Fic: All I Want For Christmas (A/U)
Title: All I Want For Christmas (A/U)
Author: Tahirire
Word count: 2,070
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Ruby
Spoilers: Up to NRFTW.
Disclaimer: Kripke owns the boys, my soul, and most of my brain. I own nothing useful. :-)
Warnings: Tension, both sexual and otherwise. It is my personal canon that Sam likes knives. I don't write porn. That should tell you everything you need to know. If you can handle the show, you can handle this.
Beta: blacklid
Prompt: spn_monthlyfic , Sam, gingerbread house, chocolate icing, picture, “I don’t remember it looking this shabby.”
Author's note: My muse decided to write 2 fics to this prompt. I'm not done with the other one just yet, but consider THIS an a/u to THAT. (Basically, someone dared me to take this prompt and make it angsty, LOL. NEVER DARE ME AGAIN.) ETA: Here's the gen version. Enjoy!!
Summary: Yeah, I know - but what if Dean DIDN'T come back?
All I Want for Christmas (A/U)
December 2007
“I know. That’s why I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can’t just … sit around, drinking egg nog pretending everything’s ok when I know next Christmas you’ll be dead.”
December 2008
She sprung for a nice hotel for once, a really nice hotel. She told him he deserved it, and he agreed with a casual nod, never saying a word.
That was two days ago.
She relishes the feel of the steamy droplets against her skin, tries to drown her thoughts in the sound. Tries not to march out there and scream at him to just talk to me. Tries to remember she shouldn’t care in the first place.
Eventually even a five-star joint will run out of hot water. She moves to the large mirror, towels her body first, and then her hair, as the steam slowly exits through the open door. Privacy hasn’t been an issue between them in a long time, not because she doesn’t care if he sees, but because he never looks. She pulls on a pair of red biniki briefs and a thin white tank top, wondering why she bothers.
She’s just raising the brush to her long, tangled hair when a quiet flicker of motion catches her attention. By the time she turns her head, he’s already there, and he startles her so badly that she drops the brush. The sound it makes when it hits the expensive tile seems harsh in the sudden silence.
He stands in the door, hip cocked to the side, one hand behind his back, watching her. The steam curls around him like it’s anxious to avoid his touch. He hasn’t changed since they got back from the diner. His dark blue overshirt hugs the planes of him just enough to make her throat go dry. She hasn’t seen that look in his eyes for a really long time.
His heavy silence permeates the room, reminding her of the tension of the last two days. Suddenly she’s angry. She should be thrilled, and they should be celebrating. He’s ruining this victory for her, and damn it, it’s her victory just as much as it is his; maybe even more. Jerkily she snatches up the brush from the floor and pulls it swiftly through the worst of the tangles, attacking the knots with renewed vigor.
“Take a picture, Sam. It’ll last longer.” She snaps, surprised in spite of herself at how bitter the words come out.
Sam pushes off the door frame then, moves to stand behind her, stares at her through the mirror’s reflection. She tries to meet his gaze, but it’s moving too much, lingering now and again in places she thought he’d long lost interest in. He gives off incredible heat at her back, his body pressed just close enough to cage her in - but not enough to touch.
She takes in the sight of him, towering over her, and feels a shiver run down her spine. She dismisses it, catalogues it as anticipation. Because there’s no way it was fear.
He leans down, slow and deliberate, sets one large hand next to hers on the marble edge of the counter, brings his lips near the shell of her right ear. His gaze reflects darkly off the glass as he finally meets her stare. She feels her breath hitch in her throat. Excitement, that’s all it is.
Ruby’s not afraid of Sam.
He stares for a long time, seemingly concentrating on what he wants to say. His face is a careful mask; it reveals nothing, just angles and shadows. His eyes glitter, a trick of the fluorescent lights. Her own eyes narrow at the faint smell of alcohol, then widen in realization.
The blood-spattered gingerbread house crowns the center arrangement proudly, surrounded by cakes and pies and candies, cookies with chocolate icing, a little girl’s stocking spilling out onto the floor.
“We’ve been here before,” she whispers, not wanting to shatter the fragile silence but needing to be heard. She can’t believe she let things go this far. She should have known he’d self-destruct. She should have been ready for this.
