"Coming Clean" by Queenklu Part 1/2
Title: Coming Clean
Author: queenklu
Beta By: the lovely shri_amato who got me through dozens of beginnings and several amulet spazzes. THANKS BABE!
Pairing: Sam/Dean(as comagirl), Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 4.09--at least the flashback bits. As far as this fic is concerned 4.10 never happened. I am in SUCH hardcore denial.
Disclaimer: I keep them in a jar by the side of my bed. This, according to Dean, doesn't mean i own them.
Summary: "I dunno, the things she said, Dean," Sam breathed, "It was exactly what you would have said."
Alright, so maybe Dean had been slightly distracted by Sam’s point of view on the whole demon-killing thing, but he honestly hadn’t expected Sam to start describing That Time They Had Sex.
Warnings: genderbending/bodyswitching/wincest, oh my!
“She caught my hand and pulled it down, like I didn’t know where it was, or something, and she was so hot, you know? Physically hot, like burning. And everywhere she touched it was like this fire, this boiling burning need to just…tear off her shirt-she wasn’t wearing a bra, by the way-drag her onto my lap and-”
Yeah, that’s when Dean’s brain rejoined their conversation.
“Sam?” he said, and damn if his voice didn’t croak.
“Yeah?”
“Too much information.”
“Hey, I told you I was coming clean.”
“Yeah, well, now I feel dirty.” And that really wasn’t about to change any time soon with the image of Sam coming, clean or otherwise.
“I dunno, the things she said, Dean,” Sam breathed, incredulous wonder turning him five years old again, “It was exactly what you would have said.”
Okay, that? Was not cool. Not cool. Yeah, Dean had been slightly distracted by Sam’s point of view on the whole demon-killing thing (Sam seemed to consider it Ruby’s punishment for failing, when Dean’d just been trying to get rid of Sam’s homework before he killed himself trying to finish it) but he honestly hadn’t expected Sam to start describing That Time They Had Sex.
Even now, months later, he was trying really hard to go back to thinking of Sam as a chubby twelve year old. Really hard. And while all that was going on, it kinda sucked being blatantly reminded of what Sam was now, what he felt like slamming into Dean like he could split him in two, nails digging deep into his hips while his mouth snarled along his collarbone, scraping his teeth down, down until they latched around one nipple and tugged, Dean’s breasts aching, needy, as Sam bore down to the chants of harder, faster, Sam-
Yup. Breasts. As in, girl ones. Dean had a list of names he could go through at the drop of a hat, usually, but now…
“Uh, yeah,” he started to say, scratching at the back of his neck, “About that…”
~*~
Dean hadn’t lied when he pulled the, “There aren’t words,” line about hell. There really weren’t words. He’d googled it. The English language has exactly two words for pain-the other one is hurt. And yeah, you can amp it up with things like excruciating, agonizing, and unbearable, but when it comes down to it…there just aren’t fucking words. The only way to understand would be to live it, and Dean would sign up for a hundred more lifetimes downstairs before he subjected Sam to that.
Which, of course, the demons knew.
Lets just say it wasn’t Alistair wearing a pediatrician that made the demon hard to recognize. Nine times out of ten he’d looked an awful lot like Sam when he trotted into their torture sessions-at least until they realized that Dean thought a little Sam was better than nothing at all and started looking forward to it.
Ruby never actually landed herself in hell during the big fight, which Dean realized one endless night dangling from his meat hooks when a brief stutter of his eyelids shoved the pain from his body like a flood of morphine through his veins.
Long time no see, cowboy, she’d drawled, and the screams of hell turned muffled in his ears like he was wearing Ruby headphones. Sweet. Think I could get a patent and cash in some royalties?
“Sam,” he’d croaked through bloody, caked lips, sometimes the only word he could remember.
Don’t strain yourself, short bus, I can hear you just fine. A dim flicker in his head caught his attention and he realized he was trying to laugh. Short bus. It was almost affectionate, the way she said it.
Sam, he thought as hard as he could at the fuzzy black smoke shielding him from Alistair’s cat o'nine tails (made with real barbed wire, whee).
Yeah, yeah. She sighed, and if she’d been corporeal she would’ve been smoothing a hand through his hair; as it was, his brain matter tingled. I’m looking.
He took one last breath of pain-free air and started shoving her away.
Dean, what-?
Go, he snarled. Find Sam. Find SAM.
She hesitated, then gave his brain one last squeeze. Hang in there. Then she was gone.
Dean screamed.
~*~
Turned out Alistair had this really dumb son named George, a lesser demon Ruby was flirting with for free and discrete passage in and out of hell. Okay, flirting was putting it lightly. She was bringing him live piglets and Diet Pepsi Max (you know, that stuff with the ginseng and extra caffeine), plus a “blow job that would quite literally make your head explode,” she’d told Dean on her next visit. She also told him that George wasn’t just eating the piglets, but then he’d shouted SAM at her until she agreed not to tell him what.
