(no subject)
Restlessly Abandoned Homes
Supernatural
Ellen/Bill, Ellen/John, Ellen/Dean; R
962 words
A/N: Thanks to mcee for the speedy read-through, but this is pretty much unbeta-ed. All mistakes are mine.
Most days, Ellen's up like a shot with the dawn, no snooze-button dozing, no lingering under warm sheets on cold mornings. If there was one thing she learned growing up on the farm, it was that work started at sunup, and that it never really ended.
There was always something; always mouths to feed (Bill's, once, and Jo's; now Ash's and whoever else might be staying out back) and bills to pay, and all that came along with that. Keeping the bar stocked and the towels washed and the rooms clean. Counting the till twice before writing out the deposit slip, adding beers to tabs that likely won't ever get paid up in full. Keeping busy.
But some mornings are too grey, too bright, too quiet, and she can't make herself throw back the blankets and put her feet on the floor. Instead she lies awake, alone, with her eyes closed and her fingers tracing idle shapes on her stomach. Remembering other mornings, and late nights in one of her own rented rooms, on beds made up for strangers. Other hands, bigger and darker, with large square palms, long fingers, thick knuckles.
She thinks of Bill, who was too late to be her first or her only, but should've been her last and always. Who'd wake her up with a steaming mug and a kiss, and sometimes an armful of squirming pink baby, when Jo got colicky. Who climbed back into bed with her every morning for a week after they were married, palmed her tits and her thighs and fucked her deep and slow while the coffee got cold.
Bill, who wanted a big family. "A tribe of Harvelles," he'd say, laughing as he grabbed Ellen around the waist to hoist her up onto the bar, push her panties aside and push in. And Ellen hoping, praying, every time, to give him the boy she knew he wanted.
Two false starts and in the end Jo was their one, their only, but Bill loved her enough for a whole brood, spoiled her like she was one. Still, she wasn't all he wanted; only all that Ellen could give him. She palms her belly, over her traitorous womb, and her next breath is ragged, shallower. It almost catches, but she catches it first, clears her throat around the ache.
The last time with Bill was quick and quiet, hurried under clinging sheets. Racing the dawn because he was leaving again in the morning, and Ellen watched the door over his shoulder, praying that Jo'd sleep through the night. Not thinking about John, asleep on the other side of the bar.
Her nails scratch lower, her belly trembling, heat gathering and pooling. John. Dark and broad and gruff, nothing like Bill. From faraway he looked like he'd lived a rough life, but up close he was just a good man with a few bad years on him; there was always the shadow of something lost, but not forgotten, in his eyes. He had a deep, rattling laugh, like an ex-smoker should; he smelled like old leather and coffee, biting and organic, even in the heat of summer.
She remembers their first time, pressed against the door of his room, but not their last, can't distinguish it now from all the in-betweens. He touched her furtively in dark corners, never as unguarded as she wanted him to be, as she wished they could both be. But he'd smile at her in the morning, easy as anything, kiss her cheek and shake Bill's hand before he loped out the door. He always looked back at her, just once, with something like gratitude and hope; maybe not so unguarded after all.
And then that spring when Jo turned seven and John passed through on a Tuesday in June, and Ellen missed her period. Six weeks of worrying over whose baby she was carrying, dreaming of dark-haired little boys who called Bill "Daddy" while John looked on, hurt and distant. She remembers being secretly, horribly relieved when she lost it, and wonders, sometimes, if it wasn't her fault. As if the baby somehow knew, even if John never did.
The warmth kindling between Ellen's hipbones ebbs away, goes cold, her mind too wrapped up in the wrong kind of memories. She throws her arm over her eyes and presses the heel of her hand to her clit, rubbing hard through the damp crotch of her panties, but it's too late.
She sighs, rolls onto her side to curl in on herself. Thinks about Dean, a clumsy imitation of his father's easy charm, shoulders too narrow to fill John's old leather jacket. Different shadows in his face, different ghosts in his head. But the lines around his eyes and his mouth were all John, like the casual way he invaded her space. It was the same guilty flush under her skin when Dean kissed her, backing her against the cash register. Wanting him and not wanting to, betraying Jo this time instead of Bill, but it's betrayal all the same.
Dean was rougher with her than John ever was, leaving marks on her hips and the insides of her thighs. Leaving her sore, fucked open, tucking his dick back into his jeans while she was still coming down. Nothing like John, who made excuses to stay, not go. She kicked the door closed behind him.
In the morning, it was Sam who kissed her cheek, Sam who looked back at her over his shoulder with John's eyes, and her guilt tilted into regret.
Last she heard, Jo was still in Duluth; last she heard, Sam and Dean were just passing through Minneapolis. She closes her eyes, thinking about fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, vicious cycles looping endlessly.
