Two Wrongs Making Out Alright
Title: Two Wrongs Making Out Alright
Author: pleadyourcase
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Ruby
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. D:
Summary: Two poltergeists in San Diego, a tulpa in St. Paul, a shtriga in Little Rock. The days roll on like a marble speeding down a hill, bumps and bruises, too many losses to count -they miss their mark several times. Navy jackets, dirty jeans, calloused hands with a relentless death grip on the memories that he won’t let himself forget.
Two poltergeists in San Diego, a tulpa in St. Paul, a shtriga in Little Rock. The days roll on like a marble speeding down a hill, bumps and bruises, too many losses to count - they miss their mark several times. Navy jackets, dirty jeans, calloused hands with a relentless death grip on the memories that he won’t let himself forget. Brother in tow, he grinds his foot into the gas pedal. The Impala gives a deep-throated growl and lurches forward, tires peeling. Vibrant green meadows and abandoned farm fences flash against the sleek, black anterior of the Chevrolet as the miles tick by.
In the dead of night, he crawls from bed, slips into his jacket and heads for the doorway. He turns to look at his younger brother for a split second, the outline of his figure protruding from beneath the scratchy motel comforter. The door latches quietly behind him. He sighs because he knows that tonight, yet another wall will be built between two brothers. Crusty, half-dry cement will wrap its arms around the interior frames constructed of steel that has been molded from betrayal. The construction workers are losing spirit. The screech of his tires pierces the night air, and even the dropping temperature stops to listen.
***
Smoothing the clay-like soil across the wooden container, Dean’s eyes snap shut and he inhales deeply, the red dust burning his nostrils. The crickets fall silent and the gentle breeze ceases, leaving the weeds to halt their midnight dance. His legs begin to ache, and he rocks back and forth on his toes as he squats over the box he’s just buried. A hole forms in the atmosphere, tearing the air apart. “You know,” a voice says, slipping through the freshly torn gap, “you’re lucky I got here before the crossroads demon did.” She’s standing across from him, arms folder across her chest, the sleeves of her red, leather jacket stretching across her forearms. “She’s a real pistol. I’m not so sure you would have gotten away with less than a shattered vertebrae.”
He takes her to a motel five miles west of his own. The receptionist scoffs at them as yet another fake credit card buys them a night that will be simply be filed away in some worn, cardboard box. It wouldn’t be anything special - casual was the new routine, just like demon was the new man’s best friend.
Moldy green carpet that has sunken into the foundation cushions their footsteps, a giant cot provides them with their sanctuary. His lips move softly against hers, humble at first, greedy once all formalities are shed. Who knew a man’s want could devour the devil’s servant? Long, worn fingers slither through her stringy, blonde hair and her irises flutter from black to green as he leaves a trail of kisses down her jaw line. Humanity is nothing but a commodity we take for granted. Her nails dig tally marks into the bare skin of his back. “Only four months left,” she hisses into his ear as he thrusts into her.
***
His younger brother’s screams can be heard in the distance as the flames engulf his body. The temperature is rising, and the only familiar voice he’s ever known is fading. Charred tunnels, molten pits of regret - he calls out to her. Her turf, her rules. His cries echo into space, his own voice slapping him hard across the face. He can’t even find his own demon in hell.
Author: pleadyourcase
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Ruby
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. D:
Summary: Two poltergeists in San Diego, a tulpa in St. Paul, a shtriga in Little Rock. The days roll on like a marble speeding down a hill, bumps and bruises, too many losses to count -they miss their mark several times. Navy jackets, dirty jeans, calloused hands with a relentless death grip on the memories that he won’t let himself forget.
Two poltergeists in San Diego, a tulpa in St. Paul, a shtriga in Little Rock. The days roll on like a marble speeding down a hill, bumps and bruises, too many losses to count - they miss their mark several times. Navy jackets, dirty jeans, calloused hands with a relentless death grip on the memories that he won’t let himself forget. Brother in tow, he grinds his foot into the gas pedal. The Impala gives a deep-throated growl and lurches forward, tires peeling. Vibrant green meadows and abandoned farm fences flash against the sleek, black anterior of the Chevrolet as the miles tick by.
In the dead of night, he crawls from bed, slips into his jacket and heads for the doorway. He turns to look at his younger brother for a split second, the outline of his figure protruding from beneath the scratchy motel comforter. The door latches quietly behind him. He sighs because he knows that tonight, yet another wall will be built between two brothers. Crusty, half-dry cement will wrap its arms around the interior frames constructed of steel that has been molded from betrayal. The construction workers are losing spirit. The screech of his tires pierces the night air, and even the dropping temperature stops to listen.
***
Smoothing the clay-like soil across the wooden container, Dean’s eyes snap shut and he inhales deeply, the red dust burning his nostrils. The crickets fall silent and the gentle breeze ceases, leaving the weeds to halt their midnight dance. His legs begin to ache, and he rocks back and forth on his toes as he squats over the box he’s just buried. A hole forms in the atmosphere, tearing the air apart. “You know,” a voice says, slipping through the freshly torn gap, “you’re lucky I got here before the crossroads demon did.” She’s standing across from him, arms folder across her chest, the sleeves of her red, leather jacket stretching across her forearms. “She’s a real pistol. I’m not so sure you would have gotten away with less than a shattered vertebrae.”
He takes her to a motel five miles west of his own. The receptionist scoffs at them as yet another fake credit card buys them a night that will be simply be filed away in some worn, cardboard box. It wouldn’t be anything special - casual was the new routine, just like demon was the new man’s best friend.
Moldy green carpet that has sunken into the foundation cushions their footsteps, a giant cot provides them with their sanctuary. His lips move softly against hers, humble at first, greedy once all formalities are shed. Who knew a man’s want could devour the devil’s servant? Long, worn fingers slither through her stringy, blonde hair and her irises flutter from black to green as he leaves a trail of kisses down her jaw line. Humanity is nothing but a commodity we take for granted. Her nails dig tally marks into the bare skin of his back. “Only four months left,” she hisses into his ear as he thrusts into her.
***
His younger brother’s screams can be heard in the distance as the flames engulf his body. The temperature is rising, and the only familiar voice he’s ever known is fading. Charred tunnels, molten pits of regret - he calls out to her. Her turf, her rules. His cries echo into space, his own voice slapping him hard across the face. He can’t even find his own demon in hell.