The glitter sparks and becomes a flame for the briefest instant, but before she can fan it to life it withers away, and Sam’s eyes go dull and lifeless. He barks out a low, humorless laugh, waves his hand briefly around the opulent room. “Yeah? I don’t remember it looking this shabby,” he rasps. She winces at the rough timbre of his voice, the pallor in his cheeks.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I thought we said no more drinking, Sam.” She states smoothly, not wanting to rile him. Something is telling her to carefully choose her words, but she actually feels betrayed, damn him, and the last two slip by her guard before she has a chance to stop them. “You promised.”
Sam visibly flinches, and before she can take it back he’s touching her, the rough stubble of his cheek scratches as he shuts his eyes and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His powerful hand runs up from the counter, squeezing her arm just above the elbow, firm enough to bruise; he makes a sound that might be another laugh or it might be a dry sob, either way, low in her gut, it makes her sick.
“Sam …” she whispers, but she was never good at words, and suddenly it’s like the last seven months of progress never happened, and he’s right back where he started. It hurts to see him like this, but she’s a demon, and selfish, and all she can think right now is that she’ll be ok with it - just for a little while - if it means that Sam wants her again.
His hand moves higher, cups the back of her skull, tips her head back to lean on his shoulder. She can almost hear the moisture from her hair seep into the soft fabric of his overshirt. She breathes deeply, tries to still the sudden pounding of her heart. His fingers wend through the sodden tendrils, gripping firmly, but not enough to hurt.
She strains to see his face through the looking glass, but he holds her steady, demanding obedience like always, and she is forced to settle for the ceiling instead. She bites her lip against the whining moan that threatens to break free. If he won’t let her see, the least he could do is let her feel him. Feel something.
Black smoke rockets from the body, the little girl falls, but the smoke can’t escape him. He’s determined, implacable; his eyes gleam golden in the firelight as he sends the bitch screaming into Hell.
He shudders once, breathes in deep, decision made. She closes her eyes in anticipation. Whatever Sam wants, Sam takes, and she never tells him no. Whatever he needs. He’s earned it.
But when he moves, bringing his right hand up from behind his back, it’s not his touch she feels. His voice is low and dangerous, venom masking the bitter undercurrent well as he croons into her ear. “You should know by now,” he says, “I really kind of suck at keeping promises.”
The flat edge of her knife sinks into the hollow of her throat, pressing, promising. She gasps involuntarily and waits for the answering sting, but Sam moves with her, and the bite doesn’t come.
Clarity is a bitch, she thinks, realizing with a rush of adrenaline that she’s been wrong this whole time. Her heart stutters until it feels like it will stop. Her eyes go black with fear. She didn’t watch him close enough; she didn’t make herself into what he needed her to be.
And now he doesn’t need her anymore.
Blood everywhere. She turns to him in triumph, but his eyes are as dead as the child between them, as dead as his family, as dead as his soul. She turns away, defeated. There can be no victory in revenge, and by gaining it, he’s damned them both.
The press of the blade is unyielding, cold and hard against her skin. Sam presses against her, radiating heat that whispers stories of Hellfire. His power dances on the outskirts of her senses, and she feels her whole body lock into place, muscles unwilling to challenge his dominance.
The vaulted ceiling stares impassively back at her predicament. She could try to fight, but she would lose. She knows what he is capable of, how strong he is. But it’s not much her style to beg. Her pulse quickens as the blade begins to move, a delicate dance of steel on skin, tipping back and forth between razor’s edge and sharp teeth, slowly dragging down, crossing her chest, settling over her suddenly pounding heart.
She exhales slowly, tries not to sound afraid. “Didn’t figure you much the type for knife play,” she breathes, a strained whisper. His breath is warm against her cheek, she feels the rumble in his chest vibrate through her bones as he chuckles, dark and low. He spins the knife a half-turn, tipping the serrated edge away, bringing the needle point to rest exactly where she would bury it to the hilt if this was her offensive. The delicate fabric of her tank top rips, but not her borrowed body’s flesh.
Sam pulls her back from the counter, what little support she gained from it dropping away as he tilts her face forward to see. His face is cold, set, his eyes alive once again with power. The inexorable rage is eating him alive, and the darkness inside him washes over her in cold flames, leaves her gasping for air.
