(no subject)
But Liquor is Quicker
Supernatural
Dean/Jo; R
1,500 words
A/N: for my Valentine, a few minutes late. From her prompt, which was "candy hearts. Take that in any way you will." Thanks to killerweasel and walkawayslowly for read-through.
Jo's never minded having to close up at night. She prefers it, actually, to opening; the late crowd is more her speed--loud and brash, lousy tippers but they smile easier, longer. They talk to her, and even if the majority of the conversations start out with some variation of What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?, they usually lead somewhere real. She's been hustling hunters and truckers her whole life; she's used to having her ass slapped and eighty-sixing the rowdy drunks who start throwing their beer glasses when they get looked at the wrong way. She can hold her own with the tough crowd, and the only one who was never surprised by that was Jo herself.
The door swings open at ten to two, the bells over the door chiming softly. She doesn't even glance up from the register. "We're closed."
"Door's still unlocked. Think I can get a beer?"
She knows that voice, the leering grin she hears in it. She shoves the cash drawer closed with the heel of her hand, squares her shoulders before she turns.
"Where's the hellspawn?" she asks, going for coy, for playful, and hoping she gets even halfway there. Dean leans his elbows on the bar, his mouth stretching to show the barest flash of white teeth, the tip of his tongue pressing up behind them, and she knows she's good.
"And he thought you might still be mad about that whole possession thing," he deadpans, his gaze sweeping down her neck to her tits, lingering there until she clears her throat.
"You got cash?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not fronting you."
He has the audacity to look offended. "I didn't ask you to," he says, straightening up, and you think she'd know by now how damn skittish he is, for all his macho bullshit.
Jo sighs, wipes her sweaty palms on her apron and grabs his arm. Sure she can hold her own with the drunks, but Dean Winchester? That's another story.
"Draft or bottle?"
*
An hour later she's unlocking the door to her tiny studio, wishing she'd had the foresight to clean it up a little, but she doubts that Dean will much care about her panties on the radiator or the dirty dishes in the sink. He's not here for the scenery. And that's the thing about Winchesters: they blow in and out like storms, no rhyme or reason, totally unpredictable. Leave it to Dean to show up on Valentine's Day, not only empty-handed but probably completely unaware.
His hand is on her waist, cold fingertips stroking underneath her jacket and across the ridge of her hip, his breath warm on her neck. She fronted him the beer after all; they both knew she would. She thinks they probably both knew she'd ask him back here, too, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the girlish corner where she keeps her love of dime-store romance novels and lacy underthings, she hopes this isn't all he came here for.
She doesn't even have time to fumble for the light switch before he's elbowing the door closed, pressing her back against it with the tangling of their feet and the dull thunk of her head against the wood. He's never been especially gentle with her, but then, she's never wanted or expected him to be. She likes that he's grabby, greedy, that he kisses with as much teeth as tongue. She likes his gun-callused hands on her skin, slipping under her sweater and over her tits.
It's six steps to the bed but they make it in four, Jo pushing and Dean pulling, his smile a bright flash in the dark as they shrug out of coats and shirts and step out of their jeans, kicking them across the floor. She loves the smooth muscles of his chest, the little scar near his navel and the faint line of hair that disappears under the waist of his boxers. He palms her ass, his erection resting hot and hard against her belly. His thumb hooks underneath her panties, drags them down an inch over her hip.
"Turn around," he breathes, bites it into her mouth. Her cunt throbs, her legs weak and clumsy. She braces herself against the mattress, fingers curling in the rumpled blankets when he runs his hand down her back, over her ass and between her legs. He nudges her panties aside to rub two thick fingers over her clit before curving them in, corkscrewing them deep.
She moans, long and low and wordless, reaches back to knead his cock through his boxers. His hips hitch and his fingers slip out, smearing across her ass when he pulls her panties down to her knees. There are condoms in her nightstand, but she knows they can't be bothered. She'll worry later, if she has to, but she hasn't had to yet.
His hand slides into her hair, tangles and pulls until her head tips back, his cock slipping hotly through her wet cunt. The head nudges her clit and she moans, her eyes fluttering open, then closed again. "Fuck." Her whole body thrums, like a wire pulled taut and plucked at with deliberately cruel fingers. "Put it in," she pants, shameless and mindless.
He chuckles as he shoves in, hard and to the hilt, a steadying hand on her hip. She clenches around him, so close already, too keyed up by his fingers and the rough drag of his chin along her skin. The bed frame creaks, the headboard knocking against the wall as he fucks into her in short, sharp strokes.
She whimpers, the sound small and high and almost lost under the wet slap of skin on skin, the pounding of her blood in her ears as her orgasm explodes in her belly. She rides out the waves of it, clutching at the sheets and grinding her ass back. She's still catching her breath, gasping open-mouthed against the blanket when he comes with a graceless cry and one last flex of his hips, his teeth pressing fresh bruises into her shoulder. For a second there's no sound, no movement, just his damp breath in her ear and his come slicking her thighs.
