Title: and here we go, a dancing in circles
Summary: An angel and a demon walk into an empty motel room...
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Never did.
Notes: Um, This is my crackiest pairing of all my crack pairings. Don't ask me how it works because it just does in this this crazy place I call my head. I hope you all give it a shot and at least like it, yeah? Feedback is much love. For every comment, that person gets a cookie. They're choclate chip ;)
"They aren't going to fight each other," she whispers in his ear, and smirks at the way his hand clenches. Smiting angels indeed. "Threatening Sam was one of the stupidest things you could have done."
She had arrived moments earlier to collect Sam. Instead, she found the room abandoned, except for a beyond pissed angel clutching a piece of paper. He thrust it at her without raising his head. It had told her what she already knew, the Winchesters had flown the coop. They weren't going to choose sides over each other. Dean had added in a clever little fuck your prophecies to the close.
"If I wanted advice from a demon, I would have asked for it," he says, his voice rough, annoyed, and tired. So tired.
"I was just commenting on your failure." She her smile brightens, her fingers catch under his chin and looks into his eyes for the first time. "But it wouldn't hurt, you know, with the way you're crashing and burning on this little mission of yours."
His eyes narrow, but leaves her hand where it lay, where it slithers over the skin of his neck, to rest on his shoulder under the starched, white collar and prim tie. "And you think you could do better."
"I already was, baby." Her head tilts, and she winks. "Got your God all in a tizzy and your feathers ruffled, all over a little nudging on my part."
He gives her a hard, calculating stare. She felt like her could see through the skin, muscle, and bone to see the black smoke inside. See her. "Samuel is faithful. It simply could not have been that easy."
Her eyebrow raises. "So Sam's in the angel fan club? Who knew." She shakes her head, looking down at the floor. A little laugh escapes her mouth. "Oh, Sam," she whispers.
When she looks up, his brow is creased, his eyes quizzical. "Whether I knew or not, it doesn't matter. I know them better than you. You have to play them right, or they'll end up running." Her hand slides up his neck in a smooth caress until her palm is under his chin. Her thumb flicks his ear lope. "I can help, if you want."
His breath comes out through his teeth. "I thought you said they would never fight."
She grins lightly, almost endearing herself to him, despite undercurrents of something sinister lying underneath. "They won't, but where's the fun in not trying?"
He doesn't see the fun at all. Despite their insolence, the Winchesters ran to protect themselves and each other. If they succeeded, he wonders, would shredding their bond eventually do more harm than good?
She tilts her head towards his, their noses almost touch. "Do you have an answer for me, Castiel?" she asks. There's something in the way she says his name. It not the voice, not the voice of the innocent inside, but the way she makes it form around the syllables. It affects him, and he does not know what to do.
"Yes," he says, and he crumbles. "Lord help me, yes."
"I don't know about the Lord…" she says, and flutters her eyelashes at him, reminding him tiny wings. His wings. They're going to be clipped, if he isn't already falling. "You know, when one usually makes a deal with a devil, it's sealed with a kiss." Her hand joins the other on his body, fingers gliding through his hair.
She wants a kiss. He steels himself inside. He can turn back now, and forget this conversation ever happened. He can search for them himself, or he can go back in failure. He doesn't have to resort to this. But this body is fluid, quicker that it's mind. His hands incase her waist, before he gives say.
The hands on her waist burn hotter than the pit, she can feel them through the flesh she wears. And for the first time, she feels the fear she felt the moment she learned the angels had come. He could kill her now. Without even lifting a finger, he could kill her, and she would be over. No more Ruby.
Then he leans closer; her hands on him tighten, her fingernails scrape the surface of his skin, not too deep, but not deep enough. His lips brush softly, almost hesitantly, against hers while her eyes are still open. He leans away. His eyes are dark, almost demon-like in his feral look, tinged only with pain.
The second kiss is a brutal assault with lips, teeth, and tongue. He attacks with a force she gives back in spades, despite with every touch brings a pain that sears her right to her black-hearted soul. In the end, he's soft. His forehead leans against hers, his fingers brush alone her cheekbone. She looks up into his eyes, and realizes what she did.
He thought it would come with crashing resolution like one would feel if they were pushed from the top of the Empire State building. He didn't think falling would feel like this. This slow sinking feeling, like being trapped in quicksand, and not being rescued. Like sitting for hours, waiting for the death that seems like it will never come.
He takes her hand anyway, and drags her to the door. "Come, Ruby. We must go," he says.
She follows, wherever it may lead, she follows.