dotfic (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} dotfic) wrote,@ 2009-01-28 20:17:00 |
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SPN Fic: Pretzels (Dean/Ellen, NC-17)
Pretzels
Dean/Ellen, NC-17, 900 words
a/n: Written for Porn Battle VII to the prompts chocolate, pretzels. Set during early season 4, 'ware spoilers. Thank you tomusesfool for the beta.
It's an hour after last call, and Dean stays while Ellen wipes down the tables. The new place still smells too new to her--the scent of beer hasn't seeped into everything yet. The pool table covering doesn't have any frays or stains; there's no Ash to sleep on it, Ellen remembers with a sharp twinge of loss.
When she lifts a heavy crate of vodka to carry into the back, he offers to help but she refuses.
He's still there when she gets back, sitting at the bar eating chocolate-covered pretzels from the bowl. Dean stares at the bottles arranged behind the bar, at the cash register and her liquor license, as if he's not really seeing them.
"Hey." She waves a hand in front of his face.
Dean blinks.
She hasn't asked where Sam is; she knows the Winchesters are staying at the motel two miles down the road. But it's none of her business--those boys are like two peas in a pod and if they aren't, then it's something and Ellen's learned that with some people, especially Dean, you don't go poking in dark corners unless they invite you to.
"Getting late," she says, gently, so he knows it's not that she's tired of having him there, she's just being practical.
There's a smudge of chocolate, caught beneath the corner of his lower lip.
Ellen's not sure what heedless part of her makes her reach up and rub it away, the rasp of his five o'clock shadow beneath her finger, but what's done is done, too late, and when he brings his hand up to catch hers, a coil of heat twists up through her. Even before his tongue slides over her finger, she's going wet.
His eyebrows go up. He couldn't have telegraphed that question louder if he tried.
"Aw, hell, Dean--" she begins but his other hand is cupping the back of her head, pulling her in to kiss her and she opens her mouth to his, tasting salt and chocolate and the beer he'd been drinking, inhaling the scent of hops and a day of hunting, of burnt things and deodorant.
He slides off his barstool, pushes her up against the bar, and she can feel how hard he is against her leg, feel the heat of his body through her clothes and under her fingers where they touch his skin. A small whimper escapes her as he slides his hand up under her t-shirt and his thumb flicks against her nipple through her bra.
"Bedroom," she manages, gasping for breath as he licks at the hollow of her throat. "In the back."
Once they're there, they shuck their clothes quickly--they're neither of them self-conscious about that, although she sees a hint of hesitation when he pulls his black t-shirt up. Then she sees why. The scar on his shoulder is shaped like a large hand-print.
Dean's mouth is on her, his palm in the small of her back, pulling her in before she can get a closer look. The only light is the small lamp on the bedside table, sending their shadows up the pale walls.
Ellen's careful not to touch the hand-print scar. She wonders how much it hurt him. She wonders where all the other ones have gone.
She wonders a lot of things she'll never ask.
His body follows hers as she lies back on the bed, springs giving beneath their weight. He runs his hand over her thighs, doesn't seem to mind or even notice her stretch marks. His fingers stroke her clit, then slide into her, and she arches up towards him, hearing her own breaths go ragged.
He grins down at her in that particular way that always makes her want to either fuck him or smack him, and so she closes her fingers around his dick, gives it a few long, slow strokes and savors the way his eyes lose focus. The rhythm of what he's doing with his fingers falters and Dean makes a low sound like a hum before he recovers, stroking her faster.
That's it for thinking so much, particularly when he pulls out his fingers and puts his tongue to her instead, licks her until she comes with sweat pooling beneath her breasts, her fingers twisted into the sheets and a low cry rising from deep in her throat.
Dean bends her knees up, kisses her with her own taste salty on his tongue. She hands him a condom from the drawer of her bedside table. His fingers fumble a little with haste as he opens the package and slides it on. He pushes into her, thrusts slow and deep.
She comes again quickly, already on the edge from the last one, her vision almost whiting out. A moment later she feels him shudder and the rush of heat. He shouts his release.
"Well, hi," she says, after they subside and their breathing has slowed.
He carefully arranges himself alongside of her. They fit, his leg tucked over hers, her back against his chest; she turns her head to see him.
"Hi yourself." He smoothes the hair back from her face and gives her another grin, not the challenging one, the one that looks like he's comfortable and easy, at least for now.
He makes no move to go and she doesn't know how to tell him it's okay if he does.
