Feb. 28th, 2008 01:19 pm
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Beta: mgbutterfly did this for me. Further proof (as though I needed it) that she is completely awesome.
Summary: Ellen pegs Dean. The end.
Author's Note: So, remember how I said I wasn't writing SPN fic anymore? Yeah? Well, realpestilence reminded me that I was being a little bitch and needed to write this. So I did. What do you mean, peer pressure? Also? I've been out of this fandom for awhile. Where are we posting het now?
Dean is bad at more things than he likes to think about, good at lots of things that no one will ever know about, and a veritable god at all the important things. Like poker. He learned how to play at eight years old, on his daddy's knee with a bunch of John's war buddies sitting around the table, smoking and drinking like the world was ending.
The game is one of the earliest things Dean remembers learning. The memories are all tangled up with the first time he loaded a shot gun, put a sharp edge on a knife, salted the windows and doors. It's important, the same way everything else about hunting is important, and so Dean had practiced and worked at it until he was every bit as good at betting and bluffing as he was at shooting and killing.
Now, Dean grins across at Ellen. She's leaning back in her chair, cards in one hand, bottle of beer in the other. There's something about the absent way she's stroking her thumb up and down the neck of the bottle that snags Dean's attention for a half second, before he jerks himself back to the task at hand.
Dean drawls, "So now that the kids are gone, how about we make this a real game?"
Ellen smirks back, eyes cutting sideways to Sam and Jo's abandoned chairs. Dean had always known that Sammy couldn't bluff for shit and Jo just had no head for the game. They hadn't lasted very long before they'd been cleaned out. Jo had disappeared off to sleep, and Sam to go find out if Ash had anything for them yet.
Ellen takes a drink of her beer before answering, "Anything special you had in mind?"
Dean leans back, tries on his best charming smile for size, and decides what the hell, he might as well go for it, "I was thinking we could make this a win-win hand. If I win, you'll let me take you upstairs and put you to bed."
Dean mostly figures that she'll laugh, smack him, and tell him to ante up. Flirting is second nature, and Ellen is a gorgeous woman, but he doesn't think she'd ever take him up on the offer. He's surprised by the way her eyes go sharp and considering, the way she slides her gaze across his shoulders and chest. Contemplative is not a look he's ever seen on Ellen's face before. It's one he wouldn't mind seeing more often.
Ellen's voice is low, smoky, "You saying you want to fuck me, Dean Winchester?"
Dean raises his eyebrows at her, "I was going to doll it up a little bit." Ellen grins, shaking her head and taking a long drink of her beer. Dean echoes the movement, keeping his eyes on her face, the way her throat works. He doesn't think she'll agree, not for a second, but that's not going to stop him from looking.
Ellen sets her bottle down hard on the table, meets his eyes, "Sounds like a bet. You win, you fuck me, I win, I fuck you."
Dean turns that one over in his head for a moment, because his first instinct is to roll his eyes and point out that's the same thing. But Ellen doesn't waste words, and she says what she means. Dean shifts in his seat, and considers calling off the entire thing because he's never really liked that. But he's not chicken shit, and she's not going to win anyway. He leans across the table and clinks the neck of his bottle against hers, and lays his cards down on the table.
Ellen gets up, circles around the table to him and leans down, her voice a low rasp in his ear as she flattens her cards on the table over his, "Your ass is mine, Winchester."
Ellen smacks Dean on the ass and tells him to go make himself comfortable in her room. Dean rolls his eyes and tells her that really, his way would have been much more fun for everyone involved. And then goes upstairs and kicks off his boots because he's a lot of things, but he's not a man who tries to get out of his debts.
By the time Ellen steps into the room Dean has his shirt and socks off, and is working on his jeans. Ellen pauses in the doorway, her eyes dragging across Dean's skin, and he straightens a little, lets her look her fill. She's got a box tucked under her arm and Dean knows what's in it, and tries not to be disappointed.
He'd had a rough couple of weeks, everything that possibly could go wrong feels like it has. Some fun would have been nice, a relief, but this... This has never been fun. The few times Dean had let anyone stick anything inside him it's been awkward and uncomfortable. Not painful. Just not his idea of a good time, either.
That doesn't mean he won't take it like a man. Dean smirks at Ellen, still standing in the doorway, "Fucking works better when you're closer."
Ellen snorts, but steps in and closes the door. She raises one eyebrow, "Also works better naked." She casts a pointed look at his jeans and Dean grins, shifting his hands and stuffing them in his back pockets.
"So nakedify me." For a second she just stares at him, and Dean smirks back. The box gets tossed onto the bed, and Dean appreciates the fire in her eyes when she stalks up to him and backs him into the wall. She smells like smoke and booze and french fries. Dean thinks that having sex with her might be worth it just for that.
