|Where the midnight twins and twines us
Author: elanurel PM
Nothing said 'Merry Freaking Christmas' like the grin on Sam's face when the Meeks' front door whipped open, its wreath of holly and mistletoe replaced by the smell of spaghetti sauce and a chick wearing bunny slippers. Adult content. COMPLETERated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Drama - Dean W. - Words: 3,964 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 3 - Published: 01-11-10 - Status: Complete - id: 5660490
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When the midnight twins and twines us
Nothing said 'Merry Freaking Christmas' like the grin on Sam's face when the Meeks' front door whipped open, its chipped white paint and its wreath of holly and mistletoe replaced by the smell of spaghetti sauce and a chick wearing bunny slippers.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.
Rating: M (Sexual Situations)
A/N: Written for ohownovel as part of the spn_het_love Holiday Fic Exchange.
Beta(s): The ever-fabulous embroiderama and the equally lovely quirkies.
His boots crunched against the snow, enough cold in the air to make his fingers ache right along with the throb in his left leg as he hitched his duffel over his shoulder.
It was bad enough that he was limping, shuffling up the porch steps until goddamn Sam barreled past him and knocked Dean into the railing. That was fucking fantastic – nothing said 'you screwed the pooch with that werewolf, Dean' like realizing the only thing keeping you steady was your dad's hand on your elbow. And nothing said 'Merry Freaking Christmas' like watching the grin on Sam's face when the Meeks' front door whipped open, its chipped white paint and its wreath of holly and mistletoe replaced by the smell of spaghetti sauce and a chick wearing bunny slippers.
"Mama's just put the garlic bread in," she said.
Her eyes found Dean's face and she smiled, stretching her arms over her head long enough for a thin stripe of bare skin to play hide and seek between her frayed hem and her elastic waistband; lowering her arms when he finally smiled back. Didn't matter whether Alice Meeks was dressed in faded blue long johns or a bright yellow sundress or nothing but the sheen of sweat, her hips bucking while his fingers slipped into the wet between her thighs fast enough for her breath to hitch.
That damn lopsided grin of hers was always a dare.
The pathetic little piece of mistletoe hanging off the ceiling on the way into the living room wasn't exactly fooling anybody.
Not that he wasn't above taking her up on the offer.
The only thing keeping his mouth from her skin was some threadbare cotton covered in fucking snowflakes and two lumps of fake fur with whiskers. Those slippers drove him fucking crazy, made him want to touch the soles of her feet with his tongue just to watch her squirm. Made him want to do a lot of things just to watch her cheeks flush and her tangled hair spread underneath her as she arched her back, fists grabbing the pale yellow afghan covered with stars that she threw onto her bed every time it snowed.
Kissing her underneath some herb that smelled like ass on Christmas Eve wasn't the dumbest thing he had ever done when it came to Alice Meeks.
He wasn't living down that whole midnight picnic thing as long as his little brother was still able to talk, not after the little fucker found them sneaking back into the house with her wearing nothing but the blanket and Dean carrying a basket full of their clothes and the empty pie plate. Had to listen to Sam go on about how 'grass stains are a really good look for you' and 'the twigs made your hair look more manly, no, I mean it' during breakfast until Dad got pissed and made them scrap cars for three weeks at Bobby's.
He set the duffel on the ground and squared his shoulders. Nothing like facing the target head-on, even with Sam standing on the stairs gawking at the whole damn thing. He took one step towards the living room – but Dad got there first.
Right when Mrs. Meeks stepped out of the kitchen.
It shouldn't have bothered him, watching her slight arms snake around Dad's neck before Mrs. Meeks stood up on the tips of her toes to return the kiss as Dad bent his head towards hers. Couldn't even remember the number of times he'd seen the same thing, whether it was in the foyer or out on the back porch; the nights he heard the soft sounds coming out of the room where Dad would hole up with Mrs. Meeks when a hunt went south. Never begrudged it, either.
But it should have always been a different woman standing underneath a sprig of mistletoe with Dad on Christmas Eve.
Alice slipped underneath Dean's arm.
"Papa loved putting up the mistletoe," she said softly. "He'd chase Mama around the house until she let him catch her and I used to wish I'd find someone who'd kiss me like that when I was old enough." Alice scratched slow circles onto Dean's back, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder while they watched their parents make out.
The ache in Dean's throat only got worse when Dad suddenly pulled back and glanced at him with a different kind of dare in his eyes than the one Alice Meeks was always flashing at Dean when no one else was looking. But Alice's arms came around Dean's waist as she twisted to look up at him. "I'm guessing your mama loved her mistletoe as much as my papa did," she whispered, leaving a kiss on Dean's cheek before she sank back down to her heels. "Now let's go see to that leg of yours."
