To Say Goodbye

And here it is.



The title is from the Placebo song "Song to Say Goodbye". It also answers the question.



******

He comes into the bar, looking like the bastard child of Indiana Jones and an orphaned puppy. Ellen doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone look so tired or so defeated. She pours him two fingers of whiskey from the top shelf and slides it over to him, not speaking, and he nods his thanks. He takes a long swallow and she turns away to keep from watching the lines of his throat work as he does it.



If Sam is an oversized puppy, then Dean is a panther -- all lithe, wiry, lethal grace. Ellen doesn’t imagine Dean ever had an awkward phase, physically. Dean seems like he’s always known his body’s shape, it’s boundaries, and its effect.



Which is why Ellen puts herself firmly in the maternal role when it comes to Dean and his brother. She can admire Dean’s attractiveness and confidence without making a fool of herself over it. She knows better, so he’s not for her. Jo doesn’t know better, so he’s not for her, either.



“Where’s Sam?” she asks, drying a glass.



“Doin’ research.” Dean’s reply is flat and Ellen doesn’t need any details to know exactly what Sam’s researching. It’s April. Nearly time for Dean’s deal to come due.



Ellen pats Dean’s arm as she walks past and he grasps her wrist quick, like a striking snake, and doesn’t let go. She glances at his face, pulse jumping, and sees that his eyes are wide and panicky at the edges. His fingers flex against her arm, warm and slightly rough, and Ellen feels electricity jolt her, heat pooling in her belly.



Ellen turns her wrist and slides her hand from Dean’s, squeezing his fingers.



She doesn’t believe for a second that Dean knows what he’s doing, beyond grasping for comfort and assurance. She is familiar and therefore safe, or at least as safe as anyone is to Dean.



Dean stays at the bar nursing his whiskey, not acknowledging the whatever-it-was that happened. The saloon empties out, and Ellen is putting away the glasses when she feels warmth behind her.



Hands press against her waist and a whisper caresses her ear, “Can I stay?”



Ellen turns and looks at Dean. No denying her body wants him, the hot pool of desire in her belly and her tingling nipples are ample confirmation. But it’s a bad idea.



“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she says.



“Yes, I do.” Dean is serious.



“Why now?” Ellen blurts out. She can’t help herself, Dean can -- and does, often -- have any girl he wants. Why would he come here and sleep with her? She knows she’s good looking, but she’s not young and she’s well aware that her spiky, aggressive personality rubs people the wrong way. She doesn’t think she’s exactly Dean’s type.



A shadow of the old Dean surfaces in the cocky grin and raised eyebrows he gives her.



“Why not?” he says, and bends his head to kiss her.



Dean’s kiss is thorough and skillful and surprisingly tender. He tastes of the whiskey he just drank and his lips are slightly chapped. When Ellen traces his lips with the tip of her tongue, he moans and shivers against her, his hands on her waist tightening reflexively.



She says, “Not here,” when they come up for air, and she leads him to her place, which is above the bar.



The new Harvelle’s is somewhat closer to civilization than the old one, located on the outskirts of a small town. When she bought it, Ellen had Bobby come out and ward it within an inch of its life. She also installed a high tech security system, missing Ash fiercely as she did so.



Dean waits, quiet, as Ellen disarms and rearms the system.



Her apartment is small and sparsely furnished, she hasn’t had much time or interest in setting it up. But she does have a big, luxurious bed. After working all hours to get the new bar set up, she wants a soft place to fall at the end of her day.



This is where she leads Dean after kicking off her shoes. She walks ahead of him and feels him trail his fingers down her back. She shivers.



She expects that Dean will be fast and rough and desperate, so she is even more surprised when he turns her to him and unbuttons her shirt slowly, placing his hands against her stomach and sliding them up to her breasts. She pulls his head to her, kissing him deeply, mouth wide open against his. He pulls her shirt off her shoulders, then unclasps her bra from the front, one-handed, a trick that has her chuckling against his lips. It’s so high school, so Dean.



He smiles as he palms her naked breasts, which are large and soft and, she’s sure, completely unlike any of the girls he’s been with recently. Ellen’s body has borne a child, breastfed her, and it’s past 40. She is no longer taut and springy. She is lush and welcoming in a way that younger, more toned, bodies aren’t.



