Strictly speaking they don't need to do this. There's not that much point; demons only receive a certain quantity of the feedback that comes through a human body. Some things are heightened, some things are dimmed. Ruby doesn't know why in some people’s meat suits, being touched feels like hellfire beneath her skin, taut and present burning through her, and in other bodies it can only be described as a gentle warmth. Explanations are overrated, results are what matters. You don't need to know how something works if every time you prod it, it does the same thing. It's not what matters to her body, it's what matters to Sam's.
Brady's head between her thighs is sending sparks up her spine though, as she grips him tight and tries not to moan too loud. He's good or at least she thinks so, tongue fast and wet, fingers digging deep into skin that was never hers, like he can touch her real essence through it, and he holds on tight even knowing what she is. That's not what sends her head back onto the pillow though or drags her hands through his hair. It's what he says, when he comes up for air, what he mutters about how Sam Winchester does it. "Hands tighter in my hair," he says, instructs and she tugs at the strands that are sticky with gel, imagines longer hair, hell, imagines holding Sam Winchester down and letting him drown in this, her body, and making him like it.
Brady makes her come like that the first time, tongue on her clit, spreading her apart with two fingers, rubbing against her, making her arch against his hand because it's been so long since she's had anything like this, any depth of feeling. Afterwards she can barely breathe, this body's sensations are so strong, and he straddles her hips, and looks on indulgently. "Pull yourself together," he says after a minute, tweaks a nipple harsher than this body likes, but nothing like what she can take in any form. She comes alive under his hands, surges upright and tips him over with a twist until she's over his hips, still wet, still aching, and he laughs, a demon's face behind a generous smile. "Learning," he says with a grin, and that's what it comes down to in the end.
"Tell me," she demands, and thinks the show me can come later. Maybe when she does.
Brady has one hand around his dick now, as she rocks on his thighs- not nearly enough friction but that's not what she's after really- and he tells her what she wants to know. Every detail. "He was so fucking tender at first," he says, and the word tender is drawn out like a curse or a kiss. "That first time, he came up, bought me a drink and took me to a movie, like that's the only way he could fuck a man. Went over easy for me even though he didn't have a clue what to do. Didn't flinch or blush or pretend like he wasn't sure what he wanted, and Brady, he felt like he was falling forward into nothing."
"That was before you wasn't it?" Ruby asks, and she's not asking his body, she's asking him, curious as to where the lines are drawn. Brady's been in this body so long, he doesn't answer to any other name now.
He ducks his face down with a grin. "Yeah," he says. Runs an unselfconscious hand down his chest. "He was a pre-med student who'd fucked one boy before while he was drunk in Mommy's summerhouse. I’ll tell you he was practically pissing himself when Sam Winchester asked him out for a drink, a month into college, he was playing it so cool, all 'college is the time to experiment right'," and his hand gets faster on his dick, unconsciously, like he knows everything that gets this body off the best; he's been in it so long that the lines are blurring between them, and Ruby looks at him fascinated at how the angles behind the face go soft and slack, wonders if her body looks like that when she comes apart as well, whether she shines through as much. There's nothing else in the one she has, no soul, no consciousness. There's all these memories locked up tight in the grey matter and no way to access them without tearing them apart like tissue paper, nothing like the same base that Brady has, eighteen years of experience behind him, informing every minute gesture he makes. She rests hands on his hips, watches the blur of his hand, listens to his bitten off words. "Deep and slow," he says, "that's the way Sam Winchester liked it at first," and Brady comes, wide-eyed and satisfied like he's thinking of what Sam liked by the end.
There's a point to this, Ruby reminds herself. She needs to know everything about Sam Winchester; needs to bend, anticipate, flow in a way she's never done before. Needs to squash herself down, break out of the habit it'd been so hard to acquire after a hundred thousand years of torture down the pit. Bend your knee and shut your mouth, beg with a tongueless mouth for the pain to stop. When you first crawl out with your new black eyes, you still shiver, still cringe for the whip that's stopped for the first time in so long. She built herself back up, piece by piece, came in swinging to the Winchesters’ lives, but now it's only Sam and he needs something different. He's so alone, so hungry, and she knows what that hunger feels like. That's a hunger she can feed.
And if that means relearning the old habits, the old ways, then so be it. She has a lower cause and it must be fulfilled. Brady knows what to do. Ruby has learnt. She has observed; she has watched Sam Winchester in a thousand ways; this is just one more piece of the puzzle. "Tell me," she whispers again, bends down to brush her lips against Brady. He laughs and bites them bloody with sharp white teeth. When she leans back she tastes the sharp coppery tang on her tongue, a little touch of home.
"He treasured every touch," Brady breathes. "Little Sam Winchester, first time he was away from home. And Brady, oh, he liked that. It's not just the kids in cars whose daddies don't want them to go to college who don't feel like they're loved enough, after all. Then Thanksgiving happens that year," and his hands which have been gently stroking over her thighs, seize her, dig in deep, hard enough that she almost winces from reflex. Brady laughs. "Brady changes," he says, and there's a disconnect between the smirk on his body's face, and the pure exultation Ruby can see on his real face and they don't match up perfectly, like there's still something screaming.
"How?" she says, and trails her hands up his body, long and slow, watching him.
