TITLE: The Water's Fine
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: NC-17
POSTED: June 13, 2006
SUMMARY: This is the third time he's returned, which makes it four times she's seen him, and god, Chris would laugh at her for keeping track.
AUTHOR NOTES: Pouncer's the one who convinced me I wasn't insane for attempting this. It was supposed to be for the "Dean/Andrea, return" prompt in Signe's Porn Battle (the rematch), but it really didn't want to stay within the LJ-comment size limit.
DISCLAIMER: Read

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It's not strange to be afraid to turn around when she hears the deep rumble. Andrea tells herself that, even as she braces her hands on the kitchen counter and thinks, Breathe, and lets go of the air that stopped in her throat.

This is the third time he's returned, which makes it four times she's seen him, and god, Chris would laugh at her for keeping track. That's how she knows she's in trouble: when she starts counting meetings, touches, smiles. It's taken fewer times with Dean than it did with Chris, a lot fewer, but childhood sweethearts and all that; the "sweethearts" is just there one day.

...Last time he came by with Sam, it wasn't a shock. It was still winter, Dean called from the road, about an hour away, and by the time they got there, Lucas was so wound up that he ran out, babbling as fast as his legs were going, and Andrea laughed when Lucas practically dragged Dean out of the car. So did Sam, an easy sound as he shook his head. Dean just grinned, bright, looking like a kid himself while he listened, and then saying something with a smirk that made Lucas throw a hand up, waiting for the high-five.

Andrea spent most of that day talking with Sam. At first, briefly but not perfunctorily, about how it was almost easier that they'd had to move, that the town now really is Lake Manitoc. Then just about life, hers and theirs: trivialities and silly mishaps, Lucas' first sleepover, simultaneous flat tires in the middle of Montana.

When Dean returned with Lucas in the late afternoon light, Lucas talked non-stop for five minutes about their drive, before crowing about how fast the Impala could go on a straight road. She gave Dean the best disapproving frown she could with Lucas bouncing next to her on the couch...and after getting the most serious look she'd seen from, well, anyone, since standing over a dead boy's bike -- a look that disappeared in a flash behind a crooked smile and "Always seems faster with the windows down" -- she couldn't stop noticing how often Dean did that: showed two faces at once.

That was the start of three very long days that ended with her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, not just his cheek, when she saw them off that time. She'd felt him inhale...

Between then and now, the seasons have turned completely; spring has come and is beginning to go. As she goes by, Andrea glances at the dropcloths all over her living room, the pale green paint on only two walls, and groans. Damn it, why didn't they call? When metal creaks open, slams shut, she's at her front door, pushing it open with its own tiny squeak. Which is when it hits that there was no second creak, no second slam, and sure enough, Dean is standing tall and alone next to his car. Lucas is at school, and Sam?

"We got a...thing. Over in Lohrville." Dean looks at her closely as he says this, not moving away from the car. Then he arches a quick brow, not quite rolling his eyes. "Easy. But then Sam found your county's only Internet café, and the choice between prying him out and," he shrugs, "not, that was even easier."

Andrea nods, her hand still on the door, because sure, passing through. "Lucas has practice, soccer, but if you want to pick him up--"

She stops, because Dean moves then. Ten quick steps to her stairs. She's eye-to-eye with him when he asks with a wicked gleam, "A lot later?"

All she can do is nod again. She doesn't trust herself to produce even a simple "yes," not with that deep rumble transferred to his voice. His eyes don't fall when she swallows; she watches the black edge out the green, and falls so deep into that bright color that she gasps when warm fingers smooth her hair back from her temple.

"Dean," she breathes, and touches her own fingers to his lips, needing to feel the reality of them, which lets everything loose.

He's not brutal, but he is hard -- his body, his mouth, both pressing into her without mercy even while his hands cup her face, slide up into her hair. Two sides. One man. One man who is making her skin burn everywhere he touches, when he grips her hips and lifts her back into her house. And she could say that her legs wrap around his waist for balance, but she'd be lying; she wants to feel him there, solid and hot and there. God, this is crazy, but she's missed having someone larger up against her.

Moaning, Andrea claws at the heavy collar of his jacket, wanting it off, now, "Now," she says against his mouth, and feels his teeth in his grin.

With him still holding her up, it's a struggle, but between them they get the leather off his shoulders, and she can't help but press her mouth to the skin now exposed on his neck, licking up sweat and soap and the darker, heady taste of him. Something like joy goes through her when his head falls back and his hands tighten on her.

"Bed?" he bites out.

She wriggles closer in his arms, loving how he shudders. "Upstairs."

He groans.

