(no subject)
Clockwise to Soul Trading
Supernatural
Sam/Ellen; R
1,501 words
A/N: Another AHBL coda, this time for part 2. For mcee, who wanted some h/c lovin', and who also rocked the beta-fu.
Ellen slips out the back door while Bobby and Dean make the last of the plans. Whose car, which roads, what weapons. Their voices carry through the open window as she steps off the porch and into the sun. Dean wants to take the highway; Bobby says the back roads are safer, even if they take longer. Ellen can ride with him, Bobby says. The boys will take their own car.
Her gun's in the glovebox of her truck parked at the other end of the yard, near the road. She could use one of Bobby's guns, she supposes, but she wants her own. It's one of the few things she's got left, now. Her gun and the clothes on her back, stiff and sour with dried sweat. Thirty-eight dollars and a few faded photographs in her wallet. A truck almost as old as Jo and twice as stubborn.
It's the kind of bright, breezy day that would have made her throw all the windows in the Roadhouse wide open and put something twangy on the jukebox. Something to make her a little bit nostalgic, to hum along with while she cleaned or did inventory or paid bills, wondering what kind of night lay ahead, who might come through the door.
Her sinuses tingle, her eyelids prickling hotly. She tips her face to the sky, her chest tight, breathing slow and deep it until it passes. She'll mourn later, when the time's right. There's plenty of other things to occupy her at the moment.
The door squawks open behind her but she doesn't turn, doesn't have to; she knows it's Sam by the measure of his footsteps. She watches his shadow on the patchy grass, long and thin, bleeding into hers when he steps up beside her. The shape they make is more than one, less than two; distorted and unexpectedly sad. She tears her eyes away to squint up at him, trying for a smile that doesn't make it even halfway.
"Hey, Sam."
"Hey." His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, heavy but gentle. "I came back downstairs and you were gone." He shrugs, his mouth twitching at the corner. "Wanted to see if you were all right."
"Truth?" He hesitates, then nods. She breathes in wetly, exhales on a sigh. "I've been better." He nods again, drops his eyes like he doesn't know what to say. Too empathetic for his own good, but decent men with good hearts are hard to come by. "I'll be in in a minute," she says. "I just need to get a few things from my truck."
"I'll walk with you. I mean, if you don't mind..."
This time, the smile makes it. Seems like he can always pull one out of her, despite herself. "Course not."
He falls into step with her, their boots scuffling in the dirt. Both of them silent, but it's easy, comfortable. When they get to the truck, he opens the door for her. She climbs into the cab, stretches across the seat to grab her gun and the box of ammo stuffed underneath her title and registration.
"All set," she says, shouldering her bag. But he's blocking her exit, standing at the open driver's side door with his arm draped over it, mouth puckered like he wants to say something. "Sam?"
"Did you cut your hair?"
That was probably the last thing on earth she expected him to say, and she laughs, short and almost soundless. "Yeah, couple weeks back."
"It looks nice." He smiles, toothy and dimpled. She scoots up a few inches, until she's perched on the edge of the seat with her feet dangling out the open door.
They're eye-to-eye like this, he's close enough to touch, so she does, cupping his face in her hands and thumbing the laugh lines around his mouth.
He stumbles forward, ducking his head, and their mouths meet clumsily, just a press of lips. Her belly clenches, heat blooming between her hipbones, and she lets the kiss slide into something more than itself, clingier and hungrier. Twenty years of guilt, anger, a decade of old wounds and two days of fresh sorrow in the hot slick of their tongues, and she knows she should pull back, pull away, but she doesn't. Won't.
Instead she's pulling at his shirt, parting her knees to cradle him between them, and his hands are on her face, her arms, his thumbs pressing into her hips. She finds hot skin at the small of his back, where his spine dips in just above the curve of his ass. His mouth smears across her chin, down her throat. He yanks at her zipper and she leans back on her elbows, lifts her hips off the seat so Sam can pull her jeans down and off.
She hooks an ankle behind his knee and curls a hand in his shirt, pulling him into the cab with her. It's stuffy and overwarm and too small for the two of them, but she pushes a hand down between their bodies, finds the bulge in his jeans and palms it hungrily. The button-fly comes open with two hard yanks, his breath shuddering against her cheek when she fists his cock.
He leans on his elbow to shove his jeans down over his hips, hitching into her hand, panting against her mouth. Her cunt throbs, clenches eagerly when he nudges her panties aside to slick his fingers through and in, deep.
There's no finesse to any of it, no thought behind it. Just want and need, no line between them, all the same in the end. Better this way, raw like this.
