She has so much work to do, and the girl cries all the time now. Sitting next to Sam in a movie theatre, sharing popcorn and a coke and kisses that taste like butter, it's like a funeral home in her head. She pictures the girl in a long dark dress, blue eyes red under a black veil, tears burning trails of blood down her pale, rotting face. She kisses Sam again, slides her tongue into his mouth, pulls his hand up to cup the round swell of her breast, and when his fingers tease her nipple to a hard, tingling peak the girl keens inside her, shakes and sobs and claws at her own white skin.
In the dark, in the bed Sam thinks is theirs, his fingers trail through the wetness between her legs and he slides into her with a long, satisfied groan. He says low, dirty, sweet things into her ear and the girl screams and screams, and she wraps her long legs around him and pulls at his hair with her fists and comes hard, shocked all over again at the pleasure after centuries of pain. His teeth are sharp against her shoulder as he cries out a name that isn't hers, and the girl inside her shatters at what the two of them can make this body do.
Later, when they burn, the girl is still crying; when her flesh peels back from the bone, when her hair turns to ash and her face crumbles and hope dies, the girl is still crying.
When Dean drags Sam from the fire, like she knew he would, like she always planned, Ruby slides out of the girl in a boil of black smoke and waits for her to fall and crumble and die, and as long as she still has eyes there are tears in them, as long as she has a throat, she's still screaming. Sam runs from the girl's death like an arrow shot toward Hell though he's never met Jessica Moore, not once. It's just as well.
Ruby doesn't think he would have liked her.