“Beautiful,” Dean whispers, and it pierces her heart to hear the reverence in his voice.



She traps his hands against her as she strips his flannel shirt from him, pressing his hands into her breasts. She slides his t-shirt up over his head, feeling the ridges of his ribs, musculature, and raised scars. Dean lets himself be manipulated, helps Ellen when his elbows get caught in the short sleeves. Last to come off is his amulet, which he puts on the nightstand. Then he pulls her to him when his chest is bare. His skin is hot against hers, and she feels it against every inch of her.



He kisses her again, fiercer and more hungry, and she wraps her arms around him, tracing the tender knobs of his spine, cataloging the marred spots in his flesh. Bullet hole. Werewolf. Poltergeist. Barbed wire. She knows from past experience how every one feels, has done her share of stitching up the same sorts of wounds on Bill.



Her fingers dip into the dimples in the small of his back, slide under the waistband of his jeans, and cup his ass. He gasps into her neck, where he let his face fall, resting against her, fingers stroking her belly. He presses his lips into a spot on her throat, tongue flickering out and tracing intricate patterns that make her inhale sharply and throw her head back further to allow him better access.



Dean’s hips are rocking against hers, his cock a hard, definite outline against his fly. Ellen takes a hand out of the back of his jeans and runs her thumb along its length, smiling again at Dean’s murmur of enjoyment. He moves his hands to his belt and unbuckles it, undoes his jeans and lets them fall to the floor. Ellen cups him through the fabric of his boxer briefs, feeling the damp heat that rises from the stretched cloth.



Ellen’s been on her feet all day and she decides she wants to get off them, so she says “Bed,” succinctly, and backs up until her thighs hit the edge and she sits down. Dean follows her, the dim streetlight striking angles off various parts of him: his shoulder, hip, and a sock-clad foot.



He kneels in front of her at the edge of the bed, hands around her hips. His lips fasten on her collarbone, tongue outlining the bone, and he moves downward. It feels like Dean is writing on her, and maybe he is, words in a language unknown to her: benediction, gratitude, regret. Ellen’s hands are on his shoulders, her heels pressed into his ass, all her focus on the feel of his mouth on her skin, moving lower.



Dean rubs his cheek on the side of her breast, stubble prickly against the tender skin, and then moves his lips to the abraded spot. “So soft,” he murmurs.



His nose traces the contour of her breast as he moves to take the nipple into his mouth. He teases and sucks and gently scrapes his teeth until it’s hard and her nerves explode. Ellen dimly wonders why Dean doesn’t have legions of satisfied women trailing after him from town to town if he does this every time he fucks.

 

She’s moving her hips, trying to rub herself against Dean’s chest to ease the hot ache of her arousal and she feels him smile against her skin. “Dammit,” she hisses, not in the mood to be teased.



“Ellen.” Dean’s voice is low and rough, and she looks down at him. His face is canted up against her breast and light outlines his nose, his eyelashes, refracts off his wide eyes and expanded pupils. “I’ll get you there. Just…enjoy the journey, okay?”



Ellen abruptly realizes that this is it -- the last, the first, the only time she will have this. In a few short weeks, Dean will be dead and in hell. No disrespect to Sam, but she cherishes no illusions that there will be a way to get him out of the deal. This will be the only chance that she has to enjoy what Dean is offering freely, and to take what she has idly imagined in quiet moments. The flaring heat in her backs off a little, and she can see his need to stretch this out, instead of it being a typical fuck-and-run situation.



She blinks hard and cups Dean’s cheek, stroking the cheekbone with her thumb, not saying anything. She sees understanding in his eyes as he closes them and kisses her palm.



He unbuttons her jeans, sliding them down until she has to lean back on her elbows and raise her hips to get them off. He takes off her socks, sweeping his hands around the anklebone and fingers pressing into the arch in a way that makes her liquid. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulls them off and she is naked.



Ellen looks at Dean squarely along the length of her body. She wants to see his reaction to her nudity, to her body touched by time and touched by life, and no longer as it was in her twenties. Nothing like the girls he picks up in bars on his travels. His eyes travel up and down, drinking her in, devouring, and he licks his lips. He looks up at her again, smiles almost shyly, and says, “Thank you.”



