Supernatural Fic: "D.I.Y." 1/1 (dark!fic, het; Sam/Ruby)
Title: D.I.Y.
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Dark!fic, Het
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Ruby, Dean; Sam/Ruby
Rating and Warnings: NC-17 for sex . Set a month or so after "Bedtime Stories" and containing spoilers through that episode.
Word count: 2,150
Disclaimer: Sadly, Winchesters are not among the few things I own.
Summary: He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t. He’s not that guy.
Notes: Many thanks to kimonkey7 and cunien for beta reading, and to liptonrm for calling me after reading the first draft and flapping her hands loudly enough to make me keep tinkering, and for introducing me to the Winchesters.
D.I.Y.
He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t. He’s not that guy.
But all the evidence-the slick drag of her, hot and tight around his dick, the vice grip of her legs circling his hips, the glitter in her voice as she urges him on-suggests that he is that guy, he does this now.
Ruby shows up like she always does. Catches him when he’s alone, packing up after the job. Dean’s off somewhere, running some errand, wrapping something up, doing whatever he can to be where Sam isn’t now that they don’t have a case to focus on, now that there’s nothing to do but play another round of their family’s fucked-up game of self-sacrificial hot potato, or sit in a silence that crackles with hurt and anger and not-talking-about-it.
She strolls in-no knock, no invitation, not even a lock pick he can see. Just lets her pelvis direct her swagger and starts recapping. All the time three inches into his personal space, lifting her chin and tilting her head to bare her neck to him, leaning at just the right angle to make her tiny tits cast shadows in the deep vee neck of her T-shirt, voice breathy with that near-lisping, good-girl-gone-bad tease that Meg did so much better because she never bothered much with the good-girl part.
Four months down, eight to go. God love Dean Winchester. Such a brave little toaster. You know him better than I do, of course. No one could know him better. So tell me. Really. He’s terrified, right? He should be. I mean, option one, he goes to Hell. Or option two, you pull some new prank-kill the wrong demon, maybe-and fuck his deal right up. And there’s poor Dean right back at square one. Baby brother dead, no reason to live. What do you think he’ll do then, Sam? You really think he’s not gonna find a way to end up dead anyway? You really think he’s going anywhere good afterward, even without the deal? That you are? Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore, baby.
And all he can say to any of it is “What do you want?” but she never tells him. He can’t ask the better question-“What do you want me to do?”-because he doesn’t want her to know he’ll do it, whatever it is. She probably knows that already, but he still has eight months and doesn’t want to say it directly. Not yet.
This time, when she answers, “I want you, Sam,” he knows. She says it with sex in her mouth, the way she says everything, but Sam knows what she really means, what she really wants. She wants him evil. She wants him to flip the switch like Ava did, like Jake. She wants him leading the demon hoards, and she wants to be riding shotgun. Actually, he's pretty sure she wants to do the driving herself, but she'll want the masses to think she’s shotgun.
But because she’s a demon chick-and if she and Meg and that crossroads bitch are a fair sample, it’s what demon chicks do-she plays it like it's about sex. Accents every syllable with flirtation, suggestion so obvious it practically blinks neon, even though she doesn't say the words: “You know you want to fuck me. Look at how dirty-bad-hot I am. Come on, baby, just take one little bite.”
And it gets to him. Not because he wants her, but because she so obviously expects him to. She thinks making his dick twitch gives her some kind of power over him. She thinks that’s going to be the thing that pushes him over the edge. Like saving Dean isn't motivation enough, but if he can score a hot piece of demon ass, then hell, yeah, man-giddyup. It’s cheap, and it’s stupid, and it’s every demon cliché rolled into one, and before he gets much past “cheap” and “stupid,” he’s got her scrawny ass in its too-tight jeans in one hand and most of her hair wound around the other. He bites into the flesh of her neck and growls in frustration when it doesn’t just come away under his teeth like a mouthful of crisp autumn apple.
Under his tongue, her throat undulates with laughter, soft, victorious notes that stir the hair over his ear, and he wants to laugh himself because she thinks she’s won.
