SPN Fic: Sinew, Marrow, Bone
Feb. 23rd, 2010 11:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coyotesuspectTitle: Sinew, Marrow, Bone
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG 13
Summary: The ghost is gone by midnight, sent up in fire and smoke. The demons take a little longer. Mid season 4.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Ruby, minor Castiel. Gen with acknowledgment of Sam/Ruby
Word Count: ~5800
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through season 4; violence, language
Notes: Huge thank yous to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
little_missmimi and cantarina1 for beta'ing. Thank you as well to familiardevil for looking this over and for being my reason for writing it.
She has an eggshell skull. It's fragile between his hands as he tilts it up to look down at her. Her lips are dark and her eyes are darker, gone full black as she smirks up at him.
“You satisfied?” she coos, different voice from the old her, this one full of an entirely different kind of promise. Sam's used to Ruby lying, and he's not sure why he trusts her now, but he's used to Dean lying, too.
She tries for a kiss. Enough human left in her, maybe, to feel affectionate. But half the time it feels more like she's watched a documentary on how to interact with people, that she's got a list of dos and don’ts. Sam's fucked up, all kinds of fucked up, and he's drawn this line and crossed it before, but he likes to pretend, sometimes, that he can step back.
“No,” he snaps, and he's not sure if he's responding to the question or the action, but Ruby draws back anyway, looks almost hurt, then amused.
“Well, that's all you're getting tonight,” she says. She cocks her head, voice dropping into a lilt, play-seductive and mock straight-faced. “Unless you'd like to stay awhile, honey bunches. Sure does get cold and lonely on these winter nights.”
Sam shakes his head and steps toward the door. There's blood on his mouth, still clinging copper-bitter to his lips. He licks them absently. He's got a flask in his pocket full of more, and he burns from stomach to skin to drink it. But he doesn't know the next time he'll see her.
“Well,” she says, and she sounds almost disappointed as Sam reaches for the door. “Good night, then. Thanks for stopping by. You've been a real charmer.”
He shakes his head again once he's outside. It's less a belated answer and more an attempt to clear his mind. He can't remember if Ruby drove him here or if he walked.
Doesn't matter. He's got too much pride to go back inside, even if he didn't have enough strength to keep from coming at all. And there's no way in hell he's calling Dean at this hour, after what he's done.
It's midwinter in the desert and it’s colder than most people would expect. Ruby's hotel is on the edge of some old mining town. It’s a few hours from Flagstaff and has more ghosts than he and Dean could chase out in a lifetime. But they got a few today, and sometimes that's enough.
The sky is Jackson Pollock'd with stars, and he remembers, suddenly, being twelve, a hundred miles east of El Paso in the deep scrub of west Texas. Dean was sixteen and moodier than usual, and Sam followed him out of the campsite they were in and into the sage brush and cacti, got himself lost along the way.
Dad had been convinced they should be able to tell their way back by the stars, but there'd been too many; Sam had to wait for full sun up to find his way back.
He doesn't think Dean's ever forgiven himself for Sam getting lost like that, doesn't matter that Sam didn't have to try and follow him.
Sam's breath billows out over his face like a veil, head tilted back to scowl up at the heavens. He doesn't feel the chill at all. He's warm even, too warm, feels almost feverish, mouth parched. There's no moon, but everything's washed out the same kind of silver-pale. Sam's pretty sure that's the demon blood at work. Makes it easier to see in the dark, and that's good and bad in his line of work. Means it's easier to hunt what lives there, also means he's closer to becoming what he hunts.
He and Dean are staying in a nicer motel than usual, compliments of the woman whose husband's ghost they destroyed earlier this evening. They sent him up with fire and salt, were efficient and civil while they did. The tension stretching between them has gotten almost tangible, and Sam knows it's gotten heavier because they've started smiling more. Neat, polite smiles, all teeth. He's not even sure what he's mad at his brother for, this time. What's one more thing to be mad about in a lifetime of Dean driving him crazy?
The motel's more toward the center of town, looking worn around the edges, but nicely kept up. People care about it, and in the summer, he's sure it's full of happy motorists passing through, families with kids who play in the green depths of the pool, alive with the smell of chlorine and sunscreen.
It's just him and Dean and an old man who rents the single efficiency there now though. As Sam passes the lobby, he sees the woman's son, maybe seventeen, propped up bored at the desk and reading what looks like a textbook. It's not exactly a familiar sight, but it strikes a note of kinship in Sam. He wishes the kid better luck than he's had.
He pauses at their door, room 105. The 5 is gone and only visible by the pale lack it left behind, defined by its absence rather than its being there and Sam knows exactly what that feels like.
There are voices leaking out into the night air. Sam doesn't think he'd be able to hear them normally, but the demon blood has made all his senses sharper. There's his brother's voice, deep and curt, instantly recognizable, and an answering one, harder to place. But there aren’t a lot of people it could be. After a second, it all slots into place.
His brother is talking to angels again.
He slides the key in quietly and opens the door even more quietly, but it doesn't matter. The conversation drops off instantly. Dean's voice rises up, whiplike and angry, a scolding mother.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Sam glances from Dean to Castiel. Castiel's expressionless as always, doesn't seem bothered by Dean's stance, gone angry and possessive, doesn't seem bothered by Sam’s either, jaw clenching instantly, fists curling. In the back of his mind, Sam almost hopes this is going to be the snapping point.
It's like a piece of art, tableau in fucked up human relationships, looked over by the angel of no mercy.
He turns to face Castiel instead, and the moment passes. The tension slides back below boiling, and Sam understands the word simmering more than he ever has in his life.
“I don't think I've ever thanked you,” he says, the words blood-bitter in his mouth.
Castiel's expression doesn't even flicker, but out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean's face fall into a scowl.
“Thanked me for what?” asks Castiel.
“For saving Dean,” says Sam. It feels like a reckless thing to say, an admittance of something shameful. Sam has nothing against angels, not really, and he'll never stop being grateful for having Dean back. But there's a part of him, small and childish, curled beneath the gratitude that's jealous, hates that this stranger could save Dean when Sam could not.
Castiel blinks slowly at him, eyes wide and empty. Sam knows he's wearing someone's body same as Ruby is, and probably less kindly, but it's one more thing he can't bring himself to care about.
“He is doing God's work,” says Castiel simply. Sam's not sure if he believes that, if only because he believes in a God whose work is less brutal.
But Dean is his brother, first by blood, twice by fire, and now by grace.
“I am done here,” Castiel tells Dean, Sam a forgotten figure in the room. Sam supposes he should be upset that the angels don't like him, but that's even more childish. Besides, it's only confirmation of something he's suspected for a long while now.
Castiel's gone, no good byes, just a simple erasure from the room and the sound of wings fluttering. It makes sense; in the long run of things he doesn't mean anything for the enduring Winchester tragicomedy.
Dean's face is twisted angry, gone thundercloud and feral, and Sam thinks tonight is going to be more tragedy than comedy.
“What did he want?” asks Sam, cutting off Dean before he can launch into whatever older brother rant he has frothing at his lips.
