Haven't Seen Him Smile in a While.

There was a faint, musky scent in the air that misty night. The silhouetted man rolled up the window of the ‘67 Chevy Impala to block it out. It wasn’t really bad, he decided, but it irritated his nose. It smelled like someone had killed the oxygen and had replaced it with carbon monoxide or something thick and sluggish. It was chilly out there, too, and he could feel the goosebumps forming along his lanky arms and his nose.

He didn’t like waiting. Waiting was like spending silent hours sitting idly with Time, and Time had never done anything good for him. Time was either bad, too slow, too fast, too dead…he’d taken a drive with Time all day that day, and he longed to escape it. Time sat beside him in the Impala and dredged up terrible memories before his eyes to be thoroughly dissected. Time was always breaking his heart, even though he always needed it. Time was a killer, a vicious, callous killer that had no heart no matter how many hearts it stole. Time was a thief. It stole away all of his years, stole his humanity, and stole the life of everything that ever mattered to him.

Every single person he’d once cared about was gone, now. They were all dead, except for Bobby, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to ever call him again. The old man had given up and left it alone after some time, and he was somewhere back in South Dakota in his big, silent bungalow where he was left to live the meek, quiet life of the old before dying silently in his breakfast or something along the sort. Meanwhile, Sam had moved on much sooner and concerned himself with his only remaining companion.

He sat alone in the Impala and waited for her.

It was then that a brunette woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties, silently advancing towards the car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her, but he continued to stare straight ahead, his massive hands fixed tightly on the steering wheel. His temple slightly throbbed with thirst and disjointedness, and he allowed his frozen, statuesque frame to relax as he reached down and felt around for his Jack Daniel’s. His fingers, callus from endless hours of hunting, wrapped around the slim neck of the bottle, and he sipped from it slowly as Ruby stood outside of the passenger door, arms folded as she looked down at him. The drink didn’t ease his thirst by a bit, but it renewed his icy vigilance, and he quickly unlocked the passenger door and rolled down its window.

Sam said hoarsely, “Get in.” His voice had gotten rusty from lack of use. Ruby found it extremely sexy.

“Whatever happened to ‘hello’?” she teased, but he ignored the remark, and she rolled her eyes and sighed. He turned the key in the ignition as she slid over the expansive leather seat, the seat he himself used to sit in as his brother, Dean, would used to drive them.

Dean.

Sam’s lips twitched into a frown as he glanced up at himself in the rearview mirror. It disturbed him that the word had ceased to make him tremor with remorse. Back in July (was it really July? Had it really been only months ago and not epochs when it-it…happened?), he’d made a taboo out of it and refused himself to even think that word, since it never failed to bring him on the brink of tears. And now…

Had he really grown that heartless? And was that really a bad thing?

He looked at himself pensively in the rearview mirror. Yes, he was heartless. He was completely void of any emotion except for an intense hunger in his deadbeat eyes. His mouth had set to a permanent grim expression. It was quite an effort to smile anymore, even if it was rarely. His hands were fixed coolly, if not robotically, on the steering wheel. He didn’t feel anything at all as his reflection stared back. He didn’t feel disinterest, nor pity. After all, self-pity was nothing but vanity, and what was there for him to be vain of? He looked at himself again, trying to pick up anything worthwhile inside him. And he might’ve caught something. Was it the way he looked, listless and uncaring? Did he look-

He brushed away the thought and absentmindedly looked over at Ruby for the first time. She was chattering about something that had to do with him, about how well he was progressing. Sam this and Sam that, she crooned stupidly, oblivious to the fact that Sam himself wasn’t actually bothering to listen and it grated his nerves. He was tired of hearing his name, of hearing all of his achievements that early fall when it seemed that he had failed in what mattered most back in (July, was it really only July?) that recent summer. Nothing he could do would ever make up for not being able to do anything when his brother needed him the most. He was tired of hearing Ruby’s voice as well, to be honest. More often then not, when they talked, it drawled with a smart-aleck tone, and it made him want to punch her in the face. Being with her gave him that distasteful feel that he was just waiting for the end, like the peak of his life had already blown over, and he was just waiting to die. Was there anything left to live for? His brother would have expected him to keep saving people, but what did it matter if they were going to die, anyway? Why did he need to pray every single day of his life if it seemed as if nothing could save him? Did it all matter, anymore? Did any of it matter-?

