(no subject)
Delilah, Descending
by whereupon
Sam/Ruby, Dean/Ruby. Spoilers through 4.12, nc-17, 5,881 words.
She's in his blood, but Dean was there first.
In Prague, a girl with black-rimmed eyes had spread the cards across a scarred wooden table, and beneath the heavy grey sky of war, had professed the ability to divine the future.
Ruby'd always been up for a game, and she hadn't had anywhere to be at the time, so she'd dropped coins onto the table and the girl had smiled.
The girl got it wrong, but that wasn't entirely her fault. And some days when Ruby feels generous, she reminds herself that the cards, like most everything where belief is concerned, are open to interpretation.
Most people don't know death the way that she does, nor do they know the devil in any but the most mundane of forms.
When the city burned the next day, Ruby watched the flames from a safe distance. She was close enough to taste the smoke, and to hear the crackle of the flames, and to hear the screams of the dying.
She thought of the girl, and of the cards, and she turned away. She didn't care about them, the dying and those who had once lived, and even if she had, there was no point in getting involved.
They always came to the same end; no matter the choice they made, they always ended up in the same place. They were weak, and foolish, the way she remembered she'd once been.
All the same, she didn't find fortunetellers quite so amusing after that. It was sad, really, what they tried to do, as though they thought they could hold for a second even just a fraction of eternity, of significance. As though they thought it would matter, if they knew, as though that knowledge would change anything.
It's not until she finds Sam Winchester that she gets involved again, and even then, it's mostly because of Lilith.
Which isn't to say that, after awhile, she doesn't begin to get used to him, and to his brother.
--
She spends six months getting Sam ready to fight, nursing him through his grief, and maybe that's not such a long time considering how many years she's walked the earth in one form or another, but they kind of have a deadline to meet.
And then Dean comes back, and everything goes to hell, pun only slightly intended.
--
Sam chooses Dean, but he doesn't forget about her.
He can't. After all, she's in his blood.
And she doesn't like waiting, isn't so good with patience, but she'll do what she has to. She'll take what she can get, scant hours in early morning, longer periods of time when his brother's passed out and he can get away without being noticed, being questioned.
He tells her once that she's the only sure thing he's got left, the only thing he can rely on. His mouth is stained when he says it, and the flickering headlights of cars on the interstate cast weird shadows across the walls of the darkened motel room.
He's your brother, she says, her hand gentle on the curve of his jaw, because he can't ever think that she might be about more than making sure he's okay.
She doesn't think he'd understand a world that was about anything other than him. Dean trained him well that way, and she hasn't quite managed to get around it yet.
She's in his blood, but Dean was there first.
--
After the scene in South Dakota, they go their separate ways. That's fine with her; she's got more to worry about than whether Sam and Dean will get over this whole brotherly whinefest they've got going on. Though to be fair, it's mostly Dean doing the whining.
She has to admit, and not without a little pride, that she's trained Sam well.
So she goes her way and they go theirs, and that would be fine except for how their way appears to involve forgetting all about this war they're meant to be fighting. This war she's trained Sam to fight in, this war for which she's bled, and maybe that's not such a big thing, it goes with the territory, but damn, she did like that shirt.
When the next seal breaks and they don't do a damn thing about it, when they head to the middle of absolutely nowhere to work on some lame haunting that's not going to matter when the world's gone to cinders and ash, she decides she's had enough.
Humans will disappoint you every time, unless you happen to be betting on their demise. She knows that, and she knows that she ought to have known better, but she also knows that it's not merely human blood that burns through Sam Winchester's veins, and maybe his brother's more than just the first cracked-open box on the apocalypse advent calendar.
That's what makes them easy to find. Not that she would have had a problem otherwise, but they burn bright, those two.
So yeah, they're not that hard to find, and it's practically the responsible thing to do. She's only protecting her investment, after all.
--
She catches up with them in Delaware. They're in a fast food restaurant, wedged into some terrible plastic booth with a view of the parking lot, and she wants to roll her eyes. Really, the world's set to end in a matter of months, and they're wasting their time on sub-par fries and lousy burgers? They seriously need to check their priorities.
Of course, that's why she's here.
She watches them from the parking lot; her car is obvious, a beautiful menacing thing, and if they cared to look, they'd see her.
That's okay; she's not trying to hide. If she wanted to go unnoticed, they wouldn't ever know she was there. Her presence is kind of the point, a reminder that there's more at stake than the outcome of their little family drama.
They're talking, and she amuses herself by imagining what they're saying. From the expressions on their faces, it's not a pleasant conversation, and then she counts down the seconds until Dean gets up from the booth and storms for the exit. She gets it right; he slams open the door exactly on cue. He glares in her direction, but he doesn't come closer; he just heads for the Impala and peels out of the parking lot all screeching brakes and burning rubber.
Really, the Winchester boys are such drama queens. She wonders if they get that from their father.
She looks back at the restaurant; Sam's staring desolately at the table like he's just been dumped, and Ruby sighs. She gets out of her car, and she tries to ignore the fried-grease scent as she enters the restaurant and slides into what had been Dean's seat.
Sam looks up. The smudges beneath his eyes are a few shades away from the color of old blood. She wonders if Dean noticed, if that's what they were fighting about. Somehow, she doubts it. "Ruby," he says. "What're you doing here?"
"I'm not exactly here for the food," she says, but she steals a few of his fries anyway. "So, you know that war you're meant to be fighting?"
Sam swallows. "I'm working on it," he says. "It's, the past couple of days, they've been hard."
"You know what's gonna be harder?" Ruby says. "When Lilith's army swarms out of hell and slaughters like 99% of the population."
Sam flinches, but only a little. "He needs me," he says, and the set of his jaw is stubborn, but his words sound like a plea.
"What he needs is a serious reality check," Ruby says. "I'm not saying you should tell him everything, but he needs to get his head in the game, and so do you. We're gonna need all the help we can get, Sam. I can't do this alone. The seals are breaking."
Sam swallows. "So is he."
She reaches across the table to cover his hands with her own. His are shaking, very faintly. "Sam," she says. "So is everybody. That's how it works. That's what we're fighting against."
He takes in a breath; when he releases it, it's shuddering, sad, and he swallows. "I need, um."
She licks her lips, and she looks at him; this entire plan would crumble if only Dean refused to play his role for even a moment. And yet they all know that he won't, just as she knows exactly what it will drive Sam to do, what it drives Sam to do at this very moment. "To be strong enough for both of you?" she offers.
