A/N This is a Deanfic... that means there will be foul lingo.

101 Ways Ruby Must Die

Well, honestly, Dean hasn't come to an entire list of one hundred and one ways for Ruby to die, but he's sure he's hit at least number 50-something by now.

At least.

Sam disappeared after their little misadventure with the weirdo douchebag magicians. Dumbshits. Dean sat alone at the motel, clenching his jaw, snarling to himself.


To both of them.

Okay, he admits that there are bitches and there are Bitches. Sammy is a bitch; a Brother Intending To Candy-up some Hell (for any asshole who needs or deserves it, be it on the field or at the pool table).

Now, a Bitch... oh that's a whole other slice of cheese. A Bitch is Below Intellectual Temperament, Creating Hell.

Dean flopped face down on his pillow. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Ruby set Sam up but good. She led him around with a demon tail wrapped around a ring pierced through his nose.


Dean would LOVE to run her over with the Impala and leave tread marks on her perfect face. Just one little tread mark? Please? Just enough to squish her flat.

Serve her up as a flat cake for Luci's next breakfast. Dean will even sweat over a hot stove and make a jar of holy water syrup for the occasion. He'd sprinkle it over with iron pellets for good measure.


And there Sam went, eyes wide open, tongue hanging out. Dean would like to rip her lying tongue out and mail it to Lilth. Here you go, Sweetums, Lying Demon Tongue. Just add angel dust. Lying tongues grow really well this time of year. Ask the nearest old lady who owns six cats and talks to her plants.

Speaking of plants, Dean would like to bury the Bitch in some nice clay soil. Cover it over with a cement block and put up a plaque: Bitch Lies Here. Do Not Open-EVER.

Problem is that demons don't stay dead. Problem is, nothing stays dead. Ruby is a demonic zit. You pop her once and she shows up someplace else. The cheek today, the ass tomorrow.

Dean considered poison. Easy-off Oven Cleaner for starters. Liquid Plumber. V-8 Juice. Tie her to an office chair and make her watch repeat episodes of Pokemon. If that fails, there's always Barney the Dinosaur. The Powers of Matthew Star. That's always a belly-burner.

He'd like to cut off her head and use it as a hood ornament. Except he'd never do that to his baby. Bitch ball, anybody? Freaky old farts in bikini underwear need not apply. That goes double for the waitresses at

Fefe's Restaurant in Alabama. All the girls there needed wheelbarrows to cart their boobs around. And that might not have been so bad, were they not sporting pointy Madonna-bras with tassels dangling off their nipples.

Couldn't hurt for them to shave their legs, too.

God, the places and things he and Sam have been to and seen-or should never have to see.

Dean mused over the idea of killing Ruby by finding the worst music ever and hitting repeat. No, he wasn't thinking Barry Manilow or the B-Gees. No, it had to be something like playing "It's a Small World" on eternal repeat. Or maybe one of those sickening-sweet Disney songs. Yeah. It'd have to be one of those pieces where all birds are singing it, too. No wonder Dean loved Shrek.

Speaking of repeating bad stuff, how about death by the Trickster? Groundhog-it any day, any time as long as Ruby dies.

Bake her, boil her, put her in a stew. Serve her up extra-squishy for Gollum, too. Except that Gollum probably had the good sense not to eat gut-rot.

My Precious.


Dean fell asleep, wondering how it was possible that he finally found a woman he hated more than the Constance Welch Bitch who possessed his car.

Ten minute cat-nap. No Sam. Dear God, Dean thought, please give the Bitch a bad case of zits. Maybe she'd be dumb enough to buy Sam some Taco Bell. Works faster than a gas chamber. Dean oughta know.

He rolled to the side, reluctant to leave the pillow. How to save Sammy's ass from himself Number Four: that's what a meat locker's for.


What of that alternate-reality stuff? He'd send Ruby on a one-way trip into Smurfdom. Tie her to a pole and leave her as a sacrifice to Gargamel. 'Cept Gargamel would die of food poisoning. Not that Dean cared, but he might feel kinda sorry for Gargamel's pet cat.

Poor thing. Always the worst luck.

Just like Sam.

What was the attraction, anyway? What did Ruby have that Dean did not? OTHER than the demon blood and the painfully obvious. Not that Dean wanted to go into the bra-and-panty department. But seriously, what gives? No, no. Dean was NOT going to let THIS one slide. NEVER. Sam took up with a demon bitch over his brother... that was a sin unforgivable in Dean's book. But he did wonder if Sam might have been a victim of circumstance.

Yeah right. As if Sam were innocent; innocent like a stampede of truckers at a strip show. He'd like to stick her on the stage in front of a posse of hunters. How long would she last? Might be funnier watching the majority of amateur hunters struggle to read or recite an exorcism. She'd end up Pickled Demon Bitch at the end of the first ten minutes. That's an image Dean considered endearing.


Dean would buy a bottle of Bitch just so he could stuff her down a drain and pour Draino after her.

Ewe. Might be messy; plug up the sink. Dean did not have to think twice as to whether or not he cared.

If he had a way of doing so, Dean thought it might be entertaining to stick Ruby into a cannon and blast her into Heaven. He'd tune into the Angel Channel and wait to see what the angels would do to a demon in their midst.


Nothing good, he hoped. Kinda like a chicken in the middle of a wolf's den. He'd dress her up like Raggedy Ann, tie a red ribbon around her (attempt to choke her to death with it, first). Paste a sign across her mouth that reads "Dean Winchester wants you to kick my ass." And in her tied hands is a 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Jeroboam priced at $114,614.00 a bottle. Of course, John Winchester might scoff at that one and tell Dean he'd be wasting good money AND good wine. Dean would tell him the wine wasn't for drinking but either for cooking or for starting a bonfire. After all, in the 'good old days' they used to burn witches at the stake. Same principle should apply to this bitch who came between he and his brother.

Dean rolled over and moaned. The thought of fire roused unwanted memories of hell. Maybe he should attempt to return there... and drag the Bitch's candy ass with him, kicking, screaming, drooling, snarling and barking. All the way down, Sweetheart. Out of Sam's life. Out of his hair. Out of their misery.