His track of thought halted when he felt a pair of small hands enclose around right one affectionately. He shivered. It might have been a little more comforting if Ruby’s hands weren’t always so dreadfully cold. Her dark, almond-colored eyes connected with his deadened ones and a somber smile adorned her lips. She felt for that kid, she really did.

“Sam,” she said, her voice laden with empathy, “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’ve gone a long way since July, and you should be happy that you’ve moved on to bigger and better things.” Nothing was better than Dean. Nothing. “You’ve done amazing things, remember that. You’re saving lives again, and it’s making more of a difference this way. You may not care- in fact, I know you don’t care- but I do. You’ve grown up, Sam, and I’m proud of you. One day you’ll be too.” She was annoying him again with all of this goading and persistent I-care-about-you crap. ‘One day you’ll be too’? How can you be so sure? He shot her a look filled with brazen, sudden anger, and he tore his hand away. She looked down at her empty hands and wordlessly withdrew them as she looked away. How can you be so sure, his thoughts continued, how can you be so sure that Dean is proud of me? What do you think he’s thinking as he watches me from down there while he suffers? He must think I’m a fucking monster! And, God, I swear I am. No person can feel what I feel, do what I do, and still be able to live. I’m dead- that’s it! I’m dead, gone.

He suddenly realized that they were still in the vacated parking lot as the Impala purred restlessly under his fingertips. God, Dean used to love this car.

There goes that word again.

“Let’s just go,” he growled. Sighing ever so faintly, Ruby eased back into the seat as Sam slipped the car out onto the road, and listened as it skimmed across the stretch of the empty highway. The silence ate what was left of him away. He drained his Jack Daniel’s without a care in the world.

~*~

Sam’s voice wavered with need, and the motel room was filled with the poignant smell of alcohol as numerous bottles were strewn about on the dirty vinyl carpet floor. He lied on one of the double beds on his elbows, shirtless, as sweat trickled from each and every pore from his body. He was coming so close to it, after three weeks of Ruby being missing, and it was driving him mad with lust and desperation. At the same time, he hated himself for it. He was so vile. His rich dark brown hair had lost its sheen and became greasy and unkempt. His even darker eyes were unsteady and wild. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip for the umpteenth time since they’d arrived there.

“…S-so,” he said with an undercurrent of urgency, “Do y-you have it w-with you?” It wasn’t really a question of if she had it with her; of course she did. Sam was really asking if she was going to actually give it to him. He was too exhausted to be logical, and his throat burned with longing. He needed it, oh, God, how he needed it. His nerves were on end and his movements were quick and jerky, and the bed creaked with his every movement as a tell-tale sign of his anxiety. If it unsettled Ruby, she made no hint of it. Coolly, she turned to look absentmindedly out the window as if to gaze at the landscape of filthy streets, gutters, and rusty fire escapes fading into the darkness. “…R-ruby…” he almost pleaded. One almond-colored eye considered him. “I-I need it so, so badly. My skin started turning p-purple last week b-because I haven’t had anything for so long.” His neck reeled back in exhaustion, and Ruby could see the purple, bruised-looking flesh pressed around his throat like fingertips. His naked chest rose and fell not steadily, but in shuddering gasps and lurches, and sweat glistened on his clavicle. His posture was unintentionally tempting.

Sam Winchester was a divine creature, Ruby thought. There was something tragically beautiful about him. He could be made a ‘Titan or a toy’, as the quote went, and he made a delicious subject. She had him under her thumb. It thrilled her.

She moved to him.

He started, but Ruby shushed him with a motion of the hand. “Yes, I have it, and would be more than happy to give you a sample, as usual,” she drawled. Her head tilted to the side and she smiled cattishly. He was so helpless, and that made him even more delicious. She crawled onto the bed, kitten heels and all, and rested her hands on either side of him as she straddled his waist with her toying smirk. “On one condition.”

Sam didn’t even need to ask her what that condition was. They’ve been doing this long enough for him to expect it. Without preamble, Sam held her face in his hands and shoved his lips on hers. His tongue entered urgently, saying yes, he would do anything for it. She could taste the heavy alcohol on his breath. This was wrong; it was twisted, sick, and gross. It was wonderful, in a spiteful way. Ruby was a terribly sloppy kisser, and it sickened him as well as excited him. He knew he was just a plaything to her, that she didn’t really see him as a love interest or anything. But, when they kissed, something took over him; it wasn’t the usual euphoric flood of emotions that came with passionate kissing, but instead, it was a dark, primitive longing that truly made him inhumane. He wrenched his mouth from hers and proceeded to suck fleetingly on her neck before passing over her shoulder and down her arm. That was what he wanted all along, ever since Ruby left him- as she did every now and then- those three weeks ago. Fuck it; he’s secretly wanted it ever since forever. He’s wanted this ever since he was a scrawny loser of a kid who seemed to be searching for something to make it all worthwhile. Well, here it is, Sammy-boy! God, he was ruined beyond belief. And the scary part was that he really didn’t care. He lost all feeling the moment Dean Winchester choked on his own blood and died in his arms all those months ago. He was numb. He was a monster.

