fic: but calvary
Title: But Calvary
Author: breebree16
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Summary: "What are you doing up?" Lisa runs her nails through his hair.
Rating: Hard R
Spoilers: Takes place between "Swan Song" and "Exile on Main Street"
That I did always love,
I bring thee proof:
That till I loved
I did not love enough.
- poem 549, Emily Dickinson
But Calvary
She's wearing black string-bikini panties and his AC/DC t-shirt that reaches over her thighs and is loose around her frame. There are some holes worn in the left sleeve and the collar is ripped on the back. She approaches him at the desk, yawning.
"What are you doing up?" Lisa runs her nails through his hair.
Dean shakes his head and looks into the almost empty scotch glass, the whiskey almost the same color as her skin. "Couldn't sleep." He sips. She strokes his hair. He reaches for a coaster, places the thick glass down, but his fingers trace the rim where he'd been sipping. He starts to get lost in the gentle thread of her fingers, her nails raking over his skull, in a slow drag, like waves.
She lets out a sigh, he clears his throat. "Bad dream," he confesses, though he had barely slept at all. Only skimmed the very surface of dreams. Smell blood and heard the wind blowing, felt a deep sucking in his gut, like he was about to be swallowed. He feels it a bit now, still tugging.
"Come back to bed," she says softly. She's too good to him, he doesn't deserve her,he knows this deep down to his core, his bones. But he'll kept taking what she gives--her warmth, body. Her laugh and tender touches--until she realizes what he's always known.
He shakes his head and turns, pressing his face against her belly, breathing in the sweetness of her scent. Vanilla shampoo and body wash, lotion that smells of pumpkin spice. He wraps his arms around her waist, knocking her footing a bit, latching on like she's the last life jacket, the only steady thing in his world.
She inhales deeply and continues to run her hands through his hair, cradling his head. "How about a back rub?" she offers. She kneads him after work, pushing and releasing, palming kinks and knots. Lisa had bent and stretched him that first weekend a decade ago. Molding and moving him in ways he didn't think he could. She noted the way he carried tension in his shoulders and the curve of his back. A slouch of the hips.
Now Dean carries it every where and she's always trying to meld it away.
"A shower?" she says with a slight pitch of her voice. Things to soothe him, calm him into security.
He kisses her through the fabric, his mouth a hot and wet drag down her belly. He lifts the shirt and licks along her stomach, nips at the space above the line of her undies.
She mmms and scratches down his neck. "We don't have to," she tells him.
But it's the only way he knows how to show her what he feels, but can't actually say.
Her skin is so smooth under the roughness of his palms. He reaches behind her, yanking down the underwear in a slow tug, his fingers dragging across the back of her thighs, then smoothing back up to her ass. Rounding over the skin, squeezing a bit.
She gasps when he dives right in, swiping his tongue flat against her cunt, stroking upwards into the velvet heat.
"Sweet Jesus," she moans as he moves his tongue to circle her clit, and slips in two fingers where his mouth has just been, working her soft. A slow drag, a teasing dip. Her breath hitches, she clutches to his shoulders, trying to claw through the material of his shirt.
When she comes, his one arm hooks around her waist to steady her, the other still working her until she chants his name, until on of her hands slips to his neck and scratches at the skin. He pulls back and kisses her stomach again, his lips sticky-slick with saliva and come.
She pushes on his shoulders and he leans back, staring at her, her eyes glossed over, her mouth parting in a half-smile.
She doesn't give him much time to think before she tugs down his sweatpants and boxers; his cock rests curved against his stomach, flushed hard and ready. She gives it a few strokes, a flicking of her wrists that makes him groan and grab her ass again, before sinking down on him, taking his full length in one easy movement. So hot and slick.
"Fuck," he groans as she lifts briefly, then sinks back down and kisses him, sucking on his bottom lip and tongue, devouring his mouth and her own arousal off his lips and chin.
The chair squeaks a bit, the back leg needs to be oiled as she rides him, long strokes, taking him as deep as she can.
He watches her face; eyes half-lidded, dark hair in curtains at her shoulders. Her wet pink lips, the flush of read across her cheeks. She moans and squeaks and he's close. He reaches between them and works his thumb back and forth over her clit a few times, pulls her down harder and faster, an arm still hooked around her.
In the mirror hanging on the wall above the fireplace, he sees them, moving as a single entity, perfect rhythm and form. Her long torso and legs, the scar of Castiel's hand-print just slipping out from under his shirt.
He gets her off again, and at the sensation of her flexing and pulsing around his cock he grunts, holds her tighter and comes inside of her, warm and overwhelming. She rocks forward until they're both done, until he starts breathing again.
Her hands run through his hair again and she kisses his forehead. He presses his face against her breasts, feels their weight and warmth through the flimsy t-shirt.
"Come to bed," she says again, her voice unhinged, balancing on bliss and sleep.
He nods, but they sit there longer. He squeezes her waist, nuzzles his face against her. The tightness in his chest doesn't ever ease, no matter how good she makes him feel.
His breath shudders and she squeezes back. "It's okay," she says.
What has he ever done in his whole fucked up life to ever deserve her, any of this? The house with the wood floors and carpet in the living room. Three meals a day, a bed with clean sheets, a shower that always worked. A kid that idolizes him, a woman who knows he's a loser, but holds him any way, like this, trying to absorb his sadness, swallow his grief.
He shakes his head. She touches his hair again. The only sound between them the steady beat of her heart and the ragged hitch of his breathing.
.end
---
quick disclaimer: the poem is by Emily Dickinson and the title is taken from the last line of said poem.
