fiction: something else (SPN, Jo/Dean, NC17)
Title: something else
Author: exitsign (girlcalledjane @ yahoo.com)
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Pairing: Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC17
Summary: Four years they've known each other and never once has anything happened between them. 4778 words. (2/04/07)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: Feedback (general or con-crit) is always welcome.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: FEMALE/MALE. GRAPHIC SEX. HET ANAL OMG HOW IS IT POSSIBLE. UNPROTECTED SEX. THE GREAT OUTDOORS. COMMAS.
Author's note: For carleton97 on the eighth night day whatever of leahmas because she agreed with me that Dean and Jo having hot ass sex would be pretty much the hottest shit in the history of ever. I find it funny that this pops my "posting het porn!" cherry. I mean, funny in a really hot way. Like, a having trouble breathing sort of way.
- - - -
His fingers slip up her back as his mouth works at her neck, it's just a quick twist and a tug before her bra comes loose but the sound it makes seems to echo in her head. She shrugs her shoulders, letting the fabric slip down her arms and off, whisper soft where he lets it fall to the ground.
There's no good reason for him to be here. She's been going on her own now long enough for it to get almost boring most days, she's set in her ways and used to working by herself, she doesn't even like having other people around on jobs. By all rights, he should be back at the roadhouse with Sam and his busted leg. By all rights, it should have been another year and a half before she saw either of them again.
She'd only stopped off to wash some clothes and get something to eat that didn't come wrapped in cellophane, she hadn't even known that they were there.
It'd been three days when she got the call from Roy Baker about these woods in Tennessee that he'd read about on the internet. Every year for the past twenty-six at least two or three children go missing in the same area. Every year and nobody can ever find even a hair. Every year and it's like they just wander off and disappear.
Roy'd said it was definitely a Bigfoot that snatched them up but Roy also believes that aliens have nothing better to do than experiment on cattle and Pat Sajak controls the wheel with his mind.
"Why don't you check it out yourself?" She'd said, half-laughing, more than a little bit drunk. "You can be the one to finally prove them scientists wrong."
"Ah, hell, I'd already be gone if I could," he'd said, his voice gone a grumbling whisper in her ear. "Charlotte says she'll leave me again if I don't go to her niece's goddamn ballet recital this weekend. The kid's the size of a baby elephant, I told her, what kind of fucking ballet can she even do?"
She'd agreed because she hadn't had anything better to do, agreed to go check it out and to remember his name when she became famous for catching the first ever Bigfoot.
It'd been Ash who'd suggested Dean come with her, take a break from shuffling around under foot, bored out of his mind for something to do while Sam was laid up. Meddling shithead had said it right there in front of God and everybody so there was no way she could've just pretended it hadn't been said and sneak out the back.
"I guess you can come with me," she'd said, refusing to kick up a fuss even though she'd wanted to. "I'll even let you drive us."
He'd almost said no, she'd seen it in his eyes, in the twist of his mouth, but then Sam'd thrown a balled up napkin at his head and said, "God, please take him with you. Before somebody has to kill him."
So they'd climbed into his car and driven sixteen hours straight through to find that it was the ghost of a little boy, gotten lost playing hide-and-seek and died from exposure, that was luring other kids away and not, in fact, Roy's missing link after all.
Surprise, surprise.
You can't burn bones if they've been dragged off to the ends of world by every kind of scavenger on four legs so they'd had to do it the hard way, the drawing symbols in the dirt with a stick and an assload of Latin way. It'd taken nearly an hour of dodging nasty, sharp-ended bits of wood that little Michael Dempsey sent flying through the air at them, chanting the same text over and over again, to finally get the kid to give up and go on his way. Go on to whatever it is that you get when you die.
In the end, it hadn't been anything special, no harder or more complicated than anything she'd done a thousand times before, so she's not sure how it all added up to this. To brushing themselves off and packing up, hiking back down old trail, long since grown over, where Dean had parked and tossing their shit in the trunk. To not even being surprised when Dean pushed her up against the car and kissed her, leaning into him and opening her mouth to his tongue, twisting her hands in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. To letting him lift her up to sit on the back of his precious car, wrapping her legs around his hips and squeezing her hands on his biceps as his hands had pushed under her shirt. To the lust coiling way down in her belly as his hands had rubbed over her skin, fingers firm and callused tracing each of her ribs, warm palms cupping her breasts through the fabric of her bra and working her nipples hard.
She's not sure how nothing special added up to all this but she doesn't really give a shit either.
Because adrenaline still working through her system and whatever little bit of power wrapped up in those three paragraphs makes it easy not to care. Because she can still feel the rush of fear like a punch to the gut every time she pictures each of those near misses that'd almost had them both looking like barbecue kabobs. Because the first time she'd set eyes on him and every time since for years and years, four years and years, she'd thought, goddamn, that's pretty man.
Four years they've known each other and never once has anything happened between them.
Four goddamn years.
His mouth slides down her neck, sucking hard at her collarbone and biting at the top of her breast, licking hot across her skin to her nipple, tongue and teeth making her groan. He squeezes at her other breast, hard and rough, and she drags her fingers through his short hair, pulling his mouth closer, then slides her hand down his naked back as she arches her spine.
She leans back hard on her hand behind her, clenched up in a white-knuckled fist and pressing against the sun-warmed metal of the trunk top. She stares down at him and, like he could feel the attention, he looks up at her, pulling back just far enough to blow across her spit wet skin, making her shiver. She bites her lip as he takes her nipple back in his mouth, fast slip of tongue and graze of teeth before he pulls back again. His hand replaces his lips as he mouths his way across her chest, dragging his teeth over the strangely sensitive skin at the middle of her chest and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her other breast.
