A/N: Good things come to those who wait...and for waiting you get a super long final installment! Thank you for your patience and support!

Warmest (extra/belated) birthday wishes to my favorite Twitter Dean, JerkWinchester! Thank you for letting me know I didn't have to rush. I hope you enjoy having your pie and eating it, too!

Got Twitter? Follow JerkWinchester and BlondeHarvelle to see where I've been getting some of my inspiration. These two are hot, hot, HOT!

Special thanks to ISwearInItalian and stephaniew for being my extra eyes. Michi, you're my favorite fangirl and I adore you! Steph, not entirely sure what I'd do without you...thank you for your unwavering support and willingness to follow my muse along with me...

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Chapter Five: Cherry Pie

The Roadhouse

January 24, 2007

Jo Harvelle prepares to close up shop for the night. She watches her last customers walk toward the door and gives them a little wave as David turns up the collar of his coat and Scarlet tightens her scarf before the pair head out into the chilly Nebraska evening.

Taking off her apron, she rolls the strings around it and tucks it into the little safe under the bar. She smiles at the only remaining person in the room, suddenly glad she'd gone ahead with her plans that afternoon even though she hadn't been sure he'd come.

Dean stares at the amber liquid in the tumbler in front of him in confusion. Something isn't quite right. It's like déjà vu. He feels like he's been here before. And not once.

He jumps when he feels her arms snake around him from behind, sloshing whiskey over the cocktail napkin beneath his glass. Both actions are somehow familiar and he feels as though someone has walked across his grave.

Calloused fingertips slowly graze her arm and he smiles when she shivers at the delicate touch. Usually he's rough, almost abrupt even, so it's almost a surprise. "I think the whiskey's bad, Harvelle," he tells her with a shaky breath. "Been seein' things all night."

Jo chuckles lightly and leans her head against his shoulder. She loves his scent - bourbon, leather and the musk of light aftershave. It surrounds her senses and makes her warm and wet. Then again, maybe it's just his touch.

Reaching for the glass, she sniffs the rim and takes a small sip. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she grimaces in agreement, "Bad whiskey. Why didn't you say something?"

Dean shrugs and turns to face her. "Tasted better than the cheap shit we've been drinkin' at Bobby's," he says, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone.

The whiskey tint of her eyes makes him dizzier than the liquor in the glass and the shirt she's wearing makes his pants tighten. He dips his head down to hers and captures her mouth in a searing kiss as he slides off the stool and pulls her flush against his frame.

Jo leans in closer, longing to melt into him and feel him pulsing inside her. As if on command, his tongue teases between the petals of her lips and brushes against hers. Her knees weaken and she stumbles backward with a soft smile. "We'll get to that," she promises, "Help me put the chairs up?"

Kissing her forehead, he nods before making his way to the back of the bar. He starts putting chairs on the tables, an idea forming in his head. He could use all the little fantasies to his advantage. Glancing at the old jukebox and at Jo, he asks, "Ellen isn't coming back, is she?"

Jo laughs and shakes her head. Together, they say, "Going for pretzels is code."

Dean pops a quarter in and hits the combo for her favorite song. The one he knows she likes to listen to after she dims the lights. He hums along and before either of them realize it, everything is put away and Jo's hand is slipping into his.

"C'mon," she says with a smile as she leads him back toward the kitchen. "I have a surprise for you."

Dean stands at the door as she slips into the darkened room. Whether the Harvelle matriarch is here or not, he's not exactly sure he wants to enter Ellen's territory lest the older woman's radar bring her screaming back to the house.

Jo move around, the pale moonlight streaming in through the kitchen window shimmering over her cornsilk hair, and part of him wants to growl for her to grab a bag so they can blow out of here. Get away from Sam and Ellen for a few days. Screw themselves silly until their bodies ache deliciously from mutual gratification. A bigger part of him thinks what Ellen doesn't know can't possibly get him killed. He gulps, his mind racing. Right?

