There's no denying that Ruby's a hot little bitch.
And she has one hell of a knife.
Dean sits back and watches Sammy try to wheedle it out of her. He's got too much pride to try it -- especially when he's already failed in private, and he's not going to do that sort of thing in front of Sammy -- and he knows that his brother's going to fail. Ruby's just going to toss her pretty blonde hair and try to string Sammy along with promises and what-ifs and maybes, anything that'll get Sammy trying to use those psychic powers again. And that just isn't going to happen.
He tunes the discussion out and concentrates on cleaning his gun.
His concentration's broken when Ruby's hips hit the table in front of him. She sits down there, bending gracefully at the waist, and slams the knife into the wood. The blade goes between two of the planks that the table's surfaced with (another of Bobby's fix-it jobs from out of the junkyard, relegated to the workshop where it'll get beat up on) and stands there, quivering.
"Don't you agree?" she asks, getting in his face as usual.
Dean leans back in his chair, putting the gun down before he gets tempted to blow her head off. "With what?" he asks, for he sure as hell doesn't want to give the impression that he might have been listening to the conversation. Even though he wasn't, anyhow.
"That this knife's special," she says, and strokes one finger against the etched steel of the blade.
"Can't argue with that," he allows. "Course, don't know how special it is. Guess we've got to take your word for it."
"It slices open a demon as neat as it does a human," she says. She swivels her legs, bringing them up on the table, and no doubt giving Sammy a good view of her ass in those tight jeans. But this means Dean's getting a good view of her tight waist and the curves of her breasts, smooth and round as they dangle above the knife hilt, and he can live with that. Know the enemy. Yeah.
He shrugs. "I'd be more interested in what it really is. We know it's special, but I'm curious why. What makes it able to do that?"
Ruby's eyes spark somewhere deep inside, and for a moment he thinks they're going to go full black, the deep velvet nothingness that a demon gets when it's showing itself and doesn't care who can see it. "You really want to know?"
"Yeah." He leans forward, props his elbows on either side of the knife, and looks up at her, at the tense column of her throat, the tightness of her chin, the high cheekbones. "Why? Is it secret?"
Sammy's fallen silent behind Ruby. Maybe he wants to hear this too.
Ruby folds her fingers round the hilt of the knife and pulls it out of the table, making the gesture look as effortless as if she was tugging it out of a slab of butter. She turns it in her hand, putting the barbed point against her lower lip. "Would it matter?" she murmurs. "If I told you it was forged in blood, would you care?"
Dean's about to say, Depends whose blood, but in the end he says, "I guess they're not using the blood now in any case. And if it were something that Sammy and I wouldn't approve of, well, we'd be doing better to use the knife to save more people before they end up dead or worse. That what you want to hear?"
Ruby's tongue darts out. She licks the steel. "You lack imagination."
"Yeah, well. You demons have fuck too much of it." Dean knows he ought to lean back and ignore her, but there's something about her little pink tongue against the metal, her parted red lips, the way her eyes are nearly all dark now, that are getting him hot enough to be grateful his legs and everything that goes with them are well under the table. Wouldn't want Sammy to get any ideas about being turned on by demons.
Ruby doesn't laugh, she never laughs, but she smiles, pretty and vicious. "Dean, I'm sitting right on top of you with naked steel in my hands, and you think this is a good moment to run your mouth about demons. No. About me. Nobody ever accused you of sense, did they?"
"Not a bit," Dean says blithely. "Besides, I could take you down."
She leans forward, and the knife moves with her till she and the steel are an inch away from his face. "Want to bet?" she whispers, eyes all black.
Dean matches her movement. His lips touch the knife on the other side. "Bring. It. Bitch."
"Dean, Ruby's on our side," Sammy butts in, and completely breaks the mood, because Ruby slips off the table and takes the knife with her, tossing her hair again as she walks away.
Dean licks his lips. He can taste steel and salt and blood.
That's one hell of a knife.