Supernatural Fic: this type of thinking
i'm bored and the only one in the office. and i've opted out of watching this woman trying to park. as entertaining as it is to watch her keep rolling on the curb.
this type of thinking
She likes the dark eyes. The shadows under his. Good. It’s getting to him. Good. Good. She knows - it’s on his face. He can see the motel room. Dean on his side. Let me go. Let me go - they all scream one way or another. And it’s a holiday, to watch.
supernatural. ruby. sam/ruby. (sam/dean - ish.)
bedtime stories; 1829 words, r.
Silence again as his boot scraps a step back. His laces are untied. Fringe muddy from the back of his jeans. There’s a breath. And then two.
She watches from the side. Absent, she counts each breath. One, two. Four, five. It’s a pretty girl on the ground. The dust settles to her shoulders. Over her breasts. The curls in her hair stay limp, soggy. There were two names. Neither matter. The bitch took who she wanted. On the street. In a car, some sad fuck for something new passing by. Like a song. Pretty fuckin' funny anyway.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” and she’s soft. He stops. And they stare.
The wind’s pickin’ right up again. Silence for the dying dead. Or the already dead. Ruby’s a theoretical romantic. A funny girl. She thinks she’s picking up the habits anyway. But he’s never gonna to know that. She circles Sam. Sam circles the colt. He’s absent. Away. The grass is drying even at night; it’s the poetic flair or some shit like that. But she can’t take her eyes off his hands, on the colt. His fingers fucking the barrel. Strokes the trigger, slow and lazy circles up and down the arch. Over the base - Oh, baby. Maybe he’ll do it today. Today. The next day. She can be optimistic.
“You shouldn’t be here,” it’s lackluster and dry. Sam’s hair folds over his eyes and admit it. Admit it. Curiosity. It’s there. His hands are shaking. His mouth peeks out, a firm line. Pale.
But she shrugs. The advantage is the advantage. And she’s twisting her fingers. Slipping. And around. Quietly around. She hums. Bang bang. And my baby shot me dead - it’s always a love story. She laughs a little. Husky. Children, you know, children play.
Her mouth turns. “But I am here,” she says quietly. A quick glance to the body. Lying bitch. Whore. She strings silent curses for the moment. Just for the filler. Ruby hates silences. Both times. It’s semantics. And she was never invited to the club. Not that she cared; the vindictive bitch was always a waste of time.
Sam doesn’t say anything. His hands still, the colt twists and swings. He opens his jacket, turns to her. She waits for a smile. Disappointed, it doesn’t come. His jacket swallows the colt then, the pretty little toy. She thinks she can watch his fingers still. Fuck the trigger. Oh, she likes to watch his hands. The fabric of her t-shirt stretches over her breasts as she drops the jacket. Her nipples are sorta hard. It’s the prospect, baby, the prospect. A new hole. A cute story. Nothing to tell; she’s not about battle scars and sharing over beers. It is what it is.
There’s bus stop a few miles away. But Sammy took the car. Coming back slow. Time to think. She imagines he’d sit and wait. Wondering. Should he leave again? It’s real cute how the two of them have become self-indulging in selflessness. Touching, for sure. She’s going to teach him about letting go. No straight faces, of course.
“Don’t do that.” he spits it out. Drops a box. Things roll out. Crack. Ruby picks what makes the person. But leaves it alone. Gold keys. A little name tag. Sam paces like it’s all well and good, like she’s not here. “Don’t do that. I’m not a moron. I don’t that ridiculous smile of yours. I know your fucking speech by now.”
Aww she coos but hums instead. It’s a weightless vibration and coy. She shivers herself. She stops. Skirts her fingers over his stomach. No skin. Disappointment, baby. He’s left Dean sleeping. And living. Still the same. Christmas is coming. If only he knew. Her hand flattens. And he doesn’t move. She breathes. Almost human, pushing up on her toes. She’s in his space. Her teeth skip his lip and - she’s been practicing - just like that.
“You’re all the same.”
