#meg x ruby

A crooked grin appears on Meg's thin lips, and Ruby's eyes flicker away from her face, knowing that if she stares at her longer than normal, she'll lose the anger and fire that's simmering in her stomach. She needs fire to deal with Meg Masters; otherwise she just stammers and stutters like the lovestruck idiot she is.

'Who do you think set it off, Goldilocks?' Meg grins. She then cocks her head to the side and looks almost thoughtful as she adds, 'I really should have thought smoking in the girls room through, if I'm honest. But what are you gonna do?'

Meg shrugs to herself, not noticing the way shock spreads across Ruby's face at her words. It isn't until she runs her hand through her dark hair, bringing it over her shoulder as she turns her attention back to Ruby, that she realises that the other girl looks like she's having some sort of aneurysm.

'Everything all right there, Goldie?' Meg drawls as she pushes herself away from the door. It's with her words that Ruby realises that the fire alarm has stopped ringing - that someone must have realised it was nothing but a  false alarm and cancelled it before the fire brigade got dispatched.

'You were smoking in the girls bathroom?' Ruby questions slowly, as if she can't quite believe the words leaving her own mouth.

'The last time I did it outside I got caught.' Meg answers with another shrug, finally stopping in front of Ruby. She leans all of her weight on one foot as she studies Ruby with slightly narrowed eyes. Her eyes then relax and a smile spreads across her lips. 'You're adorable, Goldilocks, y'know that?'

Meg reaches up and pushes back a strand of Ruby's golden hair, tucking it behind her ear. She then twirls the end around her finger, letting it drape over Ruby's cardigan. Meg smiles down at Ruby, who's holding her breath and watching Meg's movements like a hawk - almost as if she's scared to take her gaze off of the dark haired girl.

'What are you doing?' Ruby breathes out when Meg takes another step closer, moving further into Ruby's personal space. The blonde's breath comes out in a rush; a gasp as Meg's hand curls around Ruby's slender neck. She's vaguely aware that they're in a spare classroom that could be soon have thirty pupils piling in for class, but as Meg's breath washes over her face, she finds that she doesn't care.

'I think I'm gonna kiss you, Goldie.' Meg drawls with her lips shifting into her infamous crooked grin. 'If that's all right with you.'

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Think nothing of it, Detective. I admire what you're doing here, searching for a fiendish murderer that my own police force cannot seem to locate. Looking after you through this illness is a duty I'm happy to perform."

Something within Sam ached with disappointment hearing those words. So she viewed her bedside vigil as her duty rather than a task to be performed from true care and concern. More than that, his very disappointment astonishment surprised him. Despite her beauty and tenacity, he gave her no more thought than any other lady he encountered each day in his work. Sam never considered himself a suitable choice for any lady and left the idle romances to his brother both in the saloons back home and the ship docks full of burly laborers. Dean made the rounds for both of them as well as a sister they never had. Yet Sam lay there in a rented bed above that gentle lady's apothecary watching the lamp light dance over the curve of her lips. Perhaps he was delirious with fever but he found himself inexplicably drawn to that young widow. Still, he was her duty. He stowed away his strange desires.

"You needn't stay if the hour is too late." It seemed like the right thing to do, giving her an escape.

"No, I'm quite content where I am," she countered. "I shall keep you company until your brother returns from the manor. No one should languish in their sickbed without a friendly face nearby."

"It's kind of you." Sam didn't know what else to say. He hadn't found himself in that position often in his life.

"Laudanum's taking hold." Mrs. Moore studied his face as her willowy soft hand fluttered around his hairline and down his cheek. "You're feverish. Do these illnesses happen often, Detective?"

"Somewhat," replied Sam, quickly deflecting the second sight that caused his headaches. "Didn't we agree, Miss Jessie, that you should call me Sam, not Detective? Please. We live in the same building. I doubt formalities are so necessary when no one will hear us." As soon as he said it, he realized how scandalous the insinuation sounded and he bit his tongue. He blamed the second sight fever. "Sam's my name."

A faint smile flickered over her mouth. "I suppose since you're viewing me undressed this way--" she tugged the dressing gown fastened about her slender waist, "--we must be beyond polite propriety."

"That's what I'm saying," he agreed with a hazy, drugged smile.

"As you wish, Sam," she said.