The sweet scent of cooked fruit and wax call him back to the kitchen and Jo. His eyes widen as he sees the perfect pastry crust, the flaky goodness of the latticework top revealing plump, glazed cherries. His stomach growls. Voice practically childlike, he says, "You made me pie?"

Jo grins and nods up at him, holding the dessert out. "Now blow out the candle, jackass," she teases, "before it's covered in wax."

With an obedient puff of air, they watch as the flame flickers out to leave ghost-like fingers of smoke spiraling between the lovers. Lust creeping into the depths of Dean's gaze, he takes the pie plate and shifts it to the counter. He wants pie, but he wants to kiss the baker more.

His hand slips into her hair roughly and he pulls her to him, lowering his mouth to cover hers and devouring her with frenzied lips and tongue and teeth. He doesn't stop until his lungs burn for air and they're both completely breathless.

Ready to dive in seeking more and wondering how far she'll let him go at the sight of her kiss-swollen mouth, he flicks the light on. He wants to watch her expressions. See the passion in her eyes, her pupils blown with arousal.

Jo takes the pie across the room and pulls a knife from the drawer, all the while trying to slow the quickening beat of her heart. She's opening the cabinet above her, reaching to grab a couple of plates, when a big hand covers hers. She sucks in a breath, her eyes drifting closed at the drugging sound of her name as it escapes his lips, "Jo..."

Reacting to the strong arm snaking around her waist, she leans back against his chest. A soft moan slips from her throat as he pushes her hair out of the way and his hot mouth drags the column of her neck, teeth scraping gently over her skin.

His hands skim her sides, barely touching her breasts as they drop to her hips and then her thighs. Rolling his hips forward as he pulls her back against his frame, he leaves little doubt as to his lecherous intent. "I want you..."

"Pie first," she instructs breathlessly, "birthday sex later..."

Pie and sex. Sex and pie. Having both, did it really matter what order they were in? With a reluctant groan, he gives her the upper hand and takes a seat at the table. It's a struggle to get his breathing and libido under control. He manages to convince himself he's doing a good job...until she joins him at the table.

Jo places a large slice of pie in front of Dean and hands him a fork before sitting in the chair next to him with her own smaller piece. They sit in a companionable silence, the only sounds being the yummy noises Dean makes as he enjoys his gift.

She smiles, absently picking at the crust and grabbing a cherry between her fingers. It's tart and sweet in her mouth and her grin widens. She continues to pick at the pie, unaware he's watching her every move until he grabs her wrist.

Watching Jo pluck fruit from the filling and pop it into her mouth drives him crazy. Seeing her stained fingers, the pink of her tongue caressing her lip pushes him even further. He licks the sticky sweetness from her digits before sucking them into his mouth. A harsh growl escaping him, he mutters, "Mine."

He sweeps her plate out of the way and it shatters at their feet. But he doesn't care and it doesn't seem Jo does either. Not when he lifts her onto the table and forces himself between her thighs. Not when his mouth covers hers. And definitely not when his fingers rub over the front of her panties.

"But -" Jo begins only to gasp as his touch moves beneath the lace barrier. "You haven't finished your pie..."

Dean smiles darkly at the throaty purr she makes when he pumps her with his fingers, the pad of his thumb teasing over the bundle over nerves just above his invasion. "And I'll eat every fucking crumb," he promises, his mouth scalding over her pulse point as he alternates playful nips of his incisors with soothing swipes of his tongue. Shifting his gaze to hers, seeing and feeling the evidence of her own lust, he adds, "Right now I'm hungry for something else."

Jo's hands reach for his belt and she bites her lip. His devilish fingers curl and she fights to maintain eye contact as if it's a game of who will break first. Dean smirks, his smile vanishing as his head drops back when her fingers wrap around his length.

"Mmm," he moans. "You're gonna end this before it starts."

Jo raises an eyebrow, but doesn't slow her touch. Her hand moves over his heated arousal, granite smoothness pulsing in her hand. Tormenting him she demands, "Make me stop then."