It’s mantra, you know. The shit they teach you in school. The old memories. The new memories. Ruby’s learning again that sometimes, most times, hers is hers and what really should be - well hers isn’t. Some words are still recycled. Nothin’ she can do about either. Things to do, motions, and everything goes back to the little sacrifices.
“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Quick. Nice and slow. I like it when you twist your fingers. Did -”
“Don’t.”
Wet lips. “Why?”
Oh, she’s not interested in friends. Clandestine colleagues. Use me. Use you. If she’s here. And he’s here. She’s going to fuck him as hard as he’ll learn to fuck her. Anyway he can. And her mouth turns. But doesn’t press. She takes the ear instead. Breathes. Lets him feel her human. Think about it. Soft and there. It’s funny how all of this works.
“How ‘bout right by her body?” she laughs softly. “Right there. You can call me someone else’s name and I promise to beg and -”
She whimpers, licking her lips. The sound is almost soulless, but she turns her hand. Down, down and over his thigh. Palm pressing between his legs. And ooo, she breathes.
“Just like that, right?” She’s coy. Thinking.
But she backs off because there’s a game. Maybe a reminder. Her fingers curl around the waist of her jeans, back to her t-shirt. She thumbs her skin. Shivers. Almost purrs. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she leans forward and peeks. Oh, you poor bitch. Didn’t think Sammy had it in him. But she’s grinning. Life’s a surprise.
He’s quiet. Then, “she said -”
Ruby shrugs. “Oh, come on. She thought a lot of things. All for the fireworks and the hurrah,” a chuckle and she’s thoughtful, “the bitch was always spreading those pretty little legs. For somebody or something. A lot of somethin’ actually.”
She feigns a demure smile though. Nondescript. She likes the dark eyes. The shadows under his. Good. It’s getting to him. Good. Good. She knows - it’s on his face. He can see the motel room. Dean on his side. Let me go. Let me go - they all scream one way or another. And it’s a holiday, to watch.
“Did she beg for you Sam?”
He doesn’t answer. She’s changing subjects. On his toes. Touching, always touching what she shouldn’t. And she’ll keep doing it. Ruby likes to play with matches. Always burning, baby. She thinks about that mouth of his. Stepping forward, she wonders if he’s a dirty knees kind of guy. Mouth open. Tongue brushing softly against her clit. And around. Around. And again. All the pretty boys stumble. But Sammy’s got her at anticipation.
“Don’t,” he’s quiet. “Don’t.”
She rolls her eyes. Lackluster. He’s not here. He hasn’t been for quite sometime. A piece of this. A piece of that. What’s his has never been his. And she knows he knows. But denial is such a drug. The hypocrisy, daunting.
Her mouth turns. “Come on,” she murmurs. “Come on. You know how it’s going to happen - you’re going to go back. Quietly. He’s a heavy sleeper. You’ll sit there. You’ll think and then stop because you’ve made a promise to yourself. But inside the bathroom, once you decide on movin’, you’ll sit there and fuck yourself over and over again because you know. You know. And you want him to know. You want him to know that you’re every bit as fucked up as he is and you’ll keep the door unlock.”
She’s closer, skimming. He’s tense. Almost cracking his shoulders. There’s a laugh in her throat. But she keeps her words instead.
“Maybe so he’ll see. Maybe not. And your hand - that hand that feels so free because you like this, you like this, that he’s in the other room, and it’ll be covered in your -”
His hand is around her throat, crushing. She’s laughing. Strangled. He’ll never do it - her panties are sticky; she’s taken to the soft kind. Low hips. Cotton for the week. She had things to do. Eyes to bat. Gettin' into character, you know. And boys, silly boys, like their soft and sweet girls.
“Say it again,” he snarls. “Again.”
She stumbles. He drops his hand and she laughs. Laughs. He’s got her pressed against the car. Not his car. Sam’s smart. It’s got to be planned perfectly. But his mouth brushes over her throat. Over her chain. Ruby’s playing dress up, was, in the next town over. She sighs at his teeth though, a scrape. There’s a whistle of the highway somewhere off to the side. She smells smoke.
