simply because the back seats were covered in broken glass, the old collie already obtaining a fair few cuts from being in the midst of the original impact, her master not really wanting to have her back there in what could only be referred to as a 'doggy death trap'.

Rebekah drifted numbly in the warm waters of her bath, steam rising in tendrils through the vapour, her naked body a vile stain against the pure white of the suite, her hands hard, calloused, dirty things whenever she placed them against the sides of the tub. So she floated instead, not wanting to touch the purity, more comfortable hovering in the steadily greying waters. She'd slept all day, a good twenty hours or so of nothing but unconsciousness. She hadn't seen a soul, not even Meredith. They'd returned home and she'd collapsed on the doorstep and, drawing the short straw, Shane had collected her up in his arms or flung her over his back and taken her to her room. She'd awoken to a glass of water and a dry bread roll (seemingly harsh but her favourite) and that had been that.

"You don't have to keep watchin' me ya'know," she muttered, lathering her shoulders in sweet smelling suds.

Alistair failed to move, failed to even acknowledge she was talking to him. He sat erect, tail idly swishing by the towel rack.

"I'm fine," she sighed, quickly submerging herself.

She wasn't fine. She was in the process of trying to boil the impurity from herself and she still wasn't fine. However, submergence allowed her to see things a little differently. The water was warm, washed over her body in waves. Her hair tickled and caressed her skin wherever it touched, planting kisses against her ribs, her back, her cheeks. It was flying without the fear, the pressure that builds up from holding your breath a welcome release from all her niggling thoughts. Rebekah thought about them regardless as she spread out her arms, keeping herself from running adrift, anchoring herself down using the cold metal handles as support. It felt to her as though there was a stone lodged in her chest, a stone that was steadily growing in size the longer she remained beneath the waters. It wasn't something that made her feel any discomfort; as a matter of fact the giddiness she felt was somewhat pleasurable. She had lots of thoughts, thoughts she was scared would come back angry and loud. But beneath the water and the warmth things were quieter save the heartbeat that hummed in your ears. Her thoughts were quiet, timid little things, far more enticing than those that had swarmed her a few days previous.

She let out a little of her breath, bubbles rising from her pursed lips, some tickling her nose, others rising to the surface as she opened her eyes to follow them. The stone in her chest became that little bit smaller. She pulled herself up, surfaced, gasped for breath. It was like being born. She didn't spend long in the air, only long enough for her to drink in a little more air and be that little bit kinder to her lungs, wipe the water from her eyes. She winked at her baby boy once before she immersed herself back into the world she found she preferred, hair floating in fronds and coils around her head like an earthen halo, her hands returning to the handles to make sure she stayed under.

She'd be seeing her Angel in a few days, though she'd long ago ticked that thought off her check list. In her mind she allowed herself to roam, faces flickering behind her eyelids. She travelled backwards, back through the days, her life played out in a slideshow in her oxygen starved brain. She saw the look on Jo's face, the look on Sid's. Graham died, the image replaced by the screen cap of his last sight. Dust motes mottled the dappled canopy. Shane hung her upside down, her babies licked her face. She ate chips, flicked them at her cousin. She relived a look on Jo's face again, a happier one, as she watched Meredith immerse herself in what she had to show her. Mer with her books, tucked away in the East Wing. A dream catcher twizzling overhead, a tear shed. Endless images of car journeys, a crash, a kind stranger stopping to help. Her Jake, her Joe, all manner of things she fought not to remember. She let out another stream of bubbles as she felt herself slipping back into her old ways, eyes flickering in the water. She kept herself submerged however, calmed her mind, threw herself back further. The smell of worn leather, of blood and of bandages. A key without key rings. An oversized pair of boots by the door. There's a tattoo to match hers, eyes too green to look at, a man with the face of an angel on her couch. Then there's just darkness, nothing but soft touches of feather-light hands piecing her back together.