He shapes a kiss against the back of her neck as he slips out, unexpectedly tender, and that's the other thing about Winchesters. They're sneaky. She shimmies back into her panties, turns around to sit on the edge of the bed to watch him pull on his jeans. He kisses her mouth, his hand curving over her cheek, and her belly twists, hungry for this, too. But then he steps back, searching around for the rest of his clothes.
"You're leaving." He nods, and her jaw clenches. "Already."
"The hellspawn needs babysitting," he says absently, crouching next to the bed and lifting the edge of the comforter to sweep his hand underneath. "What happened to my other shoe?"
She feels her face grow hot. "You know what's amazing?" she asks. The tremble in her voice is faint, but he looks up, his eyebrow arched. "Sometimes, I think you're almost human. And then I remember that you're a Winchester."
He pushes to his feet, jeans still unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She remembers, then, that he still doesn't know. About his dad, about hers. She doesn't want to be the one to tell him, not like this. She doesn't want to think about it at all right now. "Nothing."
"Fine," he shrugs, pulling on his shirt.
His ambivalence is maddening, and her anger flares up, sudden and blinding. She looks around for something to throw, but the first thing her eyes land on is her dad's knife, and she's too damn good a marksman for that. There's a bag of conversation hearts with cutesy sayings on them on her nightstand, a gift from one of the regulars. Dean's still looking for his lost shoe, oblivious, as she grabs a handful. The first one hits him square in the head.
"What the fuck!" She chucks another one that bounces off his shoulder, and he throws his hands up, blocking his face. "What the hell's the matter with you!"
"Your shoe is by the front door. Get it and get out." She keeps pelting him, unrelenting until he's got the rest of his clothes and both of his shoes in one hand, the other feeling for the doorknob.
"So uh, I'll--"
"Don't you dare say you'll call," she seethes, and this time she does reach for the knife. She won't throw it, her aim's gone unsteady, but the threat's enough. He slams the door behind him, and she flops back on the bed, vision blurry with stupid tears.
"Fuck it," she mutters, swiping at her eyes and popping one of the candy hearts into her mouth. She can still feel him, at her shoulder where his teeth pressed too hard, in the dull ache between her legs and the deeper ache in her chest, where he always lingers.
Supernatural
Dean/Jo; R
1,500 words
A/N: for my Valentine, a few minutes late. From her prompt, which was "candy hearts. Take that in any way you will." Thanks to killerweasel and walkawayslowly for read-through.
Jo's never minded having to close up at night. She prefers it, actually, to opening; the late crowd is more her speed--loud and brash, lousy tippers but they smile easier, longer. They talk to her, and even if the majority of the conversations start out with some variation of What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?, they usually lead somewhere real. She's been hustling hunters and truckers her whole life; she's used to having her ass slapped and eighty-sixing the rowdy drunks who start throwing their beer glasses when they get looked at the wrong way. She can hold her own with the tough crowd, and the only one who was never surprised by that was Jo herself.
The door swings open at ten to two, the bells over the door chiming softly. She doesn't even glance up from the register. "We're closed."
"Door's still unlocked. Think I can get a beer?"
She knows that voice, the leering grin she hears in it. She shoves the cash drawer closed with the heel of her hand, squares her shoulders before she turns.
"Where's the hellspawn?" she asks, going for coy, for playful, and hoping she gets even halfway there. Dean leans his elbows on the bar, his mouth stretching to show the barest flash of white teeth, the tip of his tongue pressing up behind them, and she knows she's good.
"And he thought you might still be mad about that whole possession thing," he deadpans, his gaze sweeping down her neck to her tits, lingering there until she clears her throat.
"You got cash?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not fronting you."
He has the audacity to look offended. "I didn't ask you to," he says, straightening up, and you think she'd know by now how damn skittish he is, for all his macho bullshit.
Jo sighs, wipes her sweaty palms on her apron and grabs his arm. Sure she can hold her own with the drunks, but Dean Winchester? That's another story.
"Draft or bottle?"
*
An hour later she's unlocking the door to her tiny studio, wishing she'd had the foresight to clean it up a little, but she doubts that Dean will much care about her panties on the radiator or the dirty dishes in the sink. He's not here for the scenery. And that's the thing about Winchesters: they blow in and out like storms, no rhyme or reason, totally unpredictable. Leave it to Dean to show up on Valentine's Day, not only empty-handed but probably completely unaware.
His hand is on her waist, cold fingertips stroking underneath her jacket and across the ridge of her hip, his breath warm on her neck. She fronted him the beer after all; they both knew she would. She thinks they probably both knew she'd ask him back here, too, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the girlish corner where she keeps her love of dime-store romance novels and lacy underthings, she hopes this isn't all he came here for.