"Yeah," he says, grateful, and she nods. This is how the plan unfolds, this is where he takes the next step, Proserpina pleading for the pomegranate: in a brightly-lit fast-food chain, with sullen-eyed teenagers slouched behind the counter, because she is offering him the one thing he thinks he has always wanted, and because he believes it will be enough.
She smiles.
"It's okay," she says. "I got a room."
--
He sits beside her on the bed and he presses his mouth to her wrist without hesitation; afterward, he kisses her like he meant what he said before. Satisfaction is a slow-burning ember in her stomach.
It's victory, not love. She doesn't want to believe she was ever that weak when she was human, and she certainly isn't that weak now.
He pushes her back onto the bed without breaking the kiss; his eyes are bright and hot as he looks down at her. She shivers beneath him, arching her back to press against him, and when he pins her arms over her head, she gasps without thinking.
It's all for play, of course. Even with the blood, her blood, inside him, she could have him flat on his back if she wanted. But he is desperate and breathless, his heart pumping hard with that crackling black wave, building to crescendo, and he is, she knows, so very thankful.
His hands cover the bones of her hips, and then press gently at her thighs; he strokes her through the dark fabric of her underwear until she's dizzy. Please, she says, then, because that's what he needs, what he craves, but she means it, too.
Please, and he acquiesces; this is more than repayment, she thinks, it's almost an act of reverence, and she knows that he is aching, can see it in the line of his shoulders. Still, he does not hurry, he takes his time; he slides her underwear down, and she closes her eyes in supplication when his palm brushes against the back of her knee. When he lowers his face to her once more, her back arches in relief.
It's this body, she thinks. This weak, human body, twisting against him, and it shouldn't feel anything like this, his tongue hot against her, his fingers slipping inside of her, but she grips his shoulders and cries out all the same, as though all the armies of hell are upon her.
--
They are both dressed once more, but he hasn't yet made any move to leave; they lie together on the unrumpled bed and he holds her as though she were a real girl. It never fails to surprise her, how much he has given himself over to the illusion that she is human, or perhaps how much he has come to accept the fact that she isn't.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, and his breath stirs her hair. His hand rests against her stomach, moving as she breathes.
"Yeah, shoot," she says.
She hears him swallow. "When you were in hell, did you, um. Did you torture people?"
"Yes," she says. He doesn't tense; he was expecting the answer.
"He said he, uh. He said he liked it." Sam says this quickly, and quietly, as though betraying a confidence and as though he thinks he would lose the nerve if he took any longer.
"He was there for what, forty years or something?" Ruby says. "Sam, everybody breaks. Everybody."
"That's what I told him," Sam says. "He didn't, he wouldn't tell me why . . ."
"He did what he had to do to stay sane," Ruby says, rolling over to face him. "Sometimes it's hard to accept that. Everybody's capable of terrible things. You don't have to be a demon for that. And your brother had that whole fearless-hero thing going on." She shrugs. His hand is hot on her back. "So now he knows he's not infallible. That's gotta sting."
Sam bites his lip. He pulls away, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "I gotta go," he says.
"You want a ride?"
"No," he says. He glances in the mirror over the sink, checking for anything that might give him away. A bruise, maybe, or a smear of red. "I'll walk."
"Okay," she says. "But I meant what I said. Don't forget what's at stake."
"I won't," he says, but he's lying. She watches him go.
--
It's not hard to find Dean; even if she weren't a demon, it would be easy. She's not his brother, not anything even close to being close, but she knows enough about him. There's no risk of being found out; she knows Sam won't go to him, not like this. There are better things Sam can do than waste more words on someone who will not hear them, better things he can do with the renewed power sizzling beneath his skin. He's beautiful like that, but she doesn't have time to watch him, doesn't have time to enjoy the show.
This is stupid, she knows, but it's not like this will make a difference in any important way, and she thinks she might be compelled, might do so even if it would. Maybe part of it is the way he looks at her when he talks about Dean. How disappointed he is, and how much he doesn't understand, this broken little boy who wants only to be told that things can ever be put right again.
She grits her teeth. This is not love, she tells himself. She does not love the Winchester boys, not Sam whom she saved from death, who wants so badly to save a world that does not want him, nor Dean who went to hell because he was stupid and brave.
She is over six hundred years old and she has not loved once since she was human. There are more important things. Her role in this is greater than anything so petty, and she will not watch the plan come to ruin for the sake of sentimentality.
All the same, she gets out of the car.
--
A demon walks into a bar, she thinks, but she doesn't have time to come up with a punchline before she sees him. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke, both stale and new, and half-buried strains of Cream's version of "Crossroads" drift from an unseen jukebox. He's hunched over at the bar, and he doesn't look over at her even after she slides onto the stool beside his. She wonders if he's aware of the three men standing around the pool table and glaring at him.
Since his brother's not here to play the mark, she doubts it.
"It's ten o'clock, do you know where your brother is?" she says, and either she's lousy at making pop culture references or he's more drunk than she'd expected, because he stares at her uncomprehendingly.
"What're you doing here?" he asks after a moment, his words dragging thick and heavy as river mud, and she sighs. She'd thought Sam looked bad; Dean's worse. Her team, such as it is, is absolutely pathetic.
"A girl can't go into a bar and have a drink these days?" she asks. "What's the world coming to?"
"You," he says, and he blinks as though trying to focus on her. "Are not a girl."
"And you're about ten minutes away from needing to have your stomach pumped," she says. "What's your point?"
"Sam send you?" he asks. She thinks it's meant to be accusatory.
"No," she says.
"Then what," he says roughly. He raises his glass to his mouth before she can answer, and she raises her eyebrows.
"Does it help?" she says. "Seriously, does this help at all?"
"Uh, yeah," he says. "Hell of a lot, actually."
"And you, what, just don't care what it's doing to him?"
"He can take care a' himself," Dean says. "And," he says, like he's just remembered something important, "he's got you."
"He's meant to have you," she says. "You get that, right? You went to hell, you're back, he wants you to be his brother again?"
He stares at her; she's not sure whether he's not sure what she said or if he just doesn't know how to reply, and then he downs the rest of his drink. "Fuck off," he says, and he slams the glass back down on the counter, slides it in the direction of the bartender.
"Okay, I honestly cannot believe that I'm about to say this," she says. "But you're done here."
"No, what I am is gonna have another drink," he says, his words directed more to the bar than to her. She glances at the bartender, who's been watching them but who looks away immediately.
"No," she says. "You're gonna come with me, or I'm going to knock you out and drag you back to your brother, and believe me, it's gonna hurt."