“Ruby…” Sam croaked, licking his lips. They’d stopped kissing for a bit and he looked up to her with his pleading, deep brown eyes. She had him fixed good. Placidly, she obliged and rolled from above him to strip down. The brief foreplay was over.

~*~

“Where’s the knife?” Ruby asked nonchalantly when it was over. She was clad in a tank-top and underwear, sitting by Sam’s side. He pointed to the first drawer of the nightstand. She pulled it open, and sure enough, there it lay, among a semi-automatic revolver and some scattered bright orange sleeping medicine pills. That knife was a beauty, with a serrated curved blade and a rough wooden handle that was characteristically smoothed from use.

His eyes watched her every movement as she casually studied the blade, pensively rubbing her fingertips against each of the teeth, pricking herself accidentally. His eyes continued to watch as the single, ink black drop of blood slid precariously down the curve of the knife. His throat burned in response. Smiling knowingly, Ruby handed her knife over to him. He grasped it with shaking hands, and began to sweat profusively.

Ruby knew for a fact that Sam didn’t love her at all. He probably didn’t even like her that much. But, oh, when the knife was in his hand and he looked up to meet her eyes, she saw something fervent in his own, something close to adoration. With the other hand, he reached over and seized Ruby’s arm, the one covered from the shoulder to the wrist with scabs and scars. His throat itched for it even more, and the longing and bloodlust possessed him. After running a callus thumb down her arm, Sam looked back to her, and the adoration had been replaced with something else, something scarier. He had the expression of a hungry wolf with its claws locked on a bleeding pound of meat. He looked at her like she was a piece of raw meat.

His eyes were vibrant and intense. He licked his lips yet again. Nervously, Ruby almost tried to retract her arm from his clutch, but Sam held fast. With a swift, sure movement, he pressed the blade on an untouched patch of flesh and dragged it about two-and-a-quarter inches to make a decent shallow cut. It happened so quick that she had no time to cry out. Fresh, ebony black blood seeped from the cut and trickled down her arm onto his fingers. Hastily, Sam drew them to his mouth and sucked the blood off until his fingertips were clean. Discarding the soiled knife to the side, Sam grasped Ruby’s arm with both hands and began to suck the blood out hungrily. He could feel his eyes go bright with satisfaction and the burning in his throat not silence but intensify. Ruby whimpered. Sure, it usually didn’t hurt, but Sam was nearly gnawing her flesh, with his mouth clamped firmly on the wound, and the way he sucked the blood out felt like being stabbed by needles again and again. He groaned hard and lustfully against her flesh and sank his nails into her, causing her to cry out in pain. This went on for some time, and before Ruby could lose feeling in her arm and faint from the massive blood loss, Sam finally unclamped his lips from the open cut. He looked up into her eyes for the third time. The madness in them died down and he breathed deeply.

“Thanks. I needed that,” he told her breathlessly. Ruby didn’t reply, but instead pressed her own fingers on the wound to stop the bleeding while fighting to remain steady. A pint had been drawn out of her. Something scary had happened to Sam Winchester as he sucked the blood out of her arm, something scary and macabre. With these thoughts swarming her mind, she was caught unguarded and nearly gasped in fear when Sam did the most unpredictable thing: He pulled her against his chest so that their noses were touching, and he kissed her again. This time, it wasn’t sloppy or filled with heated bloodlust- or, at least, not as much. It was a soft, meaningful kiss that made whatever heart she had warm up and seem to blossom from it’s cold habit. When he let her go, she could see that his eyes had regained their adoring gaze, and not for the first time, Ruby doubted what she thought she knew about him. Maybe he did love her. Maybe he just loved her blood more. The first real smile came to his lips, albeit it was somehow tragic, and he wiped away the black blood stain that he left on her lips.

Maybe she would regret what she was going to do to him.