Beck's eyes snapped open, her mouth opening, water flooding in. She choked, forced herself upwards, blinking away the water as it streamed down her body, her arms wrapped around her chest as she coughed up the water she'd inhaled. She ran her hands through her hair, pulled it back out of her face, breathing in as deep and as long as she could manage, her body shaking as she continued to cough and wheeze against the water in her chest. She shook her head, tried to rid it from her ears, the stuff streaming from her nose and her eyes as she tried to wipe it away with the heels of her hands. She knew the look on Alistair's face without even needing to see, the hunter throwing a sponge haphazardly in his general direction in a bid to wipe it off.

"That wasn't one of your best ideas – was it."

She was perched on the toilet seat; body bandaged beneath her tank top, hair tied back in a crude ponytail. She was still marred by dirt and blood, much of it staining her skin where the bruises did not, long strips of white running across areas of semi-exposed skin the only things that could really be referred to as clean. But someone had sponged her down, carefully and gently cleaned her face and her hair, got the worst off her arms and legs and abdomen as best as they could. She looked better for it – better than Rebekah remembered her looking anyway.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

The irony actually stung a little, though Jo laughed all the same.

"Could say the same for you – where've you been Princess? They were gettin' worried downstairs."

Beck shrugged, for the first time really acknowledging Jo's presence, realising she was in fact incredibly naked beneath what few bubbles there were left. She pulled her knees up to her chest and repositioned her hair over her breasts in a bid to protect her modesty, though she knew she had very little of that left. She wasn't very nonchalant about it either, something that seemed to amuse her observer.

"I've been out," she muttered, shuffling uncomfortably in the tub. "Jo – I mean I-"

The other hunter held up a hand, cutting her off. "Save it. I know – it's fine. You saved us – why the fuck would I be pissed about that?"

"It wasn't exactly me savin' your asses in the 'tradtional' sense o'things now was it?"

She frowned, setting her chin on her fist. "We're here. How does it matter how that ended up? I'm alive. I can go home to my mom and Sid can go and – well do whatever it is that Sid's do. Who cares if you-"

Beck winced at the falter, watched her friend choose her words carefully. In the end, she ran out of patience.

"If I went dark-side."

"Shut up Beck," Jo smiled, picking the sponge up off the floor and throwing it at her head, the thing hitting her right between the eyes. "You didn't go dark-side you idiot, you just – scared us… a little bit," she murmured, measuring how much she'd actually scared her between her thumb and forefinger. "No damage done. See – I'm alive and kickin' and throwin' stuff at you. Outcome's fine. Now would you stop tryin' to drown yourself and get out the bath please?"

"Why?" She wondered, hunter making to submerge herself again, longing for the warmth of the water over her head.

She smirked, "because we ordered in Chinese food. That's why – now get your ass out the water before I start throwing bottles of shit at you."

Jo left quite soon after that, lobbing a bar of soap at her head before exiting out the way she'd come in, leaving the door just ajar enough for the scents of foreign cuisine to come snaking through the mist, her stomach kick started into chewing on itself as she emptied out the water. The plug sputtered and spurted as the water drained away, a once white bathtub now stained with streaks of brown and grey and red. She looked down at her naked body; saw how honest her wounds had become now that they no longer hid behind the dirt and grime. She was back to the girl she'd been a few days ago, damp hair, flushed cheeks and rose-scented skin, a girl who ached for the noodles she knew sat downstairs waiting for her in the main house. There was no Graham, no car crash – no recollection of a girl gone dark-side in the middle of a hunt. There was just the food she'd fill herself to the brim with, the chatter of close company and the warmth of the open fire in the living room. Though, as she stepped out onto the cold tiles and inspected herself in the mirror, she managed to find remnants of another person, someone that was not her. She fingered the clean stitches of a gash, turned to examine the criss-cross bruises on her back. She felt their presence there then, his cold skin beneath her fingertips, hands against her body. She shivered and donned a dressing gown, ignoring a bra as she pulled herself into those same baby blue briefs, her feet padding against the laminate as she rushed herself away from the bath tub that still lay stained with the dregs of the girl she wanted not to be.

(*)

Unidentified Motel, South Dakota. 8.17 a.m.

