Fic: You Know Who You Are (PG-13)
Sep. 25th, 2008 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosI freely admit this isn't edited, but I wanted to get it up before tonight's episode and I have to leave for work in ten minutes.
Title: You Know Who You Are
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trollprincess
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: some Sam/Ruby
Spoilers: 4.01
Summary: Thoughts from a meat suit.
Author's note: Sorry I couldn't come up with a classier summary on short notice.
** You Know Who You Are **
Larry beat you to death on a Wednesday.
It wasn't a pretty death, even before he grabbed the lamp. He wasn't thinking, not like he had when he bruised your ribs or whipped your back with the belt. He wasn't thinking about his boss at the firm or the neighbors who whisper too much. He aimed for the face this time.
Your jaw shattered, your cheekbones fractured. You felt like crumbling glass, and looked like ground chuck, and mostly just wanted it to be over. You were a hotel room trashed by a drunken rock star, and you wanted to laugh at the metaphor but your mouth filled with blood and shattered teeth.
What you remember most about that night was the precise moment she took over.
*
You didn't know she was evil for days.
Sure, she killed Larry after she took the wheel, let him gape at knitting flesh and fusing bones before shoving him out a window. She raided your closet and boosted the money from your purse. She made a phone call before she left, cursed when there was no answer. She checked herself in the mirror by the front door on the way and a monster stared back.
She picked you up and dusted you off and tried you on. You're a good fit, it turns out.
You really wish you could be more angry about that.
*
She tells people her name is Ruby, but she doesn't talk to you much. She says she's sorry once, more of a feeling shoved in your direction than the words themselves, a brief flash of apology pushed to the back of her mind before she goes about her business. It's not like you talk about the weather or your favorite TV shows, like she asks for your opinion on what to wear or checks to see if you're allergic to peanuts.
She ignores you, and it's not such a bad thing.
*
You want your body back.
You want her to stop stealing cars and robbing people and boosting clothes while wearing your face.
You want her to stop looking in the mirror if all you're going to see is a monster.
You want that nagging feeling that knows what will happen if she leaves to go the hell away.
You want a pony and super powers and a million dollars, too, if we're all making wishes.
*
She finds Sam Winchester a week after she dresses up in you. Sam just lost his brother. Sam is drunk or angry or drunk and angry. He looks like he needs a shower, maybe with wire brushes and bleach. Sam's not in a good place right now, and you're not even counting the shitty motel room he's holed up in, decorated like a moldy old barn. It smells like hay. Your hay fever doesn't act up.
He leans in the doorway all fucked-up and beautiful, reeking of sweat and whisky.
“What the hell do you want?” he says.
She elbows past him like she belongs there, says, “That any way to greet an old friend, Sam?”
She laughs when he drops the bottle. It's the last time she does that for weeks.
*
Before you died, or at least came close enough to dying for it to count, you worked as a file clerk for Bachman, Cullen, and Beecher. You wore cheap Payless shoes and skirts you bought at the Salvation Army but said you bought firsthand, and had to double-check before you left your studio every morning to make sure there wasn't paint on them. You brought your lunch (usually ramen) and ate alone. You shared a desk with three other temps, two of whom spent most of their time flirting with the lawyers. The other one performed at a comedy club at night and took naps in the men's bathroom in the handicapped stall.
Larry worked at another firm defending blue-collar criminals. He had a charming smile and once posed for a swimsuit calendar in college. He waited until you'd been going out a while before hitting you one night during dinner, sharp and sudden. You didn't have any family, you just had Larry. You stayed.
You wanted to be a professional artist. You probably weren't going to be. Your paintings were never good enough for your critical eye, the emotions never right. If you'd ever gotten enough together for a show of your own, even you would have been surprised.
You had no pets, no friends. The neighbors gossiped, but not about you.
It's possible you were invisible.
You shouldn't feel good about being here, about standing in an abandoned house next to Sam Winchester with someone else in your body, about listening to her tell him how to pull the demon out of the man they have tied to the chair in the middle of the room.
You shouldn't feel good.
You shouldn't.
*
Sam wants to fuck you.
You wonder how that works. Does he ask your permission? Does she? Do you even get a say? Hell, is it even worth asking anymore? It's been a couple of months now, her in your body and you in a dusty corner, her fixing your broken parts and handing them to you to hold. If she leaves tomorrow they're all you've got, those shattered bits she threw away, and you can't live like that.
You're a dead woman walking, and all three of you know it. Even if nobody says so.
*
Sam has all sorts of tricks up his sleeves.
You don't know the whole story, but you pick it up here and there. He dreams of the future. He can make people and demons do whatever he wants. He can yank demons from people's bodies like a cowboy with his lasso ready. He's stronger than normal. He sees things, knows things, hears things.
Sometimes, he hears you.
You don't know if she knows. Maybe. All you really know is that your voice doesn't carry, it's not much louder than a whisper these days, but sometimes he looks over from whatever unholy skill he's practicing and ... and he hears you.
So you talk and you talk, about everything and nothing, about the weather and politics and your favorite TV shows. You say yes and no and maybe. You can't shut up.
