fic: The Hour of Escape (Supernatural; Dean/Ellen; adult)
The Hour of Escape
Supernatural; Dean/Ellen; adult; spoilers through Born Under a Bad Sign; 1,605 words
He can smell beer and sweat and some kind of lotion on her skin, hear the soft hitch of her breath, and then she surges up against him, towel fluttering to the floor as she cups his cheek and yanks his mouth down to hers.
Thanks to amberlynne for listening, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
The Hour of Escape
The roadhouse is crowded and noisy, jukebox blasting Skynyrd loud enough to make Dean's ribs rattle, but Ellen looks up from the shots she's pouring, looks right at him as he stands in the doorway. Like she was expecting him. He rubs a hand over his chin, three days of stubble rough against his palm. He hasn't slept more than an hour or two in the days since Sam disappeared, and he knows he looks like shit. Doesn't really care.
He scans the room, can't tell enemies from allies. Decides there isn't much difference right now, if there ever was. He threads his way through the crowd, head down, wary. He knows coming here was a mistake. Did it anyway. Had nowhere else to go.
There's a beer and a shot of Jack on the bar when he gets to it. He puts down a twenty and says, "Leave the bottle." An answer to a question she hasn't asked.
There's a postcard tacked up beside the phone: It's cold in Chicago, and Bremer says hello in looping girl-script and smudged blue ink, dated over a month ago and signed simply, Jo.
Dean remembers listening to Sam breathe on his voicemail, the staticky, wordless silences making him sound like he was much further away than California, the sharp click of disconnection stealing Dean's ability to speak, long before he got the message and lost the inclination to keep trying. He hasn't lost it now, has left messages in every language he knows (and a few he isn't sure Sam would even understand), and hasn't even gotten a few seconds of silence and a hang-up in response. Right now, he'd kill for a terse postcard, an annoyed fuck you, any proof at all that Sam is okay, that he'd left on his own.
Ellen catches his eye, gives him a tight, worried smile and a new pint of beer, her hand squeezing his for just a second, long enough to let him know she understands, before she's moving down the bar again.
He sits there all night, heels of his boots hooked into the rungs on the bottom of the barstool, tipping out shots of whiskey into his glass, not feeling it at all. The crowd shifts around him, starts to thin out, but he keeps his head down, stares at the scarred wood of the bar like it holds the answers he's looking for, nicks and gashes carved into it like some kind of runes he should be able to read but can't.
Two a.m., last call, and Dean finally gets up, goes to take a piss, feeling just as sober as he had when he'd sat down four hours ago, adrenaline burning away the alcohol in his blood. When he comes back, the bar is empty; the silence rings painfully in his ears. Ellen's locking the door, and Ash is watching her, obvious question on his face.
"Go to bed, Ash," she says. When he hesitates, she says it again. He goes, tossing one last, concerned look over his shoulder.
Dean stands there, unsure, until she says, "Make yourself useful."
He turns the chairs up onto the tables while she collects the empties, their breathing and the clink of glass in her plastic bin the only sound for a while.
He puts the last chair up, scrubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, and presents himself to Ellen at the bar like a soldier for inspection. Ellen has a blue and white dish towel in one hand, a pint glass in the other. Her head is cocked as if she's thinking.
"There's a room out back," she says. "You probably shouldn't be driving."
He nods. He'd blow past the legal limit on a breathalyzer right now, but he feels clear-headed, lucid, the edges of everything standing out in sharp relief, fear keeping him sober and alert. He should head to the parking lot, or towards the room she's offered. He should do half a dozen other things--get back out on the road, find Sam, kill the demon. He shouldn't have come here at all.
He takes a step towards her--challenge or apology or comfort, he isn't sure--but instead of moving back, she steps up to meet him, her gaze never wavering, pupils wide and dark enough to drown in. He can smell beer and sweat and some kind of lotion on her skin, hear the soft hitch of her breath, and then she surges up against him, towel fluttering to the floor as she cups his cheek and yanks his mouth down to hers.