She still hadn’t found Sam. He’d nearly strangled on a sob that had nothing to do with what Alistair was doing to his kidneys when she told him, but he was too weak to push her away. She wrapped tight around his brain, telling him when to moan and groan and beg for mercy so Alistair wouldn’t get suspicious, whispering stories she plucked from his brain, times when it was just him and Sam, on the road, nothing and nobody between them but themselves.
Remember when you got Sam back from the those psycho human hunters? she’d ask, or, You know that time after the Wendigo when you let Sam drive? and just like that, he’d be back in the memory. Standing there, feeling it, feeling Sam if they were touching, smelling the metal of the cage or the sickly sweet pine, seeing Sam’s face light up in a grin or, if he was lucky, a laugh. Hell seemed so far away when Sam was laughing.
It just goes to show how far gone he was that he didn’t object to her sifting through his memories.
How do you even know which ones to pick? he’d asked half-way through her third visit. She twitched, surprised, and the pain jerked back for a second before she gathered herself and pushed it away. It was the first full sentence he’d managed to string together in what felt like years, and it didn’t even have Sam’s name in it. He was kinda proud.
He felt something like fingers poking at his frontal lobe. There’s not much else in here besides Sam, dipstick. Maybe I’m just lucky.
Not that lucky, he growled, but he didn’t mean it.
She was quiet so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, They just…light up. In your head. Like Christmas tree lights. He felt her hesitate again and tensed, because something deep and feral said it wasn’t gonna be good. And lately? Things like that weren’t so deep any more.
Ooooh, look at this one, Ruby crowed, and he was suddenly walking towards a cheap wooden door, hand outstretched towards the handle, not noticing the sound of a shower until it was too late. A flash of realization (shower curtain ripped off by a previous tenant) and Sam, his back against the wall, water spilling in endless rivulets down his chest, down, down to where his hand was wrapped tight around a flushed and throbbing cock. Blush rising high on his cheeks. Eyes struggling to find a compromise between embarrassed, outraged, and desperately close.
“Deany beany!”
Lilith’s voice sliced through the air and his memory like a cherub dropped in a blender. Ruby vanished, leaving him choking and gasping on the ribbons of his lungs.
“Wanna show you something, Deany beany,” Lilith giggled, one pudgy hand of the half-rotting child she was wearing landing palm down on the side of his face. He flinched-the skin was still growing back there, leaving the bones of his skull bare-and bit through what remained of his lip trying not to scream.
Then-it was just like Ruby’s visions. He was there, really there, adjusting his tie with one lean hand that didn’t belong to him. Crisp cool air played across the unblemished skin of his face, pressing the hem of his slacks against some very expensive shoes. Dean thought, Lawyer, but it that was the case then whoever’s body he was inhabiting was kind of lost. There wasn’t anything on this dirt road except a some guy down the road with his back to them.
Now this guy was really obviously drunk, fisting the bottle like it was the only thing he had left in the world, just finishing up shouting something at the sky. Long lean legs in a pair of jeans so dirty Dean could tell from way the hell back here, narrow hips, big ol’ jacket and hoodie with a flop of-
Oh, god, Sam.
Sam flung the bottle at the lone and leaning street sign, eyes burning with desperate tears. And this…this is what Alistair had been lacking in all those countless torture sessions. He didn’t realize that a hurt and broken Sam was more painful than having your kidneys used as an Eskimo yo-yo.
“I was wondering whether to come or not,” Dean heard himself say, and it was weird as hell not having control of your own lips but he was a little preoccupied with the hard brutal need to be as close to Sam as fucking possible combined with pure bewilderment about what the hell Sam was doing. Did he not realize Dean/lawyer guy was a demon? “I mean, you did kill one of my co-workers.”
Sam took a couple staggering steps in their direction; Dean’s stomach lurched. He looked like hell warmed over. Not even warmed over, lukewarm. Hell slightly above freezing.
And apparently the demon thought so too, made some quip about how burying his brother hadn’t agreed with him, like Dean was an undercooked taco instead of a fucking sibling.
“No devils traps, either,” Sam growled once he’d slammed the knife down on the rickety wooden table as per the demon’s request. “I’m not here to play games.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Maybe Dean was more out of it than he gave Ruby credit for-fucking hell, they were at a crossroad!
“Well, let me guess.” The demon tucked their hands into his pockets as he sauntered closer, his smirk so familiar it made Sam flinch. “You wanna make a deal?”
No, Sam! he shouted, struggling so hard against the demon it coughed slightly and turned its head, forcing him silent with a wave of power that shoved him into the space of a sardine can. Dean froze, jolted into the realization that he was actually present while these things occurred, that it was actually fucking SAM not ten feet from him and not some instant replay of the event.
That meant he could stop it, right?
Not that he apparently had to, because the demon was oh-so-sweetly turning Sam down.