"There's nothing wrong with my leg."
It was his own damn fault, shuffling around like some reject from Night of the Living Dead. Should have pulled the damn trigger faster, when the hairy little bitch was square in his sights – before that hairy little bitch shifted backwards onto its hind legs, the only warning it gave before it jumped and he was laying flat on his ass with the damn thing trying to break through his jeans with its teeth.
"And there's nothing wrong with my eyes," she snapped.
"It's just a bruise, Sweet Pea." He snorted. "So don't go thinking you're gonna slather me up with some goo that smells like pee just so you can sneak a peek at my ass."
"You're gonna be the death of me, Dean Winchester. It's not like I sent some thing after you just 'cause I wanted to look at your ass." Her breath came out in a huff and she glared up at him. "And my salve doesn't smell like pee."
Her mouth twisted, full lips that needed to be sucked until they were pink and swollen.
The only thing to do was push her backwards against the wall, staggering into her as he pinned her in place, and slam his mouth down on hers. She tasted like cinnamon and apples when her tongue slipped between his lips, tart and sweet at the same time, and he didn't care that Dad started coughing when her legs came up around his waist and Mrs. Meeks' soft voice was so far away he couldn't hear a damn word she was saying because Alice tightened her arms around his neck and hitched herself up just enough for her tits to push up in all the right places.
Never liked spaghetti all that much anyway.
She slipped his jeans past his ankles with a small smile and threw them onto his duffel bag.
They landed on top of his leather jacket and slid onto his boots, water already pooling around the small pile from the melting snow. Wouldn't even let him stretch out on the bed until he took his shoes off, muttering that 'Granny's afghan is fifty years old and Mama'll have me making nothing but candles for weeks if we dirty it up' while her fingers worked quickly on the knots, but she dropped a kiss on his ankle when she slid off one of his socks. Trailed one finger across the pad of his foot, a small itch that made him shudder in spite of himself – staring up at the goddamn twinkling lights she had looped across the ceiling.
He sucked in a breath, waiting for the tale-tell stench of her mother's favorite goo. He had lost track of the number of times Mrs. Meeks said crap like 'if it tastes good, you'll want medicine all the time' and 'it won't work right if I just put in the herbs that smell good' whenever she pulled out her rickety basket full of home remedies that she kept in the kitchen. Hadn't expected anything but the same acrid smell when Alice popped the lid on her jar.
But the smell of peppermint filled the room, coiling up in the corners where the rose incense that she loved so much hadn't quite reached yet. He watched her curl her fingers into the jar and pull out a glistening handful, warming it with her breath and her skin before her fingers gently examined the bruise; smooth strokes that soothed the muscle as much as anything could, her knuckles pressing past the ache.
"It didn't have all of its teeth," she whispered.
"It was old. Probably woulda killed me otherwise. Shoulda ripped through my jeans and hit the femoral artery."
"You want to know something, Dean Winchester?" She didn't wait for his answer, just continued to work the muscle while he leaned up on his elbows. "You don't know jack about making a girl feel better, what with showing off the teeth marks on your leg and going on about dying."
"You're the one who took off my pants," he snapped. "Told you my leg was fine."
"Not like I wouldn't have seen it, anyway," she retorted. "Unless you were planning on screwing me with your clothes on."
He snorted. "You're pretty damn sure of yourself, Alice Meeks."
She lowered her eyes, looking up at him from underneath her lashes, and traced the length of his dick with one finger. "There's this little thing called women's intuition," she said. His cock strained against his boxer shorts – should've been skin on skin instead of another layer of cotton between them. "Even I got a little bit of it," she added, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts before her lips were touching his hip bone.
'A butterfly kiss,' she called them.
Damn girl was still wearing too many clothes.
He waited until she wasn't watching, intent on rubbing the salve deep into the bruise, wincing when his breath came out in a sharp hiss. He brought his mouth up, lips finding a nipple hidden underneath the threadbare fabric of her shirt. He tongued it, using his teeth until it pebbled against the cotton and he had something big enough to suck. The only thing keeping her from toppling over were her hands, wrapped around the wrought iron of the headboard on either side of his head – and she was squirming against him when the fabric was good and wet, her hair falling around her shoulders while she bit her lip.
Took her long enough to tug the shirt over her head.