He trails his hand down her side and around her hip, squeezing tight for a second before sliding between her thighs. The side of his hand, knuckle of his thumb, rubs hard at the seam of her jeans, rubs at her pussy through the fabric. Her hips buck, pushing against his hand, and she squeezes his shoulder, digging her fingernails into his skin. She barely even recognizes her own voice, so rough and desperate, when she mumbles out, "Yeah. Yeah, god."
His fingers work at the buttons of her jeans, one, two, three, and then his hand is pushing in. They're too tight, though, or his hand is too big, and she wiggles and shoves, lifting her hips up and jostling him away as she pushes her jeans and panties down to her thighs.
There's probably something really wrong with her that she gets a rush from having her bare ass on his car.
She's wet, ready and wanting, has been for a while now, and his fingers slide against her easily. They both moan at the first touch and she has to put both palms to the trunk behind her, canting her hips as his fingertips slip up and down, edging forward and trying to spread her legs wider even though her shoved-down jeans makes it impossible.
He leans in, a low sound in the back of his throat, pressing his face to her throat, his free hand pressing flat to the trunk beside her, and she can't seem to keep her eyes open. His hand twists, his thumb rubbing at her clit making her knees jerk reflexively, making her shudder, making her lift her hips and push down, making it even better when he pushes two fingers right up inside her.
It's slow at first, gentle and over-careful, but he gets the hint when she half-growls and pushes down on his hand. Slow turns quick and gentle turns harsh, merciless, his fingers twisting and curling, until he's fucking her with them and she can't keep herself quiet.
"Jesus Christ," he says, his voice strained, rough, and his fingers working in and out of her. "Oh, fuck, I hate to say it, but I think we're gonna have to finish this back at the motel. I don't have any condoms on me. I'm clean but... You on the pill?"
The motel's a twenty-five minute drive. Twenty-five minutes to wait, twenty-five minutes to reconsider.
"No," she says, tipping her head back and rocking her hips. "But there's other things."
For a second, his breath seems to hitch but nothing else happens, but then his fingers pull out of her pussy, slide out and slide back easy. Her breath rushes out, catches in her throat, as his fingers connect, slipping around and around her hole.
"Yeah," she says, breathes, nodding her head, nodding and nodding, his mouth wet against her skin, his breath so hot when he groans.
He leans up and kisses her hard then, deep and dirty, his other hand coming up to grip the back of her neck as their teeth clack together, and it's like a bolt of excitement surges through him and into her. She blinks hard as he drags his mouth away and lets him push her back, arching up with a hiss when her shoulder blades hit the sun-hot metal.
He yanks at her boots and socks, pulls off her jeans and panties all twisted up together, until she doesn't have anything more than a couple left-over bruises to cover her skin. Until she's lying naked on the trunk of his car, his most precious possession, his baby.
She can't help wondering how many times he's jerked off to this kind of thought.
"It's been a while since I've been with a real blonde," he says, licking quick at his bottom lip and staring down at her like she's on display, his hands squeezing her knees.
"Great, looks like you'll have something to write about it in your diary tonight," she says, the words harsh but her voice giving away more than she'd like.
He laughs, short and low in the back of his throat, and his hands slide up to her thighs, pushing her legs open, spreading her and holding her there. His thumbs drag over where thigh meets body, up and down drag pressure and tension. He moves in, leaning in, until she can feel his breath on her, soft and shaky, and she stares up at the trees overhead. Until she doesn't, can't, because his mouth is on her pussy, his tongue wet and licking up, and she has to close her eyes, squeezing them tight and biting her lip when she hears herself gasp.
There's something to be said for a guy who can eat a girl out like he's starving and she's a blue plate special, she thinks. Somehow it's surprising but not surprising at the same time that Dean just happens to be one of those guys.
He's a tease, licking her up all over but skipping right over where she really wants it, winding her up tight like a bowstring and making her whine and pull at his hair. He uses his whole mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until she squirms and shakes. He groans against her, pulling back and breathing hard, mumbling and mumbling oh, fuck, you taste so good as his arms wrap around her thighs, his fingers digging into her skin. And then he leans back in, gets right back to it.
The first touch of his tongue to her clit makes her jerk, makes her twist and lift her hips to his mouth. Slippery slide around and around, switching between hard licks with the flat of his tongue and teasing sharper pressure with just the tip. Until she can't tell the difference because it all feels so good, so unreal, and she can't even think.
She covers her eyes with her wrist and chews at her bottom lip, biting and biting, trying to keep herself quiet. Her other hand clenches and unclenches against her thigh, wanting to grab his hair again, to pull until it hurts because he's killing her, but forcing herself not to. She gasps stupidly loud when his arm lets loose of her thigh to slip up her arm, grazing over the inside of her elbow and then back down again, his fingers slipping over her wrist like he's feeling her pulse before he shifts around just enough to suck them into mouth.
His wet fingertips slip around her hole like a tease then go firmer, rubbing circles tighter and tighter until it's just pressure, just pushing, until he's pushing one inside. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat that seems to shake right through her and she counters with one of her own, the long slow slide of it making her eyes roll back behind her eyelids. It's like little sparks up her spine, like a tiny fire for each vertebra, and she slams both palms down flat against the trunk lid, arching up, pushing down.