Dean shrugs, and moves away from Sam in short, jerky moments. There's a half empty bottle of scotch on the table, and Sam's beginning to realize that his brother might be drunk. If he is, it won't be surprising. Feels like Dean's drunk more often than he's sober these days, and that's not a fair thing to think at all, but Sam can't help it.
“Same as usual,” says Dean caustically. “More seals are breaking, we're not doing enough, he can't be around to babysit all the time.”
Sam's read the Bible. He shouldn't really be surprised that angels are such dicks. But he understands why Dean's upset, Dean whose ideas of angels came from their mother and who had those ideas burned away from him. He's used to angels being benevolent but nonexistent, doesn't know what to do with asshole ones that do exist.
“You know,” finishes Dean quietly, repeating himself. “The usual.” He looks defeated, tired, and it's meaningless that Sam remark upon it, because it's been years since Dean hasn't looked that way. It’s not hard to mistake his tone though. They’re losing the war.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” says Sam quietly. The words hang between them like a lifeline.
Dean frowns at him.
“No, Sam,” he says, and it's a more gentle refusal than he's used to. “I'm more okay with the world ending bloody than with you ending that way.”
That would mean more if Dean didn't try to kill himself over every woman with a sob story and a ghost, every family in over their head. Sacrifices don't mean as much when you're willing to do it for everyone you meet, and maybe there's a parable in that.
“I don't think you're gonna have much choice in either,” Sam answers eventually, almost lightly, and goes to pick the bottle up, puts the lid back on. He's got nowhere to stash it that Dean won't find it, none of the secrets between them physical. It hangs from his hand uselessly. Dean's eyes flicker to it, and then to his face.
“You cutting me off, bartender?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” nods Sam, and he steps past Dean to put the bottle under his bed.
He wants to ask Dean what he's drinking about now, if it's his memories or his guilt or his worry. Dean's got lots of reasons to drink, and Sam's the only reason for him to stay sober. But Sam figures them worrying about each other was never enough to keep the either of them from doing anything.
“We got a new hunt?” he asks, instead. They’ve hit seven states in two weeks. Dean acts like he's trying to break some kind of record, get the two of them into Guinness for most ghoulies wasted in a month. It's okay, sometimes, with nothing but the sky behind them and someone to save ahead of them. It's almost enough to forget the world is ending.
“Might be something in Blythe,” says Dean with a shrug. Sam notices he’s still got his boots on. They’re stained red with dirt from the grave they dug earlier, didn't bother to kick them off between coming back and starting to drink.
Sam wonders what time it is, what they're both doing up this god unearthly late. Time doesn’t work quite right for him anymore, hasn’t since the incident with the Trickster, six months of his life that he lived through, and then hadn’t. Dean’s been to Hell once, but Sam’s lived through losing him like that twice.
But he knows it was just past midnight by the time they staggered back from the ghost, and Dean had clapped him hard on the shoulder and shot him a smile that was all white teeth and promises he couldn't fill.
Sam had said he'd needed to take a walk, and maybe that's the problem. Dean's always gonna be waiting for him to walk back through the door, and never quite believes that he will.
Sam's tired. Bone tired, soul tired, tired the way the dead must feel, stuck watching people make the same mistakes they themselves did too many years ago. But he's not sleepy, and he doesn't think he's up for another night staring at the water stains that look like things he's killed, listening to Dean breathe as he does the same.
There's a knock at the door then, like a benediction, like something sent from Heaven, our Father who art in, and deliver us from tedium, etc, etc.
But angels don't knock. Dean's at the door first, peering through the peephole and then swinging it open. It's the kid from the lobby, skinny and smug as he shoves past Dean and into the room. Dean spins around, a step behind the kid, and already reaching for a knife, as if he's really gonna gut some high school junior in their motel room.
“Sam Winchester,” smirks the kid. Sam opens his mouth to respond, and the kid’s eyes flash black. “We got a friend of yours, if you care to come pick her up.”
Sam thrusts out his arm, has his hand leveled at the kid, and he feels the familiar surge of power, raw and furious, and channels it so it's no longer a useless storm inside him.
“Hey!” shouts the demon, grimacing. “Do that and you've lost your demon-whore.”
Dean's quicker on the upbeat than Sam is.
“Like we care about Ruby,” he snarls. Why should he when he's got the demon-killing knife and God on his side? He’s got the knife out already, about to plunge it through the demon's chest.
Sam doesn't understand that, doesn't understand why killing the kid is the better option when they could save him.
“Dean,” he snaps. He doesn't know if there's any actual force behind it, the power trembling just beneath his skin, but Dean takes a step back, eyes flashing wide and angry.
“You have Ruby,” Sam says tersely to the demon.
The demon twists the kid's expression into a smirk. He smacks his hand open-palmed against Sam's chest, and Sam catches the paper that flutters down when the demon pulls his hand away.
“She's there,” he says simply and then throws his head back, mouth open, and escapes.
Dean glares at Sam as the black smoke billows out above them, and Sam thinks, vaguely, they really need to start salting the door and window all the time. He looks at the paper. It's soft and greasy, feels like it had been carried in someone's pocket for awhile. There's an address written on it in pale graphite.
“You're not going after her,” says Dean, voice big brother flat. He’s leaning over the kid, checking his pulse. Must find it, because he hauls the kid into a sitting position and props him up against the TV stand.
“I am,” says Sam, and it's not fear, exactly, that he feels. He doesn't care enough about Ruby to care about her dying, but something in the pit of his stomach pulses with need all the same. He can't have Ruby die, and that's a simple fact. Intellectually, he understands this is how heroin addicts must feel about their dealers, but heroin addicts aren't saving the world.
Dean shifts his stance slightly, and Sam knows he's considering a fight. Hold Sam back physically because it's been years since Sam's been willing to listen to him just because.
“This isn't an argument, Dean,” he hisses furiously. “I'm going. And I'll walk if I have to.”
Dean wavers.
“I'll drive you,” he spits out finally. “Like I'm gonna fucking let you walk into a trap on your own.” He grabs the keys off of the dresser. “You do know this is a trap, right?”
“I'm not an idiot, Dean,” snipes Sam, following his brother out of the hotel room. It's almost right for a moment, bitching at each other like this, and Sam doesn't think about what they're doing.
“Oh really?” drawls Dean, “Because you could have fooled me.”
Sam gets a better idea of just how drunk Dean is as he follows him across the parking lot. Dean's got a high alcohol tolerance, a remarkable ability to cover when he's drunk, but he's swaying slightly now, which, for Dean, means he's only a few shots short of comatose.
“You're drunk,” says Sam when they get to the car. He slams the driver's door just as Dean opens it. “You're not driving.”
“I've driven drunk before,” Dean sneers in response.
“Not this drunk,” says Sam.
He remembers doing it himself after Dean went to hell. The way he could only concentrate on the yellow lines stretching out into infinity in front of him, his mind blotted to darkness. He'd been in Oklahoma, just outside of Tulsa, and the road had curved and he hadn't curved with it.
