The first time, he doesn't think she's serious.
A darkened room somewhere, moonlight filtering in through boarded up windows, bodies flush with whispered promises of skin, lips, and nails. Dark eyes sparkle with the satisfaction that he's been thinking about this as much as she has.
Doesn't want to do this when he's sixty, she muses, knowing full well he could outlive them all should he choose to.
It's a strange to watch him want it, the power, after denying what he can do, what he is for so long. She's not looking a gift horse in the mouth, no, it's just an adjustment. The effort, so much at times she has to talk him down for fear of hurting himself.
Another strange thing, caring.
Yes, there has always been something there, calling her back to him time again. Crawling out of hell again, teaching him to use what he was given, being tossed into the back seat when Dean returned, still helping when he asked. It's him, always about him, and to her it's about being at his side.
He hits a spot that sends the body into shivers.
It would make her sick if he wasn't so good with his hands.
Biting her lips to keep from gasping, he nips at the spot again, almost hard enough to draw blood, legs squeezing around his waist with fingers clawing into his shoulders. An idea she's been thinking about for a while now, his actions of late leading her to believe he might actually…
"You can if you want," she whispers.
Eyes locked with hers suddenly, the meaning clear, but confusion there along with a half-hearted chuckle thinking she can't mean what she says.
"It's already in your veins," she says leaning in, nuzzling just under his jaw. "What's a little more?"
Hands tightening on her arms, expecting to be shoved back and staring at a face of revulsion. He doesn't move at first, breathing labored against her, almost shaking while he kisses the spot previously bitten.
He's willing, she knows this, more open to her ideas than ever before.
Shifting slightly, she pulls the knife from her ankle, brings it to where his teeth almost broke the skin.
"Don't," falls from his mouth but there's no force in it.
The blade splits her skin easily, neck becoming warm and sticky.
"I can make you stronger," she promises. "I can make you better."
He doesn't want it to go this far, still resisting, still being Sam Winchester no matter what she tries to mold him into, but she already knows the answer.
"Trust me," she says tilting her head, exposing more.
Tentative at first, tongue darting out cautiously, just to taste.
Hissing against the sensation, arms and legs squeezing him even more as his mouth clamps down, drinking away the power she promised him.
It's such a victory she almost doesn't need the sex.
Training goes much smoother.
His effort minimal to the result he produces. No pain, no nosebleeds.
She has a demon tied to a chair, waiting for him, he pulls it out of the body with one clench of his fist.
She has another who puts up a fight, with a wave of its hand Sam stands his ground, with one wave of Sam's, the demon goes flying.
Standing off to the side, watching with such pride in her work, eyes bright with laughter and a smile so wide it hurts.
Helping him with the bodies, the ones left alive, she watches carefully for his reaction. He tries not to give one, knowing him so well now, he wants this result. He wants to stop them all but he doesn't want it to come this easy.
Still smiling, he does it back cautiously, and if it weren't for the survivors she take him right there.
She can see it in his eyes, he almost enjoyed this, and knows next time she offers he won't hesitate.
After that he'll ask.
After that, he'll beg.
The second time, is born out of necessity.
Chasing a lone demon down an alley, stupid stupid stupid, too focused on the catch to be smart. Sam is just starting to work his mojo when eight more leap from the shadows. Confidence or cockiness, she doesn't know what to blame when he raises a hand, thinking he can stop them all.
One of them laughs, of course, and tries to toss him like a rag doll. The laughter falters when they realize their little trick isn't going to work, Sam returns the favor and sends the demon flying over the chain-link fence that cuts the alley in two.
Shock on a demon's face, if only for a moment, is worth any reciprocity they might send your way.
They all jump Sam, burying him in a dog pile of fists and kicks. She manages to stick two with the knife, before they even realize she jumped into the game, sparks of orange burning the monsters away.
Getting a hold of Sam's wrist, she manages to pull him from the scrum, bruises and cuts all over his face from only a few seconds.
Her eyes flash black with anger, that caring thing again, holding the knife menacingly waiting for another taker.
"Bitch," one of them mutters.
"Traitor," says another.
Sam throws his hand back up without even looking, sends another one flying over the fence, raises the other and pulls out the demon faster than she's ever seen him do it before. It's almost sweet, defending her honor like that, but a sarcastic comment is perched on the tip of her tongue regardless.