Sam had the knife buried in their hand before either one of them could blink. Pain jerked up their arm in jolts of electricity, but the demon hadn’t been conditioned like Dean for the past couple weeks. This was a flea bite compared to what Alistair put him through on a daily basis.
The knife jerked, dragging them closer, Sam’s face inches from his as he spat, “I don’t want ten years. I don’t want one year. I don’t want candy.” Candy? “I wanna trade places with Dean.”
Sammy-
“No,” he and the demon chorused, though the spawn of Satan was a bit more vehement.
“Just take me!” Sam roared, jerking the blade again. “It’s a fair trade!”
“NO.”
Sam’s entire being faltered. This was almost worse than hell, seeing Sammy like this, but… God, he really wanted out. He really wanted out. Just in a world with Sam, because otherwise…
“Why not?” Sam asked, his voice quiet and broken as the demon’s face twisted in a sneer. “Lilith wants me dead. Just-let Dean go. She can have me.”
The demon laughed. “Don’t you understand, Sam? It’s not about your soul. Dean’s in hell, right where we want him. Everything’s exactly the way we want it. You wanna kill me? Go ahead. I’ve made peace with my lord.”
He was bluffing. Dean knew eons before Sam lashed out with the knife that it was going to cost him his life.
Once Lilith had finished her taunting and skipped off to invite Hitler to a tea party, Ruby came crawling back, utterly silent as she wrapped Dean up in her protective blanket of smoke.
You’re going to teach me how to do that, Dean told her, no fucking room for argument anywhere in his tone.
She stayed quiet for so long he thought he might have to resort to blackmail. Then she sighed. It’s going to take a lot more piglets.
~*~
The tally was somewhere around five dozen piggies and something Ruby wouldn’t talk about before George was persuaded to let a shade out of hell-Because that’s what you are now, Ruby explained, her tone clipped and irritated when Dean asked. They shoved you in a Dean shell that can’t fucking die, because poking at a cloud of smoke isn’t as much fun.
Whoa, he said, hands up, what crawled up your ass and died?
I’m going to be crawling up your ass in a minute so shut your yap.
That was another thing. They couldn’t leave the Dean shell empty, because Alistair would notice when it stopped squirming. Ruby had, uh, volunteered. In the sense that she was the only one who could stay behind.
Dean was quietly wrapping his mental hands around Ruby so she couldn’t flee when he demanded why she was helping him and, more astonishing, why she was being so nice. Like now, he pointed out, clinging tighter because she wasn’t struggling, Last time we met I seem to recall you looking forward to hearing me scream.
Last time we met I slammed you into a fence, she corrected, voice and presence more annoyed than anything else. Groping your ass gave me a new perspective on life, what can I say?
If Dean had never been to Hell, he would’ve made some crack about his ass being pretty spectacular and known to bring about some pretty awesome forms of converting, but-
Say it, she ordered, gripping back just as tight and giving his consciousness a shake. You think you can help Sam by out-emo-ing him?
Help Sam…do what? Dean asked so quietly it was barely a tremor in his cerebellum, once the gravity of what she’d said had sunk in.
Get over you, she whispered. Then, when he cringed away, Dean…What did you think I was doing this for?
You need your savior, he muttered grimly. And Sam’s no good to you broken.
He felt her stiff nod and almost laughed through all the crushing grief. What a pair they were, stoic little soldiers.
You want Sam to get over me.
I know this is gonna hurt like hell, she said. And if I could do it for you I would. But…I’m not what he needs, now.
No, Dean agreed, mentally squaring his shoulders. You aren’t.
We won’t be able to keep this up long, Dean, she reminded him, Get in, get him off the edge. I’ll take it from there.
~*~
George slammed into Sam-which was great in hindsight because it got right in the way of Dean’s initial reaction to seeing Sam (a bone-crushing hug that would’ve come off as awkward from some strange woman in a khaki jacket), but at the same time it was really hard not to kill George sooner than right the fuck now. The moron thought he was part of a bag and tag to make his Daddy proud, not knife fodder to prove Dean’s Ruby’s loyalty to Sam.
Speaking of, he should probably introduce himself. Luckily the words he was screaming in his head (“God, Sam, I missed you,”) came out a little garbled: “Hey Sam. Miss me?”
“Ruby,” he spat, alcohol harsh on his breath.
Dean’s mouth rattled off the BS he’d rehearsed with Ruby-Do you know what I had to do to make them trust me blah blah blah-but the rest of him was doing something else entirely, eyes raking methodically over Sam, checking for bruises and burns and anything else that could distract him from the gut-wrenching need to gather Sam in his arms and take care of him, because no one else would. No one else had. But he had to make Sam buy this, even though it was really laughable that Lilith would ever trust Ruby again, let alone send her after Sam with just one lousy demon as a guard.
Sam bought it, hook line and sinker, without another glance. Dean blinked, and the gut-wrenching got worse. God, how bad was he? This was so far off the reservation. How was Dean supposed to help Sam move on from this?