"Yeah?" he says. "Try," and the expression on his face might have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.
She smiles. The sound of his head hitting the bar is immensely satisfying, and then he groans, goes limp. "You would not believe how long I've been wanting to do that," she says, untwisting her hand from the collar of his jacket. He doesn't react when she slips her hand beneath the leather to find his wallet. She tosses down enough money to cover what she thinks is probably a ridiculous tab, and to keep the bartender from being especially interested, and then she gets her shoulder under his arm and drags him to his feet.
At least he's conscious enough to try to walk, which helps avert suspicion. Not that she thinks anybody would particularly notice and/or care, otherwise, and she wonders how many people in the bar he managed to piss off.
The men come towards her on the way out; they stand between her and the door, as though they think that will intimidate her, as though they think they stand a chance. She raises her eyebrows; she is so not in the mood for this, and actually, she's half-sick to death of testosterone bullshit entirely. "Your friend here owes us some money," the tallest one says. "He's got this tendency to cheat, y'see."
"He's got a lot of tendencies," she says. "But he's not my friend, and it's not his fault you're dumb enough to be hustled."
He reaches out as though to grab her free hand, but she grabs his wrist before he can, and then tightens her grip. "Do us both a favor and don't fuck with me, 'kay?" she says. He nods, his eyes wide with shock and not a little pain, and she lets him go.
They get out of the way.
She dumps Dean unceremoniously in the shotgun seat of her car, and he doesn't move at all when she gets in and starts the engine.
A demon walks into a bar and walks out with the man who wanted to kill her, she thinks, but that's not very funny.
She shakes him awake when they're in front of the door to the motel room he's sharing with Sam. "Get the fuck out," she says, and she's not sure if he understands her, but after a moment, he fumbles for the car door.
She stays long enough to make sure he gets into the room, and then she leaves. She's not his mother, and this is Sam's mess to clean up.
--
Dean calls her the next day. "You ripped me off," he says, and he sounds like it hurts to talk.
"I saved your ass," she says. Fog presses against the windows of her rented room. The door is barred, but she doesn't turn her back to it all the same.
"Yeah?" he says. "From what?"
"Next time you hustle a game, don't get wasted in the same bar," she says. "'Cause I'm not gonna save you again. You wanna get mugged in the alley, go for it."
"I don't need saving," he snaps. "Stay the fuck away from both of us," and he hangs up.
She didn't expect to be thanked, but all the same, his relentless stupidity is kind of annoying.
--
She tracks them to Tennessee a few days later, and when she calls Sam's cell, Dean answers. "What," he says.
"Where's Sam?" she asks.
"Indisposed," he says. "What do you want?"
"Don't do me any favors," she says. "You wanna fight this war by yourself, fine. You're the one who started it, after all."
"An hour," he says, and since she is alone, she lets herself smile. It's no great prize, really; she knew exactly how he'd react, but she does like to win. "Be here in an hour."
"Yes, sir," she says, mocking, and hangs up before he can retort.
--
It's not even two in the afternoon and the neon of the bar across from the motel is lit. Ruby turns her back to it and knocks on the door; Dean opens it. She's faintly amused to see the fading bruise like a smear of ash on his forehead; she wonders how he explained it to Sam, or if Sam even needed to ask.
"Where's Sam?" she asks.
"Researching," he says.
"Did you even tell him I called?" she asks, stepping past him into the motel room. The closet door's open and the sight of Sam's flannel hanging on the sparse wooden hangers is familiar in a way that it really shouldn't be. She looks away.
"Yes," he says, and he's lying. She rolls her eyes. Whatever. Sam knows how to get hold of her if he needs anything. She's got better things to do than wait around for him. Like stopping the apocalypse, which is apparently something both of them have forgotten about.
"So what do you want?" she says. "Because I got better things to do than hang around in a motel room with you. Like stopping the apocalypse."
"Since you're doing such a bang-up job of it," Dean says.
"And you're being such help," she says. "Okay then. Good seeing you."
She turns to go; she's made it two steps when he says, "I meant it, before, when I said thanks."
"For what?" she says.
"Taking care'a him while I was gone," he says. She turns back. He's blushing, red smudged high across his cheeks; she hadn't expected that.
"He's worried about you," she says.
Dean shrugs. "Yeah."
"So are you gonna get over yourself?" she asks.
"Get over myself?" Dean says, incredulous, insulted. His eyes are wide, and six months and a lifetime ago, she thinks he'd have reached for a gun, no matter how ineffective it would be. Instead, he only stares at her, and she wonders how fundamentally he has changed, how broken he has become. "I was in hell."
"And now you're not," she says, because even broken things can be useful, and because sometimes it's in the breaking that they turn to steel. He stares at her, and she shrugs. "Not saying it's peachy now, but you've got him. That's something."
"Yeah," he says. "I got him, and I told him, and do you know how he looked at me?" He swallows hard. "It's not how he looks at you, and you're a demon." It's funny how he always manages to turn that into an insult. She should be used to it by now.
"You're his brother," she points out, and her tone makes it compassionate, kinder than she would have liked. "He knew you before."
"That's not," Dean says, his eyes narrowed, and then he falters. "Whatever."
"You're still you," she says. "Now you just know what you're capable of."
"Yeah, and that's the really fuckin' scary part," he says, bitter and brutal. The honesty surprises her, and she thinks it surprises him, too.
"Dean," she says. "Anybody else would have done the same thing."
"Not my dad," he says, and she's not sure whether he's honoring his father or condemning himself. It's probably both.
"Sam doesn't expect you to be him," Ruby says, and Dean looks up, hard and angry.
"You don't know anything about it," he says, and his tone is a desperate, cruel thing.
"I know him," she says, almost gently. "He wants you, not your dad." Dean stares at her like he's trying to work through what she's just said, as though he's not sure what to do with the words she's just given him, and then he rubs a hand across his face.
"Fuck, okay, I'm sorry, I just."
Ruby catches his hand when he lowers it. "Dean. It's okay."
"Uh, no," Dean says. "No, it's not."
She shrugs. "You're right. And it's not ever gonna be okay again. So you can whine about it and keep getting your ass kicked, or you can fight anyway. Your choice."
"That's not a choice," Dean says, and the burnt-out exhaustion in his voice is made even more obvious by the bravado he uses to try to cover it. "That's . . . stupid."
"I didn't make the rules," she says. "I took care of him while you were gone, okay? And now you're back. And he needs you right now, not me."
The words taste like ash in her mouth. For a moment, she remembers what it was like to want to cry.