Only an idiot would have said 'more than a mouthful's wasted' with Alice Meeks sprawled across his thighs. She made tiny keening noises deep in her throat every time the rough pads of his fingers grazed crinkling skin, her body quivering when he sucked. There wasn't much he liked better than to see her nipples red and shiny from his mouth, knowing he was the one making her body jerk using his lips and his fingers. Made her come just by biting down hard enough and flicking her nipple with his tongue, her tits heavy in his hands.
But that was nothing compared to the way she tasted when his tongue was deep in her pussy and her hips were rocking, little gasps of 'Dean' spilling out into the room while her hands grabbed the back of his head. She was salt and musk and the memory of that first night she snuck into his bed and broke against his mouth, when the windows were covered with the same spider webs of ice and the moon reflected off the snow bright enough to be morning.
She whimpered when he snuck a finger up into her pussy, another rock of her hips as his tongue licked the length of her slit, his nose brushing the downy hairs in the cleft between her thighs as he made her body hum – could feel her muscles tighten around his knuckles when he encircled her clit with his lips and sucked. Could have stayed there for hours, lost in the push and pull of each small swell, the tart and the sweet of Alice Meeks rolling over his tongue as she undulated against him. Could have stayed there for hours just listening to her mewl and cry out his name and beg him with a 'please' she kept repeating until he finally let her go, until she finally spasmed against his mouth and sank back against the comforter – all shiny thighs and short, sharp breaths.
"Dean," she managed.
"Ho fucking ho," he said softly.
Didn't give her a chance to do anything but moan, holding her legs down with his elbows while he teased her clit; soft enough to have her body twitching in spite of itself, her pulse arcing through his tongue when she started murmuring his name all over again.
She had a way of seeing into the truth of things, finding secrets every time her fingertips touched bruised skin, calling out to the ghosts best kept in the dark every time her tongue traced the length of a new scar. There was no place to hide when it was just the two of them, her hand spread across his belly while she whispered secrets of her own into the crook of his neck. She would laugh and she would sigh and sometimes she would scratch when his thumb made lazy circles around a nipple, crinkled skin giving way to another mystery when her mouth opened up underneath his.
She didn't stop kissing him until she was following a scar down his chest, courtesy of that goddamn boo hag back in North Carolina. Her mouth stopped when she reached the thick white lines across his belly, taking them in slow. He could still feel her tremble just from spreading her fingers across the marks the first time she saw them; the smallest twitch in her fingers and something sad in her eyes that made Alice Meeks look like her mother.
He sucked in a breath when she licked the crease between his hip and his thigh, waiting for the heat of her mouth around his dick; feeling the curve of her tongue as she brought the head past her lips and found the small hole with the tip of her tongue.
Dean's eyes shot open.
That was something new.
Something she had learned from someone else.
His throat ached, a ragged groan ripping its way past his lips. Always knew there wasn't much he could give her but cold comfort in the end, just the wish that a part of him could stay. He hadn't even been giving that much to other girls in small towns and smaller rooms, thrusting into them knowing that the only promise he could give was leaving. Thrusting into them wishing he could smell the rain in their hair or feel the scratch of their heels against his thighs, see the splash of freckles across their noses or kiss their lopsided grins.
It wasn't like he could give the girl jack. He didn't have much, just the crap he could stuff into a duffel bag and the tapes he kept in the car. It wasn't fair expecting her to do something besides live her life without pining away for him, even if Alice Meeks was the girl who stole the one thing he couldn't keep – stumbling into her mother's kitchen carrying two baskets of berries that she had picked just for him, covered to Hell and back in scratches just so she could bake him a goddamn pie.
Dean didn't realize he was tugging her hair until she winced, his dick popping out of her mouth. "That hurts," she whispered. He tilted her head until she was looking at him, his fist still tight in her hair, and he wondered which one of them was shaking harder. She bit her lip. "Do you trust me?" she asked.
The only thing to do was nod and let go.
She kissed her way back to his mouth, straddling his thighs. She lifted herself up, guiding his cock to the mouth of her pussy and sinking down slowly, inch by inch, and the only thing between them was the slick and the wet; their pulses making a rhythm that, oh shit, was going to make him come. Managed to thumb her clit, tiny circles while she swelled around his dick and, Godfuckingdamn, every shiver made its way down deep into his belly until he was slipping and sliding out of her and she was digging her nails into his shoulders and, Christ, it felt too fucking good not to grab her hips while she thrashed above him.
He only let go when her head dropped and her breathing slowed down.
"Jesus," he managed. "Jesus fuck, Sweet Pea."
