Fic: don't let the wrong one through the door (hard R) - Sam/Ruby, Sam/Meg!Demon.
title: don’t let the wrong one through the door
charactes/[airings: Sam/Ruby, Sam/Meg!Demon.
rating: hard R
word count: 671
spoilers/warnings: General spoilers for all aired episodes. Dark and a little icky.
note: This is what I write when I’m sick and can’t sleep, apparently. I don’t even know. I wish I knew.
summary: That little fallen angel on your shoulder.
She sidles up close and whispers against his cheek. “Do you remember how it felt inside of me? I remember what it felt like in you, Sam. All that blood swirling around to your heartbeat, the power in your sinews, the strength in your bones.”
He jerks away, as much as he can when he’s pinned to a post.
“I’m protecting the interests of those who came before,” she says.
“I will kill you,” he grits out.
“I’m not the one you need to kill, Sam, or have you forgotten Lilith completely? Dad called her a pathetic little upstart, and you know what? I have to agree.” She walks her fingers down his arm and leans back in.
“Too bad you need me to kill her,” he snarls.
She grasps his forearm in one hand and squeezes until the bones give way and he howls in pain. First the radius cracks, then the ulna, breaking like firewood being prepped for a pyre.
“I don’t need you whole to do that,” she says simply.
“I trusted you,” he says, wheezing through the pain, but he doesn’t cry out.
She cups his face in her hands and strokes her thumbs over the thin skin under his eyes. “Yeah? I crawled out of Hell for you. Twice. I mean, that’s gotta count for something.”
He spits in her face. She grabs her knife and makes him bleed.
“Did Dean tell you about what he did once he begged them to let him off the rack?” she asks softly, smearing her fingers through the thin line of blood trickling down his face. “How he couldn’t get enough of it, the torturing? It takes a special kind of soul to be a torturer, you know. They’re artists.”
He struggles again, testing out the boundaries of the telekinetic hold she has on him. She lets him push for a moment because it tickles, then she shoves back harder. His head cracks back against the column and he groans.
He still doesn’t smell like fear.
“You could hear him enjoying it clear across the pit,” she says, dropping her voice to a sotto drawl. She traces the tip of the blade down his arm, not hard enough to break the skin, just enough pressure to make him shiver. “He was one of the best we’d ever seen.”
“Stockholm Syndrome,” he gasps.
She sets the knife aside and presses her thumb against the swollen place where his broken bones are just beneath the skin. “Any coping mechanism in a pinch,” she says, shrugging while his body vibrates and tries to ride out the pain. “But he still realized some potential you know was there. You just don’t want to admit that Brother Bear had some evil buried deep inside.”
“You’re wrong,” he hisses.
She steps back. “Maybe I am,” she says. She smoothes her hands down his flanks, fisting in his shirt just enough that his abdominal muscles dance away from her fingertips. He twitches and shudders, but he says nothing. “You’re so warm,” she says, sliding her fingers up under his shirt. “I would love to crawl back inside and make myself at home, but you do make things difficult.”
He closes his eyes. She grabs him by the chin with one hand and thumps his head back against the post again. This time the squelch of wet, bloody hair fills the room.
“Look at me when I have my hands on you,” she whispers. “You didn’t have problems before, Sam. I’m hurt.”
She slides his belt buckle undone but leaves it there. He’s panting, eyes gone distant. She snaps her fingers in front of his nose. “Pay attention,” she says. “I’m not going to evil monologue for my own benefit.”
“I will kill you,” he says, making proper eye contact for the first time. “I won’t just pull you out of your host and send you burning back to Hell. I will destroy you.”
She smiles, a little feral. “Okay. Let’s save the world first, though, okay?”
End.