The Sex She Slipped Into My Coffee


I don't ask if I can borrow the Impala. I know better, and it's just easier for everyone involved not to have to sit through half an hour of Dean mouthing off all the reasons why, all the possible ramifications, and horrifying scenarios where the thing most important to him in the world – I'll let you take one guess, and no, it's not me, or Sammy – gets beaten up, trashed, and possibly dies. He gets so into it in moments like that, that I find myself wondering if he comes up with these rants in his spare time. I can see him in the back of my head – when he's gesticulating in front of me, going on and on about my horrible lack of driving skills – sitting there with a pad of paper and a pen, scribbling plans in his bold, thick scrawl, drawing smiley faces in the margins, with arrows pointing to the arguments he finds particularly smart, and he feels he should congratulate himself on. It always makes me smirk. Yeah, maybe he does that, or maybe he's just had too much practice denying Sam the car. Considering the boy's track record, I can't blame him. Dilapidated haunted houses and fucking huge semis just seem to leap out at the youngest Winchester.

I usually end up walking instead – and when the coffee shop is about two minutes away, anyway, it's not like its any hardship. Well, okay, it wouldn't be for a normal person, one that does not regress to zombie mode in the mornings, one who can function without her daily dosage of caffeine.

I roll out of the bed from under his arm, and thunk to the floor, groaning. Jesus. Lever myself up using the side of the bed, eyes still half closed, lethargy pulled over my limbs like a tonne of weight on my shoulders. I always thought gravity was against me; in the mornings my suspicions were just confirmed. It was too warm, and I was too heavy, and my whole body was screaming for coffee in a way that could not be denied. Looking down at Dean's sleeping figure, I debated poking him awake – just for my own sadistic pleasure, and to tell him I was going out. In the end I left off, and just pulled on my boots, his worn, brown leather jacket, and stepped outside with Dean's wallet clenched in my fist.

Ah, fucking COLD! I yelled in my head, shuddering in the freezing morning air – it was 'oh hell no' o'clock, from my calculations – and started jogging to the Starbucks down the street, legs prickling all over with goosebumps. I was only wearing my sleeping shorts on them; a pair of blue, clingy cotton things that barely reached halfway down my thighs. And I was lucky if I even got to sleep in that much; usually it was far more convenient to sleep naked. Very naked. Next to Dean.


At least those thoughts were a guaranteed way to way me warm up a little, I thought, and had to grin. Flushing a bit, my mind flung itself into thinking about all the times he'd cursed and thrown my sleepwear, and my, er, 'unmentionables', across the room, waking up to find see them dangling from the antenna of the coin-slot TV. That's if we located it before Sam and Sharika came in, coughed, and pointed them out, carefully not looking at either of us.

Good times.

Finally I was there, waiting in line behind half a dozen other people for my much needed cup of Joe, jigging from foot to foot to keep myself standing, and wanting to fall asleep again. The floor looked pretty comfortable, if I tilted my head a bit to the left, and squinted my eyes. But then people would probably try and poke me awake, with straws, or maybe the plastic spoons, and what would be the point? I wouldn't get to sleep properly. Besides, I could smell it now; dark, rich, broad and smooth through the air, seeping heat right into me at the mere reflection of its familiar taste.

Kind of like thinking about the way Dean sucked on my collarbone, every time like clockwork, when he was sliding in for a second round.

My eyes darted around the room, nervous, as though checking that no one here could read minds, and see the images on still repeat in my head. Clutching hands and the rough slide of motel sheets beneath skin, the slicker one of skin on skin, and the heated friction created between. Slow bites and licks at mouths. The smell of clean sweat and the taste of his earlobe, sucked in and tugged gently, to induce him to emit that low moan, and grind against me. The roll of hips and the shift of back muscles under palms. Heartbeat drumming loud, entwining with the sound of his breathing, faster, faster, faster, until we reach the edge and jump over, fall, together.