There had been the slide, the jerk, and the crash, and the only thing he'd felt beneath his worry that Dean would kill him for fucking up the car was relief.
“I'm driving,” says Dean, and he shoves Sam hard and away. Sam backs up a few steps. He'll give Dean this one. This is a partnership. They compromise.
He gets in passenger side, glares at Dean as he starts the car.
“You know where the fuck this party is?” asks Dean. His eyes are dark, road-oriented, and the car doesn't shake or wobble at all. Dean's good at this, faking a normal state of mind, a modern day miracle man. But Sam doesn't think he'd mind, really, if they slid off the side of the road and didn't get back up this time.
He's spent his entire life letting his brother drive him off cliffs.
He gives Dean the address, and they don't know the town well enough to know where it is, but there are directions helpfully jotted down, complete with a little smiley face with horns.
They drive in silence after that. Sam only breaks it every minute or so to tell Dean when to turn, and Dean grunts in response.
They end up at what looks like an abandoned warehouse- stereotypical demon behavior to headquarter in a place like this- at the edge of town and not too far from where Ruby was staying. They pull up about fifty yards away, behind a rusted over propane tank. It probably doesn't matter; the demons are already expecting them.
“So,” says Dean, a smile scrawled across his face, “you got a plan?”
Dean's still angry; Sam can see it crackling at the edges of his brother's smile. And he's still drunk. And this still isn't the stupidest thing either of them have ever done.
“No,” says Sam. He's smiling too, can't help it. There's a reckless, expansive feeling in his chest, and he's punch drunk maybe. “But it's just demons, right?”
Dean slides him a look, all humor gone for a moment, as his eyebrows flash downward over his face, mouth thinning out.
“There's holy water in the trunk,” he says. “And we still got salt in the shotguns. None of your...” Dean trails off. He's always had a hard time naming Sam's thing, his power. Sam hears the word freak in his head and doesn't flinch.
“All right,” he says softly. It's as much a promise as Dean'll be able to get from him tonight.
They get the guns and the water from the back. There are no demons in sight. Sam doesn't think anything of it; it means either they haven't been spotted yet, or that they have and the demons are just biding their time.
He doesn't think Ruby is dead. He's not even sure if they have her; demons lie and all that. But demons are demons, and either way, they need to be dead.
“Go through the front?” asks Dean, the smile back on. It's stupid, risky. Perfect. Maybe neither of them care tonight as much as they should. Worse ways to go out than in a hail of smoke and gunfire, brother at your side.
“Works for me,” says Sam, grinning back. He can hear his heartbeat drumming his skull, has been able to hear it since he left Ruby's. It beats faster now, thrilled at the prospect of death or glory. Sam's never been an adrenaline junkie, not exactly. Never been quite like Dean, drawn to fast women and faster cars, drawn to things that are as likely to shatter into a million pieces as they are to keep whole. But he feels it now, the familiar warm burst of possibility singing in his veins. These aren't the nights he lives for, but this is the kind of night he'll die in.
Dean goes through first, of course he does. He jogs ahead of Sam and kicks the door down. It's Action Hero 101, here to rescue the damsel. It doesn't matter that the damsel's someone Dean would soon as kill himself. Maybe that's family more than anything else; putting up with each others' stupid decisions.
There are two at the door, more at the side door, like they were expecting for the Winchesters to be clever. Not happening tonight, and Dean gets the first through the throat with a knife. Sam elbows the other in the nose, sprays it with holy water next. He vaguely recognizes it as the librarian who dragged out the decade old newspapers for them that morning. Blew the dust off of them and fixed them with a suspicious grin.
Dean surges past Sam just then, stabs the librarian just below the ribcage. The demon's eyes shudder white with light and then the body falls.
The rest of the demons have their attention turned to them now, and Sam can see Ruby behind the mass of them. She's tied to a chair, head lolled sideways on her shoulder. He can make out a pale crescent of face behind her dark curls. He can't see if he's bleeding, but he knows she is.
He hears his heart beat faster.
Dean and him are back to back, moving gracefully. Sam shoots, sprays water. Dean stabs. They work in tandem, efficiently, brutally. There are maybe a dozen demons, and all of them stupid enough to attack at once. None of them are strong enough to try and knock Sam and Dean around any other way than physically.
And then Dean takes a blow to the head and drops to the floor like a hawk in a dive.
There's a sharp crack as his skull hits the concrete floor, followed by a clatter and a din as the knife goes skittering across the floor.
There are four left, one of them hanging back by Ruby, the other three mobbing Sam. He hits one in the face with the butt of a shotgun hears the sick crunch of cartilage as the nose breaks. He whirls around on one leg, knocks the legs out of the other two and follows that with a spray of holy water.
They're all three snarling like feral cats, and there's steam in Sam's eyes.
Dean's still on the floor.
Dean hasn't moved.
Sam pins the one with the shattered nose, arm outstretched. It's the fastest he's ever been able to do this. The demon screams once, shudders all over and then its whole skeleton lights up phosphorescent.
The host drops. He's bleeding heavily. Sam doesn't think he'll live.
One of the others rushes him, hits him hard in the jaw, and Sam feels his jaw click and snap, the sudden pain that bursts brilliant and excruciating across half his face. He ignores it. Returns the blow with a sharp hook of his own, pain flaring across his knuckles as they connect with bone. The demon's head snaps back. Sam's arm is out again, palm spread wide.
This time it's even faster.
That leaves two. He kills the third one just as quick; it's still thrashing on the floor from the holy water.
His nose is bleeding and his head pounds, begins pulsing bright with pain at odd intervals from the pain in his jaw.
The last demon is still standing next to Ruby. It has the knife in its hand.
“I'll kill her,” says the demon simply. Its eyes are black, and that always distorts the host's features. But Sam can still tell that this girl is pretty. Young, too, no more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks familiar.
After a second, Sam realizes whose body the demon is wearing. She was one of the waitresses at the diner he and Dean ate at that morning. Not the one who served them, but the one who made moon-eyes at Dean from across the linoleum. Dean hadn't noticed, and Sam hadn't pointed it out. He wonders if the demons purposely picked people he and Dean would recognize, or if there just weren't enough people in town for the demons to have much to choose from.
“And then I'll kill you,” says Sam. It's an effort to talk.
The demon smiles, chill edge and grim. “You're gonna kill me no matter if I kill your whore or not.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand,” points out Sam.
“Maybe,” it acknowledges, and then flings the knife at Sam. It's got a good aim. Sam has better reflexes. He dodges the knife, and it slices past him. He turns just in time to see the smoke blowing out of the waitress's mouth and to watch her drop to the floor.
Her skull makes the same resounding cracking noise that Dean's did.
The warehouse is silent after that, and Sam is halfway between Ruby and Dean. He checks on Dean first. His brother's breathing is shallow and fast, but at least he's breathing. When Sam pulls him into sitting position, his eyes flutter open and almost focus on Sam's face.
“We win?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.
Sam bites back a grin. “Yeah,” he says, dragging Dean to his feet. “We won. No thanks to you, dumbass. Decided you'd take a nap on me.”
