Setting: The French Mistake AU
Warnings: Sam is sleeping in a bed with a stranger who believes that he is her husband, but they don’t do anything besides sleep. And Sam is pretty freaked out by the whole situation. Basically, I don’t think there’s anything squicky, but I don’t pretend to know what is and isn’t squicky to anyone else.
Word count: 676
Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester, Meta!Gen, light Sam/Meta!Gen because she thinks he’s her husband, but actually Sam/Ruby at heart.
Summary: Of all the possible twists his life could have taken, the last one Same would have ever expected was the one that left him in bed with a woman who wasn’t Ruby, but looked like Ruby, and thought he was her husband, who played him on TV.
AN: What even is my life? What is this? This is what happens when my roommate watches The French Mistake and I watch it with her, even though I haven’t finished S5. Also this is crack. Except it kind of isn’t, because this show writes it’s own crack, and I’m just pulling from crack that was already there.
“Dude, did you get it on with Fake-Ruby?”
Dean only brings it up once, after they get back to their own universe and he realizes that he doesn’t know where Sam slept that night.
“Of course not.” Sam tells him, because it’s true, and that’s the end of the conversation.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. After all, he wasn’t really that woman’s husband. He didn’t know her at all, actually.
But she’d taken his hand and led him up the stairs, and her hand was warm in his, and she thought he was the man she married, and they really couldn’t afford to blow their cover. Sam couldn’t draw any more attention to the ways he was different than what she was expecting, and he damn well couldn’t draw attention to Dean, who was asleep on an expensive couch in another part of the house. So Sam let her pull him along into what he assumed was their—Not-Ruby and Not-Sam’s—bedroom.
He stood in the middle of the room, trying as hard as he could to look like he belonged there, while she crossed to a chest of drawers and pulled out a worn t-shirt and long pajama pants, before crossing back to Sam and pushing the things into his hands, and steering him towards another open door that led to a bathroom.
“Go. You look ready to fall down.”
When he got back, Not-Ruby—Gen he tried to remind himself, but his mind tripped over the name the same as his mouth had—was pawing through another dresser, and she was naked, except for her underwear.
Sam’s mouth went dry. Not-Ruby straightened up, and threw a wink over her shoulder as she brushed past him to the bathroom. She looked good, he thought, healthy and whole and lacking the pattern of cuts and scrapes and bruises—many of them from his own hands and mouth—that he had become so accustomed to seeing on Ruby’s body, especially towards the end.
Before his staring could lead to things he didn’t want her to think he was initiating, Sam crawled into bed.
Possibly the most comfortable fucking bed he’d ever been in, in his entire life. This other guy, this Not-Sam, might have questionable taste in décor and pets, but Christ, his taste in beds was impeccable.
And his taste in wives, Sam decided, when Not-Ruby padded out of the bathroom. Her face was clean of make-up, and she was wearing nothing but an old shirt that was far too large for her and must, Sam decided, belong to her husband.
She smiled at him, sleepy and slow, and Sam’s breath caught in his throat at how very much she looked like Ruby in that moment. His Ruby. The one he’d known in the worst summer of his entire life, the one he was pretty sure no one else ever saw. Ruby with her guard down, smiling at him in motel rooms, and diners, and the occasional movie theater.
When he thought about Ruby, when he let himself think about Ruby, those were the things he thought about. Not her blood, and not the sex (although, yeah, okay, he thought about the sex too. He’s only human).
The other woman, the one wasn’t Ruby but played her on TV, slid under the covers next to him and reached up to turn off the lamp and plunge the room into darkness.
She twisted to face him, wiggling closer beneath the sheets, and Sam stayed still and let it happen. Let her cup his face in her hand, and brush a kiss across his lips, and lay her head on his chest.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” She mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.
Sam gave in to the impulse to wrap his arms around her back. She molded against his body in a way that was achingly familiar, and he let himself relax into the embrace.
“Yeah. Just…Weird day.”
If she found anything strange in the sentiment, she kept it to herself.