Length: 700 words
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby, Alastair
Spoilers: through season 4
Synopsis: Drabbley ficlet - Sam and Dean are both changed during Dean's time in Hell.
I was listening to Closer by Nine Inch Nails (warning: explicit video/lyrics) and I suddenly realized that it should totally be Sam and Ruby’s song. And then this happened.
Ruby watches her creation and feels centuries of hope, so long denied, surging through her body. Her body? Someone’s body. The previous vessel, the blonde, only had to be pretty. But this one was chosen with great care. This one was chosen specifically to appeal to Sam. Tiny, so he wouldn’t feel threatened, and might even feel protective. Beautiful, but not blonde, lest she remind him too much of Mom or poor dead Jess. And, most importantly, brain dead. She grins. Sweet Sammy. So insistent that she not use a body occupied by its original owner. So relieved that she found a genuine, cruely-free specimen. So naive not to wonder how it became brain dead in the first place.
"It’s nice in here," she says, and he wants to feel her from the inside. But he doesn’t really want to fuck her as much as he wants to crawl inside her, to feel warm and hidden, to get away from the world, to get away from himself. He is a flaw, an aberration, an abomination. He is the reason his entire family is dead. He needs to become someone else. He failed at being the one who could save Dean, the one who could resurrect Dean. Now the only option left is to him is to become the one who can avenge Dean, and then maybe (but probably not) the one who can live without him.
She tears him down, tears down his reason and instinct and humanity and sense of right and wrong until nothing is left but sinew and anger and grief and guilt and hate. And then she begins to rebuild him, to make him perfect. She pictures Sam without the fear, the doubt, the guilt. Pictures him standing tall and proud and sure and filled with light. He will be magnificent. He will be her God.
Every day Ruby forges him with the fire of Hell and tempers him with demon blood. Every day she brings him closer.
Alastair watches his creation and oozes with pride. Not the pride of a father for his son (not the pride John Winchester might have felt during those brief moments between grief and despair and fear and anger and hate, all-consuming hate that burned him from the inside until it devoured everything he was trying to save), but the pride of an artist for his creation. Dean is his piece de resistance, his Mona Lisa. All glittering green eyes and brittle feral grin and absolute unshaking control, forged with the fire of Hell and tempered with the blood of the damned.
Dean was a failure in life. Sure, saving people hunting things, but watch out for Sammy was always Job One. And when you’ve failed at Job One, fucked it up so completely that it’s lying grey and cold and still on a stained mattress in an abandoned house, when you’ve failed that badly at Job One, it doesn’t matter how good you are at Jobs Two through Infinity; it just doesn’t fucking matter.
But in Hell, oh in Hell, Dean can do no wrong. In Hell he knows what you’re afraid of and he gives it to you. In Hell he has nothing left to lose, no one to disappoint, no one to fail - he only has one job now and he is fucking good at it. In Hell he leans over you on the rack, his breath tickling your ear, and murmurs, warm and soft like a lover, “If we were alive, I would have died to save you from this. But we’re not alive, and you didn’t deserve to be saved anyway.” And then he makes you pay for everything he has lost.
In Hell, Dean can do no wrong, and he loves it (hates it, hates how he loves it, would do anything, would give up anything [almost anything] to not be this, would sell his soul to be someone else, but he’s got no soul to sell). In Hell, Dean is as close to God as you have ever seen, ever will see.
And every day Alastair gloats and brings him even closer.