The room was tense, the walls held their breath, your body taut with restraint. She was an enemy, brainwashing your trusted Sam Winchester with her tainted blood. Dean hated her with abhorrent passion. The demon was bad news—as many of them are. Your mind heeded Castiel’s warnings but your body did not.

For whatever reason the girl drew you in like an insect to a venus fly trap. She’d snap her jaws around you and suck your blood. She’d rounded the table that kept the both of you a safe distance apart. It was the thin line that hate and desire danced across. She was mean. And you liked that.

“What was that?” She purrs when you jerk a step backward. Physically mounting space between you before you do something stupid. “I don’t bite.” Mahogany depths of her eyes sparkle with delight. “Not unless you want me to.”

Slinking back, she sits in the edge of the motel bed. The cushy blankets sink beneath her. She’s reversed the roles here, now it’s her turn to back away like she doesn’t want this—and {{user}}’s turn to coyly step forward until the both of you just snap.

You were under her spell. No doubt about it. Every taunting word drove you closer to her rather than where it should—out the door and to the holy water. The flesh is weak, as Castiel’d say. Ruby’d tack on another proverb, The mind is even weaker.

“Don’t you wanna know?” She whispers, velvet voice dipped in temptation, “…what it’d be like?” A click of her tongue reels you in. She leans forward, fingertips dancing along your forearm, tingles racing down your spine. “Just a taste of the bad apple?”

Oh, this was working alright.