She coos at him, pleased as punch when he wedges himself between her thighs and crushes her into the desk, and murmurs encouragement as he thrusts against her through their jeans, laughing-always with that quiet, satisfied chuckle. Her nails bite into his skin as she works his belt to get where she thinks she owns him, and he disguises his own sharp laugh as a gasp when her hands close around his dick, because it's just skin and tissue and blood. She thinks having her hands on the gearshift means she's driving this thing, but she's riding shotgun after all.
The struggle with their clothing is brief: she rocks to either side to push her pants off her narrow hips and kicks all the way out of one leg while Sam simply lets his jeans and underwear hang halfway down his thighs. When he retrieves the condom from his wallet, her chuckle turns into a snort, and he has to restrain himself from slapping the smirk off her face, using words instead, though they're not nearly as eloquent.
"Fuck you, skank."
"Ooh, look who's got a filthy mouth." She arches under his hand as he slides it over her, testing. She must take her own hotness to heart, because she's dripping. "Go on, Sam," she sneers. "Talk dirty to me."
"Fuck you," he repeats, and then he does, and she likes it. As he sinks in he makes a noise of comprehension because this, right here, is why the vagina gets called "snatch," and it's every bit as dirty and disrespectful as it always sounded to him, and Sam shouldn't like it nearly as much as he does. It doesn't matter, though. What he's doing now has nothing to do with anything he's done before.
She winds her arms around his neck, stretches up, trying to get at his mouth, but he twists away, won't let her. Through half-closed eyes, Sam sees the score marks he's left on her neck, wants to do more of that. He's got one hand up her shirt already and moves the other to join it at the apex of her T-shirt's neck, pulling at the fabric from under and above, ripping it easily open. She's laughing again, but it's not the sound that puts a stutter in the rhythm of his hips, it's the hole just to the right of her sternum. Its char-black edges and deeply pink center mar the shallow slope of her breast and pluck at the confidence driving him.
She's dead already, and he doesn't know what to do with that. She doesn't feel dead, bucking against him, her damp heat smearing his balls, forming sticky droplets in his pubic hair. He can feel her breath on his neck, can feel her pulse around his dick. But as soon as the demon clears out, this body's dead.
This body. It's not Ruby's. This body has its own name-one Sam will never know. (Doesn't want to know.) But it's all right. She's dead already. (Not dead. Not until the demon leaves.) She's unconscious, overpowered by the possession. (Not always. Not all the time.) Anyway, it's too late, and he's not the one who shot her. (Jealous?) She's dead already, and what he's doing now is a means to an end. A good end: Dean, alive, fighting evil like the monster that's made a soldier of this body and marched it onto the battlefield. (Not a soldier. A civilian, an innocent.) A fallen soldier like Dad and Jim and Caleb and Ash. (But not like Dean, who won't fall because this girl will help save him). Sam is overcome with an aching pang of love and comradeship. He curves his back steeply and presses his mouth to the wound, licking tenderly at its edges, the metallic tang of unhealing flesh sharp on his taste buds as he tongues the hole.
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
Ruby sounds proud, and it snaps Sam out of his sentimentality over the body they're both using. He doesn't answer, but hikes one of her legs higher to better his angle, deepen and speed things. She's panting along with him, not laughing now, but still with that air of victory, conquest, about her. He hates her, and, fuck, it feels good.
The sensation gathers, low and deep, winding itself into a coil so tight that its edges sharpen dangerously. His question comes out on a groan, rough and desperate and well camouflaged.
"What do you want me to do?"
Her cheeks and chest are stained to match her name, and she purrs when she grabs his wrist and pulls his hand down between them where his pubic bone and hers batter it.
"Get me off," she answers, and there's something in her voice, an acute angle of need, that snaps the too-tight spring inside Sam.
He snares her left wrist in his right hand and leans heavily, supporting himself on the desktop. The other hand twists between them, clamping onto her wrist and pressing their fists into the reluctantly yielding flesh of her stomach. A sound he's never heard escapes his mouth, and he slams into her, coming ferociously. It's deep and wrenching but over fast, and as he yanks back, throwing her hands away from him, he snarls, "Do it yourself, bitch."
He doesn't bother turning his back as he snaps off the rubber and pulls up his pants, allowing himself to enjoy the tug of his mouth twisting into a smirk of his own as he watches her gasp on the desk. Her jeans are tangled around one ankle, pale thighs reddened from the friction. Her face shifts from confusion to frustration and then to anger in the few seconds it takes Sam to toss the condom carelessly onto the floor and whip his belt through its buckle.