“I like to let you do things on your own every now and then,” says Dean, grimacing as he stands. He's unbalanced, probably concussed, and Sam checks him instinctively for other injuries. “Build your confidence, you know.”
“Thanks,” mutters Sam dryly. “You're a great guy.”
“Damn straight I am,” says Dean right back. The conversation stutters to a halt. Dean stares at him, then scrubs his hands against his jeans. “So, uh. Is she all right?” He jerks his head in Ruby's direction, face and voice emotionless.
“I haven't checked,” admits Sam.
“Oh,” says Dean.
Sam picks at a loose thread that's come unraveled from his sleeve. “I'll do that. You...” he waves his and vaguely around the room, at the bodies that litter the floor. “See if anyone's...”
“No problem,” says Dean. He doesn't move. “So you didn't use the knife on all of them?”
“Well,” answers Sam, turning his back and walking toward Ruby. “You kinda dropped it.”
Dean doesn't reply, and Sam lifts up Ruby's head up. He doesn't bother checking for a pulse. He knows he won't find one.
“Ruby,” he says.
Her eyes snap open, full black.
“'Bout time you showed up,” she says mildly, eyes sliding back to doe-eyed and brown. There's blood on her face, on her arms, on her neck. Sam's mind reels at the smell of it. His nails dig white into his palms.
“How'd you get yourself caught?” he asks, voice low as he bends down to untie the knots that bind her. The chair is in the middle of a Solomon's trap; he scratches that out as he steps away.
She doesn't answer at first, rubbing her wrists instead and frowning down at the floor.
“There were about twelve of them, Sam,” she says finally. “I don't know if you noticed.”
Ruby gets to her feet gingerly, and Sam doesn't help her. Her mouth is curled in distaste as she looks over the carnage.
“Rabble,” she spits disdainfully. “Like Lilith would even be willing to acknowledge them.”
“Yeah?” challenges Dean, voice rising from behind Sam. “They still managed to kill eleven people tonight.”
Ruby cocks her head, and the motion causes a droplet of blood to fall from the edge of her lip onto her shirt.
Sam watches the fall.
“Wasn't the demons that killed them, Dean,” says Ruby. “That was all you and Sam.”
“Should have known better than to come save you, bitch,” sneers Dean. “Come on Sam. We're going.”
“Not without Ruby,” says Sam. “I don't think she can make it back.”
“She's a demon, Sam,” snaps Dean, prelude to an argument they've had a million times before. “She'll find her way home. They're like cats that way.”
“No Dean,” says Sam. He turns to face Dean, notices that he's half carrying the waitress. She's the only host to have survived. “Ruby goes too.” He jerks his head at the unconscious girl. “She'll take her into the ER.”
Dean's grip on the girl tightens almost defensively. “Like I'm letting some demon-bitch alone with a civilian.”
“Christ,” drawls Ruby. “I thought we were over your little girl temper tantrums, Dean. I didn't do anything to your precious angel girl, did I? When will you learn you can trust me?”
Dean's smile is vicious. “When you're dead,” he spits.
“Dean,” snaps Sam. “Ruby.”
They fall silent, both glaring at each other, like children across the schoolyard.
“We should get going,” says Sam firmly. “Ruby, you take her into the ER with you. Dean, I'm driving.”
“The hell you are!” snarls Dean, “I'm-”
“Concussed,” finishes Sam flatly. “And you're still drunk.” He strides across the floor, away from Ruby, and pries the girl from Dean's arms. She moans slightly but doesn't wake. “Let me carry her,” he says. “You're going to fall and kill yourself.”
Dean relinquishes the waitress grudgingly. “You better fucking know what you're doing, Sam,” he says, and Sam can't decide if he means that for the rest of the night, because they've already won, for a definition of winning that involves eleven people dead who shouldn't be, or for the rest of his life, which he's pretty sure was declared a loss a long time ago.
The sky's still dark by the time they get out, no dawn yet lightening the horizon. Sam thinks maybe it's four or a little after. But he's tired and it's hard to tell, 130 pounds of survivor in his arms that keeps him from checking his watch.
Ruby gets in the car first, Dean scowling at her the whole time, and Sam tucks the waitress in gently after her. He waits for Ruby to prop her up and for Dean to slide in passenger side before getting into the Impala himself.
Dean falls asleep on the ride to the hospital, a full forty minutes away in the next town over. But Ruby stays awake. Her eyes dark but not black as they watch Sam in the rearview mirror.
“You know,” she says as he pulls into the parking lot, “that's the third time I've been tortured because of you, Sam.”
“I know,” he says. “Maybe you picked the wrong side.”
Her mouth lifts into a smile and then drops into a frown before evening out emotionlessly.
“Maybe I did,” is all she says.
“You should leave,” he suggests.
“Thanks,” she says, getting out, and he can't tell if she's being genuine or facetious. She pulls the waitress out after her, semi-conscious now, and shushes her. “I appreciate you coming to get me.”
Sam doesn't say anything, and she shrugs, then shuts the door.
“I really hate,” says Dean, after a moment, after Sam has pulled back onto the highway, “that thing riding in my car.”
“I thought you were asleep,” says Sam. He doesn't say, 'I was worried. You shouldn't sleep when you have a concussion. Maybe I should have brought you into the hospital too.'
He thinks it though, all of it swirling inside his head, clenching in his gut. It would be just like to Dean to die right next to him and to do it quietly, ruin all of Sam’s hard work so far. He’s trying to save the world, yeah, but part of saving the world is saving Dean.
Sam’s half convinced himself Dean was immortal. Every time he’s lost or almost lost Dean, something’s brought him back, but Sam’s tired of forever waiting for someone to bring his brother back to him. His solution is simple, logical. He kills Lilith, he saves the world, and Dean dies at age of eighty-four, in a hospital bed after a wife, two kids, and one too many hamburgers.
“Faking it seemed the better option than watching you two make eyes at each other,” grumbles Dean.
Sam wants to say, ‘I'm not sleeping with her.’
He wants it to be true.
The whole car smells of her, of her blood.
“You almost died tonight,” he says instead.
Dean shrugs and shifts around. There's the squeak of leather on leather as his jacket drags against the seat.
“I almost die a lot of nights,” he says. “Why's tonight got to be any different?”
“You don't even like Ruby,” insists Sam, not sure why he's making such a point of this. “Why'd you come?”
Dean doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches too long for it just to be a considering one. Dean's decided not to answer. Sam glances over at him to see if he has fallen asleep this time. But Dean's eyes are open, fixed beyond the dashboard and on the horizon.
Sam fumbles at the radio to fill the silence, even though that's always been more Dean's impulse than his.
“You’re an idiot,” says Dean quietly, finally.
Sam nods. He still turns on the radio, finds what sounds like the local NPR station. A voice in soothing Middle American cracks the silence between them.
Sam listens for a moment. It's a program about the Voyager space probes, now at the edge of the solar system. They’re farther from Earth than anything else created by man.