Friday 26th September 2008

Sam buried his face in his breakfast, adopting a far more feral approach when it came to dealing with his bacon. It was his favourite, the way Dean always used to do it, burnt to a crisp and so crunchy it made his eyes water when he chewed it. But that was the best way to eat it and the only way to cook it – the only right way anyway. He couldn't remember ever being that hungry before. He knew he'd been running on empty, hadn't eaten properly in a while, had swapped out food and drink for demon blood but – well he just wouldn't get full. He was on his third plate of bacon and his second breakfast muffin, table covered in crumbs and ketchup as he continued to inhale anything that Ruby placed in front of him. He chugged juice and water by the pint, washing down the plug of food in his throat as he'd take down another plate full of saturated fats and carbohydrates, a vegetable never once passing his lips unless you counted the can of beans he'd started with about an hour or so ago.

"Sam," she laughed, pulling his plate away from him in a bid to get him to breathe. "Sam? Slow down would ya'? I'm running out of bacon."

"We'll just – we'll get more," he muttered through a mouthful of bread, hunter dragging his plate back in front of him. "I'm starving."

"Yeah," she smiled, leaning back in her chair. "I can see that."

He did at least a slow down a little, much to Ruby's relief. She'd been starting to get at least a little worried about him; the behaviour was completely unlike the Same Winchester she'd gotten to know. She'd never seen any human demolish as much food as he had in the given time frame, the demon crossing her arms over her chest actually impressed on his behalf, Sam digging through a swiftly emptying bag of bread for another piece, grinning as he wiped it around the now empty plate in an attempt to gather up any remnants of flavour from the cheap plastic. He looked like a child, ketchup smeared around his mouth, a different kind of red staining his lips this time. She was glad to see him well, as much as she didn't like the idea. In a way, it sort of meant she was doing her job right. He was happy, he was healthy and he was strong and if all that meant he had to eat his way through another whole pig then she'd go and wrangle one up for him herself. She felt more comfortable looking at the whole situation from that point of view, the demon giving herself a quick pat on the back for her good work.

"Ruby – I'm out of bread."

"You're also out of beans and bacon and eggs hot-shot. I think it's time to stop now… don't you?"

He rocked back on the legs of his chair, hands clasped over his distended stomach. It was only then that Ruby decided Sam Winchester's legs were completely hollow, any other person would have been fit to burst. But Sam wasn't done just yet, the hunter leaning back, hands buried deep in a cupboard by the sink as he rifled through their simple provisions, the younger man's hands coming to rest on a packet of beef jerky and a jar of peanut butter. He pulled them out and popped them on the table, Ruby watching him undress them with his eyes as he decided where he wanted to start.

"If you even dare dip one in the other I swear to God Sam I'm leaving."

He scoffed, "you're the one judging me – on my eating habits? That's rich," he smiled, screwing off the lid of the jar. "How do you know if you haven't tried it?"

"Just – no. Stop. I'll get you a spoon for the peanut crap, just don't – don't – or do…you know – whatever," she sighed exasperated, pulling herself from her seat to fetch him a spoon, averting her eyes as he gnawed on the dried meat.

He'd been like that all morning, out of character, ravenous, dehydrated, begging her for water or for alcohol or beans or toast or whatever it was that he craved. It wasn't blood anymore, they'd taken care of that and the sex that had followed in the early hours of the morning, Sam having woken sweating and flustered, finding solace in and around her body and she'd been more than happy to humour him. She slipped the spoon in the jar and ran her fingers through his hair on passing, mussing it in the way she liked, settling herself back down in her chair across the way from him as Sam continued to mix foods that certainly weren't bedfellows.

"Ruby?" he mumbled, Sam resting his chin on his fist as he chewed the jerky idly.

"Mhmm," she smiled, sipping her coffee. "What Sam?"

"Who's Samantha?"

