Tell Me, Dear, Supernatural, Dean/Ellen, are you lonesome tonighttears_of_niennaJanuary 28 2009, 02:39:18 UTC
This time she doesn't see him walk in. He slides into a corner booth, one suspicious shadow in a whole room of them, and he doesn't move until closing time.
The other hunters are gone and Ellen's taking the last empty glasses to the kitchen when Dean sidles up to the jukebox and drops in a quarter. When she comes back in, there's a melancholy tune winding its way through the stale smoke.
"We're closing up," she says, glancing over without really seeing him. Then he turns around and saunters up to the bar, singing along.
"Is your heart filled with pain? Shall I come back again? Tell me, dear, are you lonesome tonight?"
She glares at him. "You got a lot of nerve, singing along to the King."
He edges around the bar and twirls her to the music. She shakes her head but lets him dip her low as the song fades out.
"So," Dean asks, his lips a cocky Elvis sneer against her throat. "Are you lonesome tonight?"
She chuckles, warm and dry. "Yeah, all right, but come on upstairs. I'm too damn old to screw on the bar."
So they screw on the couch instead. Dean had planned to take her into the bedroom, to do this slow and right, but just inside the door she catches his collar, kisses him hard, and they both know they're not going any farther than this.
She pushes him onto the couch and follows him down, her legs straddling his hips, and yeah, that hadn't been part of the plan, either, but Ellen taking charge is an indescribable turn-on. She rolls her hips against him, and suddenly there's not enough blood left in Dean's brain to remember that there had ever even been a plan.
He slips his hands up underneath her shirt, beneath the band of her bra, to cup her breasts in his hands. Her spine arches, her head tipping back, and Dean drops one hand to the front of her jeans, rubbing and teasing through the denim, pressing against the seam.
"Fuck, Dean," she growls. Her hips lift away from his, but the sudden loss of contact is countered by her hands on the button of his jeans, opening the zipper, and he lifts up to help her tug them down. She wraps her hand around his cock, stroking in different ways just to see the changing look on his face.
He gathers enough of himself to reach out and pop the button on her jeans, but the angle is weird and he can't even get a hand inside, let alone do all the other things his disjointed mind is suggesting.
"Hell with this," Ellen mutters. She slides off of him entirely, shimmying out of shirt and bra, jeans and white cotton panties. Dean sacrifices his view of her long enough to tug his shirt over his head. He kicks his jeans and boots off all at once, leaving them in a tangled heap beside the couch.
She bends and digs a condom out of the pocket of her discarded jeans, and Dean manages a hazy sound of inquiry. "I had a hunch," she says, tearing open the packet and rolling the condom onto him, torturously slow.
But there's nothing slow in the way she kneels back onto the couch and sinks down onto him, warm and wet. She rides him hard, her fingers clutching at him as his own hands press at her hips, drawing her closer, deeper, harder.
He trails one hand across her stomach, lets his gun-callused thumb flicker over her clit, and she goes still, taut and pulsing around him. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, against the smooth burn of Castiel's palmprint, and Dean thrusts up inside her, hissing nonsense, prayers and profanities as he comes. *** Dean's not much of a one for cuddling, and Ellen isn't, either, but the couch is narrow and there's no way to lie that doesn't leave one of them half on top of the other. He settles with his arm around her, her head on his chest. She traces her hand over new scars and the freckled perfect skin where the old scars used to be.
The gold band on her finger glints in the glare of the streetlight outside--on her right hand, a widow's ring. Dean covers her hand with his, and her palm presses against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steadying as he comes down.
This isn't perfect and it isn't going to last--nothing is and nothing does, in her experience. But he's here, and he's alive, and for now that's enough.
Re: Tell Me, Dear, Supernatural, Dean/Ellen, are you lonesome tonightscarletsherlockJanuary 6 2010, 15:13:01 UTC
This is gorgeous. Oh god, it's painful to read, but hot and very raw. Touching the palmprint--so perfect, and "nonsense, prayers and profanities"--lovely. Guh.