They’re two small objects, spinning off into darkness and eternity.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG 13
Summary: The ghost is gone by midnight, sent up in fire and smoke. The demons take a little longer. Mid season 4.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Ruby, minor Castiel. Gen with acknowledgment of Sam/Ruby
Word Count: ~5800
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through season 4; violence, language
Notes: Huge thank yous to
little_missmimi and cantarina1 for beta'ing. Thank you as well to familiardevil for looking this over and for being my reason for writing it.She has an eggshell skull. It's fragile between his hands as he tilts it up to look down at her. Her lips are dark and her eyes are darker, gone full black as she smirks up at him.
“You satisfied?” she coos, different voice from the old her, this one full of an entirely different kind of promise. Sam's used to Ruby lying, and he's not sure why he trusts her now, but he's used to Dean lying, too.
She tries for a kiss. Enough human left in her, maybe, to feel affectionate. But half the time it feels more like she's watched a documentary on how to interact with people, that she's got a list of dos and don’ts. Sam's fucked up, all kinds of fucked up, and he's drawn this line and crossed it before, but he likes to pretend, sometimes, that he can step back.
“No,” he snaps, and he's not sure if he's responding to the question or the action, but Ruby draws back anyway, looks almost hurt, then amused.
“Well, that's all you're getting tonight,” she says. She cocks her head, voice dropping into a lilt, play-seductive and mock straight-faced. “Unless you'd like to stay awhile, honey bunches. Sure does get cold and lonely on these winter nights.”
Sam shakes his head and steps toward the door. There's blood on his mouth, still clinging copper-bitter to his lips. He licks them absently. He's got a flask in his pocket full of more, and he burns from stomach to skin to drink it. But he doesn't know the next time he'll see her.
“Well,” she says, and she sounds almost disappointed as Sam reaches for the door. “Good night, then. Thanks for stopping by. You've been a real charmer.”
He shakes his head again once he's outside. It's less a belated answer and more an attempt to clear his mind. He can't remember if Ruby drove him here or if he walked.
Doesn't matter. He's got too much pride to go back inside, even if he didn't have enough strength to keep from coming at all. And there's no way in hell he's calling Dean at this hour, after what he's done.
It's midwinter in the desert and it’s colder than most people would expect. Ruby's hotel is on the edge of some old mining town. It’s a few hours from Flagstaff and has more ghosts than he and Dean could chase out in a lifetime. But they got a few today, and sometimes that's enough.
The sky is Jackson Pollock'd with stars, and he remembers, suddenly, being twelve, a hundred miles east of El Paso in the deep scrub of west Texas. Dean was sixteen and moodier than usual, and Sam followed him out of the campsite they were in and into the sage brush and cacti, got himself lost along the way.
Dad had been convinced they should be able to tell their way back by the stars, but there'd been too many; Sam had to wait for full sun up to find his way back.
He doesn't think Dean's ever forgiven himself for Sam getting lost like that, doesn't matter that Sam didn't have to try and follow him.
Sam's breath billows out over his face like a veil, head tilted back to scowl up at the heavens. He doesn't feel the chill at all. He's warm even, too warm, feels almost feverish, mouth parched. There's no moon, but everything's washed out the same kind of silver-pale. Sam's pretty sure that's the demon blood at work. Makes it easier to see in the dark, and that's good and bad in his line of work. Means it's easier to hunt what lives there, also means he's closer to becoming what he hunts.
He and Dean are staying in a nicer motel than usual, compliments of the woman whose husband's ghost they destroyed earlier this evening. They sent him up with fire and salt, were efficient and civil while they did. The tension stretching between them has gotten almost tangible, and Sam knows it's gotten heavier because they've started smiling more. Neat, polite smiles, all teeth. He's not even sure what he's mad at his brother for, this time. What's one more thing to be mad about in a lifetime of Dean driving him crazy?
The motel's more toward the center of town, looking worn around the edges, but nicely kept up. People care about it, and in the summer, he's sure it's full of happy motorists passing through, families with kids who play in the green depths of the pool, alive with the smell of chlorine and sunscreen.
It's just him and Dean and an old man who rents the single efficiency there now though. As Sam passes the lobby, he sees the woman's son, maybe seventeen, propped up bored at the desk and reading what looks like a textbook. It's not exactly a familiar sight, but it strikes a note of kinship in Sam. He wishes the kid better luck than he's had.
He pauses at their door, room 105. The 5 is gone and only visible by the pale lack it left behind, defined by its absence rather than its being there and Sam knows exactly what that feels like.
There are voices leaking out into the night air. Sam doesn't think he'd be able to hear them normally, but the demon blood has made all his senses sharper. There's his brother's voice, deep and curt, instantly recognizable, and an answering one, harder to place. But there aren’t a lot of people it could be. After a second, it all slots into place.
His brother is talking to angels again.
He slides the key in quietly and opens the door even more quietly, but it doesn't matter. The conversation drops off instantly. Dean's voice rises up, whiplike and angry, a scolding mother.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Sam glances from Dean to Castiel. Castiel's expressionless as always, doesn't seem bothered by Dean's stance, gone angry and possessive, doesn't seem bothered by Sam’s either, jaw clenching instantly, fists curling. In the back of his mind, Sam almost hopes this is going to be the snapping point.
It's like a piece of art, tableau in fucked up human relationships, looked over by the angel of no mercy.
He turns to face Castiel instead, and the moment passes. The tension slides back below boiling, and Sam understands the word simmering more than he ever has in his life.
“I don't think I've ever thanked you,” he says, the words blood-bitter in his mouth.
Castiel's expression doesn't even flicker, but out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean's face fall into a scowl.
“Thanked me for what?” asks Castiel.
“For saving Dean,” says Sam. It feels like a reckless thing to say, an admittance of something shameful. Sam has nothing against angels, not really, and he'll never stop being grateful for having Dean back. But there's a part of him, small and childish, curled beneath the gratitude that's jealous, hates that this stranger could save Dean when Sam could not.
Castiel blinks slowly at him, eyes wide and empty. Sam knows he's wearing someone's body same as Ruby is, and probably less kindly, but it's one more thing he can't bring himself to care about.
“He is doing God's work,” says Castiel simply. Sam's not sure if he believes that, if only because he believes in a God whose work is less brutal.
But Dean is his brother, first by blood, twice by fire, and now by grace.
“I am done here,” Castiel tells Dean, Sam a forgotten figure in the room. Sam supposes he should be upset that the angels don't like him, but that's even more childish. Besides, it's only confirmation of something he's suspected for a long while now.
Castiel's gone, no good byes, just a simple erasure from the room and the sound of wings fluttering. It makes sense; in the long run of things he doesn't mean anything for the enduring Winchester tragicomedy.
Dean's face is twisted angry, gone thundercloud and feral, and Sam thinks tonight is going to be more tragedy than comedy.
“What did he want?” asks Sam, cutting off Dean before he can launch into whatever older brother rant he has frothing at his lips.
