A/N: Written for the latest round of blindfold_spn, for this prompt: The only way to save Dean from hell is to bind himself to a demon. Ruby, at Sam's urging, steps up to the plate. I want hate sex, preferably against a wall, with Dean tugging on her hair. The binding is completed with Dean drinking a small amount of Ruby's blood. IE: Dean/Ruby hate sex, hair pulling, and some small blood drinking.
It’s last call at Kate’s Bar somewhere in northern Wisconsin, country on the radio and blood still running through his veins. For now, anyway.
“Are you gonna finish that, or wait for it to condense in your throat?”
Dean tips back his head, grimaces. She’s swinging her leg over the bar stool next to his, fluffing her hair out with one hand. Dean raises two fingers, inclines his head slightly in her direction. The bartender sighs, then pours two more shots and shoves them Dean’s direction.
Dean takes his, rotates it on the bar, waiting for her to say something.
“My ends are split.” She fans out hair between her fingers, examines it closely.
“Ruby.” His voice is hoarse, and Ruby whistles.
“Whoa, cowboy. You shouldn’t eat so much dust when you’re on the trail.” She smirks. “Mouthbreather.”
Dean mutters something under his breath, wipes condensation off the shot glass with his fingertip. Sucks on it.
“What was that, Dean?” Ruby lets go of her hair, puffs it out of her face.
“I said, ‘you’re the mouthbreather.’”
“Huh. I’m insulted. Think I’ll pack up my knife and leave without tipping.”
“I didn’t take you for the tipping kind to begin with.”
“Smart man.” Ruby tips back her chin, takes her shot. “Drink up, Dean.”
Dean swivels slowly on his bar stool, takes long glances around at the other patrons. There’s too much plaid in here. In the background, Toby Keith’s twanging about buying rounds for his men and his horses. Dean’d buy a round for his car, he thinks. Huh.
“Johnnie Walker, black label.”
“Only the best for my baby.” Dean runs his finger around the lip of his shot glass, and then downs it quickly. “Okay.”
“Got my hockey mask and all.”
“That was Jason.”
“God.” Dean looks at the ceiling. “Must be drunker’n I thought.”
“You know that I’m doing this as a favor, right?” Ruby unzips her jeans, leans back lightly against the wall, looks vaguely bored. “I’m gonna be imagining your brother the whole time.”
“Does Sam know?”
“Hello, Dean. Collect call for you. Hang on, let me see who it is. Oh yes. Captain Obvious. Do you want me to hold?”
“Fuck you. I was saying, does Sam know?”
“That I’m doing this? Hell, Dean, he was the one who asked me.”
“No. Not that. That you’re madly in love with him?”
Ruby gives him a look. Leaves her shirt on, but runs her fingers along Dean’s waistband. “I’m a demon, Dean. I don’t do love.” She yanks at his button. “You remember the first night after you opened the gate? Lust? Yeah. I do that pretty damn well.”
Dean takes her wrists, moves them back to the wall. Ruby’s breathing in cheap whiskey fumes, deathdespairdesperation. She coughs.
“Ever hear of a breath mint, stud?”
Ruby’s pressed all the way up against the wall now; there’s dirty tile, a spotty mirror, a little plug-in air freshener gone stale in the corner. Someone bangs on the door when Dean’s pulling down his jeans, and he calls back, “Occupied!” over his shoulder.
“They could’ve watched.” Ruby pretends to pout, reaches behind her back with one hand, fingers the knife in her back pocket.
“A demon binding ritual? Really?”
“Well, Dean-o, we’re never going to get to the actual ritual part if you can’t speed it up here.”
Suddenly Dean’s encircling her neck with his hands, he’s squeezing hard, and Ruby’s lamenting that she didn’t go for a beefy female rugby player when she was shopping for a meatsuit. She’s choking; she’s going to Seacrest out right here in this dive bar unisex bathroom without even some decent lighting for her exit scene. Fuck. She moves her lips with effort, and Dean releases her as if he’s been shocked.
“Fuck was that?”
Ruby smiles, rubs at her throat, and then spits at him. “Witches before bitches, bro.”
The sex is dirty. Not just because Ruby’s meatsuit has a very gymnastic tongue, but also because Dean thinks that it’s probably literally dirty. He tries not to think about bacteria, wonders vaguely how to go about asking his brother to google map a free clinic.
His fingers still tangled in her hair, both of them sharing the same contaminated air, Dean says, “Now what.” It’s not a question; it’s more a flat declaration. He’s going to do whatever it takes—it’s just that no one said that he had to get off on it. Excusing the irony.
Ruby worms her way out of his grasp. There’s that same bloodlusthate in her eyes, Dean can see it mirrored from his own, and it scares him. She runs a cold finger down his cheek, draws a line to his carotid.
The knife gleams dully in the dim light, and Dean’s grimacing before she even touches it to her skin.
“Down the road not across the street,” he mutters in a tangle, sweat pricking up hair at his temple.
Ruby pats his cheek briskly. “Come on, sport. We’re a lot of things, but ‘hopeful’ and ‘stupid’ are not two of them.” She dances the knife on her upturned wrist, then tugs Dean’s shirt upwards with her other hand.
His tattoo burns more the closer she lets the knife get to it, and he’s riding white-hot waves of pain, and fuck, it feels almost as good as thrusting her up against the wall had.
Ruby takes the knife away suddenly, and it’s like two magnets have reached the limit of their attraction and fallen away from each other.
Ruby draws the knife across her arm and gives it to Dean like he’s communing. He takes her wrist into his mouth, latches on to it like he’s bleeding out and she’s his cure; they’re transfusing blood by mouth.
“Hey, Dean?” Ruby asks him after, when they’re standing around outside on the sidewalk, waiting for Sam.
“You owe me.”
Dean shakes his head, squints into the streetlamp. “Ruby,” he says, “That kinda sex, you should be owing me.”