"Me, neither." He swallowed. "Always wanted to..."
That didn't make him sound like the world's biggest pussy or anything, watching the sparkle from the freaking lights catch the shine in her eyes. He grinned up at her like an idiot when she smiled because the only promise he needed was her mouth coming down on top of his.
Should have known she'd have her own sprig of mistletoe just laying around on her nightstand, three tiny branches tied together with a white ribbon twisted into an intricate knot that wrapped itself around the stems.
He marked a trail between her tits and down to her belly, bright green leaves following the lines of blue veins underneath pale skin until he reached the swell and went back up a different way. He took his time, watching her twitch and listening to her murmur something under her breath about 'not wanting to wake up when it's still full dark outside' even though they both knew the light flickering outside her bedroom curtains was more than just the moon reflecting off the snow. Couldn't keep from snorting when she finally snatched the small bundle from his hand and opened one eye.
"Don't want you sleeping all day, Sweet Pea. You might miss something important." He kissed her shoulder as she twisted out from underneath him, a tangle of her hair sliding across his chest. He could hear noises from the kitchen, his father's deep laugh and her mother's sing-song voice and the sizzle of sausage in Mrs. Meeks' cast-iron skillet; could hear the low thrum of the water in the bathroom across the hall. "Sam's already got first dibs on the shower," he added.
"Last time I checked, we're not exactly fair when it comes to sharing hot water."
"That's 'cause chicks who look like wet cocker spaniels are fucking hot."
"Jackass," she hissed.
But Alice smiled, leaning over him with the mistletoe in one hand, and suddenly brought her lips down to his. She sighed into his mouth, soft and sweet as she caught his grin with another kiss, before falling onto her side – marking her own line down his arm until she was tickling his wrist. The sprig dropped onto the rumpled sheets between them, her fingers lacing through his as she blushed.
"What..." He scratched underneath his ear. "What do the hicks around here do for Christmas?"
"We bake raccoon pies when we're not screwing our cousins." She squeezed his hand. "What kinda fool question is that?"
"I've never spent Christmas with hicks," he retorted. "Can't blame me for being curious."
"I can't speak for the rest of us hicks but I made a promise I intend to keep and you're gonna help me."
She nodded. "We're meeting Barbara Jean and her baby brother at Weatherly Hill after breakfast." Her mouth started nipping at his neck and, even if he had been one of those idiots in the chick flicks that Sam was always watching because 'there's nothing else on TV, shut up, there's not,' Dean still would've been embarrassed by the fact that he freaking shivered when her teeth did something to the hollow of his neck that was probably illegal. She grinned against his collar bone. "Promised Michael I'd go sledding with him today," she said. "And I need someone there to help me drag the sleds up the hill."
"You're keeping me around as cheap manual labor?"
"Well, I'm making Sam carry the basket with the hot cocoa and sugar cookies," she murmured, licking a stripe up his jaw line. The mistletoe jabbed into his hip as he rolled onto his back, her fingers wrapping around his cock. She slipped her thumb across the head, falling across his thighs with another kiss that had him groaning. Blue eyes narrowed as she touched his cheek, a hiccup in her voice that she didn't try to hide. "I don't have much of a choice when it comes to you. Never did once..."
Her voice trailed off and she looked away.
There wasn't a way to say 'no' after that, not with the way she trembled when his tongue plucked a sigh out of her. If she asked him, he'd follow her with a shovel and a scarf just so Alice Meeks could make goddamn Frosty the Snow Man.
But he was drawing the line at fucking snow angels.
The title of this story is song lyric from "Shadows Tumble" by Jeffrey Foucault.
When I saw my prompt and my recipient, there was only one pairing I wanted to write for her. Specifically, the prompt was: I'd like Dean, in love, at Christmas. I don't care what you do with that, I just want him to be happy for once. Don't take that to mean a lot of schmoop, I just want him sexin' the girl he loves 'cause it's Christmas and he's taking a night off.
I did a horrible job masking my identity, between Jeffrey Foucault, mentioning the Meeks in my summary and turning this in later than anyone else. On the plus side, this means that I can say: This story takes place between Chapter Five and Chapter Six of Your Sorrow for Another Coin – but I hope it was accessible to folks who haven't read the larger 'verse in which this story is set.
I played a little bit with the voice in this one, too. Not sure if I like it but there it is...
Special thanks to embroiderama, who went above and beyond for this story – nursing it through two particularly bad rounds of chemotherapy and constant neuropathy, all the while making me feel like I wasn't a failure for not making the deadline.