His eyes are wide and bright when he pushes in, his mouth red and wet. She leans up to kiss him again, more teeth than tongue, struggling for breath and for purchase on his sweaty skin. The angles are all wrong, her arm jammed against the seat, her leg sticking to the cracked vinyl. He grunts, thrusting into her, fucking her open, and she wants it, welcomes it. Needs it in ways she hadn't even realized. Her back curves off the seat, greedy, wanting more, until their hips are flush, bones grinding through paper-thin skin.
She comes hard, suddenly, no slow build, no warning. It leaves her breathless and clutching at his ass, blood thundering in her ears. He fucks her through it, through the aftershocks, and she thinks she comes again when he presses his face to her neck and spills into her, grunting, his fingers digging into her thigh.
He half-collapses on top of her, breathing hard, and she tips her head back against the seat, staring up at the yellowed plastic dome of the interior light. He's heavy and hot, his clothes glued to his skin and hers where they're still pressed together. She doesn't want to move, to give up the reassuring weight of him over and around her. But she has to, before Bobby--or worse, Dean--finds them like this.
Her cunt pulses weakly when he pulls out, his mouth at the hollow of her throat, tonguing the sweat collected there. She runs her hand down his arm, over the ropy veins and shaking muscles underneath. Thinks she should say something, if she could just find her voice, the right words. Any words at all.
Sounds creep back in as her pulse slows: birds chittering, a distant train rumbling over the tracks, the rustle of wind in the treetops. Sam breathes her name like a question and she nods, swallows.
"I should go back in," he says quietly, and her eyes drift down to his cock as he straightens up and tucks it back inside his shorts, soft now, wet. She sits up and palms the ridge of his hip, absurdly grateful that he said it first, that she can feel less like she's pushing him away and more like she’s just letting him go. He grins down at her. "I'll tell them you still need a minute."
"Thanks." She can only hope that Bobby and Dean are too distracted to notice their flushed cheeks and swollen mouths. Sam’s hand curves over the back of her head, cradling her into another kiss, a last one, lingering and sweet. Pulling out of it takes what little resolve she still has. "Go on," she says, grabbing her jeans off the floor. "Before they get curious and come lookin' for us. I'll be right there."
He nods and steps back, out of her reach, wedging his hands in his pockets with a smile that’s small and twitchy and familiar. She watches him walk back toward the house, moving through patches of sunlight and shade until he disappears around Bobby's tow truck.
Ellen closes her eyes and listens for the creak of the porch steps, the groan of the door opening. There's a long, silent moment, like he's stopped to look back--waiting for her, maybe--before it slaps shut behind him.
Supernatural
Sam/Ellen; R
1,501 words
A/N: Another AHBL coda, this time for part 2. For mcee, who wanted some h/c lovin', and who also rocked the beta-fu.
Ellen slips out the back door while Bobby and Dean make the last of the plans. Whose car, which roads, what weapons. Their voices carry through the open window as she steps off the porch and into the sun. Dean wants to take the highway; Bobby says the back roads are safer, even if they take longer. Ellen can ride with him, Bobby says. The boys will take their own car.
Her gun's in the glovebox of her truck parked at the other end of the yard, near the road. She could use one of Bobby's guns, she supposes, but she wants her own. It's one of the few things she's got left, now. Her gun and the clothes on her back, stiff and sour with dried sweat. Thirty-eight dollars and a few faded photographs in her wallet. A truck almost as old as Jo and twice as stubborn.
It's the kind of bright, breezy day that would have made her throw all the windows in the Roadhouse wide open and put something twangy on the jukebox. Something to make her a little bit nostalgic, to hum along with while she cleaned or did inventory or paid bills, wondering what kind of night lay ahead, who might come through the door.
Her sinuses tingle, her eyelids prickling hotly. She tips her face to the sky, her chest tight, breathing slow and deep it until it passes. She'll mourn later, when the time's right. There's plenty of other things to occupy her at the moment.
The door squawks open behind her but she doesn't turn, doesn't have to; she knows it's Sam by the measure of his footsteps. She watches his shadow on the patchy grass, long and thin, bleeding into hers when he steps up beside her. The shape they make is more than one, less than two; distorted and unexpectedly sad. She tears her eyes away to squint up at him, trying for a smile that doesn't make it even halfway.
"Hey, Sam."
"Hey." His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, heavy but gentle. "I came back downstairs and you were gone." He shrugs, his mouth twitching at the corner. "Wanted to see if you were all right."
"Truth?" He hesitates, then nods. She breathes in wetly, exhales on a sigh. "I've been better." He nods again, drops his eyes like he doesn't know what to say. Too empathetic for his own good, but decent men with good hearts are hard to come by. "I'll be in in a minute," she says. "I just need to get a few things from my truck."
"I'll walk with you. I mean, if you don't mind..."
This time, the smile makes it. Seems like he can always pull one out of her, despite herself. "Course not."