"Go ahead and let yourself out when you've got your shit together," he suggests, leaning to retrieve his wallet as he heads for the door.
He doesn't know where he's going, just lets his feet guide him away from Ruby, away from the room Dean will return to with a six pack and a pile of paperwork they'll try to turn into another gig.
Half an hour later, Sam finds himself on a park bench, full cup of coffee gone cold in his hand. And half an hour after that, Dean finds him there, too. He sits, leaving most of the bench between them, arches an eyebrow that says Ruby didn't flush the condom before she left, and follows Sam's gaze across the field to the modest skate park. It's almost empty this close to dinner time-one skinny kid making lazy figure eights in the half pipe. The sound of his board's wheels on the concrete floats on the heavy evening air, reminding Sam of the Impala's late-night, deserted-highway lullaby.
After a few minutes, Dean's tolerance for silence runs out, and he knocks his knuckles into Sam's shoulder. "Left your phone in the room. And your key."
Sam shrugs and looks away to hide the lingering satisfaction of his exit. It's not a trick he's going to be able to pull more than once, but it felt good to get the upper hand and use it to knock her off balance. Felt good not to be the one left wanting.
"Must've slipped my mind."
"It's not like you."
But Sam thinks it is like him now. It's just like him. He wonders if it's even crossed Dean's mind that Sam might be fucking a "what" and not a "who." He hears Ruby's soft laugh in his ear again, the triumphant little noise she made as he drove into her, and his internal temperature drops several degrees. His guts shiver and ache with the sudden chill of realization: even if she didn't get what she expected, he still gave her what she wanted.
He's not like Ava and Jake. He's not wired up with a switch. His is a dial, like the dimmers in some of the nicer motel rooms. Whether it happens one click at a time or in a single, violent slam, he'll end up in the dark just the same. And Sam finds he’s enough clicks gone already that he doesn’t care, as long as he gets what he wants along the way.
He turns to his brother and moves his face into a neutral almost-smile. "You hungry? I'm hungry."
***
For the record, I hope the KripkeChipTM is not transmitting this time.
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Dark!fic, Het
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Ruby, Dean; Sam/Ruby
Rating and Warnings: NC-17 for sex . Set a month or so after "Bedtime Stories" and containing spoilers through that episode.
Word count: 2,150
Disclaimer: Sadly, Winchesters are not among the few things I own.
Summary: He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t. He’s not that guy.
Notes: Many thanks to kimonkey7 and cunien for beta reading, and to liptonrm for calling me after reading the first draft and flapping her hands loudly enough to make me keep tinkering, and for introducing me to the Winchesters.
D.I.Y.
He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t. He’s not that guy.
But all the evidence-the slick drag of her, hot and tight around his dick, the vice grip of her legs circling his hips, the glitter in her voice as she urges him on-suggests that he is that guy, he does this now.
Ruby shows up like she always does. Catches him when he’s alone, packing up after the job. Dean’s off somewhere, running some errand, wrapping something up, doing whatever he can to be where Sam isn’t now that they don’t have a case to focus on, now that there’s nothing to do but play another round of their family’s fucked-up game of self-sacrificial hot potato, or sit in a silence that crackles with hurt and anger and not-talking-about-it.
She strolls in-no knock, no invitation, not even a lock pick he can see. Just lets her pelvis direct her swagger and starts recapping. All the time three inches into his personal space, lifting her chin and tilting her head to bare her neck to him, leaning at just the right angle to make her tiny tits cast shadows in the deep vee neck of her T-shirt, voice breathy with that near-lisping, good-girl-gone-bad tease that Meg did so much better because she never bothered much with the good-girl part.
Four months down, eight to go. God love Dean Winchester. Such a brave little toaster. You know him better than I do, of course. No one could know him better. So tell me. Really. He’s terrified, right? He should be. I mean, option one, he goes to Hell. Or option two, you pull some new prank-kill the wrong demon, maybe-and fuck his deal right up. And there’s poor Dean right back at square one. Baby brother dead, no reason to live. What do you think he’ll do then, Sam? You really think he’s not gonna find a way to end up dead anyway? You really think he’s going anywhere good afterward, even without the deal? That you are? Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore, baby.
