fic: Amica Draco--Supernatural
Title: Amica Draco
Pairing: Sam/Ruby
Word Count:~1000
Warnings: non-graphic sexual content
Notes: (Please excuse my paltry attempt at Latin in the title. I'm sorry.)
“I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not, I’m not the dragon.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
--
If this is your body then it’s probably not ever going to be filled with light. You don’t know much about the Jane Doe who was declared dead in the hospital, but you can feel the echoes of her bouncing around your head sometimes, because a person shapes the body they inhabit. They slice them open and dye them colors and pierce them through with holes, all in an effort to make the sack of meat feel like theirs. Jane Doe was remarkably kind to her body, and now you’re wearing it. Funny how these things work out.
You’re riding, feet kicked up, in the back of the impala, and you can feel every little bump in the road. That’s how well the body fits, how tight you are inside it. You’re playing with a knife, one of Sam’s. It’s not as good as yours. Sam drives over a pothole, and the knife slips and takes off the top of your finger, right through the nail. Okay, so it doesn’t, but it does open the flesh and blood oozes out. You slip the finger into your mouth and suck. It’s tangy and sweet. It’s just blood. You’d tell Sam that but then he’d probably kill you.
It’s a betrayal, what you two do in the dark, to Dean, whose job it is to save everyone, who is the messiah. You are the crooked man who would sell Dean for thirty gold pieces. You would, though. You would.
There’s a storm coming up on the horizon, a big one where the sky will open up and pour her blood out. Sam hasn’t yet taken notice. When it’s bad you’ll make him pull over. Maybe you’ll fuck. Maybe he’ll slice your wrist open and drink you down. You don’t know. You like both options and one shouldn’t drive in this weather anyway. You’re a demon but Sam could die, probably half wants to, which is why you have to keep telling him what to do. Someone has to, and who else is it going to be? God won’t listen to him. Or me.
The clouds are coming down like hellhounds on a sinner, but you wait until lightning flashes before you tuck the knife back into the seat pocket you pulled it from. Come on, Sam, you say, let’s stop. The thunder growls her insatiable hunger as he looks back at you. His eyes are dark with suspicion or confusion or maybe just grief, but he listens. He does.
--
“For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
--
There’s a storm overhead when Ruby says Come on, Sam, let’s stop. You listen because you’ve got nothing better to do, not because you trust her. You wouldn’t trust that black-eyed bitch in a million years. No wait, I’m sorry I called you a bitch. She’s actually sort of your savior, as these things go. But that doesn’t mean you trust her. It does kind of mean you love her for it.
You fuck Ruby in the back of the impala, which feels like a sin in itself, because you can’t be bothered to find a motel first. She smiles at you in the way you expect Satan smiled at Jesus when he was trying to get him to turn everything into bread, but the words of God are food too. Unfortunately you don’t have any of those either. Dean would, or he’d know how to get some. Dean was probably blessed, which is why it’s ironic that he’s in the pit while you’re fucking the hell-bitch. Sorry for calling you a bitch again. You deserve a lot but not that. I’m projecting. Your blessed brother would call her a bitch, but that’s God for you. I suppose you know that even better than I do.
You can feel the cursed blood singing inside you as you fuck her, her little moans piercing the air. Oh wait, no you can’t, because it’s just blood. It’s probably a gift, too, since you’re using it to save people. Dean wouldn’t see it that way. Dean killed Meg Masters.
When Ruby is taking you into her body she whispers little words of comfort in your ear. Sometimes the words are in an old language that no one speaks anymore, but that’s okay. She presses lots of little kisses to your chest, and each one could be the Judas kiss, Satan filling the body she said was warm inside. He’d probably like it there.
Maybe you’ll be betrayed or maybe you won’t be. It doesn’t matter either way, you just want to hunt Lilith down and string her up. You’ve become what you’ve always hated, which is your father. There’s nothing wrong with revenge, Ruby tells you when you come. It’ll taste sweet on your tongue, Sam. Promise.
Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. It doesn’t really matter to you, but at least when you kill Lilith you’ll have something. Is Dean Mary? They’re not the same color but they have the same eyes. I guess that doesn’t really make sense.
When you pull out of her you just lie there because you can’t think off anything else to do. The little pink nubs of her fingertips press over your chest, and you let her pull you close and hold you against her breasts. Her flesh is warmer than a blanket. Her flesh is softer than Dean’s. She’s the monster in the storybook, but she’s here to save you. She’s the monster, but so are you.
--
“Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.
