Supernatural Fic: little red was walking into the woods
note: for ephemerall. sorry it took so long, bb! ♥
little red was walking into the woods
"i miss him." sam's voice is heavy, thick over a weary drawl. she isn't surprised. this isn't new. this is a breaking and entering job. supernatural. ruby; sam/ruby. spoilers for on the head of a pin. 1,000+ words, pg.
-
The room still breathes with Sam's whiskey. Sam drinks whiskey now. It's too cheap, too easy, and around the corner, standing and waiting earlier.
Her body doesn't like whiskey. Her body doesn't do a lot of things. It used to kiss for beers, fast cars, and boys who would promise to marry her off. Years haven't changed much, but her memories are better shadows. Sam uses this. Sam uses a lot of things.
She stands right next to him too, quiet and pulling her nails against her arm, over the knife scar and that need, that sudden need to start this all over again. They flush against her skin. There’s no sensation. She’s an observer here. She wonders. There’s a purpose, a place for everything and everything for a place; this isn't her moment. It’s never been really been.
They do smell like the hospital. It stains the collar of her jacket, on the floor, and her t-shirt slick against her throat. He’s half-skewed too, hunched, his hands shaking in his pockets as he steps into the room. The last hallway wears him, blanketed in the rest of the dead. His eyes are dark, his mouth trembling, and he's staring at the bed, waiting for her to offer some sort of out. Not her place, boy-savior. It’s not her place.
But she can see Dean too, back at the hospital and folded into his bed. The angel was there, is there, and the lights crack in her ears still, as if they were waiting for her to start something. He has a name. She won't say it. If she could, maybe she'd wonder why. Those hallways were long, limbs wrapping around people's throats. It was the doctor. It was the nurse. Ruby isn't stupid. She was a child once. She’s religious. She keeps herself to seeing bodies all the time. He needs to learn.
"I miss him." Sam's voice is heavy, thick over a weary drawl. She isn't surprised. This isn't new. Today, he's trying to be his father. Tomorrow, he'll try to be Dean. Nowhere in there will Sam be Sam. She’s beginning to get that. She’s doing her job. Most days, he's not really talking to her.
She doesn't say anything either, stepping around him and to the bed. She sits, sinks, and the sheets split underneath her. There’s a knife set against her thigh. She remembers the knife. The room is oiled with what little light of the day is left, leaving. The blinds are faced against the window. She doesn't see the sun. Outside, the room is open to a skeleton lot. People are running faster. She doesn't tell him that. Sam tends to worry. Sam forgets it's always the little things, waiting, waiting and picking him apart.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do, Sammy," and it feels bitter against her tongue, stretched like it shouldn't be there. He doesn't know the difference anymore. He’s a child. She's a child. They push. This is how it all starts. She looks to the floor and picks out the stains; her body's painted somewhere between the blood and dirt, with the sex that's slit someone's throat. She’s learned the stories of all these walls and after awhile, the motels become sort of the same. It’s to pass the time, just in case.
And maybe, the truth is that she'll do what he asks. Because he will ask and she can give. She’s always given something to someone, to everyone. Her flesh, her bones, her eyes. They’ve been peeled, pulled, and set into work. There are memories carved into her. She was someone else. She’s already been written into the taste of her own skin. This is nothing new. The knife will always be at her thigh.
"I should go back."
She shakes her head. Ruby can be amused. She was empty first.
"You're going to go back."
His gaze is steady. "I know."
His hands rise and he pulls at his jacket, peeling it away from his arms. She feels the question. She keeps her gaze to the floor. It’s a mad, mad world, right? The jacket drops anyway, soundless against the floor. She watches as its arms stretch and fold into the carpet. His boots are next too, buried in muddle and popping off his feet. She doesn't ask what he's doing. The room smells a little like panic. He’s never loud.
She’s never loud. I know, he said. I know, he says. They play at her ears, twisting and turning. She hears one. She hears the other. Not once have they ever been the same. She doesn't know how to use them, so she keeps away. Sam is Sam and Dean is Dean, full of grace and waiting to be crucified. She tried to tell them both that angels swallow justice and spit out what is not for their favor. But then, only then, do her lips feel the pull of needles and the slow, lazy gesture of years of thread. Witches are only witches once.
"You should close the blinds."
Her voice is soft, too soft. She’s too small. He needs this. It breaks and she looks up, swallowing. The motel sign is starting to peek into the room. It runs in reds, over the spread of the wall. Sam doesn't turn. She doesn't laugh at vacancy. The n is missing. It could have been funny.
"You're the only one here," he says quietly.
The room thins, then. The walls stand tightly. Over them, there’s laughter that echoes in a room. A woman’s voice is thin. Ruby frowns. Her weight settles less and less into the bed. In a minute, Sam will disappear into the bathroom. He’ll lock it. The water will turn on. Sam will hide. She can’t listen. He won’t let her and she knows this too well.
Instead, she remembers Dean again. The other one. Dean in his hospital bed, and the angel, the angels that wear and tear skin just likes she does. They break for God. They lie for God.