Then her hands are on his fly, tugging his zipper down. She slides her fingers into his belt loops, and tugs. Ellen makes an amused sound at his boxers, all the tiny bottles of Tabasco sauce, and Dean wiggles his hips, sing songs, "Naked."
Ellen's eyes are dark and her mouth curved up into a smile when she looks at him, before she abruptly sobers, "You have any issues I should know about?" Dean blinks, surprised by the question. And then flattered, because he's not sure he's ever had someone ask before. Then again, most people don't know what he does for a living.
Dean shrugs, "I'm easy."
Ellen's lips twitch again, and her fingers are very warm against his skin, curving past the elastic of his boxers. He likes the way her expression brightens when his muscles twitch against her touch, the way she lets out a surprised breath when she finally pushes his boxers low enough that they slide off his thighs.
Her hands aren't tiny, or delicate and pale. They are smaller than his, but every bit as capable, callused and strong. She flattens them against his chest, and he leans forward, presses his face against her hair and tries not to freak at this unexpected gentleness. Her lips are a press of softness and warmth over his shoulder, and he reaches out.
Ellen is wearing too many layers of clothes, and he slides his hands under her flannel over-shirt, traces his fingers up her sides. She's still pressing kisses across his shoulders, and her breath stutters across his skin when he fans his fingers out, thumbs sliding beneath the curve of her breasts. Dean grins into her hair, and rubs his thumbs in tiny circles, just enough to brush over the edge of her bra and then down again.
Dean says, letting his voice go low as it can, "I think you need to be naked, too."
There's no rush or hurry in the way she leans away from him, her fingers dragging off his skin with a slow caress. Her mouth is wet, slick from the kisses she left on his shoulder, and she licks her lips while shrugging out of her over-shirt.
Dean's hands are still on her sides, and he curls his fingers into the fabric of her t-shirt, tugging it up and over her head. Her bra isn't anything fancy, cotton that doesn't look anywhere near as soft as the breasts it's supporting. Her hair is falling across her shoulders, a few strands stuck to her lips, and Dean reaches up, tucks the hair framing her face behind her ears.
When Ellen reaches behind her back, Dean steps away from the wall, catches her arms. She looks up at him, eyebrows raised in question and Dean grins, letting one hand rest on her lower back, walking his fingers up her spine.
Bra removal is one of the skills Dean perfected somewhere around age eleven. He unlatches it carefully, drags his thumb along the imprints the elastic has left in her skin. Ellen makes a soft sound, arching back into his touch while shrugging her shoulders forward, sliding the bra down her arms and letting it fall forgotten to the floor.
Dean slides his hand down, rests both of them at her waist before sliding them up her sides, smirking at her shiver. Her hands catch at his wrists, and for a half second Dean thinks she's going to push him away, but she's only being impatient. Ellen settles his hands over her breasts and then slides her hands up his arms.
Dean loves breasts. Oh, sure, he's got a lot of fondness for legs and asses as well. There's plenty of wonderful things to be said for hands and mouths, too. But breasts are all the proof Dean needs that there is at least some kind of higher power, and that it loves him.
Dean can feel Ellen's heart pounding, and she hums when Dean softens the pressure of his touch, dragging his fingers in what he knows to be damningly teasing patterns. She's tracing his scars, and Dean almost flinches, because maybe he should have mentioned that he does have issues with women who just get off on the imperfections left behind by bullets and blades.
Then she slides a hand down his left side, miraculously uninjured after all these years, spending equal care there, and Dean relaxes. He finally circles closer to her nipples, and is rewarded by a hiss, by her spine curving towards him. It's an invitation Dean doesn't intend on refusing.
Ellen isn't that much shorter than he is, and he ducks, curves over and braces a hand on the small of her back to hold her in place. Her hands are already in his hair, fingers trying to tangle in too short strands as he presses a kiss over her heart.
Her skin is soft and warm, and Dean remembers his stubble before he nuzzles against her. He keeps his kisses as teasing as his touch, until she curves her fingers around the back of his head and drags him where she wants him.
Dean firms the pressure, drags his tongue across the bud of her nipple, sucks and grins when her hands rake up through his hair. When he looks up, all he can catch from the angle is the line of her throat, tipped back, and the flush rising in her skin.
Ellen protests when Dean rocks back, leaning her body towards him, and he rasps out a laugh, pressing a kiss against the soft skin below her breast and finally dropping to his knees. Her stomach is all soft skin stretched over hard muscle. The stretch marks left by the child she carried are smooth under his lips, and Dean traces them until they disappear below the edge of her jeans.
He pops the button on her jeans open, drags the zipper down and tugs them down her legs. Her underwear is every bit as practical as her bra, and Dean leans forward, presses a trail of kisses along the edge of the cotton before pulling them down her thighs.