She doesn’t know what to say, and then she doesn’t have anything to say, as Dean spreads her legs and dips his head between her thighs. He mouths around the wiry hair down there and spreads her open gently with his fingers. She is digging her heels into his back and raising her hips to him as his tongue traces her folds and finds the slick muscle of her clit. He slides a finger inside her, and she didn’t realize until right then how completely wet she was until the contrast made itself clear.



Dean’s tongue is circling and rolling her clit and he slips another finger inside her, spreading them, filling her, and she grabs his hair, holding him still as her hips thrust faster and then she freezes, going hot all over. She yells, probably Dean’s name, and is swamped by her orgasm. Dean helps her through it, mouth slower and gentler as the waves subside, until she’s flat on the bed, arms spread at her sides, spent.



Ellen talks to the ceiling, “Get up here.”



She sighs as Dean removes his fingers, then clambers up next to her, lying on his side, looking at her.



“Dean Winchester, no man has ever come to my bed wearing socks. Get them off right now.”



He snickers, but hurries to comply, bouncing the bed as he does so. “Underwear too?” he asks.



“Let me do that,” Ellen says and she finds that her muscles will work for her if given a good cause. “Lay down.”



Dean lays on his back and Ellen kneels next to him, wanting to touch, to feel him, to imprint him on her memory this way. He is scarred, skin puckered around old wounds, but that changes nothing about his physical beauty. She sweeps her hands down his chest, palms brushing over nipples and ribs, down his stomach, and he hums happily. He rests a hand on her thigh, thumb stroking her, fingers still a bit sticky from being inside her.



She leans over him, hair falling on either side of her face, trailing across Dean’s torso as she rubs her cheek, her nose, and her lips, down to his belly. If this is to be her only time with him, she wants everything: every touch, every taste, every scent. She licks into his belly button, feeling his stomach jump and tremble. His cock nudges her chin and she mouths it through the stretched fabric of his boxers, listening to his shaky moan. She eases the waistband down until it is stretched across his thighs, just under his balls.



Ellen takes Dean’s cock into her mouth, tasting the fluid at the slit. All men have the same scent down here: salty and yeasty, almost like a hot pretzel, but their come all tastes different. Dean’s precome is bitter and bleachy and it burns her tongue a little. She holds his balls in her hand and strokes her fingers back along his taint, teasing a bit at the puckered muscle of his ass. Dean trembles and struggles to spread his legs, which are pinioned by his underwear, and Ellen is amused. She swallows him down as far as she can, tongue working along the length of him, and Dean is gasping out into the semi-dark, rolling vowels unfettered by restraint. His hand cups her ass and squeezes, and she is stretched over him, nipples brushing his stomach, breasts hanging down as she takes him all the way into her mouth.



“Oh god, Ellen, stop…stop, please,” Dean pleads and she releases him, her lips feeling hot and swollen.



“Why?”



“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” he pants.



“You’re young -- if you want to fuck me after, I’m sure it won’t take long,” she replies, and remorselessly takes him back into her mouth.



He grinds out a growl between his teeth and Ellen can feel him fighting it, but she’s older and more experienced and very very good at this. Her spit runs down behind his balls and she slicks up her finger and slides it a little way inside his asshole and he chokes out a “Fuck!” as his balls pull up tight and he goes rigid. She can feel the pulse start at the base of his cock and she braces herself as Dean’s spine bows and the first hot splash of come hits the back of her throat.



His taste is strong and Ellen backs off a little so that she has space to swallow him down. His hands are in her hair, cradling her head without pushing her down as he yells through this orgasm. She stays with him, licking and swallowing until nothing more comes out, rolling the taste around on her tongue, making sure she remembers: this is Dean and no one else.



Then Dean’s fingers are tapping under her jaw, asking her to come up, and he holds her face while he kisses her, taking his taste from her mouth and replacing it with hers, still on his lips and tongue. Ellen stretches her body alongside his, her hips slightly higher than his, her toes braced along his insteps, her arm around his chest. He kicks his boxers off the rest of the way and slides his knee between her thighs and she grips it. She feels loose and strong and beautiful and nowhere near fucked out yet.