Before I realised I was standing in front of the serving counter, and the girl there was giving me a bored look, waiting with her notepad and pen, eyebrow raised in mute questioning. "Uh, hi –" I said, and gave her my order, paid.

"Thanks. If you'll just take a seat, we'll call you back in a minute," she said, in a voice as bland as her facial features, and waved me over to the cluster of tables in the middle of the room. I voted to stand nearby instead, knowing that if I sat I'd definitely slip into sleep, and then where would we be? So I pilfered sugar packets from the self-serve areas instead, foregoing the milk, because – just, no – and picking up two spoons as an afterthought, one to chew on while I waited, the other to actually stir the coffees with. Stopped myself from thinking about more sex with Dean, and the possibility of me getting any this morning, in exchange for his cup of caffeine. I probably wouldn't even have to hand it over; but it was nice to pretend we had some dignity and restraint left, anyway. Even if it wasn't true, and if we were alone we'd probably have sex anywhere in the world, at any time. Probably even if we weren't alone, and the other people around didn't mind. Best not to think about that. It leads to sinful thoughts of collective voyeurism, public bathroom shagging, and looser ones about the sounds he makes when he comes.

"Lauren. Lauren?"

"Oh, right," I muttered, and went over to collect the cups, sticking the sugar packets into the pockets of his jacket, and the un-gnawed spoon, keeping the other in my mouth as I reached for the cups. Left the Starbucks and made my way up the street, slower than before because I couldn't josh the liquid around, risk spilling it over my hands – or worse, onto the concrete. I need it, damnit. Couldn't lose any of it. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Kept my hands as steady as possible in my state – half asleep, with my instincts rousing and growling and sniffing and howling 'coffee, coffee Goddamnit' – and was tucking one over-warm cup into the crook of my elbow, getting my keys out and picking the right one – the one that actually opened the motel door – up with my teeth, switching the spoon's position with my tongue, before opening the door. Tried not to think about all the germs on it, all the previous unwashed hands that must have touched the metal, and locked the door again once I was inside.

Shrugged out of his jacket, toed off my boots, stumbled over to Dean, and put the cardboard cups down on the bedside drawer, heat condensation already running down the sides, the scent permeating the air and making my mouth water. Or maybe that was just Dean, sill sleeping, lips parted and sheets down around his bare waist, winding around his legs.

It wasn't fair for him to have such delicious looking skin. Seriously, that all that tanned, lightly furred expanse of golden hide ought to be banned – and probably was in several countries. Nipples perked from the cold air that had marked my entrance back into the room, big, widespread hands sitting deceptively peaceful on the bedcovers. Eyelashes brushing over sharp cheekbones. I didn't start thinking about all the warm, taut muscles, and how he growled deep in his throat when I bit his hipbone, didn't start thinking about the way his back arched up, when I licked, right there.

No, not at all. Instead, I just poked him in his side, and when I blinked was underneath him. And he'd slept naked last night.

He grinned down at me, hair all mussed and spiky, sleep in the corner of his left eye, eyebrow quirked, and rolled his hips against mine. Jesus Christ. "Dean…" I said, trying not to sound as breathless as I felt, and probably failing miserably. He reached between us, shoved the sheet to the side, bringing our bodies into contact. "I brought coffee?"

"Mmmmmhm…" he muttered, ignoring the statement completely, and licked my neck right under the ear, and I was shuddering, spreading my legs at the insistence of his thigh before I my brain had had time to think it through a little. "Don't want coffee. Want you." Barely coherent, husky mumbles against my neck, and he was hitching my shirt up with his palms, sticking his head underneath, and hey, I wasn't a total idiot – no bra. Slow, wet, heated stripes of his tongue over the quivering flesh of my abdomen, and the last vestiges of – hey… but coffee, damnit – were sliding out of me.