He killed George so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
“C’mon, Sam.” He caught Sam’s wrist in his hand and pulled him from the room and into the hall, ignoring the near-electric shock of Sam’s skin on what was tantamount to his own. Sam’s eyes stuck to George until they were out of the room, and Dean gave his wrist a squeeze. “Trust me, the Hundred Acre Wood is so much better off without him.”
~*~
Sam up close and personal was a hundred billion times better than anything Dean had experienced in months, and he wasn’t allowed to touch him.
Still, sitting next to Sam in a car again was pretty fucking awesome (so awesome, in fact, that Dean had to hold himself back from bouncing up and down like the girl he suddenly was). He was jittery, practically giddy, coming off a month-long pain high, and Sam was right there, within arm’s reach for Christ’s sake, and maybe it was good he had the “wonders of nature” to distract him because otherwise…Sam would probably not like Ruby grabbing him in a hug anymore than when he knew her as just some random lady.
It wasn’t like Dean had been smothering the urge to manhandle Sam before hell, right? Not touching was as easy as breathing.
When you’re a hundred feet underwater in a sinking submarine.
Dean made some comment about French fries to a) reiterate (to Sam and himself) that he was Ruby, b) to get Sam (and himself) to cheer up, and c) because French fries sounded fucking fantastic right now.
“Whose body are you riding, Ruby?” Sam snapped.
Dean was too dumbstruck to come up with any sort of retort, not even the obvious ones about lesbianism and Sam being a kinky bastard. He hadn’t even thought about it. No, seriously, he hadn’t even thought about it. A voice that sounded a lot like his Dad droned, “Hell changes a man, son,” but that was fucking ridiculous. He hadn’t been gone that long.
“Some secretary,” he mumbled.
The Impala let out a low whine as Sam dragged her to one side of the road. Dean sat on his hand to keep it from stroking the dash. Poor baby…she knew who he was.
“Get out.”
The words hit Dean like a blow to the gut. Sam wanted him gone. Sam. Wanted-No, he wanted Ruby gone. He wouldn’t turn Dean out on the side of the road if he knew. Right? “Where am I supposed to go?” he heard himself ask, just barely scraping together enough energy to turn it petulant.
Sam leveled him with a not-quite-focused glare, and it was taking so much of Dean’s attention not to steal the keys and take his baby for a tune up that he didn’t notice he was being forced out of the car until Sam shut the door.
“It’s Ruby, it’s Ruby,” he chanted to himself as Sam’s taillights caught hold of something in his guts and dragged, unraveling him like a loose end in a sweater, “It’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, IT’S DEAN YOU DUMBASS SHIT FOR BRAINS EMO FLUNKY!!”
The Impala winked her brake lights goodbye, and disappeared around the corner.
“Great,” Dean snapped, and came very close to stomping his foot before he caught himself. “What if I get picked up by a trucker, Sam?! I am not peddling my ass to save your soul, you ungrateful son of a…”
Dean griped at Sam all the way to the first signs of civilization, a 7 Eleven in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. There he was picked up by a trucker who was more than happy to drive him to the nearest hospital. Which might have had something to do with Dean snapping his greasy fingers, but who can say for sure?
~*~
Dean shoved the death certificate in Sam’s face the instant he opened the door, because that meant Sam’s face was occupied with spluttering indignations and not-um. Getting punched by Dean’s fist, yes. “I recycled. Al Gore would be proud.”
“How did you-?” Sam spluttered. Indignantly.
“It is not that hard to steal a body.”
Actually, it was. It was very hard. Dead had been forced to assume a disguise and blackmail interns just to let him into the room with the coma girl he’d affectionately dubbed…“comagirl,” and he wanted to tell Sam about it. Wanted Sam to argue with him. A pissed off Sam had other things to worry about than perfecting his mope face. And if he could just get him to laugh…
Uh, laughter’s the best medicine, right?
And looks do not kill, he reminded himself when Sam leveled one at him. “Did she have a family?”
“Seriously dude? You think I’m going to resurrect some comatose female in front of her parents and family all gathered ‘round to say goodbye and then run? Jane Doe, dipshit, I hate crying families.” He gave Sam a little shove without meaning to (really, it was probably that touching thing coming back to haunt him now that Sam was within hugging distance again) and had to walk away before it meant anything. Christ, he missed having a dick.
“Why the hell not?” Sam was fading, exhaustion slurring his words more than alcohol. “You’re a demon. Screwing with people should make your freaking day.”
“Yeah, well. My ways, they are mysterious. I have mysterious ways, Sammy.”
The vodka bottle slammed down on the table so hard he nearly (and almost literally) jumped out of his skin. But for all that, when Dean turned around, Sam wasn’t spitting mad. Instead a cold, raw fury settled on him like a cloak, real and lethal enough to make a dead man fear for his life.
“Don’t call me Sammy,” he ordered quietly, and walked out of the room, knocking over the liquor bottle with a quiet sort of grace.