She realizes, with dawning horror, that he saw as much on her face, and that he knows. She is frozen, shocked into stillness, and when he steps towards her, she doesn't move. She realizes that she is still holding his hand.
He kisses her, and he doesn't taste at all like his brother. His hands curve around the back of her neck, pulling her close, and his tongue slides across her lips. His eyes are open, waiting; he doesn't close them until she nods, until she kisses him back.
Until she gives him permission.
If she hadn't been damned before, she thinks she certainly would be now.
His skin is as unmarred as his brother's is scarred. He's wearing his necklace again, the one that had swung cold against her chest the first time Sam fucked her, and she shivers when it touches once more the bare skin of her chest.
He bears her gently down onto the bed, and he bites his lip as he pushes into her, as though he's afraid he's doing to break her, to damage her.
She survived hell; there's no way anything he could do will break her, but she doesn't need to say that. Her fingernails bite into his shoulders as she brings him down to kiss her, as she grinds against him; she does not look to see if she's drawing blood, does not care. His breath burns across her collarbone, and she thinks that the heat of her palms might well sear reckless tattoos into his skin.
Afternoon is fading into evening when they are done, and the shadows are long. They are both bruised, she thinks, and empty, and she swallows as she opens the door. "Tell him I stopped by," she says.
"No way in hell," he says, and she smirks despite herself. He looks at her, and he kisses her one last time (and she does not let herself believe that it will be anything but the last time), and before he can say anything, she closes the motel door behind herself.
--
Sam calls her a few days later. She goes to him in Dallas, bleeds for him in a dingy motel room with dirty lace-pattern curtains, and lets him fall asleep in her arms.
He doesn't know. If he did, he wouldn't look at her like this, like he needs her like this.
They are both magic, sparking black and electric. Their blood is the same.
--
Another seal breaks.
--
Dean calls her a week after that. They fuck hard in the alleyway behind the bar; his breath smells of whiskey but his eyes are clear. She doesn't ask where Sam is, and he doesn't volunteer the information.
He says her name when he comes. She thinks it surprises him as much as it surprises her, and she kisses him hard enough to leave a mark.
They both went to hell. They both came back.
--
On the ragged edges of Chicago, they're almost in time to keep the next seal from breaking. They fight together, all three of them; this time, there are no angels on their side.
Sam is refusing her blood, now, and that makes him weak. Ruby drives the knife deep into the demon's back before it can bring its boot down once more, but Sam is already bleeding, curled in upon himself, and Dean has to help him to his feet.
Ruby has to look away from the expression on Dean's face when Sam leans against him; it's almost like wonder, like gratitude, and she tells herself to let it go. Let him have this.
She hasn't asked why Sam is refusing her blood; she knows, or thinks she knows, and she knows, too, that he'll change his mind.
He's too good a person to believe there's any other choice.
He's asleep in the motel, safe behind wards of salt and iron, when, in the next room, Ruby slides onto Dean's lap.
The curtains are thin and the overcast sky seeps through like an admonition, inescapable. Neither of them need to say much, and they are as quiet as possible; the bedsprings squeak, and their labored breathing is the only other sound.
She doesn't ask if he feels guilty, if he regrets this, and he doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't ask if he's told his brother yet, or if he'll take this to his grave.
She is this close to the end of this world, to the beginning of a new one, and she will not let herself feel guilt. And he doesn't ask, as he lifts the hair from the nape of her neck and kisses the revealed skin there before running his hands down the length of her back.
She closes her eyes as he works into her; her fingers tighten around the blankets and as she swallows back a whimper, she thinks that it is with the Winchesters that she is most human, and so it is they who are her greatest weakness.
And only a fool would hinge the crux of her plan on the same thing that so easily brings her to her knees.
--
There are portents throughout the Midwest. A nun goes blind during a lightning storm, a baby is born by a barren woman and lives for three hours before succumbing, scalding red rain falls for three minutes from a cloudless sky.
--
Beneath a star-streaked sky in Nebraska, she watches from the safety of her car while they get coffee in an anonymous diner with a burnt-out sign. When they leave, they leave together, and they do not look once in her direction. She thinks that they are beginning to rebuild.
And in the quiet, in the dark, she marvels at her work, and she realizes, though perhaps she has known for some time, that she loves that which she has created. And both of them she is stupid to love, stupid to trust, and both of them will undoubtedly be lost in the war.
She loves them both, though she would never say it aloud, and though she lets herself think that they love her as well, it is not nearly enough.
They would not die for her, and both of them would kill her without hesitation if they knew why she is doing this, if they knew what she will do.
But she was foolish when she was human, and maybe that's one thing she'll never be able to escape. And they're all damned, damned in their own ways, and probably none of them will survive the war, no matter the side they're on.
But it'll be better to go down fighting together than to die alone, and she'll take what comfort she can find.
It's more than most people get, and whatever happens, she'll remember it for as long as she can. As a reminder of what happens when she weakens, of how much it can hurt, if nothing else.
--
Sam believes he can save the world. Dean believes that the world is going to hell whether or not they do anything to stop it.
He looks exhausted, in the moonlight; his skin is pale and grey and there are shadows shifting deep around his eyes. There are new scars across his chest, and his hands are curled into fists atop the sheets as though he can't remember how to do anything but fight.
"You should sleep," she says, because he looks like he hasn't slept for days. Even the stupid mortal body she's using gets tired eventually; she can't imagine how fragile he must feel.
"I want to stop fighting," Dean says. "That's, that's really selfish of me, isn't it?" like he's asking permission, like she's the only one he can be honest with. She wonders what he tells his angel, when his angel deigns to be spoken with.
She wonders why it's only in sin that he can be truthful. She wonders if it's only because he still thinks he's better than her, or if it's because he's finally realized that he isn't.
"No," she says, and she kisses him. Later, she watches him sleep and she marvels at how easily he breathes with her here. She cannot tell him that he will get his wish, so she watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, and waits for morning.
--
Sam does not call her, and finally she goes to him. In Iowa, in yet another motel room, she reminds him once more than this is a war, and he turns away.
She is waiting, when he calls her, when he changes his mind, and the noise of the car door shutting behind him is the sound of this world ending, and it is right and true and it is what she wants; when Sam asks why she is smiling, she isn't lying when she says, "Because you made the right choice."
"I'm not so sure," he says.
"Trust me," she says, and she thinks of the burning city, and she thinks that maybe the girl was right, after all.