I moaned something like 'nnndea' into the air, and he was pulling the shirt off my head, kissing me finally, slick, nibbling kisses on my lower lip, and a quick swipe on the top one, before diving right in, melting me into the mattress like he hadn't just woken up and had, instead, been planning this seduction. Which he probably had. I clenched my hands around his biceps, thrust my hips up, practically begging for it, but he wasn't going to make it that easy for me, was he? Oh no, the bastard wanted drawn out, fucking god yes, all morning sex, didn't he? Sometimes I think it's well within the bounds of rationality for me to hate him – and then he does something like bite the straining tendons of my neck, kisses the soreness with his sinful, wicked, ohgodyesrightthere mouth, and goes back to worshipping my breasts so – oh yeah, I fucking love that asshole. Love him. And hate him. Probably.

He's making it slow, and peaceful, the kind of sex that definitely-not-morning-but-definitely-still-horny-anyway people have, the romantic type that people with time have, and my body is straining against his, wanting, needy, more, more, more – but he won't let me rub against him, get that which I so crave, because he's holding me down with those hateful – oh – oh – yes – yes – Dean, yes – hands, and he's using his physical advantage unfairly on me – there – right there – please – please you fucker, harder – and he won't give me what I want, torturing me languorously instead, smooth, eternal strokes of the twin agonies of his hands and mouth against my flesh, shorts gone, finally, mouth right there. "Dean – Dean –" I'm gasping, and he knows I'm coming, and he just keeps on drawing it out, until it's crashing down on me like the hugest fucking wave, and I'm drowning in the sweet-pleasure sensation, carried so far off I think my mind's blown a few thousand fuses. Before I come back down he's sliding into me, and that makes me jerk up, tighten around him even more, muscles clenching involuntarily, instinctively around him. Rock my hips up to feel it, toss my hair out of my face so I can see his hazel green eyes glazing, eyelashes fluttering half way closed, lips red and open and wet.

"Oh fuck yeah," he says in reaction, snaps into me again, and we're in rhythm now, riding it out together, my head thrashing on the pillow, his body curved over me, hips working, bending down to place sloppy, open mouthed kisses on my mouth and neck, my breasts, bouncing and brushing against his chest every movement, saying things like, "Come on baby, just like that," whispering and panting into my ear, never stopping – don't stop – don't stop – harder, yeah, come on – fuck – fuck – Dean, Dean – come on – "Yeah, yeah."

And I fist one hand in his hair, crash his mouth harder against mine, grip the meat of his thigh to try and thrust him in harder, quicker, more, more – and my nails scrape the skin, leaving red lines, I'm sure, scratches, mine, mine, and he's groaning, throwing his head back to bare the vulnerable line of his neck, and I reach up and latch my mouth on the place where it meets his shoulder, suck hard, and he's coming, losing the rhythm and just thrusting crazily, and this lack of control – he wants me this much, look at him, look at him – sends me after him, second time that morning.

We lay there, and I watch the ceiling, passing my hands over the sweaty muscles of his back, soothing the nail marks with tender fingertips, kiss his shoulder softly, the purple-red bruise that gives evidence to our dual possession, infatuation. Breaths evening out, and he said, "So, better than coffee?"

"Uh," I said, as he moved his head up from next to mine to look down at me, smug-satisfied, and sure, the little bitch. I glanced over at the cups next to the bed, their rings of condensation, and took note of the fact that they were no longer emitting steam. Should have drunk it before I came back here, I thought. Huffed. "That would have to be a definite… no."

And to our mutual satisfaction, he spent the rest of the morning proving me wrong.


AN: For Neha, because I was asked so prettily. I hope this is alright? If it wasn't what you wanted, sorry, but this just bit me – yes I know, I use that excuse a lot, lol – and when I got your request this is what came out. Porny-mushy-morning sex. Feedback is still my favourite breakfast food. After all, I'm not lucky enough to get access to unlimited Winchester. More's the pity.

Ps, I disclaim Supernatural, the Winchesters, and also the song The Sun by Maroon Five, which is where the title comes from. Mwah.