Part Two!
Author: queenklu
Beta By: the lovely shri_amato who got me through dozens of beginnings and several amulet spazzes. THANKS BABE!
Pairing: Sam/Dean(as comagirl), Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 4.09--at least the flashback bits. As far as this fic is concerned 4.10 never happened. I am in SUCH hardcore denial.
Disclaimer: I keep them in a jar by the side of my bed. This, according to Dean, doesn't mean i own them.
Summary: "I dunno, the things she said, Dean," Sam breathed, "It was exactly what you would have said."
Alright, so maybe Dean had been slightly distracted by Sam’s point of view on the whole demon-killing thing, but he honestly hadn’t expected Sam to start describing That Time They Had Sex.
Warnings: genderbending/bodyswitching/wincest, oh my!
“She caught my hand and pulled it down, like I didn’t know where it was, or something, and she was so hot, you know? Physically hot, like burning. And everywhere she touched it was like this fire, this boiling burning need to just…tear off her shirt-she wasn’t wearing a bra, by the way-drag her onto my lap and-”
Yeah, that’s when Dean’s brain rejoined their conversation.
“Sam?” he said, and damn if his voice didn’t croak.
“Yeah?”
“Too much information.”
“Hey, I told you I was coming clean.”
“Yeah, well, now I feel dirty.” And that really wasn’t about to change any time soon with the image of Sam coming, clean or otherwise.
“I dunno, the things she said, Dean,” Sam breathed, incredulous wonder turning him five years old again, “It was exactly what you would have said.”
Okay, that? Was not cool. Not cool. Yeah, Dean had been slightly distracted by Sam’s point of view on the whole demon-killing thing (Sam seemed to consider it Ruby’s punishment for failing, when Dean’d just been trying to get rid of Sam’s homework before he killed himself trying to finish it) but he honestly hadn’t expected Sam to start describing That Time They Had Sex.
Even now, months later, he was trying really hard to go back to thinking of Sam as a chubby twelve year old. Really hard. And while all that was going on, it kinda sucked being blatantly reminded of what Sam was now, what he felt like slamming into Dean like he could split him in two, nails digging deep into his hips while his mouth snarled along his collarbone, scraping his teeth down, down until they latched around one nipple and tugged, Dean’s breasts aching, needy, as Sam bore down to the chants of harder, faster, Sam-
Yup. Breasts. As in, girl ones. Dean had a list of names he could go through at the drop of a hat, usually, but now…
“Uh, yeah,” he started to say, scratching at the back of his neck, “About that…”
~*~
Dean hadn’t lied when he pulled the, “There aren’t words,” line about hell. There really weren’t words. He’d googled it. The English language has exactly two words for pain-the other one is hurt. And yeah, you can amp it up with things like excruciating, agonizing, and unbearable, but when it comes down to it…there just aren’t fucking words. The only way to understand would be to live it, and Dean would sign up for a hundred more lifetimes downstairs before he subjected Sam to that.
Which, of course, the demons knew.
Lets just say it wasn’t Alistair wearing a pediatrician that made the demon hard to recognize. Nine times out of ten he’d looked an awful lot like Sam when he trotted into their torture sessions-at least until they realized that Dean thought a little Sam was better than nothing at all and started looking forward to it.
Ruby never actually landed herself in hell during the big fight, which Dean realized one endless night dangling from his meat hooks when a brief stutter of his eyelids shoved the pain from his body like a flood of morphine through his veins.
Long time no see, cowboy, she’d drawled, and the screams of hell turned muffled in his ears like he was wearing Ruby headphones. Sweet. Think I could get a patent and cash in some royalties?
“Sam,” he’d croaked through bloody, caked lips, sometimes the only word he could remember.
Don’t strain yourself, short bus, I can hear you just fine. A dim flicker in his head caught his attention and he realized he was trying to laugh. Short bus. It was almost affectionate, the way she said it.
Sam, he thought as hard as he could at the fuzzy black smoke shielding him from Alistair’s cat o'nine tails (made with real barbed wire, whee).
Yeah, yeah. She sighed, and if she’d been corporeal she would’ve been smoothing a hand through his hair; as it was, his brain matter tingled. I’m looking.
He took one last breath of pain-free air and started shoving her away.
Dean, what-?
Go, he snarled. Find Sam. Find SAM.
She hesitated, then gave his brain one last squeeze. Hang in there. Then she was gone.
Dean screamed.
~*~
Turned out Alistair had this really dumb son named George, a lesser demon Ruby was flirting with for free and discrete passage in and out of hell. Okay, flirting was putting it lightly. She was bringing him live piglets and Diet Pepsi Max (you know, that stuff with the ginseng and extra caffeine), plus a “blow job that would quite literally make your head explode,” she’d told Dean on her next visit. She also told him that George wasn’t just eating the piglets, but then he’d shouted SAM at her until she agreed not to tell him what.