Supernatural
Ellen/Bill, Ellen/John, Ellen/Dean; R
962 words
A/N: Thanks to mcee for the speedy read-through, but this is pretty much unbeta-ed. All mistakes are mine.
Most days, Ellen's up like a shot with the dawn, no snooze-button dozing, no lingering under warm sheets on cold mornings. If there was one thing she learned growing up on the farm, it was that work started at sunup, and that it never really ended.
There was always something; always mouths to feed (Bill's, once, and Jo's; now Ash's and whoever else might be staying out back) and bills to pay, and all that came along with that. Keeping the bar stocked and the towels washed and the rooms clean. Counting the till twice before writing out the deposit slip, adding beers to tabs that likely won't ever get paid up in full. Keeping busy.
But some mornings are too grey, too bright, too quiet, and she can't make herself throw back the blankets and put her feet on the floor. Instead she lies awake, alone, with her eyes closed and her fingers tracing idle shapes on her stomach. Remembering other mornings, and late nights in one of her own rented rooms, on beds made up for strangers. Other hands, bigger and darker, with large square palms, long fingers, thick knuckles.
She thinks of Bill, who was too late to be her first or her only, but should've been her last and always. Who'd wake her up with a steaming mug and a kiss, and sometimes an armful of squirming pink baby, when Jo got colicky. Who climbed back into bed with her every morning for a week after they were married, palmed her tits and her thighs and fucked her deep and slow while the coffee got cold.
Bill, who wanted a big family. "A tribe of Harvelles," he'd say, laughing as he grabbed Ellen around the waist to hoist her up onto the bar, push her panties aside and push in. And Ellen hoping, praying, every time, to give him the boy she knew he wanted.
Two false starts and in the end Jo was their one, their only, but Bill loved her enough for a whole brood, spoiled her like she was one. Still, she wasn't all he wanted; only all that Ellen could give him. She palms her belly, over her traitorous womb, and her next breath is ragged, shallower. It almost catches, but she catches it first, clears her throat around the ache.
The last time with Bill was quick and quiet, hurried under clinging sheets. Racing the dawn because he was leaving again in the morning, and Ellen watched the door over his shoulder, praying that Jo'd sleep through the night. Not thinking about John, asleep on the other side of the bar.
Her nails scratch lower, her belly trembling, heat gathering and pooling. John. Dark and broad and gruff, nothing like Bill. From faraway he looked like he'd lived a rough life, but up close he was just a good man with a few bad years on him; there was always the shadow of something lost, but not forgotten, in his eyes. He had a deep, rattling laugh, like an ex-smoker should; he smelled like old leather and coffee, biting and organic, even in the heat of summer.
She remembers their first time, pressed against the door of his room, but not their last, can't distinguish it now from all the in-betweens. He touched her furtively in dark corners, never as unguarded as she wanted him to be, as she wished they could both be. But he'd smile at her in the morning, easy as anything, kiss her cheek and shake Bill's hand before he loped out the door. He always looked back at her, just once, with something like gratitude and hope; maybe not so unguarded after all.
And then that spring when Jo turned seven and John passed through on a Tuesday in June, and Ellen missed her period. Six weeks of worrying over whose baby she was carrying, dreaming of dark-haired little boys who called Bill "Daddy" while John looked on, hurt and distant. She remembers being secretly, horribly relieved when she lost it, and wonders, sometimes, if it wasn't her fault. As if the baby somehow knew, even if John never did.
The warmth kindling between Ellen's hipbones ebbs away, goes cold, her mind too wrapped up in the wrong kind of memories. She throws her arm over her eyes and presses the heel of her hand to her clit, rubbing hard through the damp crotch of her panties, but it's too late.
She sighs, rolls onto her side to curl in on herself. Thinks about Dean, a clumsy imitation of his father's easy charm, shoulders too narrow to fill John's old leather jacket. Different shadows in his face, different ghosts in his head. But the lines around his eyes and his mouth were all John, like the casual way he invaded her space. It was the same guilty flush under her skin when Dean kissed her, backing her against the cash register. Wanting him and not wanting to, betraying Jo this time instead of Bill, but it's betrayal all the same.
Dean was rougher with her than John ever was, leaving marks on her hips and the insides of her thighs. Leaving her sore, fucked open, tucking his dick back into his jeans while she was still coming down. Nothing like John, who made excuses to stay, not go. She kicked the door closed behind him.
In the morning, it was Sam who kissed her cheek, Sam who looked back at her over his shoulder with John's eyes, and her guilt tilted into regret.
Last she heard, Jo was still in Duluth; last she heard, Sam and Dean were just passing through Minneapolis. She closes her eyes, thinking about fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, vicious cycles looping endlessly.