Dean likes thighs, too, drops kisses all over her skin, working his way towards the juncture of thigh and hip. Ellen's hands catch in his hair, tugging, and she says, "Trying to distract me, Dean?"
Dean knows when he's busted. He looks up at her, grinning, and says, "Is it working?"
Ellen's answer is to roll her eyes and pull on him until he climbs back to his feet. She says, "Get on the bed," and he flops backwards, tucks his arms behind his head, and wiggles his eyebrows at her. She nudges his knees until he pulls them onto the bed as well, sprawled out across her comforter.
Ellen climbs on after him, her breasts loose, moving all kinds of promisingly as she settles between his thighs. She's not looking at him, she's reaching out and opening her box, fishing around inside. Dean clears his throat, the protest he had promised himself he wasn't going to make forcing itself out, "Look, can we just get this part over with as quickly as possible? It doesn't do much for me."
Ellen pauses, turning to look at him. Dean is momentarily distracted by the brush of her hair across the top of her breasts. Her voice snaps him back, low and smug, "Then you've been doing it wrong." Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest. Some people just don't like having things stuck up their asses. He's one of them.
When she resettles between his thighs she's got something in her right hand. Dean would hazard a guess that it's lube, and heaves a defeated sigh. Ellen bends over, nips at his hip and while he's still sputtering with surprise, continues to trail kisses and tiny bites across his stomach.
Her free hand is curling around his cock, and he sighs happily, already mostly hard. There's no teasing in her touch, she knows what she's doing and Dean appreciates and enjoys that. He's so busy enjoying the stroke of her hand over him that he nearly misses the crinkle of a condom wrapper being opened. Nearly. He grunts out, "Worried about giving me something?"
Ellen nips at him again, a brush of teeth that makes all the muscles in his stomach clench. She rolls the condom on without comment, and then her mouth is there, sliding down over him and if he had thought her hand was nice then obviously this is some kind of miracle.
Dean firmly orders himself to just concentrate on this, on the feel of her lips around him and the warm wet heat of her mouth. He ignores the sound of the lube opening, and he ignores with extreme prejudice the slide of her fingers up the inside of his thigh.
Dean only realizes that all the ignoring is doing about as well as not thinking about elephants when she slides the tip of one slick finger inside him. His cock takes the opportunity to decide it wants no part of this. Ellen makes a surprised sound, and the vibrations get a twitch of renewed interest, but not much.
Ellen props herself up on one elbow, blinking up at him, and Dean can feel himself blushing. He clears his throat, "I told you, it doesn't do much for me."
Ellen's expression goes from surprised to determined, "Well, it will." She leans down again, mouthing at his cock, which is more than okay with the attention. Dean can almost forget that she's still got the tip of a finger inside him as long as he doesn't move, and so he makes an effort to be as still as possible.
She then has to ruin his denial by sliding her finger further in. Dean shifts his hips, because it's weird. It doesn't hurt, really, her fingers are tiny, it's not even much of a stretch. But it's uncomfortable. And really fucking bizarre. His cock looses what interest it was regaining, and he wishes that the bed would just swallow him up, because honestly, this is the most embarrassing thing that he can remember happening to him lately.
Ellen pulls off, resting her chin on his thigh, "It's nicer if you relax."
Dean thinks about pointing out that it's kind of hard to relax with a finger up his ass. Or that it'd be much nicer if he could just fuck her. She could top. He's got no problems with that at all. But Dean is pretty sure that all of that would be him being a little bitch, and Dean is a lot of things, but a little bitch he is not.
So instead he makes himself take a deep breath, and makes what he considers a valiant effort to relax. Ellen snorts, and starts kissing at his hip and stomach again, soothing little touches of lips and tongue and teeth. Dean tries to feel a little irritated at being gentled like a virgin on her wedding night, but it's nice.
Ellen slides her finger mostly out of him, before sliding it back in, twisting at the end of the movement. Dean gives up trying to ignore it, and instead tries to figure out if it feels anything besides uncomfortable. It doesn't. There is no magical pleasure. He turns his head to the side and concentrates on not fidgeting.
Ellen keeps up her slow kisses, and the movement of her finger. Dean looses track of time, and startles out of a contemplation of a spot on the far wall to realize that the intrusion doesn't feel as uncomfortable as it had. It's not setting off fireworks behind his eyes or anything, but it doesn't feel completely and totally weird anymore, either.
He feels himself relax, because, okay, if Ellen takes it this slow then maybe the whole thing will feel this way. Just sort of...there. Not good or bad. Dean is pretty sure that he can even get it up with this, and sure enough, when Ellen shifts, her breast pressing into his thigh, he gives a jerk of interest.
