The tip of Ruby's tongue laps up the drippy line of ketchup in small, fond strokes.

She hums a little in pleasure, lips seeking to engulf the incurved ridge of flesh on her meatsuit's palm — relishing that salty-tomato oomph, the afterburn.

"Need a moment alone there, sweetheart?" Meg speaks up from the diner booth side opposite of her, a couple seconds ago very empty. The elderly couple at the nearby, checkerboard-patterned table shoot nosy glances from the corners of their eyes before going back to their vinaigrette Caesar salads. "Before you start scaring the poor, innocent children." Ruby's lips, swelling with blood and puffy from the salt exposure, crook up into a baleful grin.

"You look like shit," she chimes in, popping another glob of ketchupy french fry into her ravenous mouth and sucking quietly on a fingertip.

"Crawling your way out of Hell isn't exactly an all-expense paid vacation to Maui."

The blonde demon arches a well-manicured eyebrow. "I wasn't asking for your life story." She doesn't bother masking her faint appreciation from Meg as she makes a slow observation of her acquaintance — from the crown of gelled, spiked auburn hair to the low-cut, PVC leather bodice. "Nice tits," Ruby adds after a minute, loud enough for a female customer in her mid-forties waiting impatiently on a third glass of water to clear her throat disapprovingly in their direction.

"The girl wanted to get pregnant," Meg drones, raising her left hand and seeming to clench at something invisible. The disapproving customer begins to hack, as if a bit of the complimentary roll had jammed up in her esophagus, and thrashes her arms above her head. Another customer from the same table comes to her aid, panicking and screeching at the top of their lungs about poisoned food, beating their fists against the back of a pale yellow blouse. "That's her life story."

Meg's fingers clench harder. Something like bones and organs crunch and puncture for all to hear.

Brightly colored blood spew out to leak from the noticeable orifices — nose, eyes, ears, gaping mouth, and even her privates. The woman's head careens forward, landing with a liquidy thud into a pool of her own mess, and half of the diner long since evacuate as the rest flee to join them.

"How vile," Ruby tells her, nonchalantly taking another bite of a wedge-cut fry, chewing. "You're going to make me lose my appetite."

"They're worse than us, you know. Scurrying around the planet, wanting to consume everything and fuck and destroy each other."

"Food's good, though."

A pair of sea blue eyes surrounded by cheap, kohl-black eyeliner roll in mild exasperation. "I forget," Meg sighs. "You were one."

"Demons are not incapable of the same behavior of humans, self-destructive or power hungry," Ruby says, squirting the rest of the ketchup bottle over the small mound of deep-fried, potatoey salty goodness. Forgive me Father for it was fucking delicious. "God just happened to love humans and their faults."

Meg's facial features twitch, irritated at the tone of arrogance from the other demon.

Ruby smacks her lips together in satisfaction, puffy, tender. "Sex is good, too. A little tedious, a little repetitive, but the meatsuits have great orgasms."

"Spare me the details, will you?"

"You're turning down my offer, then?" A hypnotic, pointed stare through fragile, human eyelashes. "I'm almost disappointed. It's a nice act you've got going on."

"No one likes a wet blanket. So, if you're so interested in being a little human again, witch," Meg sneers, the silvery, chunky set of braces across the top row of her teeth gleaming from the overhead light. "Maybe you should whore yourself out to one of them."

Ruby laughs at her, low and melodic, shoulders quivering under her red jacket. "Ooh, I have someone very special in mind, thanks." She flashes the same baneful grin, between her slim fingers flicking a grease-heavy, partially eaten French fry towards Meg's forehead. "Not that it's any of your business, Tits McGee."

The booth opposite of Ruby remains hushed, unlike the nervous chittering and sobbing over the diner employees. Police sirens roar into the parking lot.

By the time the fry impacts an empty seat, no one can locate the mysterious, grinning blonde woman. No one tries.


Supernatural is not mine. OTP of all OTPs to OTP in this show: Ruby/ketchup. Right up there with Dean/pie and Dean/Impala.