"Vanilla ice cream is good for dessert," is the reply. "For the main course, some people fancy something a little spicier. I didn't create it; no one can do that. I just brought it out. Every inch of that delicious loss of control. We weren't dating, you understand," and that sounds almost painfully bizarre in and of itself, that he needs to clarify it - but stay too long, get too close, and you start using their words. Once people fucked, she remembers that. (Once she skinned them slow and long, every inch an orgasm.) Now they eat froyo and watch insipid people playing out insipid lives on the big screen. But she says nothing, just waits. "We were fucking." That word is drawn out long and slow, and Ruby gets what he doesn't say: how long it had taken to let Sam down, let him only take what he was given, and that tells her so much.
Now his thumbs are pressing casually into her and she gasps at the suddenness as he slides them deeper, hands winged out under her pubic bone, spread on her thighs. She moves against them helplessly, arches back, steadies herself a little. "Like that," she says, and sees him grin even though her vessel's eyes are shut.
"Just like that," he says. "He'll make you feel so good. The key is not to let him," and he pulls out of her, easily, thumbs slick now, presses over her clit with a deep touch that feels like it sends shivers all the way through her body. “Let him think he’s in control every step of the way, arch your back and fucking moan like you mean it.” There he is again, fingers pressing inside her, stretching her in ways she hasn’t felt for too long. Properly. “Good,” he says, sits upright faster than a human should, drags her closer. “He used to touch me like this,” he says, and there’s a wild exaltation there, because he’d touched the Boy King, moulded him, shaped him in the time he’d had.
Now he has her on her back and his fingers hold her hands above her head, pin them and she could throw him off with a shrug, send him spinning with a blow, and it's a physical effort not to. "Stop struggling," he breathes. "You don't want to crush Sam Winchester. Don't want to remind him how strong you are." He matches his actions to words, keeps one hand entwined with hers, holds her down until she stops tensing against him. "Better," he says with a smile that stretches wide and fake. "Now come on," and he's between her hips now, lets go of her hands to hold them tight, hefts her body with inhuman strength, and she can't prevent a gasp at the feeling. "Kiss me," he says, and she arches upwards and seals their mouths together, lets him kiss her hard. When they break apart she thrusts her hips a little against the empty air, her cunt empty and exposed and still so wet.
"What now?" she asks, and her voice is reedy and thin as though she can't get enough air.
"Now you ask," Brady says softly. "You've driven him to this point now you beg for the rest. Like you mean it, like all you want are those big hands and that big dick and all those sweet smiles. Fake it 'til you make it baby."
Ruby tries her best, but she's out of practice. Begging isn't her style anymore and she resents even pretending, even with Brady who is doing her a favour (for a price.) "Is this what you did?" she asks. "Begged him to fuck you."
"Well until I introduced him to Jessica," Brady says dryly. "But yes as a matter of fact. For different reasons admittedly. Sam Winchester didn't want to fuck poor Brady all broken up and off the rails, but he didn't like hearing him cry either," and he waits with raised brows.
She gives it her best shot. "Fuck me please," she says, and injects pleading in her voice as best as she can. She's been lying for a long time, she doesn't know why this lie is harder than most. "I need you," and that's the truth right there if you look at it right, she needs what Brady can give, and she lets herself go, babbles a bit, and Brady seems convinced because he's not bothering with foreplay, he's pushing right in, hard and deep without respite, and it feels like nothing she's ever felt in this vessel. "Come on," she says, "fuck me," and he obliges, fucks her brutally, pounding in, dragging her hips up to his as she curls her legs around him. "Please Sam," she says experimentally, "I just need to feel something," adds a little hitch to her voice like she means it, and yes that works, he slams in harder.
"Touch my face," he says, and she slides a hand around his jaw, and Brady shivers. "He likes that," he says, "reminds him you're there,” and he's still fucking her with no finesse, but it's getting her off in a way she doesn't want to think too deeply about, not just the wet rub of skin on skin or the harsh pound inside her but being this close to someone who knows what it’s like.
She closes her eyes and tries it again. "Sam," she says, and it could almost be him, large hands on her, large dick in her, but these hands are softer than Sam's would be and that's just where the differences start. Brady groans above her, and his hips are more erratic now.
"Nice," he says, "remind him who you are. Make him feel it. Let him control you, hold you down and feel fucking guilty afterwards," and that's good advice right there. Brady's a better multi-tasker than she'd thought. "He knows you're a demon," he whispers, "and that's all kinds of different from me, but that just gives him a reason to let out what he wants, all the pain, all that suffering, all that swallowed ugly guilt, and you’re such a convenient target," and he's got a hand between them, presses roughly against her clit in a way that sends all sorts of misfiring signals to her meatsuit's brain, but interacts in all the right ways with Ruby. "He comes hardest when you call him Sammy," Brady whispers, and matches word to deed.
Afterwards as Ruby sponges off and dresses, he lounges there and watches. 'What do you want with Sam Winchester anyway?" he asks, curious and she sort of likes him. He knows she's making enemies but he's keeping his options open. Brady's on his way up, climbing every slippery rung of a bloody ladder, and she thinks he might go far. He doesn't have vision though, not in the way Ruby does, and she pats his cheek.
"That's my business," she says, takes the sting away with a smile. "There's big times coming."