This little bed can barely hold
She was her mother's daughter as much as he was his father's son.
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 the Celebrations challenge at spn_het_love. Just a little mea culpa for those of you waiting for the next chapter in Your Sorrow for Another Coin. I am, as most of you know, wholly unreprentant about exceeding the word count for the challenge.
Beta(s): csmeig helped put some perspective on the narrative structure and characterization, quirkies cheered me on every day when it seemed like I was going to throw away the towel and embroiderama was once again the calm yin to my angsty yang. Every thing that rocks about this is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me.
She was turning into something he would never understand, with the way her eyes went soft right before she nicked the tip of her index finger with the knife; cocking her head as she watched one drop of blood slide deliberately down the folds in the steel before she wrapped the blade back up in the silk Pastor Jim had given him for a dead woman's dagger.
Nimble fingers tied the cords around the silk, twisting knots into a new pattern that made about as much sense as the one Pastor Jim had shown him after they had sprinkled the silk-wrapped bundle with salt water. Ghosts flickered in her blue eyes while she hummed, looking more like her mother stitching charms into felt bags than the girl who tackled him out near the creek behind her house and force fed him a freaking mud pie. She tucked the knife back into the basket, making room for it underneath the bars of soap and the little packets of lotion and that stupid loofah sponge he had thrown on top as a joke.
When the blood sank into the whorls that marked the blade, there wasn't much to do but swallow past the ache because she was her mother's daughter – casting a spell as easy as breathing, sitting cross-legged on her pink and green comforter. Telling him that a knife with a forged blade of Damascus steel and a hilt carved from bone wasn't made for killing like she was talking about picking berries for one of her goddamn pies.
The girl had grown up full of mysteries, her bare feet taking her someplace that he could never follow, even when she was dragging him behind her out to that old oak tree that she loved so much.
But he could make her quiver just by tangling his fingers in her hair, her whole body trembling from hard kisses that left her lips pink and swollen before he swallowed up her sigh. He could make her blush just by sucking on her finger, enough of the rusty tang underneath the swirl of his tongue to make them both shiver. And he could make her bite her lower lip just by sliding his hand past the elastic of her underwear, fingers finding the wet that was waiting for him underneath the down-covered cleft between her thighs.
Those hips of hers kept on bucking when she tugged his t-shirt out of his jeans, pulling it over his head and throwing it on the floor. A goddamn giggle popped out of her mouth when it landed on the basket handle, both of them grinning at each other before she licked a stripe along his collar bone. She was still giggling into his shoulder while her hands fumbled at his fly, her breath coming out in a moan when she finally started unbuttoning his jeans, his fingers dancing against her as she inched one hand into his boxers.
Her eyes met his when her fingers wrapped around him, a feathery touch that ached.
"You wanna know a secret, Dean Winchester?"
It came out as a whisper, tongue darting out to moisten her lips.
Didn't even wait for his answer - just flicked her thumb across his slick head and leaned in close. "I'm pretty sure that's gonna happen." Another husky whisper that made his own hips buck, pulsing against her palm in time to the blood rushing through his ears. And if there was a secret staring back at him, at least he knew all of the steps.
She wasn't above teasing him when she wanted to, working his breath into a stutter with nothing but her fingers, kissing up his jaw line until he was falling backwards onto her lumpy pillows. And she wasn't above making him suffer, leaving nothing but a throb where her hand had been when she straddled his hips. Gave him a kiss for his troubles, as soft and slow as the first night he found her shivering in his bed, but it was only fair to get some of his own back when he was pressed up into her crotch; rocking until she was moaning and arching her back like a cat with each scratch of his nails down her back.
She hissed when she came, nails leaving half moons in his shoulders.
It was all he could do to lie there as she stretched her arms over her head. The way she looked wasn't legal, not when she was sprawled across his thighs wearing nothing but her kitten-covered underwear and a spray of goose bumps across her belly. And maybe it should have bothered him that he could hear his father's rough voice and her mother's bright laugh somewhere downstairs, the click of the guest room door closing across the hall and shuffling footsteps that could only have been Sam.
But she was dropping another kiss onto his mouth, mapping a trail back down his jaw line.
Her hands brushed slowly down his arms, fingers tracing the length of scars she had already memorized before they discovered the new ones, and her lips found the bruise on his side - a detour before she continued kissing her way down to his belly button with her hair dragging behind her, the soft scratch making him shiver. He lifted his hips when her tongue licked down the crease where his hip met his thigh, her fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans and his boxers. Took her time pulling them down - lips and fingers touching more scars like it was a benediction - but her breath came out in a huff when they caught on his shoes.