Sam hasn’t moved. He’s looking right through her.
little red was walking into the woods
"i miss him." sam's voice is heavy, thick over a weary drawl. she isn't surprised. this isn't new. this is a breaking and entering job. supernatural. ruby; sam/ruby. spoilers for on the head of a pin. 1,000+ words, pg.
-
The room still breathes with Sam's whiskey. Sam drinks whiskey now. It's too cheap, too easy, and around the corner, standing and waiting earlier.
Her body doesn't like whiskey. Her body doesn't do a lot of things. It used to kiss for beers, fast cars, and boys who would promise to marry her off. Years haven't changed much, but her memories are better shadows. Sam uses this. Sam uses a lot of things.
She stands right next to him too, quiet and pulling her nails against her arm, over the knife scar and that need, that sudden need to start this all over again. They flush against her skin. There’s no sensation. She’s an observer here. She wonders. There’s a purpose, a place for everything and everything for a place; this isn't her moment. It’s never been really been.
They do smell like the hospital. It stains the collar of her jacket, on the floor, and her t-shirt slick against her throat. He’s half-skewed too, hunched, his hands shaking in his pockets as he steps into the room. The last hallway wears him, blanketed in the rest of the dead. His eyes are dark, his mouth trembling, and he's staring at the bed, waiting for her to offer some sort of out. Not her place, boy-savior. It’s not her place.
But she can see Dean too, back at the hospital and folded into his bed. The angel was there, is there, and the lights crack in her ears still, as if they were waiting for her to start something. He has a name. She won't say it. If she could, maybe she'd wonder why. Those hallways were long, limbs wrapping around people's throats. It was the doctor. It was the nurse. Ruby isn't stupid. She was a child once. She’s religious. She keeps herself to seeing bodies all the time. He needs to learn.
"I miss him." Sam's voice is heavy, thick over a weary drawl. She isn't surprised. This isn't new. Today, he's trying to be his father. Tomorrow, he'll try to be Dean. Nowhere in there will Sam be Sam. She’s beginning to get that. She’s doing her job. Most days, he's not really talking to her.
She doesn't say anything either, stepping around him and to the bed. She sits, sinks, and the sheets split underneath her. There’s a knife set against her thigh. She remembers the knife. The room is oiled with what little light of the day is left, leaving. The blinds are faced against the window. She doesn't see the sun. Outside, the room is open to a skeleton lot. People are running faster. She doesn't tell him that. Sam tends to worry. Sam forgets it's always the little things, waiting, waiting and picking him apart.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do, Sammy," and it feels bitter against her tongue, stretched like it shouldn't be there. He doesn't know the difference anymore. He’s a child. She's a child. They push. This is how it all starts. She looks to the floor and picks out the stains; her body's painted somewhere between the blood and dirt, with the sex that's slit someone's throat. She’s learned the stories of all these walls and after awhile, the motels become sort of the same. It’s to pass the time, just in case.
And maybe, the truth is that she'll do what he asks. Because he will ask and she can give. She’s always given something to someone, to everyone. Her flesh, her bones, her eyes. They’ve been peeled, pulled, and set into work. There are memories carved into her. She was someone else. She’s already been written into the taste of her own skin. This is nothing new. The knife will always be at her thigh.
"I should go back."
She shakes her head. Ruby can be amused. She was empty first.
"You're going to go back."
His gaze is steady. "I know."
His hands rise and he pulls at his jacket, peeling it away from his arms. She feels the question. She keeps her gaze to the floor. It’s a mad, mad world, right? The jacket drops anyway, soundless against the floor. She watches as its arms stretch and fold into the carpet. His boots are next too, buried in muddle and popping off his feet. She doesn't ask what he's doing. The room smells a little like panic. He’s never loud.
She’s never loud. I know, he said. I know, he says. They play at her ears, twisting and turning. She hears one. She hears the other. Not once have they ever been the same. She doesn't know how to use them, so she keeps away. Sam is Sam and Dean is Dean, full of grace and waiting to be crucified. She tried to tell them both that angels swallow justice and spit out what is not for their favor. But then, only then, do her lips feel the pull of needles and the slow, lazy gesture of years of thread. Witches are only witches once.
"You should close the blinds."
Her voice is soft, too soft. She’s too small. He needs this. It breaks and she looks up, swallowing. The motel sign is starting to peek into the room. It runs in reds, over the spread of the wall. Sam doesn't turn. She doesn't laugh at vacancy. The n is missing. It could have been funny.
"You're the only one here," he says quietly.
The room thins, then. The walls stand tightly. Over them, there’s laughter that echoes in a room. A woman’s voice is thin. Ruby frowns. Her weight settles less and less into the bed. In a minute, Sam will disappear into the bathroom. He’ll lock it. The water will turn on. Sam will hide. She can’t listen. He won’t let her and she knows this too well.
Instead, she remembers Dean again. The other one. Dean in his hospital bed, and the angel, the angels that wear and tear skin just likes she does. They break for God. They lie for God.
Sam hasn’t moved. He’s looking right through her.