He nods. "I do," he says, and she covers his hand with hers; his pulse beats steadily beneath her own.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/Ruby, Dean/Ruby. Spoilers through 4.12, nc-17, 5,881 words.
She's in his blood, but Dean was there first.
In Prague, a girl with black-rimmed eyes had spread the cards across a scarred wooden table, and beneath the heavy grey sky of war, had professed the ability to divine the future.
Ruby'd always been up for a game, and she hadn't had anywhere to be at the time, so she'd dropped coins onto the table and the girl had smiled.
The girl got it wrong, but that wasn't entirely her fault. And some days when Ruby feels generous, she reminds herself that the cards, like most everything where belief is concerned, are open to interpretation.
Most people don't know death the way that she does, nor do they know the devil in any but the most mundane of forms.
When the city burned the next day, Ruby watched the flames from a safe distance. She was close enough to taste the smoke, and to hear the crackle of the flames, and to hear the screams of the dying.
She thought of the girl, and of the cards, and she turned away. She didn't care about them, the dying and those who had once lived, and even if she had, there was no point in getting involved.
They always came to the same end; no matter the choice they made, they always ended up in the same place. They were weak, and foolish, the way she remembered she'd once been.
All the same, she didn't find fortunetellers quite so amusing after that. It was sad, really, what they tried to do, as though they thought they could hold for a second even just a fraction of eternity, of significance. As though they thought it would matter, if they knew, as though that knowledge would change anything.
It's not until she finds Sam Winchester that she gets involved again, and even then, it's mostly because of Lilith.
Which isn't to say that, after awhile, she doesn't begin to get used to him, and to his brother.
--
She spends six months getting Sam ready to fight, nursing him through his grief, and maybe that's not such a long time considering how many years she's walked the earth in one form or another, but they kind of have a deadline to meet.
And then Dean comes back, and everything goes to hell, pun only slightly intended.
--
Sam chooses Dean, but he doesn't forget about her.
He can't. After all, she's in his blood.
And she doesn't like waiting, isn't so good with patience, but she'll do what she has to. She'll take what she can get, scant hours in early morning, longer periods of time when his brother's passed out and he can get away without being noticed, being questioned.
He tells her once that she's the only sure thing he's got left, the only thing he can rely on. His mouth is stained when he says it, and the flickering headlights of cars on the interstate cast weird shadows across the walls of the darkened motel room.
He's your brother, she says, her hand gentle on the curve of his jaw, because he can't ever think that she might be about more than making sure he's okay.
She doesn't think he'd understand a world that was about anything other than him. Dean trained him well that way, and she hasn't quite managed to get around it yet.
She's in his blood, but Dean was there first.
--
After the scene in South Dakota, they go their separate ways. That's fine with her; she's got more to worry about than whether Sam and Dean will get over this whole brotherly whinefest they've got going on. Though to be fair, it's mostly Dean doing the whining.
She has to admit, and not without a little pride, that she's trained Sam well.
So she goes her way and they go theirs, and that would be fine except for how their way appears to involve forgetting all about this war they're meant to be fighting. This war she's trained Sam to fight in, this war for which she's bled, and maybe that's not such a big thing, it goes with the territory, but damn, she did like that shirt.
When the next seal breaks and they don't do a damn thing about it, when they head to the middle of absolutely nowhere to work on some lame haunting that's not going to matter when the world's gone to cinders and ash, she decides she's had enough.
Humans will disappoint you every time, unless you happen to be betting on their demise. She knows that, and she knows that she ought to have known better, but she also knows that it's not merely human blood that burns through Sam Winchester's veins, and maybe his brother's more than just the first cracked-open box on the apocalypse advent calendar.
That's what makes them easy to find. Not that she would have had a problem otherwise, but they burn bright, those two.
So yeah, they're not that hard to find, and it's practically the responsible thing to do. She's only protecting her investment, after all.
--
She catches up with them in Delaware. They're in a fast food restaurant, wedged into some terrible plastic booth with a view of the parking lot, and she wants to roll her eyes. Really, the world's set to end in a matter of months, and they're wasting their time on sub-par fries and lousy burgers? They seriously need to check their priorities.
Of course, that's why she's here.
She watches them from the parking lot; her car is obvious, a beautiful menacing thing, and if they cared to look, they'd see her.
That's okay; she's not trying to hide. If she wanted to go unnoticed, they wouldn't ever know she was there. Her presence is kind of the point, a reminder that there's more at stake than the outcome of their little family drama.
They're talking, and she amuses herself by imagining what they're saying. From the expressions on their faces, it's not a pleasant conversation, and then she counts down the seconds until Dean gets up from the booth and storms for the exit. She gets it right; he slams open the door exactly on cue. He glares in her direction, but he doesn't come closer; he just heads for the Impala and peels out of the parking lot all screeching brakes and burning rubber.
Really, the Winchester boys are such drama queens. She wonders if they get that from their father.
She looks back at the restaurant; Sam's staring desolately at the table like he's just been dumped, and Ruby sighs. She gets out of her car, and she tries to ignore the fried-grease scent as she enters the restaurant and slides into what had been Dean's seat.
Sam looks up. The smudges beneath his eyes are a few shades away from the color of old blood. She wonders if Dean noticed, if that's what they were fighting about. Somehow, she doubts it. "Ruby," he says. "What're you doing here?"
"I'm not exactly here for the food," she says, but she steals a few of his fries anyway. "So, you know that war you're meant to be fighting?"
Sam swallows. "I'm working on it," he says. "It's, the past couple of days, they've been hard."
"You know what's gonna be harder?" Ruby says. "When Lilith's army swarms out of hell and slaughters like 99% of the population."
Sam flinches, but only a little. "He needs me," he says, and the set of his jaw is stubborn, but his words sound like a plea.
"What he needs is a serious reality check," Ruby says. "I'm not saying you should tell him everything, but he needs to get his head in the game, and so do you. We're gonna need all the help we can get, Sam. I can't do this alone. The seals are breaking."
Sam swallows. "So is he."
She reaches across the table to cover his hands with her own. His are shaking, very faintly. "Sam," she says. "So is everybody. That's how it works. That's what we're fighting against."
He takes in a breath; when he releases it, it's shuddering, sad, and he swallows. "I need, um."
She licks her lips, and she looks at him; this entire plan would crumble if only Dean refused to play his role for even a moment. And yet they all know that he won't, just as she knows exactly what it will drive Sam to do, what it drives Sam to do at this very moment. "To be strong enough for both of you?" she offers.