That part's easy. He grabs her shirt and tugs it upward. The movement completely distracts her and she hurriedly pushes his button down from his shoulders. They trade article for article - his t-shirt for her bra, shoes flung over shoulders, skirt rucked up as his pants drop to his ankles. He peels her soaked panties down her thighs and she uses her toes to force his boxers down.

Jo leans back on the table and Dean's eyes drift over her like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. He tries to decide what he wants first as she gives him a provocative lick of her lips.

Rough, scarred hands slide up her thighs, parting them further. He shifts her to the edge of the table as he kicks out of his jeans and underwear. But he doesn't enter her. That's exactly what she wants - exactly what she expects - and it's his show.

Instead, his mouth attaches to a puckered nipple and he tugs it sharply with a light graze of his teeth. He massages her thighs with his thumbs as he trails blazing, open mouth kisses over her chest and down her flat stomach. He still doesn't give her what she wants, even as she whimpers and squirms in his grasp.

His mouth works over her ankle and her toned calf, momentarily distracting her from his next move. Hooking an ankle around the leg of a chair, he drags it to him and takes a seat. He torments her, fingers digging into the supple flesh of her thighs as his his tongue lashes at her slick core and he feasts on her.

"You love that, don't you?" he taunts, sucking the tight little bud and making her moan. She doesn't have to answer, he knows she does. It's in the way her fingers comb through his hair. His own probe her in response.

Coming back up to her mouth, letting her feel his desire pressing against her thigh, he feathers a kiss across her parted lips. "Tell me you want me, Jo," he commands. "Tell me you want to feel me inside you."

"No," she fights, her body rippling around his fingers. She knows she can't hold out forever. That he won't let her. His relentless touch and the way he give her everything won't allow her to deny him. "Christo," she chokes out as a toe-curling orgasm washes over her. Gasping, she pants, "You want it, take it, Dean. Take what you know is yours."

Dean falters briefly, cursing himself for not grabbing the condom from his wallet before letting his pants drop. Better not to assume, even when you're assured you're getting lucky.

Chest heaving, Jo pushes the fruit bowl out of the way and grabs the foil packet stashed beneath it. Licking her lips, she drags it down her chest and lays it over her navel. Her eyebrows waggling because she's regained the upper hand, she wraps a calf around his thigh and demands, "What are you waiting for?"

Making quick work of the protection, he mutters under his breath, "God, I love you..." as he positions himself. Tight, wet heat surrounds him and he's consumed by a white hot flame of lust that sets a blistering pace. He sucks at the pillow of her lower lip, supporting her upper body with a strong forearm as he grips the table with the other.

The heavy oak scraps across the floor with the force of their movement, but Dean doesn't slow. Apples and oranges roll from the table and his abandoned fork clinks against the plate beneath it. He smirks. It excites him - she excites him.

Jo arches slightly over Dean's arm, her palm slipping against the surface of the table as she tries to gain leverage. A feral cry escapes as his tongue flattens over her nipple, his thumb and pointer playing with its mate. "Oh, God!"

His mouth twitches. He likes the sound of that coming from her lips. "That'll work," he breathes heavily against her neck. "But I prefer Dean..."

Jo reaches to pummel him for the remark, but her hand grips his shoulder as her body tightens around his. It's forgotten when he pulls her close and gifts her with a long, sultry kiss. They move in tandem - in and out, over and over - until the dam breaks and they scream each other's names.

Collapsing back on the table, one wrist above her head as her other lay spread over her abdomen, Jo continues to tremble. Her brain vaguely registers the sound of Dean's zipper in the background and the feel of his hands smoothing her skirt back into place.

Peppering her chest and neck with wet kisses, he helps her sit up and covers her with his shirt. As he buttons the flannel around her, she grins before tilting her head up for a kiss. When they come apart, she whispers, "Happy birthday, Winchester."

And, as he gathers her into his arms and prepares to carry her to bed for round two, it is. A very happy birthday indeed