They stay like that a while, kissing slowly, Dean’s hand playing up and down her side, thumb dipping into the curve of her hipbone, palming her ass, fingers lining up along her ribs. He holds her breast in his hand, brushing his thumb against the nipple, and Ellen gasps, lightning striking her clit again. Dean slides down and takes her nipple into his mouth, sucking it into a hard peak. She feels herself going liquid again, and drops onto her back. Dean follows, covering her, braced on his hands on either side, moving his attention to her other breast until both nipples are equally as hard and Ellen’s legs are open, knees up, wanting him again. She slides her hands around his hips to his front, wanting to gauge his condition, and isn’t surprised to find him hard again.  She strokes him between her palms, gently, and smiles when he exhales hotly against her skin.



“Yes, please,” she says, and he huffs a laugh, looking down at her. “You have condoms?” she asks.



“Of course. Be right back.” he gets up and goes to his discarded jeans and Ellen sits up, watching him crouched and rummaging in his pockets.



All that coiled grace, she reflects. I bet he doesn’t even know how he looks to other people, beyond the fact that he can have any girl he wants. I bet he never even wonders.



Then Dean is standing, walking towards the bed again, a strip of foil in his hand, his cock bobbing against his stomach. He leans on his knee and kisses her again, and she rises up against him. She feels his cock hard between them, hot on her belly. The foil packets scratch against her hip.



“I want to be on top.” Ellen says. Dean’s eyes widen and he grins like it’s Christmas morning.



“Okay,” he agrees.  He lays on his back again and proffers the condoms. Ellen tears a square off the strip and rips it open. She unrolls the condom and smoothes it over Dean’s cock while he bucks and swears.



Which is nothing to what he does when Ellen straddles him and holds him still while she lowers herself onto his cock. She stares into his face, and he looks intently at her, his lower lip captured between his teeth until the skin is white. Then he is inside her and he throws his head back, hissing out a “Yes.” Ellen takes him in slowly, her hand braced on his chest, adjusting to being entered after a long hiatus. It is glorious being filled and she echoes Dean’s affirmation as she rests against him.



Then Ellen moves, a long fluid stroke, up and down, until she adjusts and finds the rhythm and the friction that hits the right spots inside and outside. She clenches around him and Dean inhales in surprise, which makes her laugh. She slows down, gripping him with those internal muscles and Dean grabs the edge of the bed, hanging on for dear life. “Jesus, Ellen,” he whispers.



And yeah, it’s a point for her pride that she can drive him to this, knowing that she’s so much older than he is, not exactly his usual, and can show him what he’s been missing. And he’s good, so much better than she’d imagined, with his careful respect of her body and his complete enjoyment of the experience.



He is not the one making the comparisons.



Dean lets go of the bed and holds Ellen by her hips. He’s not directing her, more like holding on, and he brings a hand down and rubs his thumb against her clit and that’s pretty much more than she can take. She rides him harder, hitting that spot inside her that makes her fragment, and falls forward onto her hands, her hair framing their faces like a veil. Dean’s thumb is firm and steady and follows her hips and she starts coming, closing her eyes.



“Look…look at me,” Dean whispers, and her eyes fly open, and she sees him, pupils blown until his irises are a vivid green, even in the half-light. His eyebrows are drawn together, concentration writ large on his face. “Come on,” he says. “You’re amazing, come on, I want to see you.”



And Ellen does, trying to hold his gaze as she flies apart until the last minute, when she collapses forward onto his shoulder, sobbing and shaking. Dean strokes her back, letting her collect herself, murmuring nonsense like, “It’s okay,” and “So beautiful,” and “Thank you.”  



Finally she feels like she can look at him and looks up. He’s got a pretty happy smile on his face, which is good, but he’s still hard inside her.



“Your turn,” Ellen states. “I want to see you too.”



“I want to be on top.” Dean replies, echoing Ellen’s earlier demand. Ellen is a little tired, so she’s happy to echo his earlier acquiescence.



“We can’t exactly roll over like this,” she says. She’s in good shape, but in no way is she that limber anymore. But she’s reluctant to let him go just yet.