Her teeth are sharp against his lower lip, her tongue velvet rough as she licks away the sting. He wraps one hand in her hair, softer and thicker than it looks, and curls the other around her jaw, holding her in place. She can get away if she wants to, but she presses in closer. He licks the taste of whiskey and worry from her tongue, swallows down her soft growl.
He pushes forward and she stumbles back, the glass in her hand falling to the floor and shattering as she fists her fingers in his shirt. The sound is loud as a gunshot in the quiet, but they both ignore it, too busy trying to climb inside each other's clothes to care.
He shoves his hands up under her worn flannel, the skin of her belly warm and soft under the pads of his fingers. She shivers under the touch. He flicks her peaked nipples; she arches and purrs into his mouth, vibration burning a path from the roof of his mouth all the way down his spine to join the aching heat in his dick. Her hands tighten in his hair, hard enough to hurt, and she pulls him closer. He pushes his leg between hers, slides a hand down to the small of her back, fingers dipping below the waistband of her jeans, skimming the elastic of her underwear. He doesn't stop to think or ask if it's okay; he takes the way she's grinding down against his thigh, her tongue sweet and thick as honey in his mouth, as permission.
When she lets him go long enough to take a shallow, shuddering breath, he says, "Table."
She nods, and they stumble towards the nearest one, glass crunching underfoot. She shoves one of the chairs off and leans against the table, hands already working at his belt buckle and fly. The air is cool against his skin when she gets his jeans open, her hand warm and sweaty, thumb tracing the line of his hipbone, the crease of his thigh.
He kisses his way down the curve of her neck, nips at her collarbone, liking the way she moans, a low, soft rumble in her chest he can feel when he presses against her. He undoes the buttons on her jeans and slips a hand down to curl into the wet heat of her cunt, and this time, her moan is loud and desperate enough to make him smug. He pushes her jeans down to hobble her ankles and steps over them into the vee of her legs, the skin of her inner thighs warm against his. She grabs his dick, gives it a hard squeeze, a couple of quick, rough strokes. He thrusts into her grip, reaching for the condom in his pocket.
She drags her nails down his back as he fucks her, one hand hard on her hip, the other roughly circling her clit, making her gasp and curse and buck up against him. She bites her way into his mouth, all teeth and thrusting tongue, draws blood when she comes. He can taste desperation, anger and fear in her kisses, knows she tastes the same in his. Or maybe it's just the copper-warm tang of blood.
She drags her teeth along his neck, latches onto his earlobe and sucks, and the tension in him snaps, white hot pleasure rushing through him. He buries his face against her hair, rides it out, clinging to her like she's the last solid thing in a world gone suddenly intangible.
He waits until he's steady on his feet again before he lets her go, and they spend a couple of minutes cleaning up, straightening their clothes.
"Offer still stands," she says, voice rough and soothing like the whiskey he was drinking earlier. She nods towards the room out back. "You're no good to anybody dead on your feet."
It's tempting, but he knows he won't sleep, will only see a thousand different ways Sam could be hurt or dead, a thousand ways he's failed to protect him. He shakes his head. "Can't. I'll catch a nap in the car later. Couple cans of Red Bull, I'll be fine."
She reaches up, cups his cheek again, gently this time, thumb brushing over his bloody lower lip. "Dean--"
"I've gotta find him."
"You will." She says it with a certainty they both know is mostly bravado. "You call me when you do, you hear?"
"I will."
"And be careful."
His mouth curves in a habitual grin, false and mirthless. "Always am."
He's at the door now, turns back to look at her one last time, hair tousled and neck red from the scrape of his stubble, the skim of his teeth. "Thanks," he says.
Her answering grin is sharp and dirty. "Anytime."