A hand draped over his brow and his eyes slipped shut, calmed by her attention. She examined the state of the fever but Sam felt comforted by her touch, tilting his face into her palm. The warmth enticed him and the fever made him far less reserved, though a fleeting sense of regret threatened when he recovered. It simply wasn't Sam's way to express interest in a lady. His work was his mistress. Never admitting his pull to Jessie Moore was safer and proper, yet he swore her thumb caressed his throbbing temple and lulled him into comfortable delirium.

Whispering slipped through his lips, confessing before he realized it rushed through the barriers in his brain. "You're beautiful like an angel."

"Oh no, I'm far from an angel." Mrs. Moore tipped forward in her chair as if sharing a confidence but her tone sounded like she talked to herself. "No, no. I'm not an angel. If only you knew what they were really like."

*****

The one saving grace of stuffy formal nonsense among people Dean didn't know was the abundance of cigars and liquor. He poured himself half a whiskey while the footman was occupied with another man, preferring to do things for himself.

The Earl--who wanted to be called Castiel--stood near the roaring fireplace with an untouched drink in his hand. He watched Dean's movements all evening, unabashedly so, and no one seemed the least bit surprised or uncomfortable by the open stares. No one except Dean himself even gave Castiel the slightest attention as if they knew the Earl enjoyed reigning magisterially over his evening gatherings without engaging too much. Dean could respect men of few words. He was one of them, in fact. But Castiel's sharp blue eyes tracked his movements so intricately that Dean felt it even when he turned his back.

A dull, uniformed man entered the library and announced, "Her Ladyship, the Countess of Rothes."

Dean flattened against a bookshelf, realizing he was in the way as a tiny brunette figure in deep blood red silk swept past him. Another lady followed close behind with cold black eyes and such a head of hair that he wondered if she wore a wig for a second. The second lady kept a respectful distance of three paces behind the Countess, suggesting that she was some sort of lady's maid or a lady-in-waiting. Dean never pretended to understand English aristocracy.

"Madam," greeted Castiel as he accepted the Countess' lacy gloved hand and kissed it. "I trust you're well."

"Good evening," she replied in such a smooth tone that her words slithered from her lips. A faint smile registered somewhere in her full face but she greeted her husband with the warmth of a casual friend.

Eyes narrowed, Dean observed their interaction as suspicion welled in his belly. He'd seen people like that in New York. Wealthy folks mostly--the ones who couldn't be bothered to come down to the precinct when they were robbed but instead insisted on personal visits from detectives like his brother and him. Those were the sort of people who never actually loved each other.

That explained why there were no children.

Apparently being ushered into the dining room for dinner was a great honor in manor houses like those, so when the Countess looped her hand around Dean's elbow, he wondered about the purpose of that evening. He assumed he'd been invited to join them as a last-minute social courtesy, yet there she stood at his side sporting a smile that slithered just like her speech. He asked himself the silent question of whether he was the centerpiece of the Earl and Countess' dinner party like a cornucopia of entertainment.

"My husband told me of your brother's illness. I was looking forward to meeting both of you tonight," she said conversationally. "Surely it isn't serious. We're hoping you'll soon discover the Whitechapel murderer."

"Oh, Sammy's gonna be fine, Countess." Dean realized how painfully American he sounded and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

She smirked. "You don't know my name, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Your Ladyship."

Dean squinted down at her. "Pardon?"

"It's customary to address a countess as Your Ladyship," she explained, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Oh. Sorry." Dean felt the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. No, embarrassment wasn't the right word. He simply loathed so many social customs, his dinner suit choked him around the throat, and he'd rather have a shootout with smugglers than endure it.

The Countess, however, took his rough American attitude in stride and even seemed to enjoy it. "I think you must feel more at ease with given names, hm? We shall compromise with Lady Margaret."

"Lady Margaret," repeated Dean with a nod.

As he pulled out a chair for her, he noticed that she kept her hair arranged in a simple way, choosing instead to highlight the jewel tones of her attire. A woman like her always knew exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it, right down to the dark shadow of a lady-in-waiting trailing them so obediently. Dean glanced her way but she kept her eyes averted to the rug. He wondered if he was meant to pull out a chair for her as well but she behaved as if she wasn't to move without a flicker of a gaze or a word from her lady.

"How charming you are," Lady Margaret commented, her voice dropping to a smoky tone.

Dean couldn't tell if she was sincere or insulting. Nevertheless, he decided he loathed her and thoughts jumped instantly to wondering how someone like Castiel could have married her.

Taking a seat marked with a card on his plate, Dean realized they placed him at the center of the long table. Those beside the lady of the house were the most important guests. His mother taught him that, having given a few parties before she was killed. He certainly wasn't the highest ranked man at the table and the attention made him squirm.