She raised an eyebrow, Sam looking at her like child. That was what he was acting like she thought as she ran a hand through her hair, taking down another mouthful of warm brown water (the coffee they served at the motel barely passing her even lowest standards). She drummed her nails against the table, mind racing, wondering why on earth Sam Winchester would be asking about another demon, a demon she was very certain he'd never spoken to or even come into contact with. There was only one Samantha after all, just like there was only one Ruby, one Azazel and one Meg. But why her of all people?

"She's a demon," she muttered, adding another sachet or two of sugar into the bleak waters of her drink. "Why?"

"I er – I heard her name mentioned by a demon a few days ago. I was just wondering-"

"Listen," she sighed, pushing her drink backwards and forwards between the palms of her hands, "she's not someone you wanna' get tangled up with. Demonic big-leagues Sam, the biggest bitch around if you don't count Lilith."

He no longer looked so innocently serene, the look he'd been wearing since he'd woken up that morning and she'd emptied their cupboards for him. She felt a pang of something in her meat suit, realised she missed the look, took another chug of the vile tasting coffee in a bid to rid herself of the idea. It didn't seem to want to go anywhere however, lodged as it was somewhere between her chest and her brain. That was just great – just fantastic.

"Why not?"

"Just – because. I told you so, that's why not. She's one of those with a funny little gift she likes lording over everyone – just because she can. You'd get crushed Sam."

"It's not like I'm going to go looking for a fight Ruby," he exclaimed, "I just wanna' know what – who she is."

Ruby shrugged. "And anyway, you probably wouldn't even remember meeting her. She does that," she muttered, Sam only managing to pick up something or other about someone being a 'crazy egotistical bitch'.

"Why?"

"Sam – why all the questions? Why? Because that's what she does. She erases memories, fucks with them, alters them so you don't know your elbow from your ass. That's why."

"But h-"

She slammed her hands down against the table causing Sam to almost fall out of his chair. Her insult to coffee was in the process of pooling on the table, growing steadily at the raised edges where it began to drip to the floor at their feet, Sam's toes retracting a little as it splashed him. He looked at her quizzically, like a puppy, head tilted a little to the side, hair flopping over his eyes. There was a smile on his face though, a look that made her blood boil a little. He liked it when she got pissed. It didn't happen often but, when it did, he seemed to get off on it a little bit – especially when he'd caused it. So she inhaled deeply and slumped herself back in her chair, brought her crossed legs up onto the table, boots spattering the dirty water over Sam's bare chest, smile disappearing a little as he reached for a cloth to wipe it away.

"There's a can of hotdogs in the top left cupboard and a packet of old bread buns under the sink. Knock yourself out Princess."

She watched him set back to work, though she couldn't seem to shake the feeling. She was uncomfortable in her position, teetering on the edge a little. It had been black and white to begin with, human and demon, a job that needed doing and she'd been the one to do it. He'd been a name, a face, a bag of blood, bones and hormones wrapped in a sack of skin – just like all the rest of them. And it had been plain sailing for a while, he hated her, she hated him, hated his race, his dick of a brother with his weird obsession with the tin can he called a car, hated the old man with the dirty cap. They were all the same or so she'd been told. They were weak, spineless, pathetic things. They were only good for playing with, for using; put them back in the toy box when you were done. Black and white – simple.

"Can you pass the ketchup?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Please," he grinned, crumbs sprouting from his skin like stubble.

She smiled, pushed the bottle in his general direction, watched him squirt the sauce directly into his mouth, shoving a hotdog and a bun in its entirety in after it. Simple – it wasn't fucking simple anymore. She had her duty, she knew that. She'd rather die than fail her – that possibility didn't even bare thinking about. It'd never happen – she wouldn't allow it. But if there was some way that Sam wouldn't get hurt, some way that she could help him along just a little then she'd jump at it. He'd been a name, a face, a bag of blood and bones and hormones wrapped up in a sack of skin but she'd gotten to know that bag of skin pretty damn well. As a matter of fact, she thought she knew him better than she knew herself. She happened to know he sang in the shower, that he got pissed if you touched his laptop, that his family meant more to him than anything in the world. He didn't like daytime telly and had a horrendous music taste, but play Bon Jovi and he'd go all quiet and pensive. Sam hated mustard on his hotdogs but couldn't get enough of ketchup, that he'd wake up at least three times throughout the course of the night to flip his pillow over because he liked the cold side best but, try and wake him after that and you didn't have a chance in hell. He'd even offered her the same courtesy – something she'd called 'progress'. Their relationship now ran without the racism, she was no longer the 'demon slut' but… well Ruby. And he'd even bothered to remember her traits and habits, knew how she liked her coffee, always ordered her fries when they had a takeout, would always get the shampoo she liked from the corner store before they'd stop over at a motel because he knew she was funny about her hair. He even put the toilet seat down for her – something her brothers didn't even do.