No, she thinks. No, Sam. This isn’t what he’d want for you.
The twin smoldering beacons of his eyes never leave hers, wide and black, and the figure in the mirror trails the tip of the knife casually, wending its way over the curves of her, owning her. The quickening of her pulse follows wherever the blade leads, but the killing lightening doesn’t strike. Sam’s hand is steady on the grip, and he claims her life the same way he does everything; with control, precision … every inch of him a hunter.
Those same hands know how to protect and heal. They know how to preserve and fight for the weak. Even as they bare her throat and flick the weapon’s force back and forth, riding the edges of pressure points and hidden arteries, she knows they could bring her pleasure, so much pleasure, if only he could see it, too.
I’m sorry, Dean. She thinks, useless. I tried.
Her eyes slip shut, slide away from his. She never wanted this. She can’t bear to watch his once-bright soul wither and turn to ashes.
She relaxes into his arms, tilts her head back fully against the firm, smooth plane of his chest. She feels tiny, but she’s not afraid anymore. If he needs to kill her, she decides, then she’s ok with that. Whatever Sam needs. He’s earned it.
Time stretches out, impossibly slow. All she feels are his fingers in her hair, his chin against her temple, the somehow gentle steel of the blade. She listens to his heartbeat, wonders how much longer it will exist once she’s gone.
The sensitive underside of her bicep shudders as the tip of the knife slides smoothly down her forearm to her wrist. She feels her borrowed body’s pulse throb underneath the pressure, anticipating the searing flick that will finally spill her blood.
Caught in between dread and longing, she doesn’t notice that the pressure has vanished until she feels the smooth wood of the handle in her hand. She feels soft lips press chastely at the base of her neck, and before she can open her eyes, he’s gone.
His absence leaves her reeling, makes her gasp for air in a way that her fear never could. She sets the knife carefully on the counter, disoriented, amazed to be feeling anything at all.
It’s done, and Lilith is dead, and the knife belongs to her again, and Sam doesn’t need her anymore.
When she finally exits, she’s not surprised their room is empty. She sits down on the plush bedspread and lets her head fall into her shaking hands. Outside, it’s snowing.
Merry Christmas, Sam.
Author: Tahirire
Word count: 2,070
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Ruby
Spoilers: Up to NRFTW.
Disclaimer: Kripke owns the boys, my soul, and most of my brain. I own nothing useful. :-)
Warnings: Tension, both sexual and otherwise. It is my personal canon that Sam likes knives. I don't write porn. That should tell you everything you need to know. If you can handle the show, you can handle this.
Beta: blacklid
Prompt: spn_monthlyfic , Sam, gingerbread house, chocolate icing, picture, “I don’t remember it looking this shabby.”
Author's note: My muse decided to write 2 fics to this prompt. I'm not done with the other one just yet, but consider THIS an a/u to THAT. (Basically, someone dared me to take this prompt and make it angsty, LOL. NEVER DARE ME AGAIN.) ETA: Here's the gen version. Enjoy!!
Summary: Yeah, I know - but what if Dean DIDN'T come back?
All I Want for Christmas (A/U)
December 2007
“I know. That’s why I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can’t just … sit around, drinking egg nog pretending everything’s ok when I know next Christmas you’ll be dead.”
December 2008
She sprung for a nice hotel for once, a really nice hotel. She told him he deserved it, and he agreed with a casual nod, never saying a word.
That was two days ago.
She relishes the feel of the steamy droplets against her skin, tries to drown her thoughts in the sound. Tries not to march out there and scream at him to just talk to me. Tries to remember she shouldn’t care in the first place.
Eventually even a five-star joint will run out of hot water. She moves to the large mirror, towels her body first, and then her hair, as the steam slowly exits through the open door. Privacy hasn’t been an issue between them in a long time, not because she doesn’t care if he sees, but because he never looks. She pulls on a pair of red biniki briefs and a thin white tank top, wondering why she bothers.
She’s just raising the brush to her long, tangled hair when a quiet flicker of motion catches her attention. By the time she turns her head, he’s already there, and he startles her so badly that she drops the brush. The sound it makes when it hits the expensive tile seems harsh in the sudden silence.