“Don’t -”
“- push you?” she laughs delight in his face, pressing her hips high. They hit his. Their legs hit, her knee rubbing against his erection. She’ll come on her fingers later. Three’s always a fucking whirl of fun. Her and her long fingers. Sometimes, she’ll wait and watch him too. It’s easy. They think they know, but they never look clearly into the dark.
But her “come on, sweetheart,” draws a slur into his hair. She pulls a little. Her ass hits door. He grunts. She laughs again.
“I’ll do what I please, Sammy. Because I’ve got the corners of this game. And your answers. So if you’re going to play -”
And he drops back. Burned. Bitch, she thinks. Her coat off in the grass. If that’s what it is. Mounds of dust. Always still at the crossroad. They need a new gig. But Sam’s away from her, shifting. Foot to foot. He turns his palms and stares.
“Do you understand?” - him.
“Do you?” - her.
He’s a thin line. And it’s only begun to register with him.
She steps back. Moves to the grass. A little dead, a little alive. The dead bitch was always particular about her space. All sparkle and shine. Her jacket’s wet. She swings it between the tips of her fingers. Rolls her thumb against the collar. There’s a song. Faint. It’s in her head. Not hers, of course. It is what it is.
“Go back.”
It’s a pick a side game tonight. Not to the surface. And she waves her hand, turnin’ away. It’s her back first. Never his. She feels his eyes. Thinks about watching tonight. Or not.
“You’re useless to me like this.” her voice brushes behind her. She passes the dead bitch. Scuffs some dirt over her pretty fuckable lips. Stupid bitch. Let this go, Ruby. Let this go. And so she passes further. No glances back, a lazy smile.
Tonight, for her, it’s going to be a guy in a bar. Grease stains scattered on his palms. To her breasts. She’s going think about slitting his throat as he sighs baby, baby and oh, sweet girl. Or cutting his eyes out - they’re all fucking perverts. And she’s going to come, come hard. Mouth in that silent brush of moment. No name. Or so she’s going to tell herself.
Sam’ll just lock the door.
-
this type of thinking
She likes the dark eyes. The shadows under his. Good. It’s getting to him. Good. Good. She knows - it’s on his face. He can see the motel room. Dean on his side. Let me go. Let me go - they all scream one way or another. And it’s a holiday, to watch.
supernatural. ruby. sam/ruby. (sam/dean - ish.)
bedtime stories; 1829 words, r.
Silence again as his boot scraps a step back. His laces are untied. Fringe muddy from the back of his jeans. There’s a breath. And then two.
She watches from the side. Absent, she counts each breath. One, two. Four, five. It’s a pretty girl on the ground. The dust settles to her shoulders. Over her breasts. The curls in her hair stay limp, soggy. There were two names. Neither matter. The bitch took who she wanted. On the street. In a car, some sad fuck for something new passing by. Like a song. Pretty fuckin' funny anyway.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” and she’s soft. He stops. And they stare.
The wind’s pickin’ right up again. Silence for the dying dead. Or the already dead. Ruby’s a theoretical romantic. A funny girl. She thinks she’s picking up the habits anyway. But he’s never gonna to know that. She circles Sam. Sam circles the colt. He’s absent. Away. The grass is drying even at night; it’s the poetic flair or some shit like that. But she can’t take her eyes off his hands, on the colt. His fingers fucking the barrel. Strokes the trigger, slow and lazy circles up and down the arch. Over the base - Oh, baby. Maybe he’ll do it today. Today. The next day. She can be optimistic.
“You shouldn’t be here,” it’s lackluster and dry. Sam’s hair folds over his eyes and admit it. Admit it. Curiosity. It’s there. His hands are shaking. His mouth peeks out, a firm line. Pale.
But she shrugs. The advantage is the advantage. And she’s twisting her fingers. Slipping. And around. Quietly around. She hums. Bang bang. And my baby shot me dead - it’s always a love story. She laughs a little. Husky. Children, you know, children play.