She ran a hand through her hair, tugged a little at the roots, rubbed the sleep from the corners of her eyes as Sam polished off another brine soaked sausage, buns having long been demolished. The lines were becoming blurred and she didn't like it. Sam would kill Lilith, that was certain. But after that – what was there? She knew their plans for him, what he'd become. She knew where she'd stand in the coming storm, by his side, taking Lilith's place as the best of those demonic sons of bitches if she could get around to knocking Samantha off her freaking high horse. But her and Sam – what were they? What would they be? Where they even anything? It wasn't black and white anymore, not something she found she could deal with. But it was a bridge she would cross when it came to it and, in the meantime, Sam was beginning to run out of food again.

Danny's Bar, Sedalia, Missouri 5.31 p.m.

Friday 3rd October 2008

The night she'd left hadn't exactly made her list of top ten favourite nights of her life. The worst part – telling Meredith she was going it alone from then on out.

The night of her bath talk with Jo they'd come together as a family and eaten more food than she could ever remember eating, never managing to get full, Rebekah polishing off Meredith's when the little bird found she couldn't hold any more, even stealing slivers of chicken from Jo's plate whenever she thought she wasn't looking. And she'd eaten herself sick, Shane having to carry her back to her room yet again when she found she couldn't walk, beached like a whale on the soft cushions of the sofa where she'd swore she'd stay until the world around her would turn to dust, but her cousins weren't having any of that. So her cousin had carried her up and dumped her on her bed face down, Beck muffling a groan of a thank you as he switched the light off on her and shut the door, rolling out of bed as soon as she heard his footsteps hit the top stair.

She'd begun packing straight away, the hunter even resorting to Pulling things from her drawers and wardrobe to get the job done faster. She didn't like squandering what little power she had – but it had gotten the packing done in half the time and had still given her a handful of precious minutes to call her brother and tell him of her plans. They'd begun awkwardly, their last conversation having resulted in a car crash, but they soon eased out the creases when Jake realised that all was well, that no one was hurt too bad, that the hunt had gone to plan and Brookfield was better off for it. She'd told him then of her plans, that she'd Seen something that meant she was heading for a place called Danny's Bar, that she needed to get there to meet a source on the third of the coming month. And he hadn't asked questions (just as she'd hoped) because it was a Sight thing, and they'd said their goodbyes and left it at that. Had she felt bad for lying to her brother yet again? Of course she did – but to tell him that they'd lost one of their own, that Jo had almost come home without her spleen and that she'd gone all matter of downhill would've had him at her door and dragging her home by the scruff of her shirt never to do a job again – and there were Angels on the line, not something one could simply sweep under the rug and forget about. Added to that she was in no mood to retire, that being in the books if her brother ever caught wind of what'd actually gone on. Ignorance was bliss after all – that's what she'd told herself anyway.

Saying her goodbyes had been hard too. She'd awoken later the next day having spent the night trying to find the damned place, settling on a bar in Sedalia as it made the most sense. Her Sight was a pain in the ass but it was a logical one, and sending her to the other end of the earth wouldn't have been in her best interest. As it was Sedalia was about a two hour drive if she took her time, and that gave her a few extra days for some rest and relaxation and a bit of bodily re-tuning in terms of her – well all girls had to come on their period at some point. That was just life.