His knuckles brush against her with each push, harder and at a different angle each time, twisting in and out until it's not like individual movements but one single motion, smooth and intense. He sucks at his teeth up against her clit, hint of tongue in the space between top and bottom and his lips all wet pressed full, and both together are almost too much to bear. She hears herself whine, this high crying kind of sound that drags up out of her mouth before she can stop it.
She can't stop it.
Her back slides against the trunk, sweaty skin slick on metal as she twists, rolling her shoulders. Her palms slip over her own skin, shaking along her thighs, her stomach, her breasts and her throat, her fingernails drag and the scratching sting makes her gasp and roll her hips. Her mouth is wet, licked and bitten, and she can feel it moving but can barely think to make out the words, can barely even hear them over the rushing of her blood in her ears, the pounding of her own heart.
He pulls back, his mouth off her and his hand gone, and she nearly comes off the car. She reaches down, grasping blindly for him, desperate, and her voice cracks right down the middle when she chokes out, "No, don't stop."
"Oh, babydoll, I'm not," he says, his mouth so close she can feel his bottom lip drag over her skin. He nudges with his mouth, like some kind of fucked up kiss, and then his tongue is pushing inside her, warm and slippery wet, and two slick fingers are pushing into her ass.
The stretch of it makes the groan catch in her throat, makes her breath catch, her skin tingling all over, and she twists her head to the side, gasping loud, groaning louder. She rocks her hips, her toes crossed and her heels pushing down on the edge of the trunk, knees jerking shut and spreading wide open, convulsive and uncontrollable. The wet noises from his mouth, his fingers, the harsh sound of his breath through his nose, and her own voice all twist up together in her ears, seem impossibly loud in the quiet of the woods, out of place but perfectly placed at the same time.
Her head tosses back and forth, rubbing hard for some kind of distraction. Her hands scrambling and sliding to find purchase until she manages to hook her fingers over the crack at the top of the trunk lid, clutching at it like a lifeline, her arms flexing, going taut, like if her hands slipped loose she'd slip forever.
The whole world is narrowed down to his fingers in her ass and his mouth on her pussy. To his tongue pushing up inside her, going in time with his fingers, in and out, in and out, like he's fucking her both ways, like he's trying to make her fall apart.
On and on, pleasure building, pressure building, making her blind to everything else, until she can't feel her hands, can't feel her feet, can't feel anything but Dean. His mouth and his breath, his fingers on her, in her, his shoulders where they bump against her legs and his hair scratching at the insides of her thighs. His tongue drags up her pussy to her clit, making her shudder and jerk, making her cry out, her breath hitching like sobs. His face pushes hard between her thighs, his head moving sharp and jerky side to side and his fingers going just as quick, just as hard, unrelenting.
She bucks up as she comes, her eyes rolling back and her voice dragging up from of her chest sounding like her throat's full of gravel, pushing down on his fingers and up against his face. He just rides it out, lips and tongue and teeth against her clit, twisting his fingers deeper as her muscles pulse. It doesn't wash over her so much as hit her from behind and throw her to the ground, her elbows squeeze hard at the sides of her head, shaking and shaking, making everything sound muffled and far, far away.
He slows as she comes down, shuddering and gasping for breath, her body relaxing like she's broken inside, like everything broke inside. Lighter with his tongue, licking everywhere but at her clit, until he's just breathing against her, harsh and heavy, as he pulls his fingers out.
She forces herself to open her eyes when he stands up, forces herself to blink and focus, and the second she does, she just wants to close them again. Because his hair is all messed up, his chest heaving and his face flushed, his mouth bruise red and so wet, glistening shiny with spit and her. Because he's got her all over his face.
"Turn over," he says, breathing hard and wiping at his mouth, licking at his mouth, looking about ready to break as he steps back. "Over the trunk."
Her legs are weak, that deep bone shudder from coming, and her pussy feels raw and wet and sensitive, but she lowers herself down and turns, manages somehow not to fall down. Bare feet on the grass, warm metal against her belly, her breasts all squashed up underneath her. She lays her palms flat, stretching her fingers out until it hurts, and looks over her shoulder at him.
"This how you want it?"
"Shit," he chokes out, and his hands fumble like he can't get his jeans undone fast enough.
His cock is thick and so hard, bigger than two fingers for sure, and he stares down at it and strokes himself a few times, thumb swiping over the head with each go, belly hitching with each go. Just looking at him do it makes her gut twist, makes her want to touch herself or rub her thighs together, at least. She looks away, closing her eyes and licking at her mouth, and she wants suddenly to suck him, to get down on her knees right there and taste him, feel the pressure on her tongue and between her lips, wants to make him come just as hard as he did her. She wants suddenly and wishes that she had. She wants suddenly and tells herself that even if she has to tie him up, she will.
She might just tie him up anyway.
He steps up and presses his mouth to the back of her shoulder, one hand squeezing her hip and pulling her back, nudging her into a better position, getting her to spread her feet and arch her back for him. There's a sound like spitting and then his fingers wet, rubbing over her hole, before the thick hardness of his cock is pushing against her, into her.
For a second, it doesn't hurt, doesn't sting, but then it does, it does. She tenses up, shaking her head and pressing her forehead to the trunk lid, squeezing her eyes shut and biting down on the inside of her cheek, a tightness in her chest making it hard to breathe as he pulls back.
"Shh, it's okay. You just gotta relax for me," he says, mumble tumble out of his mouth and his hips hitching forward. "Come on, baby, come on."