He barks a laugh, and lets the door close behind him. He's got a lot of ground to cover before he takes that nap he mentioned, and he's got no more time to waste.
end
~*~
October 1, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Ellen; adult; spoilers through Born Under a Bad Sign; 1,605 words
He can smell beer and sweat and some kind of lotion on her skin, hear the soft hitch of her breath, and then she surges up against him, towel fluttering to the floor as she cups his cheek and yanks his mouth down to hers.
Thanks to amberlynne for listening, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. All remaining errors are mine.
~*~
The Hour of Escape
The roadhouse is crowded and noisy, jukebox blasting Skynyrd loud enough to make Dean's ribs rattle, but Ellen looks up from the shots she's pouring, looks right at him as he stands in the doorway. Like she was expecting him. He rubs a hand over his chin, three days of stubble rough against his palm. He hasn't slept more than an hour or two in the days since Sam disappeared, and he knows he looks like shit. Doesn't really care.
He scans the room, can't tell enemies from allies. Decides there isn't much difference right now, if there ever was. He threads his way through the crowd, head down, wary. He knows coming here was a mistake. Did it anyway. Had nowhere else to go.
There's a beer and a shot of Jack on the bar when he gets to it. He puts down a twenty and says, "Leave the bottle." An answer to a question she hasn't asked.
There's a postcard tacked up beside the phone: It's cold in Chicago, and Bremer says hello in looping girl-script and smudged blue ink, dated over a month ago and signed simply, Jo.
Dean remembers listening to Sam breathe on his voicemail, the staticky, wordless silences making him sound like he was much further away than California, the sharp click of disconnection stealing Dean's ability to speak, long before he got the message and lost the inclination to keep trying. He hasn't lost it now, has left messages in every language he knows (and a few he isn't sure Sam would even understand), and hasn't even gotten a few seconds of silence and a hang-up in response. Right now, he'd kill for a terse postcard, an annoyed fuck you, any proof at all that Sam is okay, that he'd left on his own.
Ellen catches his eye, gives him a tight, worried smile and a new pint of beer, her hand squeezing his for just a second, long enough to let him know she understands, before she's moving down the bar again.
He sits there all night, heels of his boots hooked into the rungs on the bottom of the barstool, tipping out shots of whiskey into his glass, not feeling it at all. The crowd shifts around him, starts to thin out, but he keeps his head down, stares at the scarred wood of the bar like it holds the answers he's looking for, nicks and gashes carved into it like some kind of runes he should be able to read but can't.
Two a.m., last call, and Dean finally gets up, goes to take a piss, feeling just as sober as he had when he'd sat down four hours ago, adrenaline burning away the alcohol in his blood. When he comes back, the bar is empty; the silence rings painfully in his ears. Ellen's locking the door, and Ash is watching her, obvious question on his face.
"Go to bed, Ash," she says. When he hesitates, she says it again. He goes, tossing one last, concerned look over his shoulder.
Dean stands there, unsure, until she says, "Make yourself useful."
He turns the chairs up onto the tables while she collects the empties, their breathing and the clink of glass in her plastic bin the only sound for a while.
He puts the last chair up, scrubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, and presents himself to Ellen at the bar like a soldier for inspection. Ellen has a blue and white dish towel in one hand, a pint glass in the other. Her head is cocked as if she's thinking.
"There's a room out back," she says. "You probably shouldn't be driving."
He nods. He'd blow past the legal limit on a breathalyzer right now, but he feels clear-headed, lucid, the edges of everything standing out in sharp relief, fear keeping him sober and alert. He should head to the parking lot, or towards the room she's offered. He should do half a dozen other things--get back out on the road, find Sam, kill the demon. He shouldn't have come here at all.
He takes a step towards her--challenge or apology or comfort, he isn't sure--but instead of moving back, she steps up to meet him, her gaze never wavering, pupils wide and dark enough to drown in. He can smell beer and sweat and some kind of lotion on her skin, hear the soft hitch of her breath, and then she surges up against him, towel fluttering to the floor as she cups his cheek and yanks his mouth down to hers.
