Fic: Standing In Quicksand
Title: Standing In Quicksand.
Fandom: Supernatural/One Tree Hill Crossover.
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Brooke. Ruby. Eventually: Dean. Castiel. Missouri. Bobby.
Rating: R.
Words: 1,264.
Summary: AU-ish. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is her. It’s a sight that brings him to his knees. Ruby possesses Brooke. Hell hath no fury like a demon scorned.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Never did. This is me, not owning things.
Warnings: Dark themes.
Notes: I wrote this a couple of months ago, and randomly stumbled acrossed it in my files. I spruced it up and added a new angle the original didn't have because, at the time, we didn't know the canon. I think I might play around in this verse some more, not exactly in a chaptered way, but do expect a prequel soon-ish.
“Get out of her, Ruby.”
She makes her familiar, lovely green eyes flash ink black and tilts her head at him. Ruby twists her lips into a smirk that is not hers, not her. She straddles his thighs with her body, licks from him neck to cheek with her tongue, and God help him, he reacts. It’s her, he knows it not Ruby, because she’s wearing her body, her clothes, and damnit, she’s wearing her perfume.
She breathes her breath against his ear. “What, don’t you like it? Don’t you want it?” she whispers with her voice.
He struggles against the ropes that hold his hands. “Get the fuck out of her, Ruby, or so help me -”
“Or you’ll what?” she taunts, and tosses her brown hair back, leaning close to his face and her eyes flash back to green. “Can’t focus the powers without your hand, Sammy. Can’t exorcise me all tied up. Can’t get that fix you want so badly. What a helpless little lamb you are.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. Sammy.”
She laughs her laugh, and he wants to vomit. “Couldn’t save big brother, could you? Won’t save the girl, either. Too bad, I’d like to keep this body.” She presses her closer, her hands on his shoulders, her nails in his skin. She twists her hips against him, and he groans. “Pretty, isn’t she? Love her, don’t you? She loves you.” Ruby lifts her hand and taps against her temple. “She’s screaming in here all about it. Wants you to know it’s okay, that she wants you, too. Come on, Sammy, don‘t you want slice open this pretty skin and see what she tastes like.”
“You twisted bitch,” he spits venomously, and struggles harder against his bonds, forces his mind to focus, forcing the image her words formed out of his addled brain. Focus, fuck, focus idiot!
She raises her hand ready to strike, but in a split second decides not to. She uses her hand to caress his cheek, smoothing over his skin softly. He leans into the touch unconsciously, unthinkingly. She mimics her well. “Poor Sam. What a predicament,” she says, her voice lower. He’s almost unable to hear the wrongness in it. “You need it. I don’t know what you let that crack-pot psychic convince you of, but she’s wrong. You need this.”
Luckily, a nail came loose from the post he’s tied to. “What do you want?” he asks, hoping to distract her while his hands go to work trying to loosen the knot in the rope.
“What do you think?” she asks, and slithers over him. The lace of her negligee brushes against his bare chest, her fingers slide up his neck and tangle in his hair. Her teeth scrape along the shell of his ear, before she whispers to him again. “It’s you. Always has been. I just want to help you. I‘m the only one who can.”
“You do, huh?” he grunts, wrists cramping in the unnatural angle he has to hold them to get the nail to catch. He almost has it. Just a tug now. Harder. There! He slips his hands from the rope slowly, inching up and out. She squirms on top of him, moans her moan, and he almost loses the element of surprise right then and there. But he holds it together, and waits.
“I do,” she says, moving in for the kill. She uses her lips to press against his, uses them to pry his open, and slip her tongue in.
She thinks she has the upper hand, thinks she has him right where she wants him, and then he grasps her around her arms. Her eyes fly open, the ink descending over the green, surprise tainting her features. He squeezes harder, but not too hard, just enough to make sure he has a good hold. Then he slams his head into hers. She falls off him to the floor with a heavy thump that sickens him to hear. He stands up quickly, hand out before he’s on his feet, ignoring the rubbed raw feeling in his wrists. She looks up at him, black gaze burning hot as coals.