~*~

It was the next day. Sam was speeding along the interstate, alone, going wherever. Direction lost purpose when Dean lost life. He woke up that morning feeling better than he had in weeks, and he knew it was all because of the blood Ruby had given him late last night. She left some time while he’d been sleeping, though, and he probably wouldn’t be seeing her for a while again. He sighed as he stared aimlessly ahead of him, driving on autopilot while thoughts and technicalities swarmed through his head in circles. He needed to find a reliable blood source so that when she left him for long periods of time, he wouldn’t be so strung out, living in the remote-minded sense of a drunken bastard. Absentmindedly, he felt along the sides of his neck, wondering if the purplish tinge had left. He wondered what the blood was doing to him besides making him feel stronger and more invincible. There had to be a snag; there almost always was. Would he be infected with some spinal disease? Would there be mutations…? Would it change him…? He nervously turned the thought over in his mind before tucking it away and being satisfied with leaving the truth to sneak up on him and let his conscious deal with the consequences later.

As he thought about this, there was a sudden change in the interior of the Impala, something too quick for him to put his finger on it, and then he could feel another presence with him, sitting in the passenger seat.

He didn’t need to turn to know that Ruby decided to come back, after all, but his fingers still twitched ever so slightly in subtle alarm. He stared straight on, as usual, and continued to drive silently.

Ruby gave him a sidelong look, but couldn’t tell his expression because his face looked absolutely blank as he looked forward, and his eyes were hidden by thick sunglasses to protect them from the blaze of afternoon light streaming in and giving the dust motes a rosy, dusty color.

“Where are we going?” Ruby finally asked, making herself comfortable by propping her feet on the dashboard but still ill at ease like she had been ever since the night before. Sam got a little irritated at the mention of “we” instead of “you”; he preferred to be alone. “And take those damned sunglasses off. They make you look like a stranger.”

Sam was amused by this and flashed a cruel smile before removing the sunglasses and staring at the sunlight head on. He was already a stranger, a doppelganger of the Sam before July- the Sam who had been a kid brother. The real Sam wasn’t a monster; he was a little kid full of good intentions and shy hope that lived without complaint under the protective shadow of his older brother. The real Sam believed wholeheartedly in unicorns and angels because there had to be good things somewhere- right? There had to be. The real Sam wouldn’t be cruel to Bobby, who was almost a father figure to him, or have mindless sex with demons, or suck the blood out of them raw-.

“Sam?” Ruby queried, interrupting his montage of thoughts. The boy in question blinked in the sunlight and reluctantly descended back into reality. He’d been digressing.

Again.

Ruby took a hold of one of his lanky arms to anchor him back to her, but he shrugged her hold away. He was here, unfortunately. The air reeked of nostalgia. He picked through his mind to recover the last spoken words, and upon remembering them he responded, “I have no clue where we’re going,” with that dull, careless tone, and then his eyes swiveled to her and he asked rudely, “Why are you here, anyway?” He was hungover and moody for no particular reason. Well, he had plenty good reasons, but they didn’t seem legit that day.

Her slightly parted lips and sober expression in her eyes turned to him accusingly. “What, I can’t come and check on you anymore, Sam? I can’t care about you?”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m fine, Ruby; I don’t need you to baby me. I’m fucking twenty-five, for Chriss’s sake. Besides, you can’t care about me; you’re a demon and I’m a wreck. It wouldn’t work.” His hands tightened their grip on the leather steering wheel as he grit his teeth in vexation. I’m fucking twenty-five, and I can handle myself, he thought firmly. And then: Oh, God, twenty-five! Where did all of the years go? He nearly moaned. His life was wasting away into a timeless sloth-like crawl of pain and regret, like dying slowly and alone in a pool of your own blood after a bullet wound tore your entrails apart. Like dying like Dean-

“Well,” Ruby whispered decisively, “You couldn’t be any more wrong. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty wrecked, too, and I’m not letting you alone because I can still feel, Sam, I can still feel, and I know you feel nothing inside but misery and angst.”

Sam’s laugh was a harsh, sarcastic staccato. “Oh, so now you know how I feel, do you? You know what’s going on inside- inside my head, even when I don’t?”

Ruby chose to not say anything but instead sighed and reclined back into the leather seat. There were no more words, and Sam relished this. His grey world looked out idly to the massive sunlit clouds and trees decorated in liquid gold trimmings. They were leaning in from either side of him to listen to the whisper of the Impala skim passed them with a careless scatter of leaves and rubbish left in the exhaust. The car purred contently underneath his fingertips, and for that freeze-frame moment, Sam Winchester decided that he might just be able to live with himself after all.

