These aren't my characters, more's the pity. If I were in charge, this would be happening on-screen.
This story is set directly after 2x05, "Simon Said". It helps if you've seen 2x06, "No Exit", but there are no real spoilers for either episode. Title and lyrics are from "Fell On Black Days" by Soundgarden.
by Maya Tawi
"So what you wanted to see good
Has made you blind
And what you wanted to be yours
Has made it mine""I'm a searchlight soul, they say
Ellen offers them a room for the night, and the way she says it, Dean can't tell if it's her idea or Jo's. Not that he's about to argue. Ellen wants to be part of this fight, she can damn well spare a mattress or two.
Sam knocks off early, like he usually does when Dean gets his drink on. Two glasses of whiskey and he's down for the count. It's Sam's own fault, Dean thinks, for being too damn law-abiding to let Dean take him out drinking before he turned legal. If Dean had been around for his brother's twenty-first, he'd have Sam trained better by now.
Ellen sends Jo to make sure Sam finds the room okay, maybe because of how Sam keeps knocking into bar stools and pool tables and stacked cases of empties when he tries to walk a straight line. Dean finds it all a little too hilarious, and Sam's scowl promises retribution for his amusement, but he's not too busy cackling to notice the look Jo shoots him as she leads Sam into the hallway. He knows what she's thinking: Sam's not the one she wants to be taking to bed.
Ellen sees it too. When they're out of earshot, she says, "I'm not blind, you know."
"Good to hear," Dean says, and raises his half-empty glass in salute. "You keep me updated on that."
"You're a smartass, Dean Winchester," Ellen says, and Dean thinks, Oh, Sherlock Holmes.
She's not done. "I know your reputation. I know how my daughter looks at you. Only thing I can't figure is why you're not looking back."
"Well hey, if that's an invitation--"
"It's a warning. You start looking, I'll see it."
And then she'll yank off his balls and nail 'em to the wall above the bar, to serve as a warning to others. Dean keeps smiling through his terror. Ellen scares the shit out of him, and he's not too proud to admit it.
Jo, now, Jo just confuses him. Any other time he'd be all over that like a rat on Cheetos. But he's not, and it's not just the looming specter of her scary-ass mom that keeps him at bay. Dean just looks at Jo and thinks, God, she's young.
She's young, but not in a creepy pedophile kind of way; hell, she's gotta be Sam's age, or around there. But Jo's never been a hunter. She's seen hunters come and go all her life, but she's never played the game. She's still got the innocence of someone who knows but hasn't seen, and somehow that makes her younger than all the other girls who've done neither. Jo makes Dean want to pass her notes in class and take her out for ice cream sundaes, and he's never, ever been that young.
Ellen's still watching him, reading something in his face that isn't there. She says, "You listen to me now, boy. Under my roof--"
"Back off, Mama Bear," Dean interrupts. He drains the last of his whiskey and licks his lips. "I get it. The goods are off-limits."
Her fists clench on the bar. Dean licks his lips again, this time out of nervousness. Maybe he's more drunk than he thought.
The problem with Ellen is, she won't just slap him, he knows. She'll break his nose instead.
"Under my roof," she repeats, deadly quiet, "you do not refer to my daughter as 'the goods.'"
Dean leans back a little, keeping his eyes on her hands. "You dragged our asses back here. You don't want us to stay, I got no problem with that."
"Your daddy shoulda taught you better manners."
"My daddy taught me all I need to know. You don't get to talk about my daddy."
"He taught you how to fight and how to kill," Ellen says. "You think that's enough?"
Dean slams his empty glass down on the bar. His head is spinning. "You got a hearing problem, lady? I said--"
"I heard what you said."
"Good," Dean says. "'Cause I don't think I'm the one you need to worry about. They've been gone an awful long time, don't you think?"
Ellen's fingers flex. Her face hardens. She presses her knuckles into the scarred wood, once, twice, and then she's coming around the end of the bar and stalking toward him.
Dean doesn't think; he scrambles to his feet, knocking over his bar stool with a crash, and takes a few stumbling steps back before he's standing steady, fists up in front of him.
Ellen doesn't blink. She says, "You think you can fight?"
"There've been rumors," Dean hears himself say.
Dean stares in disbelief. His fists falter. He hears footsteps in the hall and then Jo's voice saying, "Mom, what the hell," but he doesn't turn.
Ellen doesn't either. "Go to bed, Jo," she says. "It's late."
"Now." Her voice is a whip crack; her eyes never leave Dean's face. Dean swallows hard.
After a few seconds of silence, Jo's boot-stomps fade off into the distance.
Ellen steps forward, and Dean leaps back. She gives him a wintry smile and says, "Not here. I ain't paying to clean up the place 'cause of you."
"Now that's harsh," Dean says.
Her smile fades. He swallows again.
She leads him outside to the barren stretch of Nebraska dirt and weeds by the road. The moon hangs low and heavy above them, making night bright as day. Dean sees the Impala parked off to the side and almost wants to make a break for it, throw himself to safety and flee for the long, empty highway. But that's stupid, because it's just sparring, he spars with Sam and he's good at it, and Ellen may be scary as fuck but she's not a hunter either. Dean can take her. Really, it's not fair to her.