He goes to work with a vengeance, enacting what she taught him and using it against her, without the help of her blood, without her, wrangling the power the way Missouri taught him. His lids close over his eyes so he can see. He rips the smoke curled around her bones first, catching the stuff bleeding into her muscle tissue on his way up and out. He scoops the demon from her stomach, and he finally hears her coughing. Quickly, he snips the tiny wires from around her heart and yanks at the strings threaded through her brain, through her nervous system. The smoke accumulates around her unconscious body until he’s got all of Ruby under his thumb, then he tells her where to go.
When he opens his eyes, all he sees is her. It’s a sight that brings him to his knees. Crawls to her, not bothering to wipe the blood from his nose and upper lip. He gathers her up in his arms, his fingers searching her throat until he blessedly feels a pulse fluttering against her skin. He pulls her gently against his chest, and lays down right there on the floor. He can’t move them to the bed. He can’t move them anywhere. He falls into unconsciousness, too.
In the morning, he tells her he’s leaving and she’s not coming. He explains it’s not safe; that as long as she’s with him, she’ll always be in danger. Women who love Winchesters should expect short life spans. Her mouth is a hard line, she lets her eyes silently speak for her, bitter disbelief and determined fury. He sounds like Peter Parker to his own ears, but he couldn’t stand to have her hurt because of him, if she died because of him. He packs his duffle as she watches silently in a corner of the room. He leaves her the credit cards. He can hustle, he doesn’t want her to.
He looks at her one last time, still silent as the grave in her little corner, and turns his back on her and leaves; the one thing he knows how to do and do well.
He never expects her to steal a car, and follow him. But she does because no one else would pull into the parking space next to the impala, no one else would burst through the door to his motel room, two days and four states away, at three in the morning. She comes at him; an angry, fierce caricature of the girl she was before a black dog attacked and killed her best friend right in front of her eyes, of the girl he didn’t know before he picked her up on the side of a highway in South Carolina. She yanks him down roughly by the collar of his shirt, and seethes in his face.
“I am not fucking Mary-Jane Watson! You can‘t just leave and expect me to stay put, Sam,” she yells at him, slaps him hard across his face and shoves him down on the bed. She climbs on top of him and kisses him hard, makes him bleed, makes him hurt and ache. “I’m Brooke Davis,” she rasps in his ear, fingers working nimbly at all the buttons and zippers of his clothes. “You better not forget it.”
“I won’t,” he promises, and surges against her, turning her underneath him. “Never again.”
Fandom: Supernatural/One Tree Hill Crossover.
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Brooke. Ruby. Eventually: Dean. Castiel. Missouri. Bobby.
Rating: R.
Words: 1,264.
Summary: AU-ish. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is her. It’s a sight that brings him to his knees. Ruby possesses Brooke. Hell hath no fury like a demon scorned.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Never did. This is me, not owning things.
Warnings: Dark themes.
Notes: I wrote this a couple of months ago, and randomly stumbled acrossed it in my files. I spruced it up and added a new angle the original didn't have because, at the time, we didn't know the canon. I think I might play around in this verse some more, not exactly in a chaptered way, but do expect a prequel soon-ish.
“Get out of her, Ruby.”
She makes her familiar, lovely green eyes flash ink black and tilts her head at him. Ruby twists her lips into a smirk that is not hers, not her. She straddles his thighs with her body, licks from him neck to cheek with her tongue, and God help him, he reacts. It’s her, he knows it not Ruby, because she’s wearing her body, her clothes, and damnit, she’s wearing her perfume.
She breathes her breath against his ear. “What, don’t you like it? Don’t you want it?” she whispers with her voice.
He struggles against the ropes that hold his hands. “Get the fuck out of her, Ruby, or so help me -”
“Or you’ll what?” she taunts, and tosses her brown hair back, leaning close to his face and her eyes flash back to green. “Can’t focus the powers without your hand, Sammy. Can’t exorcise me all tied up. Can’t get that fix you want so badly. What a helpless little lamb you are.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. Sammy.”
She laughs her laugh, and he wants to vomit. “Couldn’t save big brother, could you? Won’t save the girl, either. Too bad, I’d like to keep this body.” She presses her closer, her hands on his shoulders, her nails in his skin. She twists her hips against him, and he groans. “Pretty, isn’t she? Love her, don’t you? She loves you.” Ruby lifts her hand and taps against her temple. “She’s screaming in here all about it. Wants you to know it’s okay, that she wants you, too. Come on, Sammy, don‘t you want slice open this pretty skin and see what she tastes like.”