So she does. She sucks in a breath and forces herself to relax, let him in, pushing back and gasping hard with every little slip further, deeper. He rubs a hand up and down her back, squeeze and release on her shoulder, as his breath stutters out of him, muttering, "That's it, yeah, that's so good."
His hips press against her ass and he groans softly, almost like he can't even believe it, both his hands slipping down to her hips. She tries to breathe normally, tries to slow the catching little pants, but can't seem to manage it, can't seem to get a hold on herself. He pulls back slow, then pushes back in slower, back and back and back and back, smooth slide of cock until he's moaning and flexing his fingers against her hips, until she's moaning and pushing her fist against her mouth, her fingers against her mouth, and her knees are shaking.
It makes her eyes roll back every time he pushes in, every time he pulls out, every time he moves at all, and she breathes against her fingers until they're wet from the heat of her harsh breaths. Until he tilts his hips, snapping them forward and back and forward and back, and she can just barely make out the slap of skin on skin underneath the sound of their mingled voices, sharp and loud and guttural like there's a murder being committed.
She pushes herself up, her arms shaking, her shoulders shaking, and her breath panting out hard and fast. The barest shift in the angle makes her shudder and moan loud, her hands clenching into tight fists as her hips rock back to meet his.
His left arm curls around her, pulling her up tight against him, chest to back. His hand cups her breast, squeezing, his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple, too hard to feel great but too hard not to feel good at the same time. That amulet he wears pressed tight between them digs into her spine.
She reaches back, grabbing at his thigh, squeezing and rubbing, pulling him in harder, then slips back to his ass. He moans against her ear, his hips snapping forward faster, harder, until she's going up on her toes with each thrust, until her breath is slamming up out of her.
His jeans rub against her calves where they've slipped down his legs to pool at his feet and he mouths at her shoulder, her neck, licking and sucking, not careful at all, not caring at all. She turns her head, tilts her head until he's kissing the side of her face, his wet mouth dragging open over her skin. She can smell herself on his face and it makes her groan, makes her ache, and she pushes back on his cock hard, hard enough to make him whine in the back of his throat, hard enough to make his perfect rhythm falter.
His right hand slips off her hip, slides shaky down her belly to rub at clit, flat press of fingers moving in hard circles, good but not quite good enough so she knocks his hand away and replaces it with her own. Her shoulders jerk as she touches herself, hunching up and curling in, her lips pressed together and her breathing loud out of her nose, her other hand pressed so hard against the trunk her fingernails go white. He groans out and presses his fingers to the back of her hand and then slipping further down, further between her thighs, so when he slips his hand up her stomach, his fingertips drag her own wetness over her skin.
One hand flat against her stomach and the other holding her breast, his arm squeezing so tight to her chest, so tight she can hardly breathe, and he's not even trying to move anymore, just holding on as he lets his hips go on automatic. His mouth open against her shoulder, panting and panting as his hips move tighter, tighter. Until they're not moving at all anymore, until they're just pushed up hard against her, snapped forward and stuck there, and he's moaning and shaking against her, coming inside her.
She moans deep down in her chest, her hips pressing back and her hand moving like a blur between her legs, her jaw clenched tight. Her head fills up with images, rush of everything and nothing all at once. Dean's smile and sticks flying through the air like a tornado, sad little dead boys who just want to play and the sun glinting bright as the Impala comes into view between the trees. Knifes and guns, the shimmer of her reflection in the back window right before Dean kissed her, circles scratched out in the forest floor and missing bones. Dean's head between her thighs and his fingers flipping pages in his dad's journal, playing pool and sitting in Mr Butler's science class with an alien, Sam's crutches leaning up against the jukebox and the toes of his big ass foot sticking out of his cast all dirty and gross. Ash's stupid haircut and goofy drunk grin and too big brain, her mom wiping down glasses at the bar and laughing as her dad mutters something in her ear. Roy's Bigfoot dancing with his baby elephant niece as the Wheel of Fortune spins wild and loose.
Four years.
Four years.
For years.
Her orgasm twists and twists and twists and snaps, shooting through and swaying her forward. She groans, her hand on the trunk slipping up, and Dean's moan shakes right through her body.
They just stay like that for a while, breathing hard but breathing at all. He shudders again every few minutes, his teeth clacking together where his jaw shakes, and she flexes her fingers against the trunk. When he finally pulls out, she can't help but make a face at the way it feels, sticky and more than gross, and she thinks that as much as she'd like to keep the smell of his skin on her, she can't wait to take a shower. He makes a soft sound like a cross between a cough and a hiss and she doesn't know why but it makes her want to laugh, just makes her want to laugh so hard.
She feels lazy and loose-limbed as she pulls her clothes back on, a little bit drunk even though she hasn't had a drink since they left the roadhouse three days earlier. She doesn't even bother with her bra, just pulls her shirt over her head, tugging it down over her stomach as she turns around to him doing the same. She tries not to smirk when his eyes drop to her chest, her nipples still hard and nothing but obvious through the thin fabric.
Tries, doesn't succeed.
"You are something else, you know that?" He says, shaking his head and grinning this lazy, fucked out grin when he notices her expression, when he finally tears his eyes away from her tits and manages to look at her face. His hand reaches out, his fingers grazing over the inside of her arm, and he steps up closer.
She licks at her bottom lip, just a flash of tongue, and looks up at him, tilting her head to the side and slipping one hand up his chest. "Yeah, I do know, actually."
end.