"Yeah," he says, grateful, and she nods. This is how the plan unfolds, this is where he takes the next step, Proserpina pleading for the pomegranate: in a brightly-lit fast-food chain, with sullen-eyed teenagers slouched behind the counter, because she is offering him the one thing he thinks he has always wanted, and because he believes it will be enough.
She smiles.
"It's okay," she says. "I got a room."
--
He sits beside her on the bed and he presses his mouth to her wrist without hesitation; afterward, he kisses her like he meant what he said before. Satisfaction is a slow-burning ember in her stomach.
It's victory, not love. She doesn't want to believe she was ever that weak when she was human, and she certainly isn't that weak now.
He pushes her back onto the bed without breaking the kiss; his eyes are bright and hot as he looks down at her. She shivers beneath him, arching her back to press against him, and when he pins her arms over her head, she gasps without thinking.
It's all for play, of course. Even with the blood, her blood, inside him, she could have him flat on his back if she wanted. But he is desperate and breathless, his heart pumping hard with that crackling black wave, building to crescendo, and he is, she knows, so very thankful.
His hands cover the bones of her hips, and then press gently at her thighs; he strokes her through the dark fabric of her underwear until she's dizzy. Please, she says, then, because that's what he needs, what he craves, but she means it, too.
Please, and he acquiesces; this is more than repayment, she thinks, it's almost an act of reverence, and she knows that he is aching, can see it in the line of his shoulders. Still, he does not hurry, he takes his time; he slides her underwear down, and she closes her eyes in supplication when his palm brushes against the back of her knee. When he lowers his face to her once more, her back arches in relief.
It's this body, she thinks. This weak, human body, twisting against him, and it shouldn't feel anything like this, his tongue hot against her, his fingers slipping inside of her, but she grips his shoulders and cries out all the same, as though all the armies of hell are upon her.
--
They are both dressed once more, but he hasn't yet made any move to leave; they lie together on the unrumpled bed and he holds her as though she were a real girl. It never fails to surprise her, how much he has given himself over to the illusion that she is human, or perhaps how much he has come to accept the fact that she isn't.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, and his breath stirs her hair. His hand rests against her stomach, moving as she breathes.
"Yeah, shoot," she says.
She hears him swallow. "When you were in hell, did you, um. Did you torture people?"
"Yes," she says. He doesn't tense; he was expecting the answer.
"He said he, uh. He said he liked it." Sam says this quickly, and quietly, as though betraying a confidence and as though he thinks he would lose the nerve if he took any longer.
"He was there for what, forty years or something?" Ruby says. "Sam, everybody breaks. Everybody."
"That's what I told him," Sam says. "He didn't, he wouldn't tell me why . . ."
"He did what he had to do to stay sane," Ruby says, rolling over to face him. "Sometimes it's hard to accept that. Everybody's capable of terrible things. You don't have to be a demon for that. And your brother had that whole fearless-hero thing going on." She shrugs. His hand is hot on her back. "So now he knows he's not infallible. That's gotta sting."
Sam bites his lip. He pulls away, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "I gotta go," he says.
"You want a ride?"
"No," he says. He glances in the mirror over the sink, checking for anything that might give him away. A bruise, maybe, or a smear of red. "I'll walk."
"Okay," she says. "But I meant what I said. Don't forget what's at stake."
"I won't," he says, but he's lying. She watches him go.
--
It's not hard to find Dean; even if she weren't a demon, it would be easy. She's not his brother, not anything even close to being close, but she knows enough about him. There's no risk of being found out; she knows Sam won't go to him, not like this. There are better things Sam can do than waste more words on someone who will not hear them, better things he can do with the renewed power sizzling beneath his skin. He's beautiful like that, but she doesn't have time to watch him, doesn't have time to enjoy the show.
This is stupid, she knows, but it's not like this will make a difference in any important way, and she thinks she might be compelled, might do so even if it would. Maybe part of it is the way he looks at her when he talks about Dean. How disappointed he is, and how much he doesn't understand, this broken little boy who wants only to be told that things can ever be put right again.
She grits her teeth. This is not love, she tells himself. She does not love the Winchester boys, not Sam whom she saved from death, who wants so badly to save a world that does not want him, nor Dean who went to hell because he was stupid and brave.
She is over six hundred years old and she has not loved once since she was human. There are more important things. Her role in this is greater than anything so petty, and she will not watch the plan come to ruin for the sake of sentimentality.
All the same, she gets out of the car.
--
A demon walks into a bar, she thinks, but she doesn't have time to come up with a punchline before she sees him. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke, both stale and new, and half-buried strains of Cream's version of "Crossroads" drift from an unseen jukebox. He's hunched over at the bar, and he doesn't look over at her even after she slides onto the stool beside his. She wonders if he's aware of the three men standing around the pool table and glaring at him.
Since his brother's not here to play the mark, she doubts it.
"It's ten o'clock, do you know where your brother is?" she says, and either she's lousy at making pop culture references or he's more drunk than she'd expected, because he stares at her uncomprehendingly.
"What're you doing here?" he asks after a moment, his words dragging thick and heavy as river mud, and she sighs. She'd thought Sam looked bad; Dean's worse. Her team, such as it is, is absolutely pathetic.
"A girl can't go into a bar and have a drink these days?" she asks. "What's the world coming to?"
"You," he says, and he blinks as though trying to focus on her. "Are not a girl."
"And you're about ten minutes away from needing to have your stomach pumped," she says. "What's your point?"
"Sam send you?" he asks. She thinks it's meant to be accusatory.
"No," she says.
"Then what," he says roughly. He raises his glass to his mouth before she can answer, and she raises her eyebrows.
"Does it help?" she says. "Seriously, does this help at all?"
"Uh, yeah," he says. "Hell of a lot, actually."
"And you, what, just don't care what it's doing to him?"
"He can take care a' himself," Dean says. "And," he says, like he's just remembered something important, "he's got you."
"He's meant to have you," she says. "You get that, right? You went to hell, you're back, he wants you to be his brother again?"
He stares at her; she's not sure whether he's not sure what she said or if he just doesn't know how to reply, and then he downs the rest of his drink. "Fuck off," he says, and he slams the glass back down on the counter, slides it in the direction of the bartender.
"Okay, I honestly cannot believe that I'm about to say this," she says. "But you're done here."
"No, what I am is gonna have another drink," he says, his words directed more to the bar than to her. She glances at the bartender, who's been watching them but who looks away immediately.
"No," she says. "You're gonna come with me, or I'm going to knock you out and drag you back to your brother, and believe me, it's gonna hurt."