He stands in the door, hip cocked to the side, one hand behind his back, watching her. The steam curls around him like it’s anxious to avoid his touch. He hasn’t changed since they got back from the diner. His dark blue overshirt hugs the planes of him just enough to make her throat go dry. She hasn’t seen that look in his eyes for a really long time.
His heavy silence permeates the room, reminding her of the tension of the last two days. Suddenly she’s angry. She should be thrilled, and they should be celebrating. He’s ruining this victory for her, and damn it, it’s her victory just as much as it is his; maybe even more. Jerkily she snatches up the brush from the floor and pulls it swiftly through the worst of the tangles, attacking the knots with renewed vigor.
“Take a picture, Sam. It’ll last longer.” She snaps, surprised in spite of herself at how bitter the words come out.
Sam pushes off the door frame then, moves to stand behind her, stares at her through the mirror’s reflection. She tries to meet his gaze, but it’s moving too much, lingering now and again in places she thought he’d long lost interest in. He gives off incredible heat at her back, his body pressed just close enough to cage her in - but not enough to touch.
She takes in the sight of him, towering over her, and feels a shiver run down her spine. She dismisses it, catalogues it as anticipation. Because there’s no way it was fear.
He leans down, slow and deliberate, sets one large hand next to hers on the marble edge of the counter, brings his lips near the shell of her right ear. His gaze reflects darkly off the glass as he finally meets her stare. She feels her breath hitch in her throat. Excitement, that’s all it is.
Ruby’s not afraid of Sam.
He stares for a long time, seemingly concentrating on what he wants to say. His face is a careful mask; it reveals nothing, just angles and shadows. His eyes glitter, a trick of the fluorescent lights. Her own eyes narrow at the faint smell of alcohol, then widen in realization.
The blood-spattered gingerbread house crowns the center arrangement proudly, surrounded by cakes and pies and candies, cookies with chocolate icing, a little girl’s stocking spilling out onto the floor.
“We’ve been here before,” she whispers, not wanting to shatter the fragile silence but needing to be heard. She can’t believe she let things go this far. She should have known he’d self-destruct. She should have been ready for this.
The glitter sparks and becomes a flame for the briefest instant, but before she can fan it to life it withers away, and Sam’s eyes go dull and lifeless. He barks out a low, humorless laugh, waves his hand briefly around the opulent room. “Yeah? I don’t remember it looking this shabby,” he rasps. She winces at the rough timbre of his voice, the pallor in his cheeks.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I thought we said no more drinking, Sam.” She states smoothly, not wanting to rile him. Something is telling her to carefully choose her words, but she actually feels betrayed, damn him, and the last two slip by her guard before she has a chance to stop them. “You promised.”
Sam visibly flinches, and before she can take it back he’s touching her, the rough stubble of his cheek scratches as he shuts his eyes and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His powerful hand runs up from the counter, squeezing her arm just above the elbow, firm enough to bruise; he makes a sound that might be another laugh or it might be a dry sob, either way, low in her gut, it makes her sick.
“Sam …” she whispers, but she was never good at words, and suddenly it’s like the last seven months of progress never happened, and he’s right back where he started. It hurts to see him like this, but she’s a demon, and selfish, and all she can think right now is that she’ll be ok with it - just for a little while - if it means that Sam wants her again.
His hand moves higher, cups the back of her skull, tips her head back to lean on his shoulder. She can almost hear the moisture from her hair seep into the soft fabric of his overshirt. She breathes deeply, tries to still the sudden pounding of her heart. His fingers wend through the sodden tendrils, gripping firmly, but not enough to hurt.
She strains to see his face through the looking glass, but he holds her steady, demanding obedience like always, and she is forced to settle for the ceiling instead. She bites her lip against the whining moan that threatens to break free. If he won’t let her see, the least he could do is let her feel him. Feel something.
Black smoke rockets from the body, the little girl falls, but the smoke can’t escape him. He’s determined, implacable; his eyes gleam golden in the firelight as he sends the bitch screaming into Hell.
He shudders once, breathes in deep, decision made. She closes her eyes in anticipation. Whatever Sam wants, Sam takes, and she never tells him no. Whatever he needs. He’s earned it.
But when he moves, bringing his right hand up from behind his back, it’s not his touch she feels. His voice is low and dangerous, venom masking the bitter undercurrent well as he croons into her ear. “You should know by now,” he says, “I really kind of suck at keeping promises.”