Author: exitsign (girlcalledjane @ yahoo.com)
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Pairing: Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC17
Summary: Four years they've known each other and never once has anything happened between them. 4778 words. (2/04/07)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: Feedback (general or con-crit) is always welcome.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: FEMALE/MALE. GRAPHIC SEX. HET ANAL OMG HOW IS IT POSSIBLE. UNPROTECTED SEX. THE GREAT OUTDOORS. COMMAS.
Author's note: For carleton97 on the eighth night day whatever of leahmas because she agreed with me that Dean and Jo having hot ass sex would be pretty much the hottest shit in the history of ever. I find it funny that this pops my "posting het porn!" cherry. I mean, funny in a really hot way. Like, a having trouble breathing sort of way.
- - - -
His fingers slip up her back as his mouth works at her neck, it's just a quick twist and a tug before her bra comes loose but the sound it makes seems to echo in her head. She shrugs her shoulders, letting the fabric slip down her arms and off, whisper soft where he lets it fall to the ground.
There's no good reason for him to be here. She's been going on her own now long enough for it to get almost boring most days, she's set in her ways and used to working by herself, she doesn't even like having other people around on jobs. By all rights, he should be back at the roadhouse with Sam and his busted leg. By all rights, it should have been another year and a half before she saw either of them again.
She'd only stopped off to wash some clothes and get something to eat that didn't come wrapped in cellophane, she hadn't even known that they were there.
It'd been three days when she got the call from Roy Baker about these woods in Tennessee that he'd read about on the internet. Every year for the past twenty-six at least two or three children go missing in the same area. Every year and nobody can ever find even a hair. Every year and it's like they just wander off and disappear.
Roy'd said it was definitely a Bigfoot that snatched them up but Roy also believes that aliens have nothing better to do than experiment on cattle and Pat Sajak controls the wheel with his mind.
"Why don't you check it out yourself?" She'd said, half-laughing, more than a little bit drunk. "You can be the one to finally prove them scientists wrong."
"Ah, hell, I'd already be gone if I could," he'd said, his voice gone a grumbling whisper in her ear. "Charlotte says she'll leave me again if I don't go to her niece's goddamn ballet recital this weekend. The kid's the size of a baby elephant, I told her, what kind of fucking ballet can she even do?"
She'd agreed because she hadn't had anything better to do, agreed to go check it out and to remember his name when she became famous for catching the first ever Bigfoot.
It'd been Ash who'd suggested Dean come with her, take a break from shuffling around under foot, bored out of his mind for something to do while Sam was laid up. Meddling shithead had said it right there in front of God and everybody so there was no way she could've just pretended it hadn't been said and sneak out the back.
"I guess you can come with me," she'd said, refusing to kick up a fuss even though she'd wanted to. "I'll even let you drive us."
He'd almost said no, she'd seen it in his eyes, in the twist of his mouth, but then Sam'd thrown a balled up napkin at his head and said, "God, please take him with you. Before somebody has to kill him."
So they'd climbed into his car and driven sixteen hours straight through to find that it was the ghost of a little boy, gotten lost playing hide-and-seek and died from exposure, that was luring other kids away and not, in fact, Roy's missing link after all.
Surprise, surprise.
You can't burn bones if they've been dragged off to the ends of world by every kind of scavenger on four legs so they'd had to do it the hard way, the drawing symbols in the dirt with a stick and an assload of Latin way. It'd taken nearly an hour of dodging nasty, sharp-ended bits of wood that little Michael Dempsey sent flying through the air at them, chanting the same text over and over again, to finally get the kid to give up and go on his way. Go on to whatever it is that you get when you die.
In the end, it hadn't been anything special, no harder or more complicated than anything she'd done a thousand times before, so she's not sure how it all added up to this. To brushing themselves off and packing up, hiking back down old trail, long since grown over, where Dean had parked and tossing their shit in the trunk. To not even being surprised when Dean pushed her up against the car and kissed her, leaning into him and opening her mouth to his tongue, twisting her hands in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. To letting him lift her up to sit on the back of his precious car, wrapping her legs around his hips and squeezing her hands on his biceps as his hands had pushed under her shirt. To the lust coiling way down in her belly as his hands had rubbed over her skin, fingers firm and callused tracing each of her ribs, warm palms cupping her breasts through the fabric of her bra and working her nipples hard.
She's not sure how nothing special added up to all this but she doesn't really give a shit either.
Because adrenaline still working through her system and whatever little bit of power wrapped up in those three paragraphs makes it easy not to care. Because she can still feel the rush of fear like a punch to the gut every time she pictures each of those near misses that'd almost had them both looking like barbecue kabobs. Because the first time she'd set eyes on him and every time since for years and years, four years and years, she'd thought, goddamn, that's pretty man.
Four years they've known each other and never once has anything happened between them.
Four goddamn years.
His mouth slides down her neck, sucking hard at her collarbone and biting at the top of her breast, licking hot across her skin to her nipple, tongue and teeth making her groan. He squeezes at her other breast, hard and rough, and she drags her fingers through his short hair, pulling his mouth closer, then slides her hand down his naked back as she arches her spine.
She leans back hard on her hand behind her, clenched up in a white-knuckled fist and pressing against the sun-warmed metal of the trunk top. She stares down at him and, like he could feel the attention, he looks up at her, pulling back just far enough to blow across her spit wet skin, making her shiver. She bites her lip as he takes her nipple back in his mouth, fast slip of tongue and graze of teeth before he pulls back again. His hand replaces his lips as he mouths his way across her chest, dragging his teeth over the strangely sensitive skin at the middle of her chest and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her other breast.
