If Your House Gets In My Way, You Know I’ll Burn It Down

June 21, 2012

Notes: John Winchester started life as the dad in Supernatural, and this fic is loosely based on him, mostly in looks and spirit, though I turned him into my own character and started following my own canon. Written not for profit at all.


She matched him shot after shot, lined up full from her side on the bar and slammed back down empty from his, a hazy reminder of how much they’d had to drink. He started to count them by twos until she stopped him, reminding him it wasn’t gonna change how drunk he was and it wasn’t gonna get her the money she didn’t charge him for drinking them. ‘You can charge me,’ he told her, ‘but I ain’t got no money to give you, pretty lady’ and sweet mercy that might have been the nicest thing anyone’d called her in a long time. 

“You stop calling me cute little names now, Winchester,” she warned him, “‘fore I go all sweet on you.”

He followed up with a thick, overdrawn ‘You mean you’re not already?’ while she ushered the last of the hunters out of the bar, couple of them grumbling about she never kicked them out so early before and one catching on too quick that she wasn’t kicking Winchester to the curb with them. She threatened to pull out the gun hidden in her boot, talking about how John was family and anyway, it weren’t none of their damn business, was it? That shut them up as well as Winchester stepping behind the bar to lay out his namesake across bar. 

“Well isn’t that a sight?” Ellen questioned out loud to no one but herself as she made her way over to John. “A Winchester stroking his Winchester”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Unless, of course,” he said before grabbing the bottle of Jack off the bar with the hand not fondling the rifle, “you’d rather stroke the Winchester.”

“Again with the sweet talk?” Ellen made herself comfortable on one of the creaky, cracked and torn leather covered stools. “You’re gonna make me blush like some virgin,” she told him, creeping her fingers down the smooth base of the old beauty. 

“A virgin. Well, haven’t had one of those since…,” her fingers brushed against his, over the cool steel of the barrel. “…it’s been a long time.”

Ellen moved her hand on top of his, rough against rough, hands of a hunter. She laced their fingers together, moved his hand slow down over the smooth steel and quick back up again. She looked him in the eye, gauging his reaction, “You holding that bottle for safe keeping or you gonna give us a drink?”

John lifted the bottle of Jack, brought it to her lips when she tipped her head back and poured a finger’s worth into her mouth, watched her swallow most of it down like no virgin he’d ever known. He took a swig himself, their fingers still intertwined as he brought the bottle back up to her lips and poured again, two fingers worth this time. She tried to take it all, swallow it all down like a good girl and he told her so even as some spilled from her mouth and ran down her neck and he chased it with his tongue and a murmur against her skin, a question of whether she was so salty sweet all over.

He traced the line of smoky sweet liquid up her neck, over her chin, across her lips and against her tongue, smooth like velvet. The near empty bottle hit the floor and his free hand came up against the side of her face, up into her hair and back down again and this time he chased the taste right out of her mouth. He felt dizzy, as if all the blood in his body had gone south of his belt, leaving nothing but sweet whiskey burning his veins in its wake. 

“How long’s a long time?” Ellen asked when he leaned his forehead against hers to stop for a breath. 

“So long,” he whispered, voice like sandpaper against silk in her ear, “too long.” 

She pulled away and turned her back towards him, hoisted herself up onto the bar to swing her legs around. “Too long,” he repeated as he grabbed her by the back of the knees and pulled her in towards him, moved his hands up over faded denim.

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