okay but…ruby who just actually uses dean’s dead body as a host.
sam yells at her to get an ethically sourced glove, kicks her out. one not in use. fine. ruby knows she shouldn't, but after a long night of shopping through a few comatose bodies, then a pit stop in the morgue, trying to find the perfect face that'll make sam trust her. the perfect voice. it clicks.
no one's using the body lying in a pine box deep in illinois woods. ruby hops a truck driver and has dean winchester hauled out of his grave, out of his lovingly constructed coffin, before the sun rises.
we've seen multiple times that demons CAN use dead bodies as hosts, and can possess them both right before and after they've died.
dean’s not alive for his wounds to heal, and the patch job sam managed before he buried him isn’t enough to keep his organs in. demons have been shown to have healing abilities (e.g., meg heals the broken bones of her host, bullet holes disappear, etc.) and ruby takes a few days to sew all of dean’s skin back together, tucks his liver back in brand-new. it takes a lot out of her, but ruby's been waiting a long time for this, so she can take the few days it takes to coordinate dean's limbs into movement.
she shows up at sam’s door, when he's staying at that shack in the middle of nowhere. sam is on the hours-deep wrong side of stolen opioids and shitty whiskey, and blinks dumbly at her in the doorway for a long, long time. he either thinks he's dreaming or dead--eyes half-lidded and mouth open loosely--because his knees just buckle, and he sobs.
she puts a hand on his forehead and seeps some of it out so they can have this conversation like grown-ups--a hit straight to her brain, and it's a miracle sam's alive, because holy shit, her vision goes a little sideways as the combined depressors hit her nervous system.
he's pissed, of course. he screams and tries to hit her and demands that she leave dean's body. he looks at her--for the first time--like she's an actual, eldritch beast. horrified. furious. disgusted.
but ruby's planned for this. she calls him sammy. she tells him that she can protect dean's body perfectly, like this. she can keep it ready for him to come back. she can keep it warm. feel how warm, sammy.
later, sam sprawls against the dusty chair, slams their mouths together furiously, begs ruby to fuck him between furious bites of her neck; she does so, and sam sobs through the whole thing, hands buried in dean’s short hair but eyes slammed closed tight.
sam blossoms under her tutelage. he wants to impress her, and ruby doesn't know how much of that is response to dean's voice telling sammy he's doing a good job, and how much of that is sam's thirst to have control over an impossible, unwinnable situation.
they share motel rooms as they crisscross across state lines. sam always gets two beds, but turns away from her when he goes to sleep. ruby doesn't need to sleep, and dean's body certainly doesn't, so she lets him be. he's more cooperative if she messes up the other bed's sheets, though, so she tries to do it when she can remember to. he likes the illusion that nothing’s changed. clings to it.
it's not as hard as she thought it would be to get sam to drink her blood. it's practically sam's own blood, she reasons. same DNA. sam's so desperate for any part of dean he can take that he just looks up into her--dean's--eyes, and when ruby tells sam that it'll help take lilith's head off her shoulders, sammy tucks in.
sam only cuts ruby on dean’s existing scars, as if to hide new injuries from a dean that’ll never come back. as if ruby couldn’t just rub a thumb over his surgical-precision cuts and seal them up brand-new.
he worshipfully nicks dean’s body along silvery lines, barely deep enough to draw any blood. when he’s a couple of mouthfuls in, sometimes he’ll tell her where dean got the scar. a poltergiest in milwaukee. saving sam from a werewolf in tallahassee. falling off a tower of rusty cars at bobby’s.
some of them he doesn’t know how dean got—probably amassed in those four years they were apart. sam drinks from those the deepest, like he can suck dean’s history through his cold skin.
he drinks more when she pets through his hair with one of dean’s hands, when she mutters “there ya’ go, sammy,” so she does. he goes frantic for it, lips hungry and teeth gentle and tongue needy. if he's real-strung out--missed a few doses, just like ruby likes him--he makes overwrought little whimpers as he sucks dean's blood and keeps pockets of it in his cheeks, too desperate to even swallow, yet.
then a big swallow, thick and deep, rabbit-quick breaths and sighing out of his nose at having his first hit as he goes back for more.
they fuck whenever they can.
more often than not, it's when sam's high on blood, pupils blown wide and brow sweating and breaths deep and shaking.
he fucks her like an animal. begs to be fucked like one, too. he pins her down underneath big, hungry hands. he fucks her like he hates her. he might.
he doesn’t kiss her, even when she tries. he jerks his head away from dean's spit-slick lips, every time, eyes closed tight and teeth bared like he’s barely resisting tearing her throat out. she wonders if she had gotten some pretty little thing to wear around--something with tits and a pussy that doesn't wear dean's face--if he would kiss her.
she longs for it, in the way that something like her can even long for something.
she’s sick of his little morality act in month four, and drags a knife lengthwise down dean’s tongue. it’s angrier than she’s ever seen him; more inhuman than she’s ever seen him. sam takes her to the ground, slams a hand against her mouth like a muzzle, and gets a few words into an exorcism that makes her blood boil under her skin.
but he feels the wetness of dean’s blood—ruby’s blood, mother’s milk—under his palm. his hand slowly comes away, shaking, the exorcism dying on hypocrite lips.
she’s only seen hunger like that in one being’s eyes before: alastair, when he’s forcing someone’s own femur down their throat.
ruby grins, blood no doubt making a massacre of dean’s perfect little teeth.
sam kisses her then. of course he does. he’s ruby’s perfect little boy.
dean’s perfect little boy.
he sucks her tongue into his mouth, and barely even cries or whimpers or apologizes.
she even cuts dean on his pec once, right above his nipple, and sam lets pretty little tears sit on his lashes the whole time, grabbing handfuls of dean's body and telling ruby not to speak. ruby pets dean's hands through sam's hair, coos at him, calls him my good boy, and sam ignores her calls for a week afterward.
ruby finds out dean’s back when she’s got her knees up near her ears, sam folding her in half, his thick delicious cock heavy in her guts and tearing dean's rim a little (ruby's never been careful about prep, and sam never asks because then he'll have to acknowledge that he's fucking his brother's body while he's not in it out loud; pussies are so much easier), and nursing at her shoulder, and then she’s…not.
she’s a loose canon, untethered, unformed. she slips into a hooker a few motel doors down, still dizzy. ruby tries to get her feet underneath her, wondering where the fuck she is, and what happened, when she hears a muffled shattering, sam screaming her name, dean's voice screaming sam's.
ruby heads towards the door, when her knees buckle, and something oil-slick and nauseating shivers up her spine. energy crackles in the air, and ruby freezes, because she's only felt this zing in the air once before.
she barely manages to duck before the windows explode inwards. a shard lands right in her thigh--the vessel's blood oozing thick and heavy over bare skin. sam can probably smell it, if whatever dropped dean off let him live.
something brought dean back, alright. a new player just entered the field.