He trails his hand down her side and around her hip, squeezing tight for a second before sliding between her thighs. The side of his hand, knuckle of his thumb, rubs hard at the seam of her jeans, rubs at her pussy through the fabric. Her hips buck, pushing against his hand, and she squeezes his shoulder, digging her fingernails into his skin. She barely even recognizes her own voice, so rough and desperate, when she mumbles out, "Yeah. Yeah, god."
His fingers work at the buttons of her jeans, one, two, three, and then his hand is pushing in. They're too tight, though, or his hand is too big, and she wiggles and shoves, lifting her hips up and jostling him away as she pushes her jeans and panties down to her thighs.
There's probably something really wrong with her that she gets a rush from having her bare ass on his car.
She's wet, ready and wanting, has been for a while now, and his fingers slide against her easily. They both moan at the first touch and she has to put both palms to the trunk behind her, canting her hips as his fingertips slip up and down, edging forward and trying to spread her legs wider even though her shoved-down jeans makes it impossible.
He leans in, a low sound in the back of his throat, pressing his face to her throat, his free hand pressing flat to the trunk beside her, and she can't seem to keep her eyes open. His hand twists, his thumb rubbing at her clit making her knees jerk reflexively, making her shudder, making her lift her hips and push down, making it even better when he pushes two fingers right up inside her.
It's slow at first, gentle and over-careful, but he gets the hint when she half-growls and pushes down on his hand. Slow turns quick and gentle turns harsh, merciless, his fingers twisting and curling, until he's fucking her with them and she can't keep herself quiet.
"Jesus Christ," he says, his voice strained, rough, and his fingers working in and out of her. "Oh, fuck, I hate to say it, but I think we're gonna have to finish this back at the motel. I don't have any condoms on me. I'm clean but... You on the pill?"
The motel's a twenty-five minute drive. Twenty-five minutes to wait, twenty-five minutes to reconsider.
"No," she says, tipping her head back and rocking her hips. "But there's other things."
For a second, his breath seems to hitch but nothing else happens, but then his fingers pull out of her pussy, slide out and slide back easy. Her breath rushes out, catches in her throat, as his fingers connect, slipping around and around her hole.
"Yeah," she says, breathes, nodding her head, nodding and nodding, his mouth wet against her skin, his breath so hot when he groans.
He leans up and kisses her hard then, deep and dirty, his other hand coming up to grip the back of her neck as their teeth clack together, and it's like a bolt of excitement surges through him and into her. She blinks hard as he drags his mouth away and lets him push her back, arching up with a hiss when her shoulder blades hit the sun-hot metal.
He yanks at her boots and socks, pulls off her jeans and panties all twisted up together, until she doesn't have anything more than a couple left-over bruises to cover her skin. Until she's lying naked on the trunk of his car, his most precious possession, his baby.
She can't help wondering how many times he's jerked off to this kind of thought.
"It's been a while since I've been with a real blonde," he says, licking quick at his bottom lip and staring down at her like she's on display, his hands squeezing her knees.
"Great, looks like you'll have something to write about it in your diary tonight," she says, the words harsh but her voice giving away more than she'd like.
He laughs, short and low in the back of his throat, and his hands slide up to her thighs, pushing her legs open, spreading her and holding her there. His thumbs drag over where thigh meets body, up and down drag pressure and tension. He moves in, leaning in, until she can feel his breath on her, soft and shaky, and she stares up at the trees overhead. Until she doesn't, can't, because his mouth is on her pussy, his tongue wet and licking up, and she has to close her eyes, squeezing them tight and biting her lip when she hears herself gasp.
There's something to be said for a guy who can eat a girl out like he's starving and she's a blue plate special, she thinks. Somehow it's surprising but not surprising at the same time that Dean just happens to be one of those guys.
He's a tease, licking her up all over but skipping right over where she really wants it, winding her up tight like a bowstring and making her whine and pull at his hair. He uses his whole mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until she squirms and shakes. He groans against her, pulling back and breathing hard, mumbling and mumbling oh, fuck, you taste so good as his arms wrap around her thighs, his fingers digging into her skin. And then he leans back in, gets right back to it.
The first touch of his tongue to her clit makes her jerk, makes her twist and lift her hips to his mouth. Slippery slide around and around, switching between hard licks with the flat of his tongue and teasing sharper pressure with just the tip. Until she can't tell the difference because it all feels so good, so unreal, and she can't even think.
She covers her eyes with her wrist and chews at her bottom lip, biting and biting, trying to keep herself quiet. Her other hand clenches and unclenches against her thigh, wanting to grab his hair again, to pull until it hurts because he's killing her, but forcing herself not to. She gasps stupidly loud when his arm lets loose of her thigh to slip up her arm, grazing over the inside of her elbow and then back down again, his fingers slipping over her wrist like he's feeling her pulse before he shifts around just enough to suck them into mouth.
His wet fingertips slip around her hole like a tease then go firmer, rubbing circles tighter and tighter until it's just pressure, just pushing, until he's pushing one inside. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat that seems to shake right through her and she counters with one of her own, the long slow slide of it making her eyes roll back behind her eyelids. It's like little sparks up her spine, like a tiny fire for each vertebra, and she slams both palms down flat against the trunk lid, arching up, pushing down.