Dean just sits up, picks her up by the back of her thighs, bucks his hips, earning a gasp and a glare, and rolls them over.



“Oh,” she says weakly.



Now Dean is covering her, braced again on his hands, sweat sheening his face and chest. “Comfortable?” he asks, smirking slightly. In answer, she clenches those inner muscles again and is rewarded by Dean’s eyes widening and glazing slightly.



“Are you?” she replies.



“Gonna fuck you into the mattress,” Dean growls and she laughs up at him delightedly.



“Come on, cowboy, show me what you got,” she replies, and he does, taking her in long, solid strokes that have her grabbing for the slats in the headboard. He grabs her thighs and wraps them around his hips. She hooks her ankles together and basically hangs on for the ride. Dean comes down and kisses her, frenzied and like he can’t concentrate on doing it right, sloppy and savage. She’s watching his face carefully for all the nuances of what he’s feeling, and he’s getting a faraway look as his thrust become more abstract and ragged.



“God, Ellen, gonna…gonna,” he gasps out.



“Yeah, okay, okay, come on, let me see,” she says, letting go of the headboard and cupping his face with one hand. He leans his cheek into it, then rears back, slams into Ellen hard once, twice, and lets out a deafening yell as he comes. His face is agonized, eyes squeezed tight shut and teeth clenched.



Then he falls forward onto Ellen and she wraps her arms around him. She strokes his hair and holds him tightly. He is trembling and if isn’t sweat that is running into her collarbone, so what?



Dean calms down slowly, with Ellen quiet beneath him. He seems to come back to himself, and says, “I’ll be right back,” as he pulls out of her and stands up. He goes into the little bathroom in the hallway. Ellen hears water running and a toilet flush, and then Dean comes back with a glass of water, which he hands to her.



“Thanks,” she sits up and takes a long swallow. She looks up at him. “Can you stay?”



“Would you like me to?” Dean is all cocky again, veneer firmly in place.



“Yes. I would.” Ellen has never played the shy coquette, so why start now?  



“So would I,” Dean replies, honest. Ellen pulls back the blankets and gets under the sheets, holding one side up for him. He crawls in next to her, and seems oddly unsure of what to do with himself. He lays down awkwardly until Ellen curls in next to him, head on his shoulder, arm across his chest, leg thrown over his thighs. He sighs and relaxes, putting an arm around her back, and Ellen falls sleep listening to Dean breathe.  



**



An extremely tinny version of “Cat Scratch Fever” wakes Ellen and Dean rolls out from under her arm smoothly to grab his cell phone off the floor. She would move, but her muscles are just a little bit sore and she’s still tired.



“Hello. Sammy. Yeah, I’m fine. I just had some business to take care of. I’ll be back later today. Don’t worry. I told you I’d be back today. Okay, SaMANtha.” Dean clicks the phone closed, looking exasperated. He looks over at Ellen, sprawled out in her bed still. Sunlight comes in through her bedroom curtains, turning the hair on his arms and legs gold.



“I have to go.” Dean apologizes.



“I know,” Ellen replies.



She watches as he pulls on his clothes, reassembling himself. Last is the amulet, which goes over his head and hangs on his t-shirt.



“I’ll see you out, otherwise you’ll trip the alarm.” Ellen stands with the sheet wrapped around her, and Dean reaches out to her, pulls her in, and kisses her firmly. It’s not a kiss like last nights’ kisses. There’s as much in it as were in those, though. Warm regard, sadness, regret, thanks. She holds the back of his head, his spiky hair prickling her palm as she kisses him back.



He breaks the kiss and snags his jacket from the floor, walking ahead of her to the door, where he waits for her to disarm the system. He opens the door and looks at her.



“Ellen,” he starts. “Um, thanks.”



She looks at him steadily, not wanting him to say another word. She doesn’t want him to spoil it.



“You’re welcome.”



Dean takes her hand quickly, kisses the knuckles and drops it.



“Bye.” And he shuts the door, boots banging down the steps.



Ellen resets the alarm with a shaking hand and goes back into her room. Sitting on the end of her bed, she clasps her hands together and whispers, “Goodbye, Dean.”