The moment passed and the gold faded away.

Sam sighed once more and turned to the woman in the passenger seat beside him. He asked her, “Where to?” in an indifferent monotone.

Ruby just nodded vaguely towards the road as if she’d forgotten she was there. Sam had forgotten about himself, too. “Take that next exit; it’ll take you back to near the motel, and there’s a bar just a few minutes away from here. I have something for you.”

Sam obliged and made the turn, redirecting them downtown.

~*~

The bar’s interior was comfortingly generic. The shady lighting relaxed Sam’s eyes and the hazy smoke gave everything and everyone a promiscuous appearance. The bar had the reassuring comfort of being non-committing and almost secondhand. He didn’t feel the need to brace himself in the eyes of society (which was always watching). The atmosphere got to his head like smoke from the caterpillar’s hookah, and he found himself relaxing as he retreated to the darkest corner in the open room

(curiouser and curiouser)

with Ruby following behind him silently.

Sam sat back in the chair and seemed to unwind. His headache was a gentle pounding reminder, but he distractedly pushed it away and ran a hand through his tousled, dark brown hair. Ruby’s eyes followed his movements. She noticed the careless faults in his appearance: the knotted hair that hadn’t seen a comb for days, the lackluster gaze in his eyes, and the way he twiddled his callus thumbs. His clothes were rumpled, wrinkled, and stained, and, she noticed, the same clothes from last night. He was a wreck, but as she thought earlier, there was something tragically appealing about Sam Winchester.

A waitress in skimpy clothing found them there a few minutes later, and asked them their drinks.

Ruby politely declined and instead asked them for a basket of fries. Sam asked for a tall mixed vodka and gin on the rocks. As the waitress walked away, Ruby shot him a disapproving look, but he brushed it away.

The food came to their table after a little bit. The fries were thick and greasy, as expected, and the gin and vodka, condensating, wet, and ice-cold to the touch was placed before him. The ice tinkled idly in the tall glass as he stared down into it. His thick hair fell in his eyes; he needed a haircut soon. He picked the glass up, chilling his fingertips, and took a long, satisfying drink, nearly finishing half in one turn. The vodka and gin revitalized him with its pinching, harsh sensation, and he finished off a good amount of it in another swift movement. He reeled his head back and closed his eyes. In his detached, husky voice he asked her, “So, what is it you were going to give me?”

He listened to her shift around to a more comfortable position. Sam liked her better like this, when he couldn’t see her. “Two things,” she said simply. “Some vials, and a word of advice.”

Sam groaned this time out loud. “Ruby, I keep telling you: I don’t need any of your damn-”

“Sam,” she stopped him. “Listen to me. You can’t carry on this way. I know it, you know it, and Dean knows it.”

(She didn’t fucking dare-!)

“That’s right,” Ruby spat, “Dean. Do you think he’d like watching you act like this-this-” there was an absurd fluttering of hand motions “-this ass? No! Listen, Sam, I’ve been trying to help you cope ever since Dean died-” he flinched as she broke the unspoken taboo “-and I understand that it was traumatic for you and everything, but this is what you need to realize: It’s been four fucking months and I’ll be damned if I have to hear you mope about it one more day. It’s about time you’ve grown up and moved on.”

Sam trembled with helpless anger. His first few words were constant stutters, but then he finally spat out in return: “A-and you n-need to realize that you’re already d-damned. I’m damned, too. We’re all f-fucking damned, and there’s n-nothing we can do about it.” He got to his feet, his large stature overshadowing her. He fixed his spiteful eyes on her, his lips pulled back into a cruel grimace. “And who the fuck are you,” he continued, “to t-tell me what-” he swallowed hard “-what D-Dea-” He couldn’t say it. He tried again “-w-what D-Dean would think about me? Do you think that he’d like watching me at all? No. Not at all. The best I could’ve ever done from him after he d-died was to not feel anything at all, b-but I’ve been doing nothing but feeling.” He glared at her as if it was all her fault, and maybe it was.

Ruby had had it as well, and she shot to her feet. “Stop being such a dick, Sam.”

“Go to Hell, Ruby.”