And all he can say to any of it is “What do you want?” but she never tells him. He can’t ask the better question-“What do you want me to do?”-because he doesn’t want her to know he’ll do it, whatever it is. She probably knows that already, but he still has eight months and doesn’t want to say it directly. Not yet.
This time, when she answers, “I want you, Sam,” he knows. She says it with sex in her mouth, the way she says everything, but Sam knows what she really means, what she really wants. She wants him evil. She wants him to flip the switch like Ava did, like Jake. She wants him leading the demon hoards, and she wants to be riding shotgun. Actually, he's pretty sure she wants to do the driving herself, but she'll want the masses to think she’s shotgun.
But because she’s a demon chick-and if she and Meg and that crossroads bitch are a fair sample, it’s what demon chicks do-she plays it like it's about sex. Accents every syllable with flirtation, suggestion so obvious it practically blinks neon, even though she doesn't say the words: “You know you want to fuck me. Look at how dirty-bad-hot I am. Come on, baby, just take one little bite.”
And it gets to him. Not because he wants her, but because she so obviously expects him to. She thinks making his dick twitch gives her some kind of power over him. She thinks that’s going to be the thing that pushes him over the edge. Like saving Dean isn't motivation enough, but if he can score a hot piece of demon ass, then hell, yeah, man-giddyup. It’s cheap, and it’s stupid, and it’s every demon cliché rolled into one, and before he gets much past “cheap” and “stupid,” he’s got her scrawny ass in its too-tight jeans in one hand and most of her hair wound around the other. He bites into the flesh of her neck and growls in frustration when it doesn’t just come away under his teeth like a mouthful of crisp autumn apple.
Under his tongue, her throat undulates with laughter, soft, victorious notes that stir the hair over his ear, and he wants to laugh himself because she thinks she’s won.
She coos at him, pleased as punch when he wedges himself between her thighs and crushes her into the desk, and murmurs encouragement as he thrusts against her through their jeans, laughing-always with that quiet, satisfied chuckle. Her nails bite into his skin as she works his belt to get where she thinks she owns him, and he disguises his own sharp laugh as a gasp when her hands close around his dick, because it's just skin and tissue and blood. She thinks having her hands on the gearshift means she's driving this thing, but she's riding shotgun after all.
The struggle with their clothing is brief: she rocks to either side to push her pants off her narrow hips and kicks all the way out of one leg while Sam simply lets his jeans and underwear hang halfway down his thighs. When he retrieves the condom from his wallet, her chuckle turns into a snort, and he has to restrain himself from slapping the smirk off her face, using words instead, though they're not nearly as eloquent.
"Fuck you, skank."
"Ooh, look who's got a filthy mouth." She arches under his hand as he slides it over her, testing. She must take her own hotness to heart, because she's dripping. "Go on, Sam," she sneers. "Talk dirty to me."
"Fuck you," he repeats, and then he does, and she likes it. As he sinks in he makes a noise of comprehension because this, right here, is why the vagina gets called "snatch," and it's every bit as dirty and disrespectful as it always sounded to him, and Sam shouldn't like it nearly as much as he does. It doesn't matter, though. What he's doing now has nothing to do with anything he's done before.
She winds her arms around his neck, stretches up, trying to get at his mouth, but he twists away, won't let her. Through half-closed eyes, Sam sees the score marks he's left on her neck, wants to do more of that. He's got one hand up her shirt already and moves the other to join it at the apex of her T-shirt's neck, pulling at the fabric from under and above, ripping it easily open. She's laughing again, but it's not the sound that puts a stutter in the rhythm of his hips, it's the hole just to the right of her sternum. Its char-black edges and deeply pink center mar the shallow slope of her breast and pluck at the confidence driving him.
She's dead already, and he doesn't know what to do with that. She doesn't feel dead, bucking against him, her damp heat smearing his balls, forming sticky droplets in his pubic hair. He can feel her breath on his neck, can feel her pulse around his dick. But as soon as the demon clears out, this body's dead.
