Title: Two Fingers

Genre: Dean/Ellen

Words: 575

Rating: PG

Notes: Coda to 5x02. For elanurel, although this probably isn't what you had in mind when you were looking for Dean/Ellen. Hope I don't embarrass myself with this little bit.


The stairs creak as she makes her way down them, stepping carefully in the dim light of a single bulb. The door of the church basement where she had gathered all the townspeople just hours ago is open a little, spilling golden light into the hallway.

"Hey," Dean says when she walks in on him and Johnnie Walker having a private conversation.

"Hey yourself."

He looks half buzzed and worn down by more than the liquor, and their voices echo a little in the empty room. Jo said Sam had hitched a ride out of town, so Ellen reckons that's where the haunted look about his eyes comes from.

She goes to the cot where he'll be spending the night and strips off the bedding that smells like stale fear, and tucks the clean fitted sheet around the mattress. "You did a fine thing out there today," she says. "You and Sam."

He empties his shot glass and plunks it down. "Yeah, me and Sam did fine all right."

She glances over her shoulder at him, but can't tell if he means the words to come out that bitter. She notices that there are two shot glasses in front of him. "You sassin' me, boy?"

"No, ma'am. I'm just drinking."

She feels his eyes on her as she finishes putting the top sheet and blanket on and slipping the clean pillowcase on the deflated pillow, just watching like he doesn't know what to do with himself. She thinks about his upbringing, so hard and male and lacking the little comforts of a home, of a woman's touch.

When she straightens and turns, he's right there, and the space he takes up is large and warm and decidedly, unmistakably male. "Sit with me. Have a pull on the bottle."

She freezes at the sound of his voice, low and unmistakable. She's been around the block a time or two, after all. It's just … well, it's been awhile since she heard a man sound like that around her.

"What are you …?"

He leans down and kisses her, warm luscious press of lips and slide of skillful tongue. She tastes the whiskey, smells its pungent fragrance on his breath. He pauses, pulls away and looks at her, eyes shadowed and lips parted.

She feels a flush rush up her body like heartbreak. She forces the quaver from her voice as she says softly, "Why did you do that?"

"You know why." It's half a whisper, half a plea.

She's always thought of him as a smart ass, too young, too pretty, too much. But that was … before. He seems older now that he's back. Quieter, somehow. And maybe … No. There's Jo to think about. Silly, innocent Jo. And this, well … it's not what he wants. Not really. She hadn't been a bartender for all those years without learning a thing or two about the men who rode the barstools at her joint.

She takes his hand and guides him back to the table, sitting across from him. She fills both shot glasses, and they stare over the tops of the glasses at one another. There's not really anything to say that isn't shining in his eyes. Together, they drink.