He hears you, and every time he does Ruby smiles.
Title: You Know Who You Are
Author:
trollprincessFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: some Sam/Ruby
Spoilers: 4.01
Summary: Thoughts from a meat suit.
Author's note: Sorry I couldn't come up with a classier summary on short notice.
Larry beat you to death on a Wednesday.
It wasn't a pretty death, even before he grabbed the lamp. He wasn't thinking, not like he had when he bruised your ribs or whipped your back with the belt. He wasn't thinking about his boss at the firm or the neighbors who whisper too much. He aimed for the face this time.
Your jaw shattered, your cheekbones fractured. You felt like crumbling glass, and looked like ground chuck, and mostly just wanted it to be over. You were a hotel room trashed by a drunken rock star, and you wanted to laugh at the metaphor but your mouth filled with blood and shattered teeth.
What you remember most about that night was the precise moment she took over.
*
You didn't know she was evil for days.
Sure, she killed Larry after she took the wheel, let him gape at knitting flesh and fusing bones before shoving him out a window. She raided your closet and boosted the money from your purse. She made a phone call before she left, cursed when there was no answer. She checked herself in the mirror by the front door on the way and a monster stared back.
She picked you up and dusted you off and tried you on. You're a good fit, it turns out.
You really wish you could be more angry about that.
*
She tells people her name is Ruby, but she doesn't talk to you much. She says she's sorry once, more of a feeling shoved in your direction than the words themselves, a brief flash of apology pushed to the back of her mind before she goes about her business. It's not like you talk about the weather or your favorite TV shows, like she asks for your opinion on what to wear or checks to see if you're allergic to peanuts.
She ignores you, and it's not such a bad thing.
*
You want your body back.
You want her to stop stealing cars and robbing people and boosting clothes while wearing your face.
You want her to stop looking in the mirror if all you're going to see is a monster.
You want that nagging feeling that knows what will happen if she leaves to go the hell away.
You want a pony and super powers and a million dollars, too, if we're all making wishes.
*
She finds Sam Winchester a week after she dresses up in you. Sam just lost his brother. Sam is drunk or angry or drunk and angry. He looks like he needs a shower, maybe with wire brushes and bleach. Sam's not in a good place right now, and you're not even counting the shitty motel room he's holed up in, decorated like a moldy old barn. It smells like hay. Your hay fever doesn't act up.
He leans in the doorway all fucked-up and beautiful, reeking of sweat and whisky.
“What the hell do you want?” he says.
She elbows past him like she belongs there, says, “That any way to greet an old friend, Sam?”
She laughs when he drops the bottle. It's the last time she does that for weeks.
*
Before you died, or at least came close enough to dying for it to count, you worked as a file clerk for Bachman, Cullen, and Beecher. You wore cheap Payless shoes and skirts you bought at the Salvation Army but said you bought firsthand, and had to double-check before you left your studio every morning to make sure there wasn't paint on them. You brought your lunch (usually ramen) and ate alone. You shared a desk with three other temps, two of whom spent most of their time flirting with the lawyers. The other one performed at a comedy club at night and took naps in the men's bathroom in the handicapped stall.
Larry worked at another firm defending blue-collar criminals. He had a charming smile and once posed for a swimsuit calendar in college. He waited until you'd been going out a while before hitting you one night during dinner, sharp and sudden. You didn't have any family, you just had Larry. You stayed.
You wanted to be a professional artist. You probably weren't going to be. Your paintings were never good enough for your critical eye, the emotions never right. If you'd ever gotten enough together for a show of your own, even you would have been surprised.
You had no pets, no friends. The neighbors gossiped, but not about you.
It's possible you were invisible.
You shouldn't feel good about being here, about standing in an abandoned house next to Sam Winchester with someone else in your body, about listening to her tell him how to pull the demon out of the man they have tied to the chair in the middle of the room.
You shouldn't feel good.
You shouldn't.
*
Sam wants to fuck you.
You wonder how that works. Does he ask your permission? Does she? Do you even get a say? Hell, is it even worth asking anymore? It's been a couple of months now, her in your body and you in a dusty corner, her fixing your broken parts and handing them to you to hold. If she leaves tomorrow they're all you've got, those shattered bits she threw away, and you can't live like that.
You're a dead woman walking, and all three of you know it. Even if nobody says so.
*
Sam has all sorts of tricks up his sleeves.
You don't know the whole story, but you pick it up here and there. He dreams of the future. He can make people and demons do whatever he wants. He can yank demons from people's bodies like a cowboy with his lasso ready. He's stronger than normal. He sees things, knows things, hears things.
Sometimes, he hears you.
You don't know if she knows. Maybe. All you really know is that your voice doesn't carry, it's not much louder than a whisper these days, but sometimes he looks over from whatever unholy skill he's practicing and ... and he hears you.
So you talk and you talk, about everything and nothing, about the weather and politics and your favorite TV shows. You say yes and no and maybe. You can't shut up.
He hears you, and every time he does Ruby smiles.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-26 05:03 am (UTC)it makes me SQUIRMY. i like it and i don't all at the same time. youre sneaky.