Her mouth turns. “But I am here,” she says quietly. A quick glance to the body. Lying bitch. Whore. She strings silent curses for the moment. Just for the filler. Ruby hates silences. Both times. It’s semantics. And she was never invited to the club. Not that she cared; the vindictive bitch was always a waste of time.
Sam doesn’t say anything. His hands still, the colt twists and swings. He opens his jacket, turns to her. She waits for a smile. Disappointed, it doesn’t come. His jacket swallows the colt then, the pretty little toy. She thinks she can watch his fingers still. Fuck the trigger. Oh, she likes to watch his hands. The fabric of her t-shirt stretches over her breasts as she drops the jacket. Her nipples are sorta hard. It’s the prospect, baby, the prospect. A new hole. A cute story. Nothing to tell; she’s not about battle scars and sharing over beers. It is what it is.
There’s bus stop a few miles away. But Sammy took the car. Coming back slow. Time to think. She imagines he’d sit and wait. Wondering. Should he leave again? It’s real cute how the two of them have become self-indulging in selflessness. Touching, for sure. She’s going to teach him about letting go. No straight faces, of course.
“Don’t do that.” he spits it out. Drops a box. Things roll out. Crack. Ruby picks what makes the person. But leaves it alone. Gold keys. A little name tag. Sam paces like it’s all well and good, like she’s not here. “Don’t do that. I’m not a moron. I don’t that ridiculous smile of yours. I know your fucking speech by now.”
Aww she coos but hums instead. It’s a weightless vibration and coy. She shivers herself. She stops. Skirts her fingers over his stomach. No skin. Disappointment, baby. He’s left Dean sleeping. And living. Still the same. Christmas is coming. If only he knew. Her hand flattens. And he doesn’t move. She breathes. Almost human, pushing up on her toes. She’s in his space. Her teeth skip his lip and - she’s been practicing - just like that.
“You’re all the same.”
It’s mantra, you know. The shit they teach you in school. The old memories. The new memories. Ruby’s learning again that sometimes, most times, hers is hers and what really should be - well hers isn’t. Some words are still recycled. Nothin’ she can do about either. Things to do, motions, and everything goes back to the little sacrifices.
“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Quick. Nice and slow. I like it when you twist your fingers. Did -”
“Don’t.”
Wet lips. “Why?”
Oh, she’s not interested in friends. Clandestine colleagues. Use me. Use you. If she’s here. And he’s here. She’s going to fuck him as hard as he’ll learn to fuck her. Anyway he can. And her mouth turns. But doesn’t press. She takes the ear instead. Breathes. Lets him feel her human. Think about it. Soft and there. It’s funny how all of this works.
“How ‘bout right by her body?” she laughs softly. “Right there. You can call me someone else’s name and I promise to beg and -”
She whimpers, licking her lips. The sound is almost soulless, but she turns her hand. Down, down and over his thigh. Palm pressing between his legs. And ooo, she breathes.
“Just like that, right?” She’s coy. Thinking.
But she backs off because there’s a game. Maybe a reminder. Her fingers curl around the waist of her jeans, back to her t-shirt. She thumbs her skin. Shivers. Almost purrs. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she leans forward and peeks. Oh, you poor bitch. Didn’t think Sammy had it in him. But she’s grinning. Life’s a surprise.
He’s quiet. Then, “she said -”
Ruby shrugs. “Oh, come on. She thought a lot of things. All for the fireworks and the hurrah,” a chuckle and she’s thoughtful, “the bitch was always spreading those pretty little legs. For somebody or something. A lot of somethin’ actually.”
She feigns a demure smile though. Nondescript. She likes the dark eyes. The shadows under his. Good. It’s getting to him. Good. Good. She knows - it’s on his face. He can see the motel room. Dean on his side. Let me go. Let me go - they all scream one way or another. And it’s a holiday, to watch.
“Did she beg for you Sam?”