You still get to be the hero.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
Pairing: Sam/Ruby
Word Count:~1000
Warnings: non-graphic sexual content
Notes: (Please excuse my paltry attempt at Latin in the title. I'm sorry.)
“I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not, I’m not the dragon.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
--
If this is your body then it’s probably not ever going to be filled with light. You don’t know much about the Jane Doe who was declared dead in the hospital, but you can feel the echoes of her bouncing around your head sometimes, because a person shapes the body they inhabit. They slice them open and dye them colors and pierce them through with holes, all in an effort to make the sack of meat feel like theirs. Jane Doe was remarkably kind to her body, and now you’re wearing it. Funny how these things work out.
You’re riding, feet kicked up, in the back of the impala, and you can feel every little bump in the road. That’s how well the body fits, how tight you are inside it. You’re playing with a knife, one of Sam’s. It’s not as good as yours. Sam drives over a pothole, and the knife slips and takes off the top of your finger, right through the nail. Okay, so it doesn’t, but it does open the flesh and blood oozes out. You slip the finger into your mouth and suck. It’s tangy and sweet. It’s just blood. You’d tell Sam that but then he’d probably kill you.
It’s a betrayal, what you two do in the dark, to Dean, whose job it is to save everyone, who is the messiah. You are the crooked man who would sell Dean for thirty gold pieces. You would, though. You would.
There’s a storm coming up on the horizon, a big one where the sky will open up and pour her blood out. Sam hasn’t yet taken notice. When it’s bad you’ll make him pull over. Maybe you’ll fuck. Maybe he’ll slice your wrist open and drink you down. You don’t know. You like both options and one shouldn’t drive in this weather anyway. You’re a demon but Sam could die, probably half wants to, which is why you have to keep telling him what to do. Someone has to, and who else is it going to be? God won’t listen to him. Or me.
The clouds are coming down like hellhounds on a sinner, but you wait until lightning flashes before you tuck the knife back into the seat pocket you pulled it from. Come on, Sam, you say, let’s stop. The thunder growls her insatiable hunger as he looks back at you. His eyes are dark with suspicion or confusion or maybe just grief, but he listens. He does.
--
“For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
--
There’s a storm overhead when Ruby says Come on, Sam, let’s stop. You listen because you’ve got nothing better to do, not because you trust her. You wouldn’t trust that black-eyed bitch in a million years. No wait, I’m sorry I called you a bitch. She’s actually sort of your savior, as these things go. But that doesn’t mean you trust her. It does kind of mean you love her for it.
You fuck Ruby in the back of the impala, which feels like a sin in itself, because you can’t be bothered to find a motel first. She smiles at you in the way you expect Satan smiled at Jesus when he was trying to get him to turn everything into bread, but the words of God are food too. Unfortunately you don’t have any of those either. Dean would, or he’d know how to get some. Dean was probably blessed, which is why it’s ironic that he’s in the pit while you’re fucking the hell-bitch. Sorry for calling you a bitch again. You deserve a lot but not that. I’m projecting. Your blessed brother would call her a bitch, but that’s God for you. I suppose you know that even better than I do.
You can feel the cursed blood singing inside you as you fuck her, her little moans piercing the air. Oh wait, no you can’t, because it’s just blood. It’s probably a gift, too, since you’re using it to save people. Dean wouldn’t see it that way. Dean killed Meg Masters.
When Ruby is taking you into her body she whispers little words of comfort in your ear. Sometimes the words are in an old language that no one speaks anymore, but that’s okay. She presses lots of little kisses to your chest, and each one could be the Judas kiss, Satan filling the body she said was warm inside. He’d probably like it there.
Maybe you’ll be betrayed or maybe you won’t be. It doesn’t matter either way, you just want to hunt Lilith down and string her up. You’ve become what you’ve always hated, which is your father. There’s nothing wrong with revenge, Ruby tells you when you come. It’ll taste sweet on your tongue, Sam. Promise.
Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. It doesn’t really matter to you, but at least when you kill Lilith you’ll have something. Is Dean Mary? They’re not the same color but they have the same eyes. I guess that doesn’t really make sense.
When you pull out of her you just lie there because you can’t think off anything else to do. The little pink nubs of her fingertips press over your chest, and you let her pull you close and hold you against her breasts. Her flesh is warmer than a blanket. Her flesh is softer than Dean’s. She’s the monster in the storybook, but she’s here to save you. She’s the monster, but so are you.
--
“Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.
You still get to be the hero.”
--Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.