Author: breebree16
Pairing: Dean/Lisa
Summary: "What are you doing up?" Lisa runs her nails through his hair.
Rating: Hard R
Spoilers: Takes place between "Swan Song" and "Exile on Main Street"
That I did always love,
I bring thee proof:
That till I loved
I did not love enough.
- poem 549, Emily Dickinson
But Calvary
She's wearing black string-bikini panties and his AC/DC t-shirt that reaches over her thighs and is loose around her frame. There are some holes worn in the left sleeve and the collar is ripped on the back. She approaches him at the desk, yawning.
"What are you doing up?" Lisa runs her nails through his hair.
Dean shakes his head and looks into the almost empty scotch glass, the whiskey almost the same color as her skin. "Couldn't sleep." He sips. She strokes his hair. He reaches for a coaster, places the thick glass down, but his fingers trace the rim where he'd been sipping. He starts to get lost in the gentle thread of her fingers, her nails raking over his skull, in a slow drag, like waves.
She lets out a sigh, he clears his throat. "Bad dream," he confesses, though he had barely slept at all. Only skimmed the very surface of dreams. Smell blood and heard the wind blowing, felt a deep sucking in his gut, like he was about to be swallowed. He feels it a bit now, still tugging.
"Come back to bed," she says softly. She's too good to him, he doesn't deserve her,he knows this deep down to his core, his bones. But he'll kept taking what she gives--her warmth, body. Her laugh and tender touches--until she realizes what he's always known.
He shakes his head and turns, pressing his face against her belly, breathing in the sweetness of her scent. Vanilla shampoo and body wash, lotion that smells of pumpkin spice. He wraps his arms around her waist, knocking her footing a bit, latching on like she's the last life jacket, the only steady thing in his world.
She inhales deeply and continues to run her hands through his hair, cradling his head. "How about a back rub?" she offers. She kneads him after work, pushing and releasing, palming kinks and knots. Lisa had bent and stretched him that first weekend a decade ago. Molding and moving him in ways he didn't think he could. She noted the way he carried tension in his shoulders and the curve of his back. A slouch of the hips.
Now Dean carries it every where and she's always trying to meld it away.
"A shower?" she says with a slight pitch of her voice. Things to soothe him, calm him into security.
He kisses her through the fabric, his mouth a hot and wet drag down her belly. He lifts the shirt and licks along her stomach, nips at the space above the line of her undies.
She mmms and scratches down his neck. "We don't have to," she tells him.
But it's the only way he knows how to show her what he feels, but can't actually say.
Her skin is so smooth under the roughness of his palms. He reaches behind her, yanking down the underwear in a slow tug, his fingers dragging across the back of her thighs, then smoothing back up to her ass. Rounding over the skin, squeezing a bit.
She gasps when he dives right in, swiping his tongue flat against her cunt, stroking upwards into the velvet heat.
"Sweet Jesus," she moans as he moves his tongue to circle her clit, and slips in two fingers where his mouth has just been, working her soft. A slow drag, a teasing dip. Her breath hitches, she clutches to his shoulders, trying to claw through the material of his shirt.
When she comes, his one arm hooks around her waist to steady her, the other still working her until she chants his name, until on of her hands slips to his neck and scratches at the skin. He pulls back and kisses her stomach again, his lips sticky-slick with saliva and come.
She pushes on his shoulders and he leans back, staring at her, her eyes glossed over, her mouth parting in a half-smile.
She doesn't give him much time to think before she tugs down his sweatpants and boxers; his cock rests curved against his stomach, flushed hard and ready. She gives it a few strokes, a flicking of her wrists that makes him groan and grab her ass again, before sinking down on him, taking his full length in one easy movement. So hot and slick.
"Fuck," he groans as she lifts briefly, then sinks back down and kisses him, sucking on his bottom lip and tongue, devouring his mouth and her own arousal off his lips and chin.
The chair squeaks a bit, the back leg needs to be oiled as she rides him, long strokes, taking him as deep as she can.
He watches her face; eyes half-lidded, dark hair in curtains at her shoulders. Her wet pink lips, the flush of read across her cheeks. She moans and squeaks and he's close. He reaches between them and works his thumb back and forth over her clit a few times, pulls her down harder and faster, an arm still hooked around her.
In the mirror hanging on the wall above the fireplace, he sees them, moving as a single entity, perfect rhythm and form. Her long torso and legs, the scar of Castiel's hand-print just slipping out from under his shirt.
He gets her off again, and at the sensation of her flexing and pulsing around his cock he grunts, holds her tighter and comes inside of her, warm and overwhelming. She rocks forward until they're both done, until he starts breathing again.
Her hands run through his hair again and she kisses his forehead. He presses his face against her breasts, feels their weight and warmth through the flimsy t-shirt.
"Come to bed," she says again, her voice unhinged, balancing on bliss and sleep.
He nods, but they sit there longer. He squeezes her waist, nuzzles his face against her. The tightness in his chest doesn't ever ease, no matter how good she makes him feel.
His breath shudders and she squeezes back. "It's okay," she says.
What has he ever done in his whole fucked up life to ever deserve her, any of this? The house with the wood floors and carpet in the living room. Three meals a day, a bed with clean sheets, a shower that always worked. A kid that idolizes him, a woman who knows he's a loser, but holds him any way, like this, trying to absorb his sadness, swallow his grief.
He shakes his head. She touches his hair again. The only sound between them the steady beat of her heart and the ragged hitch of his breathing.
.end
---
quick disclaimer: the poem is by Emily Dickinson and the title is taken from the last line of said poem.