Dean can feel the curve of Ellen's smile against his stomach, and the contortions of her finger inside him gets a little more extreme. Dean waits for the uncomfortable tension to come back, but his body has apparently decided to accept the poking. That's a relief, but not half as sweet as Ellen leaning back over him, closing her mouth over his re-interested erection and sucking.
And then she twists her finger, hard, and Dean jerks. He can barely hear the curse that falls off his own lips, surprised and kind of freaked out by the sudden flash of whatever-the-hell that was. Ellen hums around him, managing to sound terribly smug, and does it again.
Dean manages, "Jesus Christ," and is torn between tensing up and trying to get her to stop and letting her go at it. While he's trying to make up his mind she hums again, which should be some kind of illegal move, and slides her finger almost all the way out.
Dean knows what comes next, he's done this before. He braces for the burn of a second finger, for the complete and utter weirdness, worsened by barely-there pain. The burn is there, and he heaves a disappointed sigh right before she pushes and twists her fingers inside him, and has him seeing stars again.
The shock of it makes him forget about the burn, and he reaches down without thinking, petting at her head, trying to steady himself. Dean thinks he can feel her smiling, and she's moving her fingers, opening them inside him and then twisting back to--Christ--rub against his prostate again.
Dean can hear himself, whining in the back of his throat, and when she adds a third finger he doesn't even stop to consider the burn. There's not a thought spared for it being uncomfortable. He still hasn't decided if this is good or not, but it's definitely worth pursuing.
He's surprised by how close he is to coming, all of a sudden. There's pressure building too fast at the base of his spine, and he gasps something mindless, tugs at Ellen's hair. She pulls off him with a dirty pop, her hand wrapping around the base of his cock, squeezing hard.
Ellen's voice is hoarse, "You're not going to come until I'm fucking you, Dean."
Dean has reached a point where he is willing to agree to anything as long as it means getting off. When she slides her fingers out of him, and pushes at his hip, he turns over without protest. He rocks absently against the comforter, listening to her moving around behind him. He can hear the lube snapping open again after a minute, and does not turn to look.
Ellen slides a hand up his spine, her voice still low, "On your knees, come on." Dean thinks this is not how he imagined this going. At all. But he's already pushing up onto his knees, and then letting her push him down a little lower.
Her hand is still sliding up and down his spine, and Dean gets the feeling he's being soothed again. He opens his mouth to point out that he's not exactly a China doll, and then there's something blunt and slick pressing up against his ass and his throat closes off.
Dean is really sure that there's no way things are going to fit together the way they're supposed to. Especially when Ellen shifts forward and the stretch is enough to make him gasp. She's still running her hand up and down his back, and she says, "Relax, Dean. Make you feel so good."
Dean almost laughs, because no. This is not good. This is just weird and a step too close to painful. He's fine with pain. Good with pain. Ask anyone. But there are certain places there isn't supposed to be pain and his ass is one of those places and he grits his teeth and figures it was nice while it lasted.
Ellen makes an impatient sound, mumbles, "Fucking stubborn Winchesters," and presses into him. Dean' is pretty sure it goes on forever. Sliding into him. Any second now he expects it to be poking at the base of his throat, and then it stops. And it's...not as bad as he expected.
Ellen's hands are on his hips, small and strong. He can feel her thighs pressed against his, and he can hear her breathing. She says, "How you doing?"
Dean laughs, and that causes all kinds of weird shifting around the thing in his ass, "That's my line." Ellen squeezes his hips, and apparently takes that as a 'oh, great, continue with the fucking'. She rocks back, and then shifts forward, just tiny little thrusts.
Dean goes with it, letting her do her thing and snakes a hand back, reaching for his cock. It's weird to jack himself with the condom still on, but he's far enough gone that he doesn't care. He sets a rhythm, and Ellen keeps shifting, thrusting shallow and slow.
When she finds what she's looking for Dean knows immediately. His hand jerks, his spine bowing up instinctively. Ellen makes a triumphant sound, pulls almost all the way out and then slides back in, right on target. Dean gasps, hand still around his cock but frozen.
Ellen sounds insufferably smug, "There we go," already speeding up, sliding in and out of him fast but not hard. Dean turns his face into the pillow, surprised by the sounds she's tearing from his chest and more than a little embarrassed, especially when it somehow turns into, "Oh, fuck, harder, c'mon."
Ellen groans, and gives it to him harder. Dean is shifting forward and back on the bed, and he thinks they might very well be slamming into the wall. He doesn't care. Ellen is driving him out of his mind and he regains enough sense to stroke his cock, fast and desperate.
Ellen shudders over him, gasps out, "You can come now," and he does, helpless against it. Ellen collapses across his back, her breasts sliding against his sweat slick skin, her hands jerking along his sides. She's mumbling into his shoulders, her hair tangling between them.
Dean takes a shaky breath, and collapses. He figures that really, he's earned it.
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