She doesn't even have time to fumble for the light switch before he's elbowing the door closed, pressing her back against it with the tangling of their feet and the dull thunk of her head against the wood. He's never been especially gentle with her, but then, she's never wanted or expected him to be. She likes that he's grabby, greedy, that he kisses with as much teeth as tongue. She likes his gun-callused hands on her skin, slipping under her sweater and over her tits.
It's six steps to the bed but they make it in four, Jo pushing and Dean pulling, his smile a bright flash in the dark as they shrug out of coats and shirts and step out of their jeans, kicking them across the floor. She loves the smooth muscles of his chest, the little scar near his navel and the faint line of hair that disappears under the waist of his boxers. He palms her ass, his erection resting hot and hard against her belly. His thumb hooks underneath her panties, drags them down an inch over her hip.
"Turn around," he breathes, bites it into her mouth. Her cunt throbs, her legs weak and clumsy. She braces herself against the mattress, fingers curling in the rumpled blankets when he runs his hand down her back, over her ass and between her legs. He nudges her panties aside to rub two thick fingers over her clit before curving them in, corkscrewing them deep.
She moans, long and low and wordless, reaches back to knead his cock through his boxers. His hips hitch and his fingers slip out, smearing across her ass when he pulls her panties down to her knees. There are condoms in her nightstand, but she knows they can't be bothered. She'll worry later, if she has to, but she hasn't had to yet.
His hand slides into her hair, tangles and pulls until her head tips back, his cock slipping hotly through her wet cunt. The head nudges her clit and she moans, her eyes fluttering open, then closed again. "Fuck." Her whole body thrums, like a wire pulled taut and plucked at with deliberately cruel fingers. "Put it in," she pants, shameless and mindless.
He chuckles as he shoves in, hard and to the hilt, a steadying hand on her hip. She clenches around him, so close already, too keyed up by his fingers and the rough drag of his chin along her skin. The bed frame creaks, the headboard knocking against the wall as he fucks into her in short, sharp strokes.
She whimpers, the sound small and high and almost lost under the wet slap of skin on skin, the pounding of her blood in her ears as her orgasm explodes in her belly. She rides out the waves of it, clutching at the sheets and grinding her ass back. She's still catching her breath, gasping open-mouthed against the blanket when he comes with a graceless cry and one last flex of his hips, his teeth pressing fresh bruises into her shoulder. For a second there's no sound, no movement, just his damp breath in her ear and his come slicking her thighs.
He shapes a kiss against the back of her neck as he slips out, unexpectedly tender, and that's the other thing about Winchesters. They're sneaky. She shimmies back into her panties, turns around to sit on the edge of the bed to watch him pull on his jeans. He kisses her mouth, his hand curving over her cheek, and her belly twists, hungry for this, too. But then he steps back, searching around for the rest of his clothes.
"You're leaving." He nods, and her jaw clenches. "Already."
"The hellspawn needs babysitting," he says absently, crouching next to the bed and lifting the edge of the comforter to sweep his hand underneath. "What happened to my other shoe?"
She feels her face grow hot. "You know what's amazing?" she asks. The tremble in her voice is faint, but he looks up, his eyebrow arched. "Sometimes, I think you're almost human. And then I remember that you're a Winchester."
He pushes to his feet, jeans still unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She remembers, then, that he still doesn't know. About his dad, about hers. She doesn't want to be the one to tell him, not like this. She doesn't want to think about it at all right now. "Nothing."
"Fine," he shrugs, pulling on his shirt.
His ambivalence is maddening, and her anger flares up, sudden and blinding. She looks around for something to throw, but the first thing her eyes land on is her dad's knife, and she's too damn good a marksman for that. There's a bag of conversation hearts with cutesy sayings on them on her nightstand, a gift from one of the regulars. Dean's still looking for his lost shoe, oblivious, as she grabs a handful. The first one hits him square in the head.
"What the fuck!" She chucks another one that bounces off his shoulder, and he throws his hands up, blocking his face. "What the hell's the matter with you!"
"Your shoe is by the front door. Get it and get out." She keeps pelting him, unrelenting until he's got the rest of his clothes and both of his shoes in one hand, the other feeling for the doorknob.
"So uh, I'll--"
"Don't you dare say you'll call," she seethes, and this time she does reach for the knife. She won't throw it, her aim's gone unsteady, but the threat's enough. He slams the door behind him, and she flops back on the bed, vision blurry with stupid tears.
"Fuck it," she mutters, swiping at her eyes and popping one of the candy hearts into her mouth. She can still feel him, at her shoulder where his teeth pressed too hard, in the dull ache between her legs and the deeper ache in her chest, where he always lingers.