"Silence" (Bobby/Ellen)
Title: Silence
Author: knowledgequeen
Rating: I'd say PG-13. Nothing major.
Feedback: Like candy.
Spoilers: Not a thing. Which was really hard. XD
Disclaimer: Not mine - property of Jim Beaver, Sam Ferris, Eric Kripke/CW and all those fine folks. No money being made.
There was a fireplace in Ellen's room, and Bobby had never seen it before now. He couldn't help but think it suited her. The coals were ebbing when they'd gotten in the door, but she'd tipped a few more small logs into the pit, and now it was crackling pretty merrily again as they settled down for the night. After all, as Ellen had said, it was blowing snow outside.
It was the only reason he was here, of course. Bobby knew that. It was December, the snowstorms were going nuts even without demons stirring 'em up, and Ellen had threatened him if he was actually fool enough to get out and try to drive back to Minnesota in his old rattletrap of a truck. "You'll wind up in a snowdrift, or worse, in a devil's trap." She'd offered him a place to sleep, and he'd accepted it with probably too much force, but oh well. Apparently she hadn't noticed that she'd barely gotten the sentence out before he'd said yes. She'd been pretty oblivious for a lot of years now, though. It was enough to make a man give up a crush, but somehow his brain had kept it in a decaying file drawer. Bobby had gotten resigned to lusting after Ellen Harvelle now; it was as regular as breathing.
Still, he'd never seen the back rooms of the Roadhouse; they were almost bigger than the bar itself. Ellen's room was on the top floor, a long stretch of wood and flannel, with the stairs at one end and her bed wedged against the other. The fireplace was against the wall in the middle of the room, and there was an easy chair across from the pit, next to the couch. Bobby presumed he'd be sleeping on the couch, and sat down on it, leaning forward, hands folded.
Ellen was dimming the lamp on her bedside table, unbuttoning the top buttons of her flannel work shirt. Her hands were always sure and careful, even doing things she'd done her entire life. The motion was almost hypnotic, almost drug-inducing. Without the bedside lamp, the only light in the room was the shadows of the fire, and it danced across the walls and her skin alike.
She'd shucked the shirt before too long, though; in the dim light her skin was tanned as deep as the wood in the walls. His eyes almost reacted to the plain white cotton bra; it was almost jarring against the muted tones of the dark. Still, Bobby couldn't focus on it for too long; she was standing too fast, back bent faintly as she reached to unzip her jeans and pull them down.
The fire was guttering and gasping by this point; somehow wind had breached the chimney. It made the light stumble crazily across the room, though, and Bobby's eyes almost lost sight of Ellen in the flickers. His jaw was lightly clenched, and he only became aware of it when it dropped with her bra. She was as toned as she'd ever been, and if he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she'd never had a baby. The outline of her breasts was hidden from view as the flames kept sputtering, but he got the gist as she climbed into bed. Her body disappeared under a dark brown blanket that looked moth-eaten and old; probably something Bill had given her. It ached.
He took his hat and boots off, jaw clenched again as he turned to settle himself into the couch. There was a blanket on top -
"You're not coming?"
The voice jarred him, made him sit up. He must have looked confused as hell, because Ellen laughed like a succubus. "Bobby, my bed is a double."
In a flash he was off the cushions, trying not to look like a moron as he walked and shrugged out of his shirt at the same time. He had no idea what her motivation was - whether she'd finally noticed, or she was just cold, or lonely - but he decided not to care. She looked at rest, somehow. And the fire would die down on its own.
Author: knowledgequeen
Rating: I'd say PG-13. Nothing major.
Feedback: Like candy.
Spoilers: Not a thing. Which was really hard. XD
Disclaimer: Not mine - property of Jim Beaver, Sam Ferris, Eric Kripke/CW and all those fine folks. No money being made.
There was a fireplace in Ellen's room, and Bobby had never seen it before now. He couldn't help but think it suited her. The coals were ebbing when they'd gotten in the door, but she'd tipped a few more small logs into the pit, and now it was crackling pretty merrily again as they settled down for the night. After all, as Ellen had said, it was blowing snow outside.
It was the only reason he was here, of course. Bobby knew that. It was December, the snowstorms were going nuts even without demons stirring 'em up, and Ellen had threatened him if he was actually fool enough to get out and try to drive back to Minnesota in his old rattletrap of a truck. "You'll wind up in a snowdrift, or worse, in a devil's trap." She'd offered him a place to sleep, and he'd accepted it with probably too much force, but oh well. Apparently she hadn't noticed that she'd barely gotten the sentence out before he'd said yes. She'd been pretty oblivious for a lot of years now, though. It was enough to make a man give up a crush, but somehow his brain had kept it in a decaying file drawer. Bobby had gotten resigned to lusting after Ellen Harvelle now; it was as regular as breathing.
Still, he'd never seen the back rooms of the Roadhouse; they were almost bigger than the bar itself. Ellen's room was on the top floor, a long stretch of wood and flannel, with the stairs at one end and her bed wedged against the other. The fireplace was against the wall in the middle of the room, and there was an easy chair across from the pit, next to the couch. Bobby presumed he'd be sleeping on the couch, and sat down on it, leaning forward, hands folded.
Ellen was dimming the lamp on her bedside table, unbuttoning the top buttons of her flannel work shirt. Her hands were always sure and careful, even doing things she'd done her entire life. The motion was almost hypnotic, almost drug-inducing. Without the bedside lamp, the only light in the room was the shadows of the fire, and it danced across the walls and her skin alike.
She'd shucked the shirt before too long, though; in the dim light her skin was tanned as deep as the wood in the walls. His eyes almost reacted to the plain white cotton bra; it was almost jarring against the muted tones of the dark. Still, Bobby couldn't focus on it for too long; she was standing too fast, back bent faintly as she reached to unzip her jeans and pull them down.
The fire was guttering and gasping by this point; somehow wind had breached the chimney. It made the light stumble crazily across the room, though, and Bobby's eyes almost lost sight of Ellen in the flickers. His jaw was lightly clenched, and he only became aware of it when it dropped with her bra. She was as toned as she'd ever been, and if he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she'd never had a baby. The outline of her breasts was hidden from view as the flames kept sputtering, but he got the gist as she climbed into bed. Her body disappeared under a dark brown blanket that looked moth-eaten and old; probably something Bill had given her. It ached.
He took his hat and boots off, jaw clenched again as he turned to settle himself into the couch. There was a blanket on top -
"You're not coming?"
The voice jarred him, made him sit up. He must have looked confused as hell, because Ellen laughed like a succubus. "Bobby, my bed is a double."
In a flash he was off the cushions, trying not to look like a moron as he walked and shrugged out of his shirt at the same time. He had no idea what her motivation was - whether she'd finally noticed, or she was just cold, or lonely - but he decided not to care. She looked at rest, somehow. And the fire would die down on its own.