Ellen unwraps long, still trembling legs from around his waist, uses the wall as leverage to stand. She stares up at him with hazed eyes, wild, tangled hair spilling over her shoulders, lips red and torn from Dean's teeth. Her shirt, stained with beer and Jaeger, is yanked up to her armpits, exposing the lace of her bra, damp from where Dean's mouth had been. Her jeans are still caught at one ankle, and, when Dean's gaze flickers further down, he can see the glistening stretch marks on the insides of her thighs, the dark, curly thatch of hair between them, shiny and wet from his tongue and cock. She meets his gaze when he looks back up – looks at him, into him, inside him. Looks past the remnants of animal passion – the way his t-shirt's wrinkled from clawing, feminine hands, the way full lips are sore and bruised from her kiss. The way his now softened cock dangles between his legs, jeans still shoved just down his hips, a victim of haste and greed. In the timeless moment that compassionate, knowing eyes met his, Dean can hear his father's warm laughter, see his gruff smile. "Feel better?" she asks, in a rough, whiskey-voice that soothes as much as it enflames, and Dean catches her hand, pulse hammering just under the thin skin of a slender wrist, before it can reach him. He can taste regret and guilt pulsing dully in the air between them, claiming him with yet another secret. Another lie in a never-ending line of them. He's so fucking tired of lies. "Feeling better?" she repeats, not quite a question. And this time, he lets her hand slide through his hair, the touch soft, maternal, at odds with the way she's still pressed against him. He's pretty sure she already knows the answer; he's pretty sure she's always known. "Not yet," he replies, and closes his eyes when he leans in for another kiss. Damns himself with the truth in the stuttered slide of his tongue over hers, and finds forgiveness in her arms.
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