Dean shrugs, and moves away from Sam in short, jerky moments. There's a half empty bottle of scotch on the table, and Sam's beginning to realize that his brother might be drunk. If he is, it won't be surprising. Feels like Dean's drunk more often than he's sober these days, and that's not a fair thing to think at all, but Sam can't help it.
“Same as usual,” says Dean caustically. “More seals are breaking, we're not doing enough, he can't be around to babysit all the time.”
Sam's read the Bible. He shouldn't really be surprised that angels are such dicks. But he understands why Dean's upset, Dean whose ideas of angels came from their mother and who had those ideas burned away from him. He's used to angels being benevolent but nonexistent, doesn't know what to do with asshole ones that do exist.
“You know,” finishes Dean quietly, repeating himself. “The usual.” He looks defeated, tired, and it's meaningless that Sam remark upon it, because it's been years since Dean hasn't looked that way. It’s not hard to mistake his tone though. They’re losing the war.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” says Sam quietly. The words hang between them like a lifeline.
Dean frowns at him.
“No, Sam,” he says, and it's a more gentle refusal than he's used to. “I'm more okay with the world ending bloody than with you ending that way.”
That would mean more if Dean didn't try to kill himself over every woman with a sob story and a ghost, every family in over their head. Sacrifices don't mean as much when you're willing to do it for everyone you meet, and maybe there's a parable in that.
“I don't think you're gonna have much choice in either,” Sam answers eventually, almost lightly, and goes to pick the bottle up, puts the lid back on. He's got nowhere to stash it that Dean won't find it, none of the secrets between them physical. It hangs from his hand uselessly. Dean's eyes flicker to it, and then to his face.
“You cutting me off, bartender?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” nods Sam, and he steps past Dean to put the bottle under his bed.
He wants to ask Dean what he's drinking about now, if it's his memories or his guilt or his worry. Dean's got lots of reasons to drink, and Sam's the only reason for him to stay sober. But Sam figures them worrying about each other was never enough to keep the either of them from doing anything.
“We got a new hunt?” he asks, instead. They’ve hit seven states in two weeks. Dean acts like he's trying to break some kind of record, get the two of them into Guinness for most ghoulies wasted in a month. It's okay, sometimes, with nothing but the sky behind them and someone to save ahead of them. It's almost enough to forget the world is ending.
“Might be something in Blythe,” says Dean with a shrug. Sam notices he’s still got his boots on. They’re stained red with dirt from the grave they dug earlier, didn't bother to kick them off between coming back and starting to drink.
Sam wonders what time it is, what they're both doing up this god unearthly late. Time doesn’t work quite right for him anymore, hasn’t since the incident with the Trickster, six months of his life that he lived through, and then hadn’t. Dean’s been to Hell once, but Sam’s lived through losing him like that twice.
But he knows it was just past midnight by the time they staggered back from the ghost, and Dean had clapped him hard on the shoulder and shot him a smile that was all white teeth and promises he couldn't fill.
Sam had said he'd needed to take a walk, and maybe that's the problem. Dean's always gonna be waiting for him to walk back through the door, and never quite believes that he will.
Sam's tired. Bone tired, soul tired, tired the way the dead must feel, stuck watching people make the same mistakes they themselves did too many years ago. But he's not sleepy, and he doesn't think he's up for another night staring at the water stains that look like things he's killed, listening to Dean breathe as he does the same.
There's a knock at the door then, like a benediction, like something sent from Heaven, our Father who art in, and deliver us from tedium, etc, etc.
But angels don't knock. Dean's at the door first, peering through the peephole and then swinging it open. It's the kid from the lobby, skinny and smug as he shoves past Dean and into the room. Dean spins around, a step behind the kid, and already reaching for a knife, as if he's really gonna gut some high school junior in their motel room.
“Sam Winchester,” smirks the kid. Sam opens his mouth to respond, and the kid’s eyes flash black. “We got a friend of yours, if you care to come pick her up.”
Sam thrusts out his arm, has his hand leveled at the kid, and he feels the familiar surge of power, raw and furious, and channels it so it's no longer a useless storm inside him.
“Hey!” shouts the demon, grimacing. “Do that and you've lost your demon-whore.”
Dean's quicker on the upbeat than Sam is.
“Like we care about Ruby,” he snarls. Why should he when he's got the demon-killing knife and God on his side? He’s got the knife out already, about to plunge it through the demon's chest.
Sam doesn't understand that, doesn't understand why killing the kid is the better option when they could save him.
“Dean,” he snaps. He doesn't know if there's any actual force behind it, the power trembling just beneath his skin, but Dean takes a step back, eyes flashing wide and angry.
“You have Ruby,” Sam says tersely to the demon.
The demon twists the kid's expression into a smirk. He smacks his hand open-palmed against Sam's chest, and Sam catches the paper that flutters down when the demon pulls his hand away.
“She's there,” he says simply and then throws his head back, mouth open, and escapes.
Dean glares at Sam as the black smoke billows out above them, and Sam thinks, vaguely, they really need to start salting the door and window all the time. He looks at the paper. It's soft and greasy, feels like it had been carried in someone's pocket for awhile. There's an address written on it in pale graphite.
“You're not going after her,” says Dean, voice big brother flat. He’s leaning over the kid, checking his pulse. Must find it, because he hauls the kid into a sitting position and props him up against the TV stand.
“I am,” says Sam, and it's not fear, exactly, that he feels. He doesn't care enough about Ruby to care about her dying, but something in the pit of his stomach pulses with need all the same. He can't have Ruby die, and that's a simple fact. Intellectually, he understands this is how heroin addicts must feel about their dealers, but heroin addicts aren't saving the world.
Dean shifts his stance slightly, and Sam knows he's considering a fight. Hold Sam back physically because it's been years since Sam's been willing to listen to him just because.
“This isn't an argument, Dean,” he hisses furiously. “I'm going. And I'll walk if I have to.”
Dean wavers.
“I'll drive you,” he spits out finally. “Like I'm gonna fucking let you walk into a trap on your own.” He grabs the keys off of the dresser. “You do know this is a trap, right?”
“I'm not an idiot, Dean,” snipes Sam, following his brother out of the hotel room. It's almost right for a moment, bitching at each other like this, and Sam doesn't think about what they're doing.
“Oh really?” drawls Dean, “Because you could have fooled me.”
Sam gets a better idea of just how drunk Dean is as he follows him across the parking lot. Dean's got a high alcohol tolerance, a remarkable ability to cover when he's drunk, but he's swaying slightly now, which, for Dean, means he's only a few shots short of comatose.
“You're drunk,” says Sam when they get to the car. He slams the driver's door just as Dean opens it. “You're not driving.”
“I've driven drunk before,” Dean sneers in response.
“Not this drunk,” says Sam.
He remembers doing it himself after Dean went to hell. The way he could only concentrate on the yellow lines stretching out into infinity in front of him, his mind blotted to darkness. He'd been in Oklahoma, just outside of Tulsa, and the road had curved and he hadn't curved with it.
There had been the slide, the jerk, and the crash, and the only thing he'd felt beneath his worry that Dean would kill him for fucking up the car was relief.