“You twisted bitch,” he spits venomously, and struggles harder against his bonds, forces his mind to focus, forcing the image her words formed out of his addled brain. Focus, fuck, focus idiot!
She raises her hand ready to strike, but in a split second decides not to. She uses her hand to caress his cheek, smoothing over his skin softly. He leans into the touch unconsciously, unthinkingly. She mimics her well. “Poor Sam. What a predicament,” she says, her voice lower. He’s almost unable to hear the wrongness in it. “You need it. I don’t know what you let that crack-pot psychic convince you of, but she’s wrong. You need this.”
Luckily, a nail came loose from the post he’s tied to. “What do you want?” he asks, hoping to distract her while his hands go to work trying to loosen the knot in the rope.
“What do you think?” she asks, and slithers over him. The lace of her negligee brushes against his bare chest, her fingers slide up his neck and tangle in his hair. Her teeth scrape along the shell of his ear, before she whispers to him again. “It’s you. Always has been. I just want to help you. I‘m the only one who can.”
“You do, huh?” he grunts, wrists cramping in the unnatural angle he has to hold them to get the nail to catch. He almost has it. Just a tug now. Harder. There! He slips his hands from the rope slowly, inching up and out. She squirms on top of him, moans her moan, and he almost loses the element of surprise right then and there. But he holds it together, and waits.
“I do,” she says, moving in for the kill. She uses her lips to press against his, uses them to pry his open, and slip her tongue in.
She thinks she has the upper hand, thinks she has him right where she wants him, and then he grasps her around her arms. Her eyes fly open, the ink descending over the green, surprise tainting her features. He squeezes harder, but not too hard, just enough to make sure he has a good hold. Then he slams his head into hers. She falls off him to the floor with a heavy thump that sickens him to hear. He stands up quickly, hand out before he’s on his feet, ignoring the rubbed raw feeling in his wrists. She looks up at him, black gaze burning hot as coals.
He goes to work with a vengeance, enacting what she taught him and using it against her, without the help of her blood, without her, wrangling the power the way Missouri taught him. His lids close over his eyes so he can see. He rips the smoke curled around her bones first, catching the stuff bleeding into her muscle tissue on his way up and out. He scoops the demon from her stomach, and he finally hears her coughing. Quickly, he snips the tiny wires from around her heart and yanks at the strings threaded through her brain, through her nervous system. The smoke accumulates around her unconscious body until he’s got all of Ruby under his thumb, then he tells her where to go.
When he opens his eyes, all he sees is her. It’s a sight that brings him to his knees. Crawls to her, not bothering to wipe the blood from his nose and upper lip. He gathers her up in his arms, his fingers searching her throat until he blessedly feels a pulse fluttering against her skin. He pulls her gently against his chest, and lays down right there on the floor. He can’t move them to the bed. He can’t move them anywhere. He falls into unconsciousness, too.
In the morning, he tells her he’s leaving and she’s not coming. He explains it’s not safe; that as long as she’s with him, she’ll always be in danger. Women who love Winchesters should expect short life spans. Her mouth is a hard line, she lets her eyes silently speak for her, bitter disbelief and determined fury. He sounds like Peter Parker to his own ears, but he couldn’t stand to have her hurt because of him, if she died because of him. He packs his duffle as she watches silently in a corner of the room. He leaves her the credit cards. He can hustle, he doesn’t want her to.
He looks at her one last time, still silent as the grave in her little corner, and turns his back on her and leaves; the one thing he knows how to do and do well.
He never expects her to steal a car, and follow him. But she does because no one else would pull into the parking space next to the impala, no one else would burst through the door to his motel room, two days and four states away, at three in the morning. She comes at him; an angry, fierce caricature of the girl she was before a black dog attacked and killed her best friend right in front of her eyes, of the girl he didn’t know before he picked her up on the side of a highway in South Carolina. She yanks him down roughly by the collar of his shirt, and seethes in his face.
“I am not fucking Mary-Jane Watson! You can‘t just leave and expect me to stay put, Sam,” she yells at him, slaps him hard across his face and shoves him down on the bed. She climbs on top of him and kisses him hard, makes him bleed, makes him hurt and ache. “I’m Brooke Davis,” she rasps in his ear, fingers working nimbly at all the buttons and zippers of his clothes. “You better not forget it.”
“I won’t,” he promises, and surges against her, turning her underneath him. “Never again.”