"You and your goddamn boots," she muttered.
"Sure as hell not going around this place barefoot." He grinned at her when she frowned, tugging hard on one of the knots before sliding the shoe past his heel. "Your feet are uglier than a trucker's."
He was guessing she left his socks on out of spite.
Never knew a girl who put so much of herself into what she was doing. She was always stumbling into the kitchen carrying two metal buckets full of blueberries with a triumphant grin on her face and more scrapes on her arms and legs than the time Sam fell into the goddamn patch. All those burns she got on her fingers from making candles never stopped her from painstakingly dipping wicks into the wax and smiling when she set them out on the drying rack. Even teasing the hell out of her while she was practicing with her recurve only pissed her off enough to make her plant her feet on the ground and pull back the string like she was going to hit a bulls-eye.
She was lucky if she hit it twice.
And she always made him help her pick up the arrows when he laughed at her. She would glance at him over her shoulder, bending over to snatch arrows from where they were hiding in the tall grass and prancing around with a swish to her hips that made him want to throw her on the ground right then and there, pulling off her goddamn flowery dress and opening her up to the sky out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but his mouth and his fingers.
Had that same look when she put her hands on his thighs and spread them open, laying herself down between them with her legs bent and her feet crossed at the ankles. She licked once up the length of him, breath hot against his skin when she sighed, and his cock was already twitching towards her when she took the tip between her lips. Swirling the head with her tongue before she breathed on the wet she'd left behind, his back arching once just to push up inside her mouth.
The damn girl liked playing games, laying a sloppy kiss on the head before pulling away completely, nails digging into his thighs when she got onto her knees. She used her hair as much as her mouth, letting it brush his belly while her head bobbed. One hand came down, the other trailing up his belly until she slipped a finger between his lips. He sucked on it, first slow then fast; her mouth doing every goddamn thing to him that he was doing to her finger. He ran his teeth down the length of her finger, groaning as her teeth lightly encircled him. Down once, up even more slowly.
"Shit," he managed.
Teeth replaced lips and tongue and she was sucking harder than she ever had before, his hands fisted in her hair while his hips rocked against the bed. The hollows of her cheeks pressed against him and, Jesus, she slid that finger still wet from his mouth down his crack. And, fuck, something hoarse and needy was rolling out of his throat and he was going to come, God, he was going to -
Tugged her head backwards, popping out of her mouth. No way he was going to fucking come until he was screwing her, no matter how much his balls ached - not with the way her hair was falling around her shoulders in tangles and hot little flushes crept up her cheeks. She fell onto her heels, balancing herself with her hands behind her back, and lowered her eyes. He could feel the goose bumps along with her shiver when his hands brushed against her thighs.
He was nowhere near done with her.
"Didn't wanna stop, Dean." Her voice was soft.
"You're the birthday girl, Sweet Pea."
She made a face when he grinned at her. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a yoo-hoo?"
He shifted until his thighs were covering hers. "Yeah, but I'm the yoo-hoo who's gonna get you off."
The way she was leaning backwards pushed her tits up just the way he liked them, close enough for him to dip his mouth down and bring the flat of his tongue across a nipple, skin already crinkling when he came back for a second pass. And it didn't surprise him that her tits were as tan as the rest of her, not that he'd ever caught her dancing naked or anything that wild girls were supposed to do. Even followed her a couple of times when she was taking a blanket out to her oak tree and all she did was lie on her stomach and read a goddamn book.
Probably could have saved himself a hell of a lot of trouble if he'd just pulled the goddamn book out of her hands in the first place but making up for it was half the fun when she was watching him from underneath her eyelashes, her back bending like a bow.
"You're the yoo-hoo who's gonna rip my hair out," she whispered, as tart as one of her lemon meringue pies.
But her fists clenched the comforter when he took a nipple between his teeth, swirling it quickly with his tongue, and her half-smile was a taunt. It was her own damn fault, the way her body stretched, the sweat-slick skin of their thighs brushing against each other. Needed to be taught that she wasn't the only one who liked to play games, that he would tease her with nothing but his mouth until those nipples of hers were wet and red and shiny; still begging to be sucked even when the curve of her neck was close enough to kiss.
They were still begging to be sucked when he slid his hand inside her panties and arched two fingers up into her.