She still hadn’t found Sam. He’d nearly strangled on a sob that had nothing to do with what Alistair was doing to his kidneys when she told him, but he was too weak to push her away. She wrapped tight around his brain, telling him when to moan and groan and beg for mercy so Alistair wouldn’t get suspicious, whispering stories she plucked from his brain, times when it was just him and Sam, on the road, nothing and nobody between them but themselves.
Remember when you got Sam back from the those psycho human hunters? she’d ask, or, You know that time after the Wendigo when you let Sam drive? and just like that, he’d be back in the memory. Standing there, feeling it, feeling Sam if they were touching, smelling the metal of the cage or the sickly sweet pine, seeing Sam’s face light up in a grin or, if he was lucky, a laugh. Hell seemed so far away when Sam was laughing.
It just goes to show how far gone he was that he didn’t object to her sifting through his memories.
How do you even know which ones to pick? he’d asked half-way through her third visit. She twitched, surprised, and the pain jerked back for a second before she gathered herself and pushed it away. It was the first full sentence he’d managed to string together in what felt like years, and it didn’t even have Sam’s name in it. He was kinda proud.
He felt something like fingers poking at his frontal lobe. There’s not much else in here besides Sam, dipstick. Maybe I’m just lucky.
Not that lucky, he growled, but he didn’t mean it.
She was quiet so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, They just…light up. In your head. Like Christmas tree lights. He felt her hesitate again and tensed, because something deep and feral said it wasn’t gonna be good. And lately? Things like that weren’t so deep any more.
Ooooh, look at this one, Ruby crowed, and he was suddenly walking towards a cheap wooden door, hand outstretched towards the handle, not noticing the sound of a shower until it was too late. A flash of realization (shower curtain ripped off by a previous tenant) and Sam, his back against the wall, water spilling in endless rivulets down his chest, down, down to where his hand was wrapped tight around a flushed and throbbing cock. Blush rising high on his cheeks. Eyes struggling to find a compromise between embarrassed, outraged, and desperately close.
“Deany beany!”
Lilith’s voice sliced through the air and his memory like a cherub dropped in a blender. Ruby vanished, leaving him choking and gasping on the ribbons of his lungs.
“Wanna show you something, Deany beany,” Lilith giggled, one pudgy hand of the half-rotting child she was wearing landing palm down on the side of his face. He flinched-the skin was still growing back there, leaving the bones of his skull bare-and bit through what remained of his lip trying not to scream.
Then-it was just like Ruby’s visions. He was there, really there, adjusting his tie with one lean hand that didn’t belong to him. Crisp cool air played across the unblemished skin of his face, pressing the hem of his slacks against some very expensive shoes. Dean thought, Lawyer, but it that was the case then whoever’s body he was inhabiting was kind of lost. There wasn’t anything on this dirt road except a some guy down the road with his back to them.
Now this guy was really obviously drunk, fisting the bottle like it was the only thing he had left in the world, just finishing up shouting something at the sky. Long lean legs in a pair of jeans so dirty Dean could tell from way the hell back here, narrow hips, big ol’ jacket and hoodie with a flop of-
Oh, god, Sam.
Sam flung the bottle at the lone and leaning street sign, eyes burning with desperate tears. And this…this is what Alistair had been lacking in all those countless torture sessions. He didn’t realize that a hurt and broken Sam was more painful than having your kidneys used as an Eskimo yo-yo.
“I was wondering whether to come or not,” Dean heard himself say, and it was weird as hell not having control of your own lips but he was a little preoccupied with the hard brutal need to be as close to Sam as fucking possible combined with pure bewilderment about what the hell Sam was doing. Did he not realize Dean/lawyer guy was a demon? “I mean, you did kill one of my co-workers.”
Sam took a couple staggering steps in their direction; Dean’s stomach lurched. He looked like hell warmed over. Not even warmed over, lukewarm. Hell slightly above freezing.
And apparently the demon thought so too, made some quip about how burying his brother hadn’t agreed with him, like Dean was an undercooked taco instead of a fucking sibling.
“No devils traps, either,” Sam growled once he’d slammed the knife down on the rickety wooden table as per the demon’s request. “I’m not here to play games.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Maybe Dean was more out of it than he gave Ruby credit for-fucking hell, they were at a crossroad!
“Well, let me guess.” The demon tucked their hands into his pockets as he sauntered closer, his smirk so familiar it made Sam flinch. “You wanna make a deal?”
No, Sam! he shouted, struggling so hard against the demon it coughed slightly and turned its head, forcing him silent with a wave of power that shoved him into the space of a sardine can. Dean froze, jolted into the realization that he was actually present while these things occurred, that it was actually fucking SAM not ten feet from him and not some instant replay of the event.
That meant he could stop it, right?
Not that he apparently had to, because the demon was oh-so-sweetly turning Sam down.
Sam had the knife buried in their hand before either one of them could blink. Pain jerked up their arm in jolts of electricity, but the demon hadn’t been conditioned like Dean for the past couple weeks. This was a flea bite compared to what Alistair put him through on a daily basis.