One look at him and it falls away; face already swelling from the beating, blood pouring out his nose, eyes glassy and unfocused. She needs to get him out of here.
She leaps forward and knives the closet one, sends another straight into the wall, and dropkicks the last one before grabbing the back of Sam's collar and dragging him all the way back to her car.
When there are enough miles between them and the alley, she pulls the car to a screeching halt on the side of the road, slides across the seat and settles herself on his lap. His entire jaw line is covered in blood, one eye swollen shut, head leaning limp against the window.
Moving her hands to the sides of his face, she tries to get him to focus.
"Come on Sam," she says. "Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me."
He does, head bobbing like a drunk.
"I can help," she goes on. "I can fix you."
Grabbing the knife, the necessary cut, she holds her arm up to his mouth.
It's instinct to resist, hand grabbing her weakly, trying his best to look her in the eye.
"If I take you back like this, he'll want to know what we were up to." She says. "What we've been doing all this time. What are you going to tell him huh? What's he going to say?"
He looks at the blood seeping from her skin, wanting to, she knows he wants to.
"For me Sammy," she says running her fingers through his hair. "Do it for me."
Mouth on her skin, drinking what she offers.
"That's it," she coos, leaning her forehead against his, "now concentrate. Think about healing yourself and let it happen."
She can feel him getting stronger with every drop he swallows, knows without looking that the cuts and bruises are healing up nicely.
"You're doing so well," she says once he pulls away gasping, kissing the spot where her forehead rested on his. She smiles. "I'm proud of you."
"Ruby," he chokes out.
"Ssh" she placates, rubbing her nose against his, so easy to be affectionate when she gets what she wants. Loving how seconds ago he acted like he didn't want what she offered, and now looks downright grateful.
"It's okay baby," she says, letting her eyes go dark before leaning in to kiss him, relishing the fact that he doesn't even flinch. "You're okay."
The third time, he just takes it.
Another death match fought at three in the morning in some logging village left to rot in the middle of the forest. She notices Sam twinge when they first walk up, memories of South Dakota still fresh in his memory.
Not the normal run of the mill demon this time. They're going after Gregory, a big bad only a few rungs below Alistair, finally a true test for Sam and his new abilities. They walk in step, straight down the middle of the worn path cutting between the dilapidated old shacks, ears tuned to the silence.
From what she remembers, Gregory is a sneaky little bastard who loves getting the drop on people, and this whole situation is engineered for that purpose. She hates that they've walked into it so easily, but hopes the ends will justify the means.
"He's here," Sam says from the side of his mouth.
"That your spider sense tingling?" She quips.
He doesn't laugh, just grunts oddly and almost loses his balance, a second before a flash of pain streaks across her back. They spin around in synch to see only trees and stars.
"Sneaky little bastard," she mutters.
"Know this one personally?" Sam asks, eyes darting in every direction.
"Thinks he's godfather of all Vampires," she replies, "has a thing for sharp teeth and jugulars."
He snorts. "You're kidding."
"Not all of us can be taken seriously."
She hears something move a second before another flash of pain across her abdomen, another whoosh but she manages to deflect from her face, but claws go right across her neck.
The only sound she makes is a strangled groan, watching out of the corner of her eye as Sam gets his own set of claw marks before gritting his teeth and shoving out with his mind at what he can't see.
She hears bones crack against what must be a tree, still staggering from her own attack, she manages to get to her feet and follow Sam as he walks through the black to where he's holding what she assumes is poor old Gregory.
It's almost laughable the way he flashes his teeth, all filed to a point that will be a serious problem for the person (if they're still alive) inside, black eyes focused menacingly on his captor.
"Sam Winchester," he hisses through those teeth.
"Everyone knows my name," Sam says more to her than him.
"Most popular kid in school," she replies.
"We're not so different you and I," he says.
Sam just stares at him, nothing he hasn't heard before.
"Blood," Gregory laughs. "You think I can't smell it on you? You think I-"
He doesn't even waste his time exchanging quips before he pulls the black cloud from the mouth, the body falling silent, clearly no survivor inside.