This body. It's not Ruby's. This body has its own name-one Sam will never know. (Doesn't want to know.) But it's all right. She's dead already. (Not dead. Not until the demon leaves.) She's unconscious, overpowered by the possession. (Not always. Not all the time.) Anyway, it's too late, and he's not the one who shot her. (Jealous?) She's dead already, and what he's doing now is a means to an end. A good end: Dean, alive, fighting evil like the monster that's made a soldier of this body and marched it onto the battlefield. (Not a soldier. A civilian, an innocent.) A fallen soldier like Dad and Jim and Caleb and Ash. (But not like Dean, who won't fall because this girl will help save him). Sam is overcome with an aching pang of love and comradeship. He curves his back steeply and presses his mouth to the wound, licking tenderly at its edges, the metallic tang of unhealing flesh sharp on his taste buds as he tongues the hole.
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
Ruby sounds proud, and it snaps Sam out of his sentimentality over the body they're both using. He doesn't answer, but hikes one of her legs higher to better his angle, deepen and speed things. She's panting along with him, not laughing now, but still with that air of victory, conquest, about her. He hates her, and, fuck, it feels good.
The sensation gathers, low and deep, winding itself into a coil so tight that its edges sharpen dangerously. His question comes out on a groan, rough and desperate and well camouflaged.
"What do you want me to do?"
Her cheeks and chest are stained to match her name, and she purrs when she grabs his wrist and pulls his hand down between them where his pubic bone and hers batter it.
"Get me off," she answers, and there's something in her voice, an acute angle of need, that snaps the too-tight spring inside Sam.
He snares her left wrist in his right hand and leans heavily, supporting himself on the desktop. The other hand twists between them, clamping onto her wrist and pressing their fists into the reluctantly yielding flesh of her stomach. A sound he's never heard escapes his mouth, and he slams into her, coming ferociously. It's deep and wrenching but over fast, and as he yanks back, throwing her hands away from him, he snarls, "Do it yourself, bitch."
He doesn't bother turning his back as he snaps off the rubber and pulls up his pants, allowing himself to enjoy the tug of his mouth twisting into a smirk of his own as he watches her gasp on the desk. Her jeans are tangled around one ankle, pale thighs reddened from the friction. Her face shifts from confusion to frustration and then to anger in the few seconds it takes Sam to toss the condom carelessly onto the floor and whip his belt through its buckle.
"Go ahead and let yourself out when you've got your shit together," he suggests, leaning to retrieve his wallet as he heads for the door.
He doesn't know where he's going, just lets his feet guide him away from Ruby, away from the room Dean will return to with a six pack and a pile of paperwork they'll try to turn into another gig.
Half an hour later, Sam finds himself on a park bench, full cup of coffee gone cold in his hand. And half an hour after that, Dean finds him there, too. He sits, leaving most of the bench between them, arches an eyebrow that says Ruby didn't flush the condom before she left, and follows Sam's gaze across the field to the modest skate park. It's almost empty this close to dinner time-one skinny kid making lazy figure eights in the half pipe. The sound of his board's wheels on the concrete floats on the heavy evening air, reminding Sam of the Impala's late-night, deserted-highway lullaby.
After a few minutes, Dean's tolerance for silence runs out, and he knocks his knuckles into Sam's shoulder. "Left your phone in the room. And your key."
Sam shrugs and looks away to hide the lingering satisfaction of his exit. It's not a trick he's going to be able to pull more than once, but it felt good to get the upper hand and use it to knock her off balance. Felt good not to be the one left wanting.
"Must've slipped my mind."
"It's not like you."
But Sam thinks it is like him now. It's just like him. He wonders if it's even crossed Dean's mind that Sam might be fucking a "what" and not a "who." He hears Ruby's soft laugh in his ear again, the triumphant little noise she made as he drove into her, and his internal temperature drops several degrees. His guts shiver and ache with the sudden chill of realization: even if she didn't get what she expected, he still gave her what she wanted.
He's not like Ava and Jake. He's not wired up with a switch. His is a dial, like the dimmers in some of the nicer motel rooms. Whether it happens one click at a time or in a single, violent slam, he'll end up in the dark just the same. And Sam finds he’s enough clicks gone already that he doesn’t care, as long as he gets what he wants along the way.
He turns to his brother and moves his face into a neutral almost-smile. "You hungry? I'm hungry."
***
For the record, I hope the KripkeChipTM is not transmitting this time.