Ellen's not surprised when she wakes in the morning with the sun in her face and he's gone.
Pretzels
Dean/Ellen, NC-17, 900 words
a/n: Written for Porn Battle VII to the prompts chocolate, pretzels. Set during early season 4, 'ware spoilers. Thank you to
musesfool for the beta.It's an hour after last call, and Dean stays while Ellen wipes down the tables. The new place still smells too new to her--the scent of beer hasn't seeped into everything yet. The pool table covering doesn't have any frays or stains; there's no Ash to sleep on it, Ellen remembers with a sharp twinge of loss.
When she lifts a heavy crate of vodka to carry into the back, he offers to help but she refuses.
He's still there when she gets back, sitting at the bar eating chocolate-covered pretzels from the bowl. Dean stares at the bottles arranged behind the bar, at the cash register and her liquor license, as if he's not really seeing them.
"Hey." She waves a hand in front of his face.
Dean blinks.
She hasn't asked where Sam is; she knows the Winchesters are staying at the motel two miles down the road. But it's none of her business--those boys are like two peas in a pod and if they aren't, then it's something and Ellen's learned that with some people, especially Dean, you don't go poking in dark corners unless they invite you to.
"Getting late," she says, gently, so he knows it's not that she's tired of having him there, she's just being practical.
There's a smudge of chocolate, caught beneath the corner of his lower lip.
Ellen's not sure what heedless part of her makes her reach up and rub it away, the rasp of his five o'clock shadow beneath her finger, but what's done is done, too late, and when he brings his hand up to catch hers, a coil of heat twists up through her. Even before his tongue slides over her finger, she's going wet.
His eyebrows go up. He couldn't have telegraphed that question louder if he tried.
"Aw, hell, Dean--" she begins but his other hand is cupping the back of her head, pulling her in to kiss her and she opens her mouth to his, tasting salt and chocolate and the beer he'd been drinking, inhaling the scent of hops and a day of hunting, of burnt things and deodorant.
He slides off his barstool, pushes her up against the bar, and she can feel how hard he is against her leg, feel the heat of his body through her clothes and under her fingers where they touch his skin. A small whimper escapes her as he slides his hand up under her t-shirt and his thumb flicks against her nipple through her bra.
"Bedroom," she manages, gasping for breath as he licks at the hollow of her throat. "In the back."
Once they're there, they shuck their clothes quickly--they're neither of them self-conscious about that, although she sees a hint of hesitation when he pulls his black t-shirt up. Then she sees why. The scar on his shoulder is shaped like a large hand-print.
Dean's mouth is on her, his palm in the small of her back, pulling her in before she can get a closer look. The only light is the small lamp on the bedside table, sending their shadows up the pale walls.
Ellen's careful not to touch the hand-print scar. She wonders how much it hurt him. She wonders where all the other ones have gone.
She wonders a lot of things she'll never ask.
His body follows hers as she lies back on the bed, springs giving beneath their weight. He runs his hand over her thighs, doesn't seem to mind or even notice her stretch marks. His fingers stroke her clit, then slide into her, and she arches up towards him, hearing her own breaths go ragged.
He grins down at her in that particular way that always makes her want to either fuck him or smack him, and so she closes her fingers around his dick, gives it a few long, slow strokes and savors the way his eyes lose focus. The rhythm of what he's doing with his fingers falters and Dean makes a low sound like a hum before he recovers, stroking her faster.
That's it for thinking so much, particularly when he pulls out his fingers and puts his tongue to her instead, licks her until she comes with sweat pooling beneath her breasts, her fingers twisted into the sheets and a low cry rising from deep in her throat.
Dean bends her knees up, kisses her with her own taste salty on his tongue. She hands him a condom from the drawer of her bedside table. His fingers fumble a little with haste as he opens the package and slides it on. He pushes into her, thrusts slow and deep.
She comes again quickly, already on the edge from the last one, her vision almost whiting out. A moment later she feels him shudder and the rush of heat. He shouts his release.
"Well, hi," she says, after they subside and their breathing has slowed.
He carefully arranges himself alongside of her. They fit, his leg tucked over hers, her back against his chest; she turns her head to see him.
"Hi yourself." He smoothes the hair back from her face and gives her another grin, not the challenging one, the one that looks like he's comfortable and easy, at least for now.
He makes no move to go and she doesn't know how to tell him it's okay if he does.
Ellen's not surprised when she wakes in the morning with the sun in her face and he's gone.