She burrowed her head into the crook of his neck, moaning low into his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms before breathless syllables started pouring out of her mouth. A honey-filled drawl that prickled the hairs underneath his ear, all mixed up with the soft sounds of his fingers diving into the wet between her thighs, the tiny 'oh oh oh' against his shoulder blade when her hips started rocking. Driving his fingers deep until she was spilling out all over his hand, clenching around his knuckles with a salty swell and a cry as rough as the Impala roaring down a back road.
There was nothing to do but slam his mouth down on top of hers when she tilted her head to smile at him. She lifted herself up, arms locked at the elbow around his neck, breasts pushing up into his chest until he pulled away. Until the ache in his side made it fucking hurt to breathe and she was watching him with an answer to a question she never should have known how to ask, one hand spread out across the ragged scar from that freaking wildcat and Sam's half-assed stitches.
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip.
"You wanna know a secret, Alice Meeks?"
Didn't wait for her answer - just laid her down against the comforter and curled his fingers into the elastic waistband of her underwear. "You set yourself up for a shitload of crap going around wearing panties covered with cats. You're just lucky I'm not some asshole looking to make cracks about the pussy on your crotch." She snorted - but she was already lifting her hips, hands touching his as he shimmied her underwear past her knees, shivering when he pressed his lips onto her hipbone.
And the secret staring back at him was the one he already knew, wrapped up in pies and postcards and the stupid little laugh she made every time he opened her legs and kissed the inside of her right thigh.
Sticking around in one place had never been part of the gig, even when they needed to hole up and heal. The times they came closest to putting down roots could be counted on one hand - visits to Pastor Jim whenever they were in Minnesota or stopping off at Bobby Singer's junk yard to pick up supplies and research books. Wasn't used to falling asleep next to a chick no matter how many times he had sweet talked himself into a bed. But something deep always dragged him down when she was curled up next to him, skin glistening from sweat and shining eyes full of another one of those secrets she was hearing whenever she lifted her face to the sky.
Not that he was going to be able to sleep through those goddamn birds chirping outside and something was tickling his fucking nose.
He cracked one eye open when she giggled. She was still curled up on her side, one hand tucked underneath his cheek, but she had pulled a feather from out of somewhere; probably that wooden box she was hiding underneath her bed that he wasn't supposed to know about. She brushed it down his nose, letting loose with a belly laugh when he grabbed her wrist. Laughing even harder when she tried to tickle him and he just rolled her onto her back, pinning her to the mattress.
"Now that's not playing fair," she said, squirming against him. "Using all those hand-to-hand skills your papa taught you when all I've got is a raven feather."
"I'm damn sure not letting you go," he retorted. "You're just gonna spit on your thumb and knock me out cold by touching my forehead."
The only thing that would have made her go limp faster was a knock on the door and her mother's voice on the other side telling them they were being too loud. And as soon as he saw that shadow cross her face, he wished he could take it back - the way she was suddenly biting her lip, looking up at him with a different shine in her eyes.
She sucked in a breath.
"It's not good manners going around knocking out the boy who got you the best birthday present you ever had," she answered finally, wriggling her arms loose and wrapping them around his neck. She wrinkled her nose. "Especially when I'd have to get dressed and go out back to the shed for a two by four 'cause your skull's so thick."
"The best, huh?"
She nodded solemnly.
"No boy's ever stolen cheap motel shampoo for me before. And I'm always gonna treasure that crappy ass loofah sponge as much as the basket."
"I went through hell finding that crappy ass loofah sponge." He snorted. "And you got no idea how fucking hard it is stealing a basket, Sweet Pea."
"That's 'cause I'm not a basket thief."
The sunlight peeking through the lace of her bedroom curtains cast shadows around them as she hitched herself up and kissed his chin. Those shadows couldn't hide the freckles scattered underneath the skin peeling across her nose or the way she smiled at him with the lopsided grin that had been daring him to kiss her for three years running. That goddamn smile never changed no matter how many times the Winchesters blew out of Shelton, leaving nothing but a girl and her mother watching them through the dust.
Every time the Impala barreled through the crossroads off the county road, there wasn't much to do but clench his jaw because he was his father's son - hitting ghosts square in the chest with a shotgun full of rock-salt, stitching up wounds and dousing them with whiskey while his father bled onto a threadbare comforter in a motel room that looked the same in ten different states.
But when she was stretched out underneath him, breathing his name into the curve of his neck, nothing mattered but the way she scratched down his back.
The title of this piece is a song lyric from "I Dream an Old Lover" by Jeffrey Foucault.
And, my apologies. I decided to play with style and narrative voice a little in this one. I know, I'm bad that way.
Lastly, I did my best to tone down the adult content. If you feel more work is required in this regard, please let me know and I will fix it accordingly.