His knuckles brush against her with each push, harder and at a different angle each time, twisting in and out until it's not like individual movements but one single motion, smooth and intense. He sucks at his teeth up against her clit, hint of tongue in the space between top and bottom and his lips all wet pressed full, and both together are almost too much to bear. She hears herself whine, this high crying kind of sound that drags up out of her mouth before she can stop it.
She can't stop it.
Her back slides against the trunk, sweaty skin slick on metal as she twists, rolling her shoulders. Her palms slip over her own skin, shaking along her thighs, her stomach, her breasts and her throat, her fingernails drag and the scratching sting makes her gasp and roll her hips. Her mouth is wet, licked and bitten, and she can feel it moving but can barely think to make out the words, can barely even hear them over the rushing of her blood in her ears, the pounding of her own heart.
He pulls back, his mouth off her and his hand gone, and she nearly comes off the car. She reaches down, grasping blindly for him, desperate, and her voice cracks right down the middle when she chokes out, "No, don't stop."
"Oh, babydoll, I'm not," he says, his mouth so close she can feel his bottom lip drag over her skin. He nudges with his mouth, like some kind of fucked up kiss, and then his tongue is pushing inside her, warm and slippery wet, and two slick fingers are pushing into her ass.
The stretch of it makes the groan catch in her throat, makes her breath catch, her skin tingling all over, and she twists her head to the side, gasping loud, groaning louder. She rocks her hips, her toes crossed and her heels pushing down on the edge of the trunk, knees jerking shut and spreading wide open, convulsive and uncontrollable. The wet noises from his mouth, his fingers, the harsh sound of his breath through his nose, and her own voice all twist up together in her ears, seem impossibly loud in the quiet of the woods, out of place but perfectly placed at the same time.
Her head tosses back and forth, rubbing hard for some kind of distraction. Her hands scrambling and sliding to find purchase until she manages to hook her fingers over the crack at the top of the trunk lid, clutching at it like a lifeline, her arms flexing, going taut, like if her hands slipped loose she'd slip forever.
The whole world is narrowed down to his fingers in her ass and his mouth on her pussy. To his tongue pushing up inside her, going in time with his fingers, in and out, in and out, like he's fucking her both ways, like he's trying to make her fall apart.
On and on, pleasure building, pressure building, making her blind to everything else, until she can't feel her hands, can't feel her feet, can't feel anything but Dean. His mouth and his breath, his fingers on her, in her, his shoulders where they bump against her legs and his hair scratching at the insides of her thighs. His tongue drags up her pussy to her clit, making her shudder and jerk, making her cry out, her breath hitching like sobs. His face pushes hard between her thighs, his head moving sharp and jerky side to side and his fingers going just as quick, just as hard, unrelenting.
She bucks up as she comes, her eyes rolling back and her voice dragging up from of her chest sounding like her throat's full of gravel, pushing down on his fingers and up against his face. He just rides it out, lips and tongue and teeth against her clit, twisting his fingers deeper as her muscles pulse. It doesn't wash over her so much as hit her from behind and throw her to the ground, her elbows squeeze hard at the sides of her head, shaking and shaking, making everything sound muffled and far, far away.
He slows as she comes down, shuddering and gasping for breath, her body relaxing like she's broken inside, like everything broke inside. Lighter with his tongue, licking everywhere but at her clit, until he's just breathing against her, harsh and heavy, as he pulls his fingers out.
She forces herself to open her eyes when he stands up, forces herself to blink and focus, and the second she does, she just wants to close them again. Because his hair is all messed up, his chest heaving and his face flushed, his mouth bruise red and so wet, glistening shiny with spit and her. Because he's got her all over his face.
"Turn over," he says, breathing hard and wiping at his mouth, licking at his mouth, looking about ready to break as he steps back. "Over the trunk."
Her legs are weak, that deep bone shudder from coming, and her pussy feels raw and wet and sensitive, but she lowers herself down and turns, manages somehow not to fall down. Bare feet on the grass, warm metal against her belly, her breasts all squashed up underneath her. She lays her palms flat, stretching her fingers out until it hurts, and looks over her shoulder at him.
"This how you want it?"
"Shit," he chokes out, and his hands fumble like he can't get his jeans undone fast enough.
His cock is thick and so hard, bigger than two fingers for sure, and he stares down at it and strokes himself a few times, thumb swiping over the head with each go, belly hitching with each go. Just looking at him do it makes her gut twist, makes her want to touch herself or rub her thighs together, at least. She looks away, closing her eyes and licking at her mouth, and she wants suddenly to suck him, to get down on her knees right there and taste him, feel the pressure on her tongue and between her lips, wants to make him come just as hard as he did her. She wants suddenly and wishes that she had. She wants suddenly and tells herself that even if she has to tie him up, she will.
She might just tie him up anyway.
He steps up and presses his mouth to the back of her shoulder, one hand squeezing her hip and pulling her back, nudging her into a better position, getting her to spread her feet and arch her back for him. There's a sound like spitting and then his fingers wet, rubbing over her hole, before the thick hardness of his cock is pushing against her, into her.
For a second, it doesn't hurt, doesn't sting, but then it does, it does. She tenses up, shaking her head and pressing her forehead to the trunk lid, squeezing her eyes shut and biting down on the inside of her cheek, a tightness in her chest making it hard to breathe as he pulls back.
"Shh, it's okay. You just gotta relax for me," he says, mumble tumble out of his mouth and his hips hitching forward. "Come on, baby, come on."