The flat edge of her knife sinks into the hollow of her throat, pressing, promising. She gasps involuntarily and waits for the answering sting, but Sam moves with her, and the bite doesn’t come.
Clarity is a bitch, she thinks, realizing with a rush of adrenaline that she’s been wrong this whole time. Her heart stutters until it feels like it will stop. Her eyes go black with fear. She didn’t watch him close enough; she didn’t make herself into what he needed her to be.
And now he doesn’t need her anymore.
Blood everywhere. She turns to him in triumph, but his eyes are as dead as the child between them, as dead as his family, as dead as his soul. She turns away, defeated. There can be no victory in revenge, and by gaining it, he’s damned them both.
The press of the blade is unyielding, cold and hard against her skin. Sam presses against her, radiating heat that whispers stories of Hellfire. His power dances on the outskirts of her senses, and she feels her whole body lock into place, muscles unwilling to challenge his dominance.
The vaulted ceiling stares impassively back at her predicament. She could try to fight, but she would lose. She knows what he is capable of, how strong he is. But it’s not much her style to beg. Her pulse quickens as the blade begins to move, a delicate dance of steel on skin, tipping back and forth between razor’s edge and sharp teeth, slowly dragging down, crossing her chest, settling over her suddenly pounding heart.
She exhales slowly, tries not to sound afraid. “Didn’t figure you much the type for knife play,” she breathes, a strained whisper. His breath is warm against her cheek, she feels the rumble in his chest vibrate through her bones as he chuckles, dark and low. He spins the knife a half-turn, tipping the serrated edge away, bringing the needle point to rest exactly where she would bury it to the hilt if this was her offensive. The delicate fabric of her tank top rips, but not her borrowed body’s flesh.
Sam pulls her back from the counter, what little support she gained from it dropping away as he tilts her face forward to see. His face is cold, set, his eyes alive once again with power. The inexorable rage is eating him alive, and the darkness inside him washes over her in cold flames, leaves her gasping for air.
No, she thinks. No, Sam. This isn’t what he’d want for you.
The twin smoldering beacons of his eyes never leave hers, wide and black, and the figure in the mirror trails the tip of the knife casually, wending its way over the curves of her, owning her. The quickening of her pulse follows wherever the blade leads, but the killing lightening doesn’t strike. Sam’s hand is steady on the grip, and he claims her life the same way he does everything; with control, precision … every inch of him a hunter.
Those same hands know how to protect and heal. They know how to preserve and fight for the weak. Even as they bare her throat and flick the weapon’s force back and forth, riding the edges of pressure points and hidden arteries, she knows they could bring her pleasure, so much pleasure, if only he could see it, too.
I’m sorry, Dean. She thinks, useless. I tried.
Her eyes slip shut, slide away from his. She never wanted this. She can’t bear to watch his once-bright soul wither and turn to ashes.
She relaxes into his arms, tilts her head back fully against the firm, smooth plane of his chest. She feels tiny, but she’s not afraid anymore. If he needs to kill her, she decides, then she’s ok with that. Whatever Sam needs. He’s earned it.
Time stretches out, impossibly slow. All she feels are his fingers in her hair, his chin against her temple, the somehow gentle steel of the blade. She listens to his heartbeat, wonders how much longer it will exist once she’s gone.
The sensitive underside of her bicep shudders as the tip of the knife slides smoothly down her forearm to her wrist. She feels her borrowed body’s pulse throb underneath the pressure, anticipating the searing flick that will finally spill her blood.
Caught in between dread and longing, she doesn’t notice that the pressure has vanished until she feels the smooth wood of the handle in her hand. She feels soft lips press chastely at the base of her neck, and before she can open her eyes, he’s gone.
His absence leaves her reeling, makes her gasp for air in a way that her fear never could. She sets the knife carefully on the counter, disoriented, amazed to be feeling anything at all.
It’s done, and Lilith is dead, and the knife belongs to her again, and Sam doesn’t need her anymore.
When she finally exits, she’s not surprised their room is empty. She sits down on the plush bedspread and lets her head fall into her shaking hands. Outside, it’s snowing.
Merry Christmas, Sam.