“Been there, done that,” she retorted (there’s that condescending tone that he hated), and she turned to make her way. But, she suddenly changed her mind and turned while dropping her sneer at the poor boy whom she still felt for, and she dug some things out of one of her deep jacket pockets. They were cylindrical and glittered obsidian black in the shady lighting. She threw both vials at him and he caught them with a jerky motion. She looked away from his eyes. “That was for you. As much as an ass you’re being, I still care about you.” Her voice had dropped down to a straightforward sober tone. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I didn’t mean it.” Lie. “I just want you to be okay, Sam.”

“I am,” he insisted in his gravelly voice that revealed he was in fact not.

“Bullshit.” A corner of his mouth twitched in what would’ve been a sardonic grin. Her eyes were trained on him again, watching. Then, something overtook her and before she knew what she was doing, Ruby moved forward, arms outstretched, and she enveloped Sam in a tight hug. “I really am sorry. Please forgive me, Sam.” His back was ramrod-straight from the shock of her affectionate touch, but he nodded vaguely anyway and wrapped his arms around her lower back. Oh, what a twisted, scornful affair they had. She trifled her fingers through his hair fondly before releasing her hold. Her eyes fell towards one of the black vials.

“You should go ahead and drink one, Sam. You look like hell, and it’ll do you some good.” This time, a rueful semi-smile adorned his lips. She smiled back. It was better than nothing. Tentatively, his long fingers wrapped around one and uncapped it. The familiar, rich scent of copper and rust rose up in tendrils to his nose. His mouth twitched ever so slightly in that tug of need, and he took a fleeting glance at Ruby; he felt almost self-conscious that she was witnessing his weakness in broad daylight. The hunger continued to gnaw at him, and so he took the opened vial and slowly poured it into the remainder of his gin and vodka mix. The water grew completely black and he raised it to his anxious lips.

“-Wait, Sam!” He opened his eyes (not remembering when he’d closed them again) and he looked up to her.

“W-what is it?” He asked, his already gravelly voice on the edge of quivering with that-that smell so close to him.

She looked at him in dismay. “You’re not going to actually drink that, are you?”

“Of course I am,” he said in an adamant voice.

“Sammy,” she sighed, “The things you do to yourself will surely kill you.” She reached to stroke his cheek.

He stiffened, and was about to say it, but as his mouth opened to object, only Dean can call me that, he closed it again and slumped. What was the point? Dean was dead. No hard feelings. Instead, Sam replied with that tragic, sardonic grin of his,

(haven’t seen him smile in a while)

“Whatever doesn’t kill me will make me stronger.” He downed the glass, and it was like heaven singing down his throat. For a moment he wasn’t aware of anything else, and he closed his eyes as he could feel his body pixilate into a thousand pieces of pure gluttony, of pure bliss and carnal pleasures, of everything too wrong with the world and too good to resist. He drank it all and came to a final, satisfying decision:

He would be able to live with himself after all.

~*~

It had been about a week later when Sam discovered his quality to be vain of.

Ruby was with him again, but this time they were in a completely different location: Little Rock, Arkansas, and for no particular reason. The motel seemed to be just about the same, with thin, gaudy bedspreads and dirty carpet. He himself was much more stable, and the purple tinge had left his neck. Ruby had been making sure he drank the blood regularly after she had discovered the slashes on his wrist that had been previously hidden by the cuffs of his flannel button-down. It was self-cannibalization; he’d been that desperate.

Ruby sat idly on one of the beds as she watched Sam finish dressing. He shrugged on his usual coat to accommodate the nippy weather outside and rubbed the last of the sleep out of his face. He could feel a light stubble brush against his fingers.

He and Ruby were going hunting, and although they’ve been doing it for a couple of months, now, the thought never ceased to be foreign in his mind. What was even more foreign was that it was during the day, and not at night like he was used to.

Sam reached forhis the keys to the Impala from the dresser surface. Ruby got to her feet and walked over to him.

“Ready?”

He yawned, his eyes still bloodshot and glassy. “Ready.”

Ruby put her hands on his arms to sidle past him, when she paused and stared at the mirror as well. Sam could see her heart-shaped face, or rather, the face of the woman she possessed behind him. Her look unnerved him. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
He saw Ruby’s reflection cock her head to the side thoughtfully. “…Nothing…it’s just that-.” She stopped and looked at his face again with lidded careful eyes. “…Your face.”

“What about it?” he asked defensively.

“It’s so…dead…emotionless. Your eyes are so cold and calculated. You look rugged and untidy, like a tired soldier, almost. You don’t look like a stranger, Sam…

“You look like Dean.”

And there his vanity lay.