The knife jerked, dragging them closer, Sam’s face inches from his as he spat, “I don’t want ten years. I don’t want one year. I don’t want candy.” Candy? “I wanna trade places with Dean.”
Sammy-
“No,” he and the demon chorused, though the spawn of Satan was a bit more vehement.
“Just take me!” Sam roared, jerking the blade again. “It’s a fair trade!”
“NO.”
Sam’s entire being faltered. This was almost worse than hell, seeing Sammy like this, but… God, he really wanted out. He really wanted out. Just in a world with Sam, because otherwise…
“Why not?” Sam asked, his voice quiet and broken as the demon’s face twisted in a sneer. “Lilith wants me dead. Just-let Dean go. She can have me.”
The demon laughed. “Don’t you understand, Sam? It’s not about your soul. Dean’s in hell, right where we want him. Everything’s exactly the way we want it. You wanna kill me? Go ahead. I’ve made peace with my lord.”
He was bluffing. Dean knew eons before Sam lashed out with the knife that it was going to cost him his life.
Once Lilith had finished her taunting and skipped off to invite Hitler to a tea party, Ruby came crawling back, utterly silent as she wrapped Dean up in her protective blanket of smoke.
You’re going to teach me how to do that, Dean told her, no fucking room for argument anywhere in his tone.
She stayed quiet for so long he thought he might have to resort to blackmail. Then she sighed. It’s going to take a lot more piglets.
~*~
The tally was somewhere around five dozen piggies and something Ruby wouldn’t talk about before George was persuaded to let a shade out of hell-Because that’s what you are now, Ruby explained, her tone clipped and irritated when Dean asked. They shoved you in a Dean shell that can’t fucking die, because poking at a cloud of smoke isn’t as much fun.
Whoa, he said, hands up, what crawled up your ass and died?
I’m going to be crawling up your ass in a minute so shut your yap.
That was another thing. They couldn’t leave the Dean shell empty, because Alistair would notice when it stopped squirming. Ruby had, uh, volunteered. In the sense that she was the only one who could stay behind.
Dean was quietly wrapping his mental hands around Ruby so she couldn’t flee when he demanded why she was helping him and, more astonishing, why she was being so nice. Like now, he pointed out, clinging tighter because she wasn’t struggling, Last time we met I seem to recall you looking forward to hearing me scream.
Last time we met I slammed you into a fence, she corrected, voice and presence more annoyed than anything else. Groping your ass gave me a new perspective on life, what can I say?
If Dean had never been to Hell, he would’ve made some crack about his ass being pretty spectacular and known to bring about some pretty awesome forms of converting, but-
Say it, she ordered, gripping back just as tight and giving his consciousness a shake. You think you can help Sam by out-emo-ing him?
Help Sam…do what? Dean asked so quietly it was barely a tremor in his cerebellum, once the gravity of what she’d said had sunk in.
Get over you, she whispered. Then, when he cringed away, Dean…What did you think I was doing this for?
You need your savior, he muttered grimly. And Sam’s no good to you broken.
He felt her stiff nod and almost laughed through all the crushing grief. What a pair they were, stoic little soldiers.
You want Sam to get over me.
I know this is gonna hurt like hell, she said. And if I could do it for you I would. But…I’m not what he needs, now.
No, Dean agreed, mentally squaring his shoulders. You aren’t.
We won’t be able to keep this up long, Dean, she reminded him, Get in, get him off the edge. I’ll take it from there.
~*~
George slammed into Sam-which was great in hindsight because it got right in the way of Dean’s initial reaction to seeing Sam (a bone-crushing hug that would’ve come off as awkward from some strange woman in a khaki jacket), but at the same time it was really hard not to kill George sooner than right the fuck now. The moron thought he was part of a bag and tag to make his Daddy proud, not knife fodder to prove Dean’s Ruby’s loyalty to Sam.
Speaking of, he should probably introduce himself. Luckily the words he was screaming in his head (“God, Sam, I missed you,”) came out a little garbled: “Hey Sam. Miss me?”
“Ruby,” he spat, alcohol harsh on his breath.
Dean’s mouth rattled off the BS he’d rehearsed with Ruby-Do you know what I had to do to make them trust me blah blah blah-but the rest of him was doing something else entirely, eyes raking methodically over Sam, checking for bruises and burns and anything else that could distract him from the gut-wrenching need to gather Sam in his arms and take care of him, because no one else would. No one else had. But he had to make Sam buy this, even though it was really laughable that Lilith would ever trust Ruby again, let alone send her after Sam with just one lousy demon as a guard.
Sam bought it, hook line and sinker, without another glance. Dean blinked, and the gut-wrenching got worse. God, how bad was he? This was so far off the reservation. How was Dean supposed to help Sam move on from this?