They'd swarmed her like they had that first day, though the weather on the Saturday seemed to have taken a bit of a nose dive, rain pattering as it did against the many windows and walls of glass the house possessed, the hunter nearly soaked through by the time she'd made it back to her brother's baby. There'd been more tears this time round, especially on her part, Richard and Jen and Lil and Siv and Shane all getting their dollars' worth of one on one time, Beck unable to count the number of hair ruffles, pats on the back and kisses she'd received. And she'd got kisses from the Pack too, from Sid and Cal and Elle and Ty and Ester and her own three even despite the fact they were coming with her. But when she'd come to Jo and Mer it had been a different kettle of fish, and as if on cue her blood-kin and even her extended family had caught on to the mood of things and drifted back to their lives and activities elsewhere, leaving the three girls alone in the ample porch wiping away their tears and trying to act as though they weren't.

"I need you to do me a favour," she'd muttered, almost unable to look at the two, one pinky finger interlaced with Mer (a comfort thing they'd never really escaped, something that had always marked an imminent goodbye), Meredith being, at this point, still unaware of her plans.

"What?" They'd both said in chorus, laughing lightly.

"Not you Mer," Beck had sighed, locking eyes with the other woman, "Jo."

"Anything," she'd murmured.

"I need you to take Mer and-"

The Stalker's face had fallen a little, "What do you mea – I'm not comin' with you?"

"Not this time Mer," she'd said, trying to remain firm, "It's a-"

"Let me guess – a Sight thing right?" She'd nodded. "Somethin' I can't possibly understand."

Jo had given Rebekah a look but she'd ploughed on regardless.

"I need you to take Mer and keep her safe. Take her home – her home or yours I don't mind. I just need her somewhere I know she'll be-"

"You got it."

"Stay out of trouble kid," she'd smiled, biting her lip as she'd ruffled Mer's hair.

She'd taken off then, dumped her things in the truck and pulled out the driveway. She'd only gotten halfway down the road before she'd had to pull over, rainwater mixing with her own tears as she'd sobbed alone in the front seat, Axel licking the water away from her cheeks with a warm tongue that would have made everything better if it'd been any other situation. She hadn't understood her sadness, couldn't grasp why her chest felt tight. At the side of the road she'd sobbed and choked off all the weight that had amounted on her back over the course of those last few weeks, held herself as she'd shaken, rested her forehead against the steering wheel so that no more tears would run down her neck and make her collar damp. Because she'd almost lost Mer and almost lost Jo, she'd watched a grown man die and had told a stranger his brother had lied to him. She'd been battered back and forth until she was bleeding and bruised and ready to fall to her knees and scream for an end, and she hadn't had a moment to acknowledge any of it. So, on that Saturday, truck parked in a ditch at the side of the road, rain pinging off her windscreen and collecting in the bed of the truck she'd wept for the one's she lost and the friends she'd gained and for the simple fact none of it had been fair.

And her time off had been nothing short of luxury, luxury in her books anyway. She'd slept brokenly for much of her first day in between the nightmares and the cold sweats, and when it had continued to elude her, taken a drive, stopping here and there for this or that, stocking up on supplies she thought she'd need, even pulling in at a beauty parlour on West 7th Street to have her hair done at a ridiculous hour having missed the way Eliza had treated it. It was different for men and women on the road, it always had been. Her brothers could have hit the road non-stop if they'd wanted to (Joe often had), not having to worry about toilet stops or how many sanitary towels that had left in their bag or if they had enough clean panties left to last them the trip. Her hunting regime had always had to wrap itself around her bodily functions and her social life. Joe had never cared if he'd missed a birthday unless it was one of theirs, but Beck had never missed one of Mer's, even if that had meant turning up at her door with blood still matting her hair, handing over a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with a crossbreed of ribbon and yellow police tape. So she'd allowed the (somewhat shocked) women of that particular quaint little business clean the dirt and blood from her nails, let them comb the dusty tangles from her hair and mask it in sweet smelling oils, even forking out that little extra to have it dyed a shade of brown that made her think of dark honey. And she'd felt better for it, as she always did, the hunter climbing back into her truck feeling less like a soldier and more like a woman.

