Title: "And in My Hour of Darkness"
Rating/Classification: AC, Dean/Ellen, some language and adult content, a bit angsty.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and am making no profit.
Summary: It's funny to be talking about time. 825 words. Takes place after S2's "All Hell Breaks Loose" parts 1 &2, so spoilers ahoy!
Dean doesnít know when exactly he and Ellen take to sleeping together. Itís a Tuesday; a storm's gathering, and the Roadhouse still ainít nothing more than a bundle of kindling. Sheís shivering in the doorway of some motel between Cheyenne and Lawrence and watching him slam the trunk of the Impala like heís done a dozen times in the last week. Sam and Bobby are still out tying up a few loose hunt ends and her cell phone's dangling from her fingers like she's near ready to drop it.
He catches it before it can bounce off the cracked asphalt, urges her inside with a look, a shoulder, maybe something like, "Here," or "I got it."
"I should tell her about Ash. I should... I should tell her. What if she comes home and sees it...?" Ellen's hands are shaking as she reaches for the bottle of Jack on the rickety table by the window. She doesn't even bother with the shot glass they picked up at some 7/11 off the highway. She takes a swig, not even flinching, and Dean turns the glass around, absently tracing over the letters that say "Joe."
"She's better off," he murmurs, as Ellen wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He knows that look in her eye, that dead, blank, fucking tired nothing that comes from being wore out. He remembers barely being able to blink the night Sammy died. His eyes were so raw, so red, and he thought that maybe if he just kept looking, if he just stared long enough, he'd see Sam's chest start to rise and fall. That's how Ellen looks at her phone, like dialing it will tell her little girl that everything's okay, like the Roadhouse will still be there and Ash won't be... ash.
"She's better off not knowing for now, Ellen." He flips the shot glass around in his fingers, slamming it upside down on the Formica like they've had themselves a contest. And maybe they have... a losing contest. Who can sacrifice the most in the shortest period of time. "Just let it be. Give it time."
It's funny to be talking about time. He actually laughs the minute the word's outta his mouth and Ellen laughs, too, sliding the Jack across to him. It didn't take long for Bobby to tell her about the deal. She went about a day with all of them whispering and looking hangdog before she pulled her gun and demanded they let her in on the big secret. "Oh, Dean," she'd said. No lectures, no swearing, just, "Oh, Dean." Which pretty much said it all.
The Jack goes down his throat easy. He's got three hundred and fifty-eight nights like this left. Drinking, hunting, kicking Sammy's ass when needed, and brushing a woman's hair out of her face. Feeling it between his fingertips as he whispers, "Ellie," and she kisses him.
Ellen doesn't kiss like the demon. She doesn't taste like smug victory and contracts and sulfur. She's warm and sad and the small of her back is surprisingly soft as he shoves up her shirt and strokes her spine. Touches just where Jake's knife went into Sammy... "Dean," she whispers, like she knows what he's thinking --and it's likely she does-- firmly taking his hand and moving it lower. "Dean, don't think. Tonight, let's just not think."
And they don't think. They just do. Clothes come off and they count scars and kiss them. He kisses her smile lines, frown lines now. There is no vanity in her eyes and the death in them is gone, replaced by good, old-fashioned lust. Something they can conquer. Something they can salt and burn with their sweat and their heat. Ellen comes over him and he holds tight to her hips as she takes his cock inch by inch. And it's good, it's painfully fantastic, and he has to count to twenty in his head just so he won't come right away. Ellen grins, "You skipped sixteen, Darlin'," against his jaw --okay, so maybe it wasn't in his head-- as she grinds down against him and gasps.
When it's over, they lay there in comfortable silence. He didn't figure her for a talker and she knows he sure ain't. They listen to the rain against the window and hear the doors of Bobby's truck. Any minute now Sammy's gonna be knocking. It'll be time to pack up, to move on to the next town and the next crop of demons.
It's funny to be thinking about time. But Dean doesn't laugh. He turns instead and sees that Ellen's watching him with what might be the first, genuine, not "you're a damn fool," happy expression she's had in days. And right about then, he realizes he's smiling, too.
Dean doesnít know when exactly he and Ellen take to sleeping together. But he knows the exact moment something inside them wakes up.
May 18, 2007.