He killed George so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
“C’mon, Sam.” He caught Sam’s wrist in his hand and pulled him from the room and into the hall, ignoring the near-electric shock of Sam’s skin on what was tantamount to his own. Sam’s eyes stuck to George until they were out of the room, and Dean gave his wrist a squeeze. “Trust me, the Hundred Acre Wood is so much better off without him.”
~*~
Sam up close and personal was a hundred billion times better than anything Dean had experienced in months, and he wasn’t allowed to touch him.
Still, sitting next to Sam in a car again was pretty fucking awesome (so awesome, in fact, that Dean had to hold himself back from bouncing up and down like the girl he suddenly was). He was jittery, practically giddy, coming off a month-long pain high, and Sam was right there, within arm’s reach for Christ’s sake, and maybe it was good he had the “wonders of nature” to distract him because otherwise…Sam would probably not like Ruby grabbing him in a hug anymore than when he knew her as just some random lady.
It wasn’t like Dean had been smothering the urge to manhandle Sam before hell, right? Not touching was as easy as breathing.
When you’re a hundred feet underwater in a sinking submarine.
Dean made some comment about French fries to a) reiterate (to Sam and himself) that he was Ruby, b) to get Sam (and himself) to cheer up, and c) because French fries sounded fucking fantastic right now.
“Whose body are you riding, Ruby?” Sam snapped.
Dean was too dumbstruck to come up with any sort of retort, not even the obvious ones about lesbianism and Sam being a kinky bastard. He hadn’t even thought about it. No, seriously, he hadn’t even thought about it. A voice that sounded a lot like his Dad droned, “Hell changes a man, son,” but that was fucking ridiculous. He hadn’t been gone that long.
“Some secretary,” he mumbled.
The Impala let out a low whine as Sam dragged her to one side of the road. Dean sat on his hand to keep it from stroking the dash. Poor baby…she knew who he was.
“Get out.”
The words hit Dean like a blow to the gut. Sam wanted him gone. Sam. Wanted-No, he wanted Ruby gone. He wouldn’t turn Dean out on the side of the road if he knew. Right? “Where am I supposed to go?” he heard himself ask, just barely scraping together enough energy to turn it petulant.
Sam leveled him with a not-quite-focused glare, and it was taking so much of Dean’s attention not to steal the keys and take his baby for a tune up that he didn’t notice he was being forced out of the car until Sam shut the door.
“It’s Ruby, it’s Ruby,” he chanted to himself as Sam’s taillights caught hold of something in his guts and dragged, unraveling him like a loose end in a sweater, “It’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, it’s Ruby, IT’S DEAN YOU DUMBASS SHIT FOR BRAINS EMO FLUNKY!!”
The Impala winked her brake lights goodbye, and disappeared around the corner.
“Great,” Dean snapped, and came very close to stomping his foot before he caught himself. “What if I get picked up by a trucker, Sam?! I am not peddling my ass to save your soul, you ungrateful son of a…”
Dean griped at Sam all the way to the first signs of civilization, a 7 Eleven in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. There he was picked up by a trucker who was more than happy to drive him to the nearest hospital. Which might have had something to do with Dean snapping his greasy fingers, but who can say for sure?
~*~
Dean shoved the death certificate in Sam’s face the instant he opened the door, because that meant Sam’s face was occupied with spluttering indignations and not-um. Getting punched by Dean’s fist, yes. “I recycled. Al Gore would be proud.”
“How did you-?” Sam spluttered. Indignantly.
“It is not that hard to steal a body.”
Actually, it was. It was very hard. Dead had been forced to assume a disguise and blackmail interns just to let him into the room with the coma girl he’d affectionately dubbed…“comagirl,” and he wanted to tell Sam about it. Wanted Sam to argue with him. A pissed off Sam had other things to worry about than perfecting his mope face. And if he could just get him to laugh…
Uh, laughter’s the best medicine, right?
And looks do not kill, he reminded himself when Sam leveled one at him. “Did she have a family?”
“Seriously dude? You think I’m going to resurrect some comatose female in front of her parents and family all gathered ‘round to say goodbye and then run? Jane Doe, dipshit, I hate crying families.” He gave Sam a little shove without meaning to (really, it was probably that touching thing coming back to haunt him now that Sam was within hugging distance again) and had to walk away before it meant anything. Christ, he missed having a dick.
“Why the hell not?” Sam was fading, exhaustion slurring his words more than alcohol. “You’re a demon. Screwing with people should make your freaking day.”
“Yeah, well. My ways, they are mysterious. I have mysterious ways, Sammy.”
The vodka bottle slammed down on the table so hard he nearly (and almost literally) jumped out of his skin. But for all that, when Dean turned around, Sam wasn’t spitting mad. Instead a cold, raw fury settled on him like a cloak, real and lethal enough to make a dead man fear for his life.
“Don’t call me Sammy,” he ordered quietly, and walked out of the room, knocking over the liquor bottle with a quiet sort of grace.
Part Two!