Her teeth are sharp against his lower lip, her tongue velvet rough as she licks away the sting. He wraps one hand in her hair, softer and thicker than it looks, and curls the other around her jaw, holding her in place. She can get away if she wants to, but she presses in closer. He licks the taste of whiskey and worry from her tongue, swallows down her soft growl.
He pushes forward and she stumbles back, the glass in her hand falling to the floor and shattering as she fists her fingers in his shirt. The sound is loud as a gunshot in the quiet, but they both ignore it, too busy trying to climb inside each other's clothes to care.
He shoves his hands up under her worn flannel, the skin of her belly warm and soft under the pads of his fingers. She shivers under the touch. He flicks her peaked nipples; she arches and purrs into his mouth, vibration burning a path from the roof of his mouth all the way down his spine to join the aching heat in his dick. Her hands tighten in his hair, hard enough to hurt, and she pulls him closer. He pushes his leg between hers, slides a hand down to the small of her back, fingers dipping below the waistband of her jeans, skimming the elastic of her underwear. He doesn't stop to think or ask if it's okay; he takes the way she's grinding down against his thigh, her tongue sweet and thick as honey in his mouth, as permission.
When she lets him go long enough to take a shallow, shuddering breath, he says, "Table."
She nods, and they stumble towards the nearest one, glass crunching underfoot. She shoves one of the chairs off and leans against the table, hands already working at his belt buckle and fly. The air is cool against his skin when she gets his jeans open, her hand warm and sweaty, thumb tracing the line of his hipbone, the crease of his thigh.
He kisses his way down the curve of her neck, nips at her collarbone, liking the way she moans, a low, soft rumble in her chest he can feel when he presses against her. He undoes the buttons on her jeans and slips a hand down to curl into the wet heat of her cunt, and this time, her moan is loud and desperate enough to make him smug. He pushes her jeans down to hobble her ankles and steps over them into the vee of her legs, the skin of her inner thighs warm against his. She grabs his dick, gives it a hard squeeze, a couple of quick, rough strokes. He thrusts into her grip, reaching for the condom in his pocket.
She drags her nails down his back as he fucks her, one hand hard on her hip, the other roughly circling her clit, making her gasp and curse and buck up against him. She bites her way into his mouth, all teeth and thrusting tongue, draws blood when she comes. He can taste desperation, anger and fear in her kisses, knows she tastes the same in his. Or maybe it's just the copper-warm tang of blood.
She drags her teeth along his neck, latches onto his earlobe and sucks, and the tension in him snaps, white hot pleasure rushing through him. He buries his face against her hair, rides it out, clinging to her like she's the last solid thing in a world gone suddenly intangible.
He waits until he's steady on his feet again before he lets her go, and they spend a couple of minutes cleaning up, straightening their clothes.
"Offer still stands," she says, voice rough and soothing like the whiskey he was drinking earlier. She nods towards the room out back. "You're no good to anybody dead on your feet."
It's tempting, but he knows he won't sleep, will only see a thousand different ways Sam could be hurt or dead, a thousand ways he's failed to protect him. He shakes his head. "Can't. I'll catch a nap in the car later. Couple cans of Red Bull, I'll be fine."
She reaches up, cups his cheek again, gently this time, thumb brushing over his bloody lower lip. "Dean--"
"I've gotta find him."
"You will." She says it with a certainty they both know is mostly bravado. "You call me when you do, you hear?"
"I will."
"And be careful."
His mouth curves in a habitual grin, false and mirthless. "Always am."
He's at the door now, turns back to look at her one last time, hair tousled and neck red from the scrape of his stubble, the skim of his teeth. "Thanks," he says.
Her answering grin is sharp and dirty. "Anytime."
He barks a laugh, and lets the door close behind him. He's got a lot of ground to cover before he takes that nap he mentioned, and he's got no more time to waste.
end
~*~
October 1, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~