He falls into step with her, their boots scuffling in the dirt. Both of them silent, but it's easy, comfortable. When they get to the truck, he opens the door for her. She climbs into the cab, stretches across the seat to grab her gun and the box of ammo stuffed underneath her title and registration.
"All set," she says, shouldering her bag. But he's blocking her exit, standing at the open driver's side door with his arm draped over it, mouth puckered like he wants to say something. "Sam?"
"Did you cut your hair?"
That was probably the last thing on earth she expected him to say, and she laughs, short and almost soundless. "Yeah, couple weeks back."
"It looks nice." He smiles, toothy and dimpled. She scoots up a few inches, until she's perched on the edge of the seat with her feet dangling out the open door.
They're eye-to-eye like this, he's close enough to touch, so she does, cupping his face in her hands and thumbing the laugh lines around his mouth.
He stumbles forward, ducking his head, and their mouths meet clumsily, just a press of lips. Her belly clenches, heat blooming between her hipbones, and she lets the kiss slide into something more than itself, clingier and hungrier. Twenty years of guilt, anger, a decade of old wounds and two days of fresh sorrow in the hot slick of their tongues, and she knows she should pull back, pull away, but she doesn't. Won't.
Instead she's pulling at his shirt, parting her knees to cradle him between them, and his hands are on her face, her arms, his thumbs pressing into her hips. She finds hot skin at the small of his back, where his spine dips in just above the curve of his ass. His mouth smears across her chin, down her throat. He yanks at her zipper and she leans back on her elbows, lifts her hips off the seat so Sam can pull her jeans down and off.
She hooks an ankle behind his knee and curls a hand in his shirt, pulling him into the cab with her. It's stuffy and overwarm and too small for the two of them, but she pushes a hand down between their bodies, finds the bulge in his jeans and palms it hungrily. The button-fly comes open with two hard yanks, his breath shuddering against her cheek when she fists his cock.
He leans on his elbow to shove his jeans down over his hips, hitching into her hand, panting against her mouth. Her cunt throbs, clenches eagerly when he nudges her panties aside to slick his fingers through and in, deep.
There's no finesse to any of it, no thought behind it. Just want and need, no line between them, all the same in the end. Better this way, raw like this.
His eyes are wide and bright when he pushes in, his mouth red and wet. She leans up to kiss him again, more teeth than tongue, struggling for breath and for purchase on his sweaty skin. The angles are all wrong, her arm jammed against the seat, her leg sticking to the cracked vinyl. He grunts, thrusting into her, fucking her open, and she wants it, welcomes it. Needs it in ways she hadn't even realized. Her back curves off the seat, greedy, wanting more, until their hips are flush, bones grinding through paper-thin skin.
She comes hard, suddenly, no slow build, no warning. It leaves her breathless and clutching at his ass, blood thundering in her ears. He fucks her through it, through the aftershocks, and she thinks she comes again when he presses his face to her neck and spills into her, grunting, his fingers digging into her thigh.
He half-collapses on top of her, breathing hard, and she tips her head back against the seat, staring up at the yellowed plastic dome of the interior light. He's heavy and hot, his clothes glued to his skin and hers where they're still pressed together. She doesn't want to move, to give up the reassuring weight of him over and around her. But she has to, before Bobby--or worse, Dean--finds them like this.
Her cunt pulses weakly when he pulls out, his mouth at the hollow of her throat, tonguing the sweat collected there. She runs her hand down his arm, over the ropy veins and shaking muscles underneath. Thinks she should say something, if she could just find her voice, the right words. Any words at all.
Sounds creep back in as her pulse slows: birds chittering, a distant train rumbling over the tracks, the rustle of wind in the treetops. Sam breathes her name like a question and she nods, swallows.
"I should go back in," he says quietly, and her eyes drift down to his cock as he straightens up and tucks it back inside his shorts, soft now, wet. She sits up and palms the ridge of his hip, absurdly grateful that he said it first, that she can feel less like she's pushing him away and more like she’s just letting him go. He grins down at her. "I'll tell them you still need a minute."
"Thanks." She can only hope that Bobby and Dean are too distracted to notice their flushed cheeks and swollen mouths. Sam’s hand curves over the back of her head, cradling her into another kiss, a last one, lingering and sweet. Pulling out of it takes what little resolve she still has. "Go on," she says, grabbing her jeans off the floor. "Before they get curious and come lookin' for us. I'll be right there."
He nods and steps back, out of her reach, wedging his hands in his pockets with a smile that’s small and twitchy and familiar. She watches him walk back toward the house, moving through patches of sunlight and shade until he disappears around Bobby's tow truck.
Ellen closes her eyes and listens for the creak of the porch steps, the groan of the door opening. There's a long, silent moment, like he's stopped to look back--waiting for her, maybe--before it slaps shut behind him.