"Yeah?" he says. "Try," and the expression on his face might have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.
She smiles. The sound of his head hitting the bar is immensely satisfying, and then he groans, goes limp. "You would not believe how long I've been wanting to do that," she says, untwisting her hand from the collar of his jacket. He doesn't react when she slips her hand beneath the leather to find his wallet. She tosses down enough money to cover what she thinks is probably a ridiculous tab, and to keep the bartender from being especially interested, and then she gets her shoulder under his arm and drags him to his feet.
At least he's conscious enough to try to walk, which helps avert suspicion. Not that she thinks anybody would particularly notice and/or care, otherwise, and she wonders how many people in the bar he managed to piss off.
The men come towards her on the way out; they stand between her and the door, as though they think that will intimidate her, as though they think they stand a chance. She raises her eyebrows; she is so not in the mood for this, and actually, she's half-sick to death of testosterone bullshit entirely. "Your friend here owes us some money," the tallest one says. "He's got this tendency to cheat, y'see."
"He's got a lot of tendencies," she says. "But he's not my friend, and it's not his fault you're dumb enough to be hustled."
He reaches out as though to grab her free hand, but she grabs his wrist before he can, and then tightens her grip. "Do us both a favor and don't fuck with me, 'kay?" she says. He nods, his eyes wide with shock and not a little pain, and she lets him go.
They get out of the way.
She dumps Dean unceremoniously in the shotgun seat of her car, and he doesn't move at all when she gets in and starts the engine.
A demon walks into a bar and walks out with the man who wanted to kill her, she thinks, but that's not very funny.
She shakes him awake when they're in front of the door to the motel room he's sharing with Sam. "Get the fuck out," she says, and she's not sure if he understands her, but after a moment, he fumbles for the car door.
She stays long enough to make sure he gets into the room, and then she leaves. She's not his mother, and this is Sam's mess to clean up.
--
Dean calls her the next day. "You ripped me off," he says, and he sounds like it hurts to talk.
"I saved your ass," she says. Fog presses against the windows of her rented room. The door is barred, but she doesn't turn her back to it all the same.
"Yeah?" he says. "From what?"
"Next time you hustle a game, don't get wasted in the same bar," she says. "'Cause I'm not gonna save you again. You wanna get mugged in the alley, go for it."
"I don't need saving," he snaps. "Stay the fuck away from both of us," and he hangs up.
She didn't expect to be thanked, but all the same, his relentless stupidity is kind of annoying.
--
She tracks them to Tennessee a few days later, and when she calls Sam's cell, Dean answers. "What," he says.
"Where's Sam?" she asks.
"Indisposed," he says. "What do you want?"
"Don't do me any favors," she says. "You wanna fight this war by yourself, fine. You're the one who started it, after all."
"An hour," he says, and since she is alone, she lets herself smile. It's no great prize, really; she knew exactly how he'd react, but she does like to win. "Be here in an hour."
"Yes, sir," she says, mocking, and hangs up before he can retort.
--
It's not even two in the afternoon and the neon of the bar across from the motel is lit. Ruby turns her back to it and knocks on the door; Dean opens it. She's faintly amused to see the fading bruise like a smear of ash on his forehead; she wonders how he explained it to Sam, or if Sam even needed to ask.
"Where's Sam?" she asks.
"Researching," he says.
"Did you even tell him I called?" she asks, stepping past him into the motel room. The closet door's open and the sight of Sam's flannel hanging on the sparse wooden hangers is familiar in a way that it really shouldn't be. She looks away.
"Yes," he says, and he's lying. She rolls her eyes. Whatever. Sam knows how to get hold of her if he needs anything. She's got better things to do than wait around for him. Like stopping the apocalypse, which is apparently something both of them have forgotten about.
"So what do you want?" she says. "Because I got better things to do than hang around in a motel room with you. Like stopping the apocalypse."
"Since you're doing such a bang-up job of it," Dean says.
"And you're being such help," she says. "Okay then. Good seeing you."
She turns to go; she's made it two steps when he says, "I meant it, before, when I said thanks."
"For what?" she says.
"Taking care'a him while I was gone," he says. She turns back. He's blushing, red smudged high across his cheeks; she hadn't expected that.
"He's worried about you," she says.
Dean shrugs. "Yeah."
"So are you gonna get over yourself?" she asks.
"Get over myself?" Dean says, incredulous, insulted. His eyes are wide, and six months and a lifetime ago, she thinks he'd have reached for a gun, no matter how ineffective it would be. Instead, he only stares at her, and she wonders how fundamentally he has changed, how broken he has become. "I was in hell."
"And now you're not," she says, because even broken things can be useful, and because sometimes it's in the breaking that they turn to steel. He stares at her, and she shrugs. "Not saying it's peachy now, but you've got him. That's something."
"Yeah," he says. "I got him, and I told him, and do you know how he looked at me?" He swallows hard. "It's not how he looks at you, and you're a demon." It's funny how he always manages to turn that into an insult. She should be used to it by now.
"You're his brother," she points out, and her tone makes it compassionate, kinder than she would have liked. "He knew you before."
"That's not," Dean says, his eyes narrowed, and then he falters. "Whatever."
"You're still you," she says. "Now you just know what you're capable of."
"Yeah, and that's the really fuckin' scary part," he says, bitter and brutal. The honesty surprises her, and she thinks it surprises him, too.
"Dean," she says. "Anybody else would have done the same thing."
"Not my dad," he says, and she's not sure whether he's honoring his father or condemning himself. It's probably both.
"Sam doesn't expect you to be him," Ruby says, and Dean looks up, hard and angry.
"You don't know anything about it," he says, and his tone is a desperate, cruel thing.
"I know him," she says, almost gently. "He wants you, not your dad." Dean stares at her like he's trying to work through what she's just said, as though he's not sure what to do with the words she's just given him, and then he rubs a hand across his face.
"Fuck, okay, I'm sorry, I just."
Ruby catches his hand when he lowers it. "Dean. It's okay."
"Uh, no," Dean says. "No, it's not."
She shrugs. "You're right. And it's not ever gonna be okay again. So you can whine about it and keep getting your ass kicked, or you can fight anyway. Your choice."
"That's not a choice," Dean says, and the burnt-out exhaustion in his voice is made even more obvious by the bravado he uses to try to cover it. "That's . . . stupid."
"I didn't make the rules," she says. "I took care of him while you were gone, okay? And now you're back. And he needs you right now, not me."
The words taste like ash in her mouth. For a moment, she remembers what it was like to want to cry.