"Detective Winchester, I do apologize for my neglect," Castiel said from the head of the table.

"Neglect, sir?" Hell, sir didn't feel like the right word.

"Yes. I'm not easily persuaded to give parties. That's more of my wife's area of expertise." As Castiel spoke, footmen materialized around them and set out bowls of soup before each person. "I failed to make introductions when you arrived."

Certainly, but he sure succeeded at staring at him for half an hour.

Castiel addressed the entire party then, completely oblivious to Dean's discomfort with the entire night. "Detective Winchester joins us from the island of Manhattan in America. He's a detective--highly successful at that--and he's come on my behalf to work on solving the Whitechapel murders. He partners with his brother, also a detective, but who was unfortunately taken down with illness this evening."

Discreet glances around the table showed highly placed gentlemen, and Lady Margaret, sipping their soup from spoons as they listened. Dean mimicked them. Creamy asparagus soothed his hunger and he allowed himself to relax a bit.

"You've taken on quite a case, Detective," commented a man with a humorous countenance and an odd accent.

"This gentleman is Lord Gabriel Horne of Australia, formerly of Sussex," explained Castiel. "Additionally, our guests include my father-in-law, Alistair, Earl of Carnarvon, and alongside him is Lord Balthazar of Paris, and cousins of mine, Michael, Baron of Holloway, and Raphael, Baron of Stratford. You, of course, know my wife, the Countess of Rothes, and her lady-in-waiting, Lady Ruby Fenton. You will likely see many of these faces in my home as you come and go in your investigation."

With a courteous nod to each of them, Dean considered keeping a scrap of paper in his pocket just to keep track of their names. They generally greeted him politely, some even warmly, like Gabriel, yet the way Alistair eyed everyone could freeze the cream of asparagus soup dwindling in each bowl.

"Tell us, Detective," the one identified as Balthazar began, "how goes your investigation? I trust you're putting Castiel's money to good use."

"Oh honestly, Balthazar, speaking of money at the dinner table is so very ... low rent," retorted Lady Margaret. She seethed into her wineglass and exchanged bemused glances with Lady Ruby.

Dean ignored her dig at his background. "I can't speak of specifics, of course, but we're reaching out to the Whitechapel citizens little by little. In my experience, folks are willing to talk about what they know if you just treat them with a little dignity even if they are ... low rent." Trading quips with his employer's wife probably wasn't the best idea but the snobby little woman deserved it.

"That's how you plan to suss out this fiend? Talking?" said Balthazar.

"No," Dean replied with quite a deliberate syllable. "Investigations in poorer communities like these require approaches from multiple angles. While my brother and I investigate more official possibilities, letting the citizenry know we're around may, for example, dissuade the killer from striking again or give witnesses a sense of truly assisting if they decide to come forward with information. We may search all of the asylums and prison escapes under the sun, but if the people aren't keeping their eyes open too, we won't succeed."

"If you dissuade the murderer from his trade," Alistair said with Lady Margaret's smoky, slithering tone, "then you won't catch him red handed, as they say, now will you?"

"A mind as damaged as a this type of murderer is, he won't be dissuaded long. He's driven to it," Dean said, hoping to conceal the awful chill Alistair gave him. "As much as we believe this criminal must be hunted, our priority is preventing more needless bloodshed. Wouldn't you think so?"

"Of course." The old man's long, sunken features elevated with a deep rumbling chuckle as if Dean's desire to preserve life truly amused him.

"Father...." A bubbling, short burst of laughter caught Lady Margaret by surprise and she clapped a linen napkin over her lips. Indeed, father and daughter came with deeply disturbing presences that kept Dean on his best guard.

Despite thinly veiled goading from the other dinner guests, a few appeared to honestly welcome his views. Castiel chief among them. Though the one identified as Michael never spoke, he took in Dean's presence the way a man studied something new and interesting. The silent guest's countenance struck Dean as belonging to someone highly intelligent and emotionally sensitive. In some ways, he brought Sam to the surface in his thoughts, or perhaps even their father in the years before their mother was killed.