Re: Tell Me, Dear, Supernatural, Dean/Ellen, are you lonesome tonighttears_of_niennaJanuary 6 2010, 16:19:44 UTC
Hiii you made my birthday. :D Dean/Ellen can't quite get away from the angst, for me. There's too much to their pasts, you know? And I was secretly proud of the palmprint thing, so I'm glad you liked that, too. :)
The other hunters are gone and Ellen's taking the last empty glasses to the kitchen when Dean sidles up to the jukebox and drops in a quarter. When she comes back in, there's a melancholy tune winding its way through the stale smoke.
"We're closing up," she says, glancing over without really seeing him. Then he turns around and saunters up to the bar, singing along.
"Is your heart filled with pain? Shall I come back again? Tell me, dear, are you lonesome tonight?"
She glares at him. "You got a lot of nerve, singing along to the King."
He edges around the bar and twirls her to the music. She shakes her head but lets him dip her low as the song fades out.
"So," Dean asks, his lips a cocky Elvis sneer against her throat. "Are you lonesome tonight?"
She chuckles, warm and dry. "Yeah, all right, but come on upstairs. I'm too damn old to screw on the bar."
So they screw on the couch instead. Dean had planned to take her into the bedroom, to do this slow and right, but just inside the door she catches his collar, kisses him hard, and they both know they're not going any farther than this.
She pushes him onto the couch and follows him down, her legs straddling his hips, and yeah, that hadn't been part of the plan, either, but Ellen taking charge is an indescribable turn-on. She rolls her hips against him, and suddenly there's not enough blood left in Dean's brain to remember that there had ever even been a plan.
He slips his hands up underneath her shirt, beneath the band of her bra, to cup her breasts in his hands. Her spine arches, her head tipping back, and Dean drops one hand to the front of her jeans, rubbing and teasing through the denim, pressing against the seam.
"Fuck, Dean," she growls. Her hips lift away from his, but the sudden loss of contact is countered by her hands on the button of his jeans, opening the zipper, and he lifts up to help her tug them down. She wraps her hand around his cock, stroking in different ways just to see the changing look on his face.
He gathers enough of himself to reach out and pop the button on her jeans, but the angle is weird and he can't even get a hand inside, let alone do all the other things his disjointed mind is suggesting.
"Hell with this," Ellen mutters. She slides off of him entirely, shimmying out of shirt and bra, jeans and white cotton panties. Dean sacrifices his view of her long enough to tug his shirt over his head. He kicks his jeans and boots off all at once, leaving them in a tangled heap beside the couch.
She bends and digs a condom out of the pocket of her discarded jeans, and Dean manages a hazy sound of inquiry. "I had a hunch," she says, tearing open the packet and rolling the condom onto him, torturously slow.
But there's nothing slow in the way she kneels back onto the couch and sinks down onto him, warm and wet. She rides him hard, her fingers clutching at him as his own hands press at her hips, drawing her closer, deeper, harder.
He trails one hand across her stomach, lets his gun-callused thumb flicker over her clit, and she goes still, taut and pulsing around him. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, against the smooth burn of Castiel's palmprint, and Dean thrusts up inside her, hissing nonsense, prayers and profanities as he comes.
***
Dean's not much of a one for cuddling, and Ellen isn't, either, but the couch is narrow and there's no way to lie that doesn't leave one of them half on top of the other. He settles with his arm around her, her head on his chest. She traces her hand over new scars and the freckled perfect skin where the old scars used to be.
The gold band on her finger glints in the glare of the streetlight outside--on her right hand, a widow's ring. Dean covers her hand with his, and her palm presses against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steadying as he comes down.
This isn't perfect and it isn't going to last--nothing is and nothing does, in her experience. But he's here, and he's alive, and for now that's enough.
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This is wonderful. I love her touching his new scars and the perfect skin, and especially Castiel's mark. Guh.
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Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it. :D
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I'm glad you liked it!
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