So she does. She sucks in a breath and forces herself to relax, let him in, pushing back and gasping hard with every little slip further, deeper. He rubs a hand up and down her back, squeeze and release on her shoulder, as his breath stutters out of him, muttering, "That's it, yeah, that's so good."
His hips press against her ass and he groans softly, almost like he can't even believe it, both his hands slipping down to her hips. She tries to breathe normally, tries to slow the catching little pants, but can't seem to manage it, can't seem to get a hold on herself. He pulls back slow, then pushes back in slower, back and back and back and back, smooth slide of cock until he's moaning and flexing his fingers against her hips, until she's moaning and pushing her fist against her mouth, her fingers against her mouth, and her knees are shaking.
It makes her eyes roll back every time he pushes in, every time he pulls out, every time he moves at all, and she breathes against her fingers until they're wet from the heat of her harsh breaths. Until he tilts his hips, snapping them forward and back and forward and back, and she can just barely make out the slap of skin on skin underneath the sound of their mingled voices, sharp and loud and guttural like there's a murder being committed.
She pushes herself up, her arms shaking, her shoulders shaking, and her breath panting out hard and fast. The barest shift in the angle makes her shudder and moan loud, her hands clenching into tight fists as her hips rock back to meet his.
His left arm curls around her, pulling her up tight against him, chest to back. His hand cups her breast, squeezing, his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple, too hard to feel great but too hard not to feel good at the same time. That amulet he wears pressed tight between them digs into her spine.
She reaches back, grabbing at his thigh, squeezing and rubbing, pulling him in harder, then slips back to his ass. He moans against her ear, his hips snapping forward faster, harder, until she's going up on her toes with each thrust, until her breath is slamming up out of her.
His jeans rub against her calves where they've slipped down his legs to pool at his feet and he mouths at her shoulder, her neck, licking and sucking, not careful at all, not caring at all. She turns her head, tilts her head until he's kissing the side of her face, his wet mouth dragging open over her skin. She can smell herself on his face and it makes her groan, makes her ache, and she pushes back on his cock hard, hard enough to make him whine in the back of his throat, hard enough to make his perfect rhythm falter.
His right hand slips off her hip, slides shaky down her belly to rub at clit, flat press of fingers moving in hard circles, good but not quite good enough so she knocks his hand away and replaces it with her own. Her shoulders jerk as she touches herself, hunching up and curling in, her lips pressed together and her breathing loud out of her nose, her other hand pressed so hard against the trunk her fingernails go white. He groans out and presses his fingers to the back of her hand and then slipping further down, further between her thighs, so when he slips his hand up her stomach, his fingertips drag her own wetness over her skin.
One hand flat against her stomach and the other holding her breast, his arm squeezing so tight to her chest, so tight she can hardly breathe, and he's not even trying to move anymore, just holding on as he lets his hips go on automatic. His mouth open against her shoulder, panting and panting as his hips move tighter, tighter. Until they're not moving at all anymore, until they're just pushed up hard against her, snapped forward and stuck there, and he's moaning and shaking against her, coming inside her.
She moans deep down in her chest, her hips pressing back and her hand moving like a blur between her legs, her jaw clenched tight. Her head fills up with images, rush of everything and nothing all at once. Dean's smile and sticks flying through the air like a tornado, sad little dead boys who just want to play and the sun glinting bright as the Impala comes into view between the trees. Knifes and guns, the shimmer of her reflection in the back window right before Dean kissed her, circles scratched out in the forest floor and missing bones. Dean's head between her thighs and his fingers flipping pages in his dad's journal, playing pool and sitting in Mr Butler's science class with an alien, Sam's crutches leaning up against the jukebox and the toes of his big ass foot sticking out of his cast all dirty and gross. Ash's stupid haircut and goofy drunk grin and too big brain, her mom wiping down glasses at the bar and laughing as her dad mutters something in her ear. Roy's Bigfoot dancing with his baby elephant niece as the Wheel of Fortune spins wild and loose.
Four years.
Four years.
For years.
Her orgasm twists and twists and twists and snaps, shooting through and swaying her forward. She groans, her hand on the trunk slipping up, and Dean's moan shakes right through her body.
They just stay like that for a while, breathing hard but breathing at all. He shudders again every few minutes, his teeth clacking together where his jaw shakes, and she flexes her fingers against the trunk. When he finally pulls out, she can't help but make a face at the way it feels, sticky and more than gross, and she thinks that as much as she'd like to keep the smell of his skin on her, she can't wait to take a shower. He makes a soft sound like a cross between a cough and a hiss and she doesn't know why but it makes her want to laugh, just makes her want to laugh so hard.
She feels lazy and loose-limbed as she pulls her clothes back on, a little bit drunk even though she hasn't had a drink since they left the roadhouse three days earlier. She doesn't even bother with her bra, just pulls her shirt over her head, tugging it down over her stomach as she turns around to him doing the same. She tries not to smirk when his eyes drop to her chest, her nipples still hard and nothing but obvious through the thin fabric.
Tries, doesn't succeed.
"You are something else, you know that?" He says, shaking his head and grinning this lazy, fucked out grin when he notices her expression, when he finally tears his eyes away from her tits and manages to look at her face. His hand reaches out, his fingers grazing over the inside of her arm, and he steps up closer.
She licks at her bottom lip, just a flash of tongue, and looks up at him, tilting her head to the side and slipping one hand up his chest. "Yeah, I do know, actually."
end.