"We don't gotta do this," he says, relaxing, feeling generous. "You made your point."
Ellen socks him right in the eye. He never sees it coming.
The blow knocks him over, and just for an instant under, and he remembers too late about the whiskey still pounding through his veins and sloshing around in his skull. Ellen's been drinking too, but if there's anyone out there who could drink Dean under the table, she's the one. She owns a saloon, for fuck's sake.
He starts to rise, but Ellen's not holding back; she presses the advantage, frenzied and furious, steel toes cracking against Dean's ribs. Dean has to absorb a few kicks before he can clear his head, can wrap strong arms around her knees and pull, and she hits the ground with a thud and a cloud of dust.
"Gonna be like that, huh," he pants, cradling his side as he struggles to his feet. He's grinning through the pain, through the dimming vision as his left eye swells, through the blood roaring in his ears. He's high on this, high on the adrenaline, high on life.
He limps over to Ellen's prone form, intending to offer her a hand up. She looks up at him. Her eyes are glittering. She kicks out and sweeps his legs from under him.
Dean lands hard on his side. His bruised ribs scream at the impact. In a flash, Ellen's moving, scrambling on top of him to pin him down. Dean flips her over, and for a brief moment of victory, he's on top; then Ellen rolls and his back hits the ground again, with her callused hands locked around his wrists and her knee pressed into his groin.
"I win," Ellen murmurs, and knocks her forehead gently against his.
He drops his head back with a groan. "Point taken."
She doesn't move, and Dean doesn't either. Between the rocks digging into his back, the hard-packed ground beneath his skull, and the hard pressure on his dick, he doesn't dare.
He thinks, I really gotta start wearing a cup.
The seconds drag on. He clears his throat and says, "Uh, Ellen?" His voice cracks. "You know, any time you wanna get up."
Her knee shifts, but the pressure doesn't let up. Quietly she asks, "Your daddy teach you that too?"
He's hard. He's hard, and he didn't realize.
She's got him pinned and helpless; she can kill him any way she wants. Dean closes his eyes and waits, feels his throat bob, feels his hips thrust up as she digs in again; it hurts but it's good, the pain exploding low in his belly, white sparks shooting up his spine. She's gonna cock-crush him to death. Fitting, he supposes. Totally not how he expected to go.
"Ellen," he says, and barely recognizes his voice, cringes at the naked plea in it.
"Hush," she says, and kisses him so hard their teeth smack together.
Dean's brain slams into lockdown.
And then they're fighting again, but a different kind of fight: hands tearing at belt buckles and jeans, wrenching down Dean's boxers and Ellen's worn cotton panties. Dean wants to say, Wait, I've got condoms, but Ellen knows his reputation, and if she's not concerned then neither is he. There's a wild, distant look in her eyes, and the way her hand trembles when it grips his dick, Dean thinks that if he tells her to stop now, she might just rip it off.
And he doesn't want to stop. Knows it's wrong, can't say why but knows it has to be, because Ellen's as old as his dad for Christ's sake, and her daughter's fifty feet behind them in the road house with the lights still blazing, locked in her room right now and probably thinking of Dean-- but he can't stop, and he doesn't want to.
Ellen's not young. Ellen knows what she's doing. She slides down on Dean's dick, hot and wet, with her jaw clenched and her stare burning right into Dean's wide eyes and through the back of his skull, and she doesn't make a sound.
"Oh, fuck," Dean moans, thrusting up into her. She claps a hand over his mouth and digs her fingernails into his cheeks.
She rides him like that, silent and focused, her hand muffling Dean's grunts and groans, while Dean's blood races through his body and his heart pounds until he thinks his head might explode. She doesn't look away once, and Dean's so close to coming he can taste it, but he knows if he gets off first there'll be hell to pay.
It feels like hours, torture of the very best kind, before Ellen shudders and tightens around him. Only then do her eyes close. Her orgasm is wordless, noiseless, and Dean's disappointed, but that doesn't stop him from grasping her hips and coming so hard he hears his spine crack.
He lays there, sprawled and dazed and winded, as Ellen pulls off him and stands. She hikes up her panties and buttons her jeans, and all the while she's staring down at him like she thinks he'll make a break for it the second she turns her head.
Dean opens his mouth.
"Shut up," she says, and he does.
She keeps watching as he tucks himself away. He winces at the cool air on his wet dick. Ellen doesn't offer him a hand up, so he pushes himself to his knees, then his feet, with some difficulty. His ribs are on fire. His face aches.
"Ellen," he begins, "what--"
Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare, and he stops.
Ellen's not young. She knows what she's doing. And she's looking at Dean with pure, black hate.
"Don't tell my daughter," is all she says.
After a moment, Dean nods. He could use this as leverage, he thinks, but he knows he'd be too scared to even try.
She doesn't move. She won't, he realizes, until he goes first. He zips up and buckles up, meeting her glare all the while, refusing to let his fear show in his face. He thinks he even smiles.
Dean turns and starts walking back to the road house, and he can feel Ellen's eyes on him every step of the way.
But I can't see it in the night
I'm only faking
When I get it right"