She moves next to him, stares down and the body collapsed on the cold damp ground. He reaches for her, hand shaking against hers, turning her head to look at him she's almost shocked at what she sees.
Eyes crawling over her, nostrils flaring, biting his lip to hold back some urge she can't figure out. It takes a second to realize it's not her he's staring at, not exactly, Gregory slashed her up good with his little sneak attacks and Sam is staring at her blood like it's pure honey pouring from her skin.
He doesn't even ask before he grabs her shoulders, buries his face in the crook of her neck, and drinks freely.
He's quiet the whole car ride back.
She knows he's silently berating himself in that emo way of his. Wallowing in self pity for actually wanting it, for taking without permission, for the fact that he couldn't control himself.
Staring out the window, watching the world go by in the odd pre dawn light, she's tried to say something twice and was met with stony silence. It's annoying because she thought they were past this, past Sam and his woe-is-me attitude when it came to her and what needed to be done.
"Sam," she tries again, just for the hell of it.
"Don't," he says tiredly. "Just don't."
Eyes back on the road, still darting in his direction every couple of minutes, it's getting lighter out and she notices there's some of her blood left on the corner of his mouth. She wants to say something, scathing and mean, but eventually he realizes it's there and simply licks it away.
She smiles and hopes he can see.
The fourth time, he simply asks.
Calling her to help him find Dean, chasing after angels, even if he knows it's the last thing she ever wants to do. Of course she helps, because he asks, because he's Sam and saying no doesn't happen very often.
She knows he had a run in with Alistair, stood his ground pretty damn well from what the grapevine told her. But it wasn't enough, top rung demon like that, Sam isn't ready and he knows it.
"Ruby it's been weeks," he says.
It has. He hasn't even looked at her the same since Gregory.
"I need it."
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
"You don't seem too happy about it." It's a childish reaction, she knows, but it's been weeks for her too.
"You think I want to do this?"
Seemed like you didn't mind so much before your little slip, she thinks, before you realized just how much you might actually like what I do for you.
"This is the last thing I wa-" Same old Sam, always fighting. "But I need to be strong enough."
That defeated self-depreciation thing he does so well, it's actually hard to resist.
She moves over to him, "It's okay," straddles his lap on the cheap motel bed. It's good to be touching him, familiar, he's asking her finally and it's all coming back. "It's okay Sammy."
Leaning in, too long since she's been this close.
"You can have it."
Kissing him, so easy to be affectionate when she gets what she wants, pulling the knife out, the look of anticipation in his eyes. He wants it so bad he can hardly wait to see her bleed.
Shallow cut, just enough, he's practically jumping out of his skin until she nods.
"It's okay Sam," she assures again, relishing the content sounds he makes against her, loving every second it makes him hers.
He killed Alistair.
It's what she's been training him for, what she's been feeding him for, but to actually know it's working, to see that he is truly capable of stepping up to the plate, it fills her with a happiness she never thought capable.
All the effort, all the work…
He killed Alistair.
It's finally happening.
Leaning against the doorframe of the dingy motel room, she does her best to play it cool. Watching as he waits for her reaction, moving away from the door she walks over to him, a slow careful smile on her lips.
"You know what this means," she says, pressing herself against him, one kiss then another.
Excitement bubbles up, in a place where her heart would beat if it worked.
"You're really going to do it," she says against his lips. "You're going to kill her."
He returns her enthusiasm briefly, running his hands up her back and to her shoulders, before pulling away.
"Why do you help me?" He asks.
Something in her freezes, a flash of anger at his timing.
Why you? Why me? Why the hell does it matter?
"I told you before," she replies wrapping her arms around his neck.
It's about you Sam, she doesn't say. It's always about you.
She cuts him off with a kiss. "You know why."
He does, it's written all over his face, but he can't say it.
"You're a demon," he says. "You can't-"
He can't even acknowledge it.
"Of course I can," she defends. "You just don't want me to."
You fed off me, she doesn't say. You defied the will of god to use what I've taught you. That means something.
"Ruby," he starts.
"Shut up," she shoots back, cutting him off with another kiss.
Declarations of love is not who they are, it's not how they work.
It's not about angels or demons.
It's not about heaven and hell.
It's about him, always about him, and who he's supposed to be.
To her, it's about being at his side.