She'd bought a dress she'd found in a Salvation Army Thrift Store on the main street, forcing herself (for once in her life) into something 'pretty' in a vain attempt to make herself look more presentable. It's not that she didn't like makeup and skirts and things, they had their uses and she wouldn't be seen dead in Tecumseh in her brother's battered jacket and her old boots, but that didn't mean she didn't still have to think about things like where'd she'd put her gun. And the clerk had almost thrown her out when she'd dumped her jeans on the seat and taken her pistol out the back, only able to shrug off the presence of the firearm when she'd flashed him a police badge and a quick wink. She'd stripped herself down behind the curtain and gradually stumbled her way through the various layers of fabric, able to get her arms through and her head out only to find, far too late it should be noted, that she hadn't undone the ribbon at the back. With a dress trapped over her breasts she'd struggled and shuffled and sworn, finally giving in and asking for assistance only after she'd head-butted the mirror twice. This had thus led to a rather awkward second encounter with said store clerk who, bless his heart, had helped her into the thing with averted eyes, Rebekah nodding her silent appreciation to his back as he escaped back to the job he was supposed to do. She'd bought it regardless of the embarrassment, irrespective of the fact it squashed her breasts to her body. It was a matter of appearance she'd told herself on exiting; throwing the wretched thing into the back of the truck before she'd pulled off and made for the simple safety that was her motel room.

"You're late."

Rebekah stood alone, bathing in the light of those all too familiar curling loops of hazy neon. She closed her eyes and hunkered down inside her jacket against the biting wind, sucking in air as though she'd never breathe again. The skirts of her dressed tugged against her legs as they gathered up the breeze like sails, her toes bare to the elements and numb in her sandals.

"Oh this is such a fuckin' bad idea," she muttered, dodging quickly out the way of passers-by.

She didn't know what she was doing. She'd gone over the plan again and again in her head but, when faced with the real deal, she knew she'd crumble. She'd freak out, perhaps even pass out, maybe choke out one word or spray her with spit or something along those truly horrendous lines. She hadn't a clue. It was an Angel – a freaking Angel. Her mama and her father had been God fearing folk, church types. They'd taken Joe and Jake and Jake had still held on to some of that, had his baby daughter christened, got himself married to Sarah at Saint John's in Sterling by the son of the man that had married their parents. But they'd never forced it on her; let her make up her own mind. And she'd believed just like all the other kids at her school, prayed in the morning and over lunch, were forbidden from using the Lord's name in vain – that type of thing. But they'd lost their faith along the way, as was the business. Every life they saw ruined by some hellish thing took them one step further away from believing in their 'good sweet Lord'. It wasn't long at all before she didn't believe at all. Oh, she knew there was a God, just like her brother had. Beck just knew him to be a good for nothing waste of celestial space who seemed content enough to sit back and watch his little pass-time piss all over itself and burn.

"Just – just say hello. That's all – simple as that. Hello. Hi there – no. Greeti – no that's fuckin' ridiculous. Fuck it – just go."

She clenched her fists and flitted past a couple of night revellers, hunter taking refuge in the doorway as she psyched herself up to actually lay her hand on the handle. She knew it, she knew what she was late for. She was late for their fucking meeting because she was too busy pissing about outside. She sucked in a breath, feeling herself puff up like pigeon, peeled her jacket from her skin and felt all the more vulnerable for it, ducking beneath a man's arm as he held the door open for her. She bobbed a quick thank you and slid inside, letting out a breath as waves of warm chatter and familiar sounding music washed over her chilled body. She remained frozen by the door, skirts billowing around her ankles with every updraft, eyes roaming the sea of faces for the one she'd branded into the back of her mind. She was looking for bright eyes and a pixie cut – not something that should have been too difficult. She recalled the way her eyes had shifted in the light of the neon, the angle the light had hit her. Beck turned, directed her attentions to the bar. Her breath caught in her throat. She choked.

"You're late."