“I'm driving,” says Dean, and he shoves Sam hard and away. Sam backs up a few steps. He'll give Dean this one. This is a partnership. They compromise.
He gets in passenger side, glares at Dean as he starts the car.
“You know where the fuck this party is?” asks Dean. His eyes are dark, road-oriented, and the car doesn't shake or wobble at all. Dean's good at this, faking a normal state of mind, a modern day miracle man. But Sam doesn't think he'd mind, really, if they slid off the side of the road and didn't get back up this time.
He's spent his entire life letting his brother drive him off cliffs.
He gives Dean the address, and they don't know the town well enough to know where it is, but there are directions helpfully jotted down, complete with a little smiley face with horns.
They drive in silence after that. Sam only breaks it every minute or so to tell Dean when to turn, and Dean grunts in response.
They end up at what looks like an abandoned warehouse- stereotypical demon behavior to headquarter in a place like this- at the edge of town and not too far from where Ruby was staying. They pull up about fifty yards away, behind a rusted over propane tank. It probably doesn't matter; the demons are already expecting them.
“So,” says Dean, a smile scrawled across his face, “you got a plan?”
Dean's still angry; Sam can see it crackling at the edges of his brother's smile. And he's still drunk. And this still isn't the stupidest thing either of them have ever done.
“No,” says Sam. He's smiling too, can't help it. There's a reckless, expansive feeling in his chest, and he's punch drunk maybe. “But it's just demons, right?”
Dean slides him a look, all humor gone for a moment, as his eyebrows flash downward over his face, mouth thinning out.
“There's holy water in the trunk,” he says. “And we still got salt in the shotguns. None of your...” Dean trails off. He's always had a hard time naming Sam's thing, his power. Sam hears the word freak in his head and doesn't flinch.
“All right,” he says softly. It's as much a promise as Dean'll be able to get from him tonight.
They get the guns and the water from the back. There are no demons in sight. Sam doesn't think anything of it; it means either they haven't been spotted yet, or that they have and the demons are just biding their time.
He doesn't think Ruby is dead. He's not even sure if they have her; demons lie and all that. But demons are demons, and either way, they need to be dead.
“Go through the front?” asks Dean, the smile back on. It's stupid, risky. Perfect. Maybe neither of them care tonight as much as they should. Worse ways to go out than in a hail of smoke and gunfire, brother at your side.
“Works for me,” says Sam, grinning back. He can hear his heartbeat drumming his skull, has been able to hear it since he left Ruby's. It beats faster now, thrilled at the prospect of death or glory. Sam's never been an adrenaline junkie, not exactly. Never been quite like Dean, drawn to fast women and faster cars, drawn to things that are as likely to shatter into a million pieces as they are to keep whole. But he feels it now, the familiar warm burst of possibility singing in his veins. These aren't the nights he lives for, but this is the kind of night he'll die in.
Dean goes through first, of course he does. He jogs ahead of Sam and kicks the door down. It's Action Hero 101, here to rescue the damsel. It doesn't matter that the damsel's someone Dean would soon as kill himself. Maybe that's family more than anything else; putting up with each others' stupid decisions.
There are two at the door, more at the side door, like they were expecting for the Winchesters to be clever. Not happening tonight, and Dean gets the first through the throat with a knife. Sam elbows the other in the nose, sprays it with holy water next. He vaguely recognizes it as the librarian who dragged out the decade old newspapers for them that morning. Blew the dust off of them and fixed them with a suspicious grin.
Dean surges past Sam just then, stabs the librarian just below the ribcage. The demon's eyes shudder white with light and then the body falls.
The rest of the demons have their attention turned to them now, and Sam can see Ruby behind the mass of them. She's tied to a chair, head lolled sideways on her shoulder. He can make out a pale crescent of face behind her dark curls. He can't see if he's bleeding, but he knows she is.
He hears his heart beat faster.
Dean and him are back to back, moving gracefully. Sam shoots, sprays water. Dean stabs. They work in tandem, efficiently, brutally. There are maybe a dozen demons, and all of them stupid enough to attack at once. None of them are strong enough to try and knock Sam and Dean around any other way than physically.
And then Dean takes a blow to the head and drops to the floor like a hawk in a dive.
There's a sharp crack as his skull hits the concrete floor, followed by a clatter and a din as the knife goes skittering across the floor.
There are four left, one of them hanging back by Ruby, the other three mobbing Sam. He hits one in the face with the butt of a shotgun hears the sick crunch of cartilage as the nose breaks. He whirls around on one leg, knocks the legs out of the other two and follows that with a spray of holy water.
They're all three snarling like feral cats, and there's steam in Sam's eyes.
Dean's still on the floor.
Dean hasn't moved.
Sam pins the one with the shattered nose, arm outstretched. It's the fastest he's ever been able to do this. The demon screams once, shudders all over and then its whole skeleton lights up phosphorescent.
The host drops. He's bleeding heavily. Sam doesn't think he'll live.
One of the others rushes him, hits him hard in the jaw, and Sam feels his jaw click and snap, the sudden pain that bursts brilliant and excruciating across half his face. He ignores it. Returns the blow with a sharp hook of his own, pain flaring across his knuckles as they connect with bone. The demon's head snaps back. Sam's arm is out again, palm spread wide.
This time it's even faster.
That leaves two. He kills the third one just as quick; it's still thrashing on the floor from the holy water.
His nose is bleeding and his head pounds, begins pulsing bright with pain at odd intervals from the pain in his jaw.
The last demon is still standing next to Ruby. It has the knife in its hand.
“I'll kill her,” says the demon simply. Its eyes are black, and that always distorts the host's features. But Sam can still tell that this girl is pretty. Young, too, no more than nineteen or twenty, and she looks familiar.
After a second, Sam realizes whose body the demon is wearing. She was one of the waitresses at the diner he and Dean ate at that morning. Not the one who served them, but the one who made moon-eyes at Dean from across the linoleum. Dean hadn't noticed, and Sam hadn't pointed it out. He wonders if the demons purposely picked people he and Dean would recognize, or if there just weren't enough people in town for the demons to have much to choose from.
“And then I'll kill you,” says Sam. It's an effort to talk.
The demon smiles, chill edge and grim. “You're gonna kill me no matter if I kill your whore or not.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that beforehand,” points out Sam.
“Maybe,” it acknowledges, and then flings the knife at Sam. It's got a good aim. Sam has better reflexes. He dodges the knife, and it slices past him. He turns just in time to see the smoke blowing out of the waitress's mouth and to watch her drop to the floor.
Her skull makes the same resounding cracking noise that Dean's did.
The warehouse is silent after that, and Sam is halfway between Ruby and Dean. He checks on Dean first. His brother's breathing is shallow and fast, but at least he's breathing. When Sam pulls him into sitting position, his eyes flutter open and almost focus on Sam's face.
“We win?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.
Sam bites back a grin. “Yeah,” he says, dragging Dean to his feet. “We won. No thanks to you, dumbass. Decided you'd take a nap on me.”