She realizes, with dawning horror, that he saw as much on her face, and that he knows. She is frozen, shocked into stillness, and when he steps towards her, she doesn't move. She realizes that she is still holding his hand.
He kisses her, and he doesn't taste at all like his brother. His hands curve around the back of her neck, pulling her close, and his tongue slides across her lips. His eyes are open, waiting; he doesn't close them until she nods, until she kisses him back.
Until she gives him permission.
If she hadn't been damned before, she thinks she certainly would be now.
His skin is as unmarred as his brother's is scarred. He's wearing his necklace again, the one that had swung cold against her chest the first time Sam fucked her, and she shivers when it touches once more the bare skin of her chest.
He bears her gently down onto the bed, and he bites his lip as he pushes into her, as though he's afraid he's doing to break her, to damage her.
She survived hell; there's no way anything he could do will break her, but she doesn't need to say that. Her fingernails bite into his shoulders as she brings him down to kiss her, as she grinds against him; she does not look to see if she's drawing blood, does not care. His breath burns across her collarbone, and she thinks that the heat of her palms might well sear reckless tattoos into his skin.
Afternoon is fading into evening when they are done, and the shadows are long. They are both bruised, she thinks, and empty, and she swallows as she opens the door. "Tell him I stopped by," she says.
"No way in hell," he says, and she smirks despite herself. He looks at her, and he kisses her one last time (and she does not let herself believe that it will be anything but the last time), and before he can say anything, she closes the motel door behind herself.
--
Sam calls her a few days later. She goes to him in Dallas, bleeds for him in a dingy motel room with dirty lace-pattern curtains, and lets him fall asleep in her arms.
He doesn't know. If he did, he wouldn't look at her like this, like he needs her like this.
They are both magic, sparking black and electric. Their blood is the same.
--
Another seal breaks.
--
Dean calls her a week after that. They fuck hard in the alleyway behind the bar; his breath smells of whiskey but his eyes are clear. She doesn't ask where Sam is, and he doesn't volunteer the information.
He says her name when he comes. She thinks it surprises him as much as it surprises her, and she kisses him hard enough to leave a mark.
They both went to hell. They both came back.
--
On the ragged edges of Chicago, they're almost in time to keep the next seal from breaking. They fight together, all three of them; this time, there are no angels on their side.
Sam is refusing her blood, now, and that makes him weak. Ruby drives the knife deep into the demon's back before it can bring its boot down once more, but Sam is already bleeding, curled in upon himself, and Dean has to help him to his feet.
Ruby has to look away from the expression on Dean's face when Sam leans against him; it's almost like wonder, like gratitude, and she tells herself to let it go. Let him have this.
She hasn't asked why Sam is refusing her blood; she knows, or thinks she knows, and she knows, too, that he'll change his mind.
He's too good a person to believe there's any other choice.
He's asleep in the motel, safe behind wards of salt and iron, when, in the next room, Ruby slides onto Dean's lap.
The curtains are thin and the overcast sky seeps through like an admonition, inescapable. Neither of them need to say much, and they are as quiet as possible; the bedsprings squeak, and their labored breathing is the only other sound.
She doesn't ask if he feels guilty, if he regrets this, and he doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't ask if he's told his brother yet, or if he'll take this to his grave.
She is this close to the end of this world, to the beginning of a new one, and she will not let herself feel guilt. And he doesn't ask, as he lifts the hair from the nape of her neck and kisses the revealed skin there before running his hands down the length of her back.
She closes her eyes as he works into her; her fingers tighten around the blankets and as she swallows back a whimper, she thinks that it is with the Winchesters that she is most human, and so it is they who are her greatest weakness.
And only a fool would hinge the crux of her plan on the same thing that so easily brings her to her knees.
--
There are portents throughout the Midwest. A nun goes blind during a lightning storm, a baby is born by a barren woman and lives for three hours before succumbing, scalding red rain falls for three minutes from a cloudless sky.
--
Beneath a star-streaked sky in Nebraska, she watches from the safety of her car while they get coffee in an anonymous diner with a burnt-out sign. When they leave, they leave together, and they do not look once in her direction. She thinks that they are beginning to rebuild.
And in the quiet, in the dark, she marvels at her work, and she realizes, though perhaps she has known for some time, that she loves that which she has created. And both of them she is stupid to love, stupid to trust, and both of them will undoubtedly be lost in the war.
She loves them both, though she would never say it aloud, and though she lets herself think that they love her as well, it is not nearly enough.
They would not die for her, and both of them would kill her without hesitation if they knew why she is doing this, if they knew what she will do.
But she was foolish when she was human, and maybe that's one thing she'll never be able to escape. And they're all damned, damned in their own ways, and probably none of them will survive the war, no matter the side they're on.
But it'll be better to go down fighting together than to die alone, and she'll take what comfort she can find.
It's more than most people get, and whatever happens, she'll remember it for as long as she can. As a reminder of what happens when she weakens, of how much it can hurt, if nothing else.
--
Sam believes he can save the world. Dean believes that the world is going to hell whether or not they do anything to stop it.
He looks exhausted, in the moonlight; his skin is pale and grey and there are shadows shifting deep around his eyes. There are new scars across his chest, and his hands are curled into fists atop the sheets as though he can't remember how to do anything but fight.
"You should sleep," she says, because he looks like he hasn't slept for days. Even the stupid mortal body she's using gets tired eventually; she can't imagine how fragile he must feel.
"I want to stop fighting," Dean says. "That's, that's really selfish of me, isn't it?" like he's asking permission, like she's the only one he can be honest with. She wonders what he tells his angel, when his angel deigns to be spoken with.
She wonders why it's only in sin that he can be truthful. She wonders if it's only because he still thinks he's better than her, or if it's because he's finally realized that he isn't.
"No," she says, and she kisses him. Later, she watches him sleep and she marvels at how easily he breathes with her here. She cannot tell him that he will get his wish, so she watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, and waits for morning.
--
Sam does not call her, and finally she goes to him. In Iowa, in yet another motel room, she reminds him once more than this is a war, and he turns away.
She is waiting, when he calls her, when he changes his mind, and the noise of the car door shutting behind him is the sound of this world ending, and it is right and true and it is what she wants; when Sam asks why she is smiling, she isn't lying when she says, "Because you made the right choice."
"I'm not so sure," he says.
"Trust me," she says, and she thinks of the burning city, and she thinks that maybe the girl was right, after all.
He nods. "I do," he says, and she covers his hand with hers; his pulse beats steadily beneath her own.
--
end