Dinner passed rather uneventfully, aside from Castiel oddly only pretending to eat and no one thinking strange of it. They stuffed themselves with a course of poached salmon in lemon sauce after the cream of asparagus soup. Then came more intense blue-eyed staring across the table during the course of lamb cutlets on a bed of fluffy potatoes, as well as the course of steamed autumn vegetables. Dean was quite full by that point but a dessert course arrived of apples baked in brown sugar and molasses, which, of course, he couldn't resist. The amount of wine wealthy people consumed with each round of dinner astonished him too in both the waste of resources that could feed poorer people and the blatant drunkenness among some of them. Aristocrats were a different breed of drunk than his usual obnoxious, loud saloon patrons and whorehouse clientele.

American women quickly excused themselves after dinner to play cards or music after dinner and it seemed English women were no different. Dean barely noticed Lady Margaret and Lady Ruby disappear with the decanter of dessert wine once the last baked apple was consumed.

Men adjourned to the library for cigars and more liquor without the slightest thought for the ladies, which left Dean a bit uncomfortable. He enjoyed ladies even if they were silent like Lady Ruby or ruthless like Lady Margaret. If he drank any more too, he would soon lose control over his manners.

"Hello, Detective," murmured Castiel with a certain discretion, catching Dean alone in the great hall on their way to the library.

Dean's eyes flickered over the Earl's height, standing rather close as if he held no regard for personal space. He smelled faintly clean like the earth soaking in fresh rain. Careless stubble accentuated his sturdy jawline by the light of gas lamps and mirrored candle sconces scattered along the papered walls. Suddenly Sam's admonishments came to mind, asking Dean so innocently.... Not that one. Leave him be.... Averting his eyes, Dean swallowed and stiffened his posture.

"I wondered if you'd join me in my office. I have information that may be of use to your investigation." Castiel's voice nearly vibrated the space between them in its gravelly monotone, yet Dean couldn't discern whether he was simply awkward or actually engaging in flirtation.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you think might help," Dean replied in equal measures of discretion and nonchalance.

Nodding, Castiel bit his lower lip from the inside but Dean wasn't meant to see that. "Wonderful. I believe you remember where to find my office. I must see to my guests for just a moment."

Dean agreed and Castiel seemed to disappear in a heartbeat. He let out a breath, not realizing he'd been holding it, and took a glass--full whiskey that time--as he wandered upstairs. The manor house spilled on forever but he retraced the path they took just a few days before toward Castiel's private office.

Unoccupied rooms begged to have a look but Dean respected the Earl's privacy. As he strolled along, however, a soft, airy sound emerged from one of the corner rooms. Then it happened again. It sounded like a lady in pain and, Dean being the protector and law enforcement that he was, he followed the mysterious sounds. The sight he found through the cracked door of that corner room nearly made him drop his drink and waste top shelf whiskey all over a richly woven rug.

No, they didn't intend to be found.

Wrists bound high over her head. A full height of naked feminine flesh stretched from the bedpost to the bare feet on the floor. Breasts high and full with dusky rose peaks stood erect as if reaching out to the other person in the room. Cold black eyes sought that other person in a hazy trance, her mouth open and slack with lust.

Dean took a step back. So Lady Ruby was having some torrid, sinful affair with one of the guest. A lot of women did a lot of things they'd never admit to in the light of day and he certainly had no room to judge.

But then, through the cracked door, he watched another female hand lead the tip of a horse whip along the dips and curves of Lady Ruby's body. She trembled, not of fear but a need for more, especially as the other feminine hand dragged the horse whip over her damp, fleshy mound shrouded by a dark triangle of hair. Lady Ruby moaned outright then, punching breath straight out of Dean's lungs. He had to leave. Soon Castiel would come along and he would certainly get kicked out of the great manor house, full of skeletons and secrets as it was.

Lady Margaret, fully clothed with the exception of her garnet red bodice opened and exposing her small breasts, strolled closer to her captive. The two of them disappeared after dessert so quickly, yet nothing remotely like that occurred to Dean. The Countess of Rothes snatched her lady-in-waiting's chin and plunged into her mouth with such a wet, authoritative kiss that Dean actually stumbled backwards. Just as he turned to run, Lady Margaret reached down, roughly stroking her lady's sex and eliciting the most sinful moans. It seemed that Countess had no interest in her own body but thoroughly relished in her plaything dangling from the bedpost.

Under other circumstances, Dean would have found a way to worm his way in on the festivities but Lady Margaret frankly repulsed him and he simply wasn't interested in women at the moment. Castiel's calm, earthy scent still clung to his formal dinner suit as he bolted from the scene and he suddenly hated himself for witnessing something potentially painful to the Earl. Shining black shoes pounded the floorboards, propelling him toward the safety of that private office.

Dean slammed the door behind him, panting hard.

Damn it.