“I like to let you do things on your own every now and then,” says Dean, grimacing as he stands. He's unbalanced, probably concussed, and Sam checks him instinctively for other injuries. “Build your confidence, you know.”
“Thanks,” mutters Sam dryly. “You're a great guy.”
“Damn straight I am,” says Dean right back. The conversation stutters to a halt. Dean stares at him, then scrubs his hands against his jeans. “So, uh. Is she all right?” He jerks his head in Ruby's direction, face and voice emotionless.
“I haven't checked,” admits Sam.
“Oh,” says Dean.
Sam picks at a loose thread that's come unraveled from his sleeve. “I'll do that. You...” he waves his and vaguely around the room, at the bodies that litter the floor. “See if anyone's...”
“No problem,” says Dean. He doesn't move. “So you didn't use the knife on all of them?”
“Well,” answers Sam, turning his back and walking toward Ruby. “You kinda dropped it.”
Dean doesn't reply, and Sam lifts up Ruby's head up. He doesn't bother checking for a pulse. He knows he won't find one.
“Ruby,” he says.
Her eyes snap open, full black.
“'Bout time you showed up,” she says mildly, eyes sliding back to doe-eyed and brown. There's blood on her face, on her arms, on her neck. Sam's mind reels at the smell of it. His nails dig white into his palms.
“How'd you get yourself caught?” he asks, voice low as he bends down to untie the knots that bind her. The chair is in the middle of a Solomon's trap; he scratches that out as he steps away.
She doesn't answer at first, rubbing her wrists instead and frowning down at the floor.
“There were about twelve of them, Sam,” she says finally. “I don't know if you noticed.”
Ruby gets to her feet gingerly, and Sam doesn't help her. Her mouth is curled in distaste as she looks over the carnage.
“Rabble,” she spits disdainfully. “Like Lilith would even be willing to acknowledge them.”
“Yeah?” challenges Dean, voice rising from behind Sam. “They still managed to kill eleven people tonight.”
Ruby cocks her head, and the motion causes a droplet of blood to fall from the edge of her lip onto her shirt.
Sam watches the fall.
“Wasn't the demons that killed them, Dean,” says Ruby. “That was all you and Sam.”
“Should have known better than to come save you, bitch,” sneers Dean. “Come on Sam. We're going.”
“Not without Ruby,” says Sam. “I don't think she can make it back.”
“She's a demon, Sam,” snaps Dean, prelude to an argument they've had a million times before. “She'll find her way home. They're like cats that way.”
“No Dean,” says Sam. He turns to face Dean, notices that he's half carrying the waitress. She's the only host to have survived. “Ruby goes too.” He jerks his head at the unconscious girl. “She'll take her into the ER.”
Dean's grip on the girl tightens almost defensively. “Like I'm letting some demon-bitch alone with a civilian.”
“Christ,” drawls Ruby. “I thought we were over your little girl temper tantrums, Dean. I didn't do anything to your precious angel girl, did I? When will you learn you can trust me?”
Dean's smile is vicious. “When you're dead,” he spits.
“Dean,” snaps Sam. “Ruby.”
They fall silent, both glaring at each other, like children across the schoolyard.
“We should get going,” says Sam firmly. “Ruby, you take her into the ER with you. Dean, I'm driving.”
“The hell you are!” snarls Dean, “I'm-”
“Concussed,” finishes Sam flatly. “And you're still drunk.” He strides across the floor, away from Ruby, and pries the girl from Dean's arms. She moans slightly but doesn't wake. “Let me carry her,” he says. “You're going to fall and kill yourself.”
Dean relinquishes the waitress grudgingly. “You better fucking know what you're doing, Sam,” he says, and Sam can't decide if he means that for the rest of the night, because they've already won, for a definition of winning that involves eleven people dead who shouldn't be, or for the rest of his life, which he's pretty sure was declared a loss a long time ago.
The sky's still dark by the time they get out, no dawn yet lightening the horizon. Sam thinks maybe it's four or a little after. But he's tired and it's hard to tell, 130 pounds of survivor in his arms that keeps him from checking his watch.
Ruby gets in the car first, Dean scowling at her the whole time, and Sam tucks the waitress in gently after her. He waits for Ruby to prop her up and for Dean to slide in passenger side before getting into the Impala himself.
Dean falls asleep on the ride to the hospital, a full forty minutes away in the next town over. But Ruby stays awake. Her eyes dark but not black as they watch Sam in the rearview mirror.
“You know,” she says as he pulls into the parking lot, “that's the third time I've been tortured because of you, Sam.”
“I know,” he says. “Maybe you picked the wrong side.”
Her mouth lifts into a smile and then drops into a frown before evening out emotionlessly.
“Maybe I did,” is all she says.
“You should leave,” he suggests.
“Thanks,” she says, getting out, and he can't tell if she's being genuine or facetious. She pulls the waitress out after her, semi-conscious now, and shushes her. “I appreciate you coming to get me.”
Sam doesn't say anything, and she shrugs, then shuts the door.
“I really hate,” says Dean, after a moment, after Sam has pulled back onto the highway, “that thing riding in my car.”
“I thought you were asleep,” says Sam. He doesn't say, 'I was worried. You shouldn't sleep when you have a concussion. Maybe I should have brought you into the hospital too.'
He thinks it though, all of it swirling inside his head, clenching in his gut. It would be just like to Dean to die right next to him and to do it quietly, ruin all of Sam’s hard work so far. He’s trying to save the world, yeah, but part of saving the world is saving Dean.
Sam’s half convinced himself Dean was immortal. Every time he’s lost or almost lost Dean, something’s brought him back, but Sam’s tired of forever waiting for someone to bring his brother back to him. His solution is simple, logical. He kills Lilith, he saves the world, and Dean dies at age of eighty-four, in a hospital bed after a wife, two kids, and one too many hamburgers.
“Faking it seemed the better option than watching you two make eyes at each other,” grumbles Dean.
Sam wants to say, ‘I'm not sleeping with her.’
He wants it to be true.
The whole car smells of her, of her blood.
“You almost died tonight,” he says instead.
Dean shrugs and shifts around. There's the squeak of leather on leather as his jacket drags against the seat.
“I almost die a lot of nights,” he says. “Why's tonight got to be any different?”
“You don't even like Ruby,” insists Sam, not sure why he's making such a point of this. “Why'd you come?”
Dean doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches too long for it just to be a considering one. Dean's decided not to answer. Sam glances over at him to see if he has fallen asleep this time. But Dean's eyes are open, fixed beyond the dashboard and on the horizon.
Sam fumbles at the radio to fill the silence, even though that's always been more Dean's impulse than his.
“You’re an idiot,” says Dean quietly, finally.
Sam nods. He still turns on the radio, finds what sounds like the local NPR station. A voice in soothing Middle American cracks the silence between them.
Sam listens for a moment. It's a program about the Voyager space probes, now at the edge of the solar system. They’re farther from Earth than anything else created by man.
They’re two small objects, spinning off into darkness and eternity.
AN: Feedback is good karma. Thanks for reading.