He doesn’t answer. She’s changing subjects. On his toes. Touching, always touching what she shouldn’t. And she’ll keep doing it. Ruby likes to play with matches. Always burning, baby. She thinks about that mouth of his. Stepping forward, she wonders if he’s a dirty knees kind of guy. Mouth open. Tongue brushing softly against her clit. And around. Around. And again. All the pretty boys stumble. But Sammy’s got her at anticipation.
“Don’t,” he’s quiet. “Don’t.”
She rolls her eyes. Lackluster. He’s not here. He hasn’t been for quite sometime. A piece of this. A piece of that. What’s his has never been his. And she knows he knows. But denial is such a drug. The hypocrisy, daunting.
Her mouth turns. “Come on,” she murmurs. “Come on. You know how it’s going to happen - you’re going to go back. Quietly. He’s a heavy sleeper. You’ll sit there. You’ll think and then stop because you’ve made a promise to yourself. But inside the bathroom, once you decide on movin’, you’ll sit there and fuck yourself over and over again because you know. You know. And you want him to know. You want him to know that you’re every bit as fucked up as he is and you’ll keep the door unlock.”
She’s closer, skimming. He’s tense. Almost cracking his shoulders. There’s a laugh in her throat. But she keeps her words instead.
“Maybe so he’ll see. Maybe not. And your hand - that hand that feels so free because you like this, you like this, that he’s in the other room, and it’ll be covered in your -”
His hand is around her throat, crushing. She’s laughing. Strangled. He’ll never do it - her panties are sticky; she’s taken to the soft kind. Low hips. Cotton for the week. She had things to do. Eyes to bat. Gettin' into character, you know. And boys, silly boys, like their soft and sweet girls.
“Say it again,” he snarls. “Again.”
She stumbles. He drops his hand and she laughs. Laughs. He’s got her pressed against the car. Not his car. Sam’s smart. It’s got to be planned perfectly. But his mouth brushes over her throat. Over her chain. Ruby’s playing dress up, was, in the next town over. She sighs at his teeth though, a scrape. There’s a whistle of the highway somewhere off to the side. She smells smoke.
“Don’t -”
“- push you?” she laughs delight in his face, pressing her hips high. They hit his. Their legs hit, her knee rubbing against his erection. She’ll come on her fingers later. Three’s always a fucking whirl of fun. Her and her long fingers. Sometimes, she’ll wait and watch him too. It’s easy. They think they know, but they never look clearly into the dark.
But her “come on, sweetheart,” draws a slur into his hair. She pulls a little. Her ass hits door. He grunts. She laughs again.
“I’ll do what I please, Sammy. Because I’ve got the corners of this game. And your answers. So if you’re going to play -”
And he drops back. Burned. Bitch, she thinks. Her coat off in the grass. If that’s what it is. Mounds of dust. Always still at the crossroad. They need a new gig. But Sam’s away from her, shifting. Foot to foot. He turns his palms and stares.
“Do you understand?” - him.
“Do you?” - her.
He’s a thin line. And it’s only begun to register with him.
She steps back. Moves to the grass. A little dead, a little alive. The dead bitch was always particular about her space. All sparkle and shine. Her jacket’s wet. She swings it between the tips of her fingers. Rolls her thumb against the collar. There’s a song. Faint. It’s in her head. Not hers, of course. It is what it is.
“Go back.”
It’s a pick a side game tonight. Not to the surface. And she waves her hand, turnin’ away. It’s her back first. Never his. She feels his eyes. Thinks about watching tonight. Or not.
“You’re useless to me like this.” her voice brushes behind her. She passes the dead bitch. Scuffs some dirt over her pretty fuckable lips. Stupid bitch. Let this go, Ruby. Let this go. And so she passes further. No glances back, a lazy smile.
Tonight, for her, it’s going to be a guy in a bar. Grease stains scattered on his palms. To her breasts. She’s going think about slitting his throat as he sighs baby, baby and oh, sweet girl. Or cutting his eyes out - they’re all fucking perverts. And she’s going to come, come hard. Mouth in that silent brush of moment. No name. Or so she’s going to tell herself.
Sam’ll just lock the door.
-