The couch is...under...oh, no. But, "Kitchen," she says, then kisses him again, getting sidetracked when it goes deep and wet immediately, twisting her tighter. She can taste the coffee he had at some point today, bitter on their tongues. Then her back hits a wall and she pulls her mouth free, her hands still locked in his hair, and drops her forehead against his, panting. The air between them is hot, so hot as she remembers to say, "Table. In the kitchen."

"Great."

Dean's voice is filled with such thanks that she has to laugh, which just, it throws her. She didn't expect that there would be laughter. Not between them.

And then he pulls back and her hands fall to his shoulders, and he looks at her and the laughter dies, just like that, her breath gone again, because...my god. She did this to him, made him look like this -- mouth slick and swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes filled with want and warmth -- and this is the man who honestly came back twice for her son before returning this time for her.

He moves. He pulls them away from the wall and runs his hands down her sides, down to grip her bottom and hitch her up closer against him, and the moment is over. She sees his jaw clench, right when she feels him press harder between her legs, and then her eyes fall shut and they're both moving, rubbing together, nearly just right as he heads quickly down the hall.

Her lower lip is raw from her teeth by the time he lays her down, hard wood along her spine. His tongue drawing slowly along the soreness makes her arch up into his weight and clutch at his arms.

"Shame to bite something so sweet," she hears him say.

Her mouth curves. "Well, then I'm in all kinds of trouble," she says. She opens her eyes so she can rise up and catch his mouth without any embarrassing misses, and deliberately bites down, lightly, on the fullness.

He had to have been expecting that response. He just grins around it, and then her mouth falls open and her head hits the table.

"Ohhh..."

His hands are on her hips again, holding her, pressing her down. He thrusts forward once more, and the layers of clothing between them do nothing to keep that from feeling so good.

"Dean. Please, now, please..."

She can't tell how, but suddenly it's cotton under her hands, not leather, and she fists her fingers in it, dragging at it, searching for the skin underneath while his fingers work at her jeans, brushing her stomach, she's shivering, and then--

"Andrea." A kiss, touch and away, too quick to satisfy anything. "Sweetheart, lift up."

His hands are on her legs and pulling them away from him. She lets them fall open, lets him step far enough away to strip her bare from the waist down, but then he doesn't return. She can feel him there, his heat just out of reach, but his hands aren't back on her and she needs him touching her, needs hands on her other than her own like she hasn't in years.

With something dangerously close to a sob, she opens her eyes.

He's down to a t-shirt, that charm that Lucas said is special gleaming dully against dark gray cloth that's clinging to well-toned muscle, and oh, "It's a shame to cover up something so beautiful."

Dean's mouth and eyebrows quirk up, a little embarrassed boy if she's ever seen one, and she covers her own mouth with a hand, putting her head back again, blushing, she can feel it.

"I said that out loud."

"Yeah," he says, but the word bubbles out of him on a small laugh, so Andrea lets her hand fall away and shakes her head instead of curling into a ball. On her kitchen table. Oh god.

"I--"

That hand that she wanted so desperately just a moment ago -- warm and large and rough -- slides up her left leg to palm her hip. A ghost of the sensation keeps going, way past where he's stopped, traveling through her and pushing a sigh out of her, leaving her staring up at her ceiling with no words.

Then his voice comes, low, another caress, "You're beautiful," the words steady and sure. Then rougher, "I've wanted you," touching deeper, harder, without him moving an inch.

She whispers his name and shifts against the light pressure on her hip, her eyes closing again. When that gets her nothing, she tries to speak but ends up biting her lip, not caring about the soreness, mute. She brings her hand down to trail along her neck, down to pass between her breasts, needing some touch, any touch, and he's holding back. Why is he-- She wouldn't have thought he would--

"Dean..."

His hand closes on her hip, then; fingers pressing in for just a moment. There's a shaky breath above her. "Yeah. Hold on," he tells her, and his hand lifts away.

Pulling in a shuddering breath of her own, she pushes up on her elbows and her eyes go wide.

He's gorgeous, yes, she expected that, sort of, not quite like this. She'd been right to think "toned" with the t-shirt on, she sees that clearly now that it's off, but now she also sees the bruises -- old and fading away, and new enough to still be dark -- that mottle his skin. If Lucas came home like that...oh, she doesn't want to think about it.

"They fade," he says, and she looks back up at his still face. He's watching her carefully.

"I can see that."

She tried to keep the mother out of her voice, but from the look in his eyes, she's not sure that she succeeded. The urgency is backing off enough to truly think, and she reaches out for him. He comes closer at once, his hands falling away from undoing his jeans and to his sides, where his fingers curl just slightly. When she leaves her hand out there, he finally takes it in one of his, and she uses that leverage to sit up completely so they're eye-to-eye again.

"Do others not notice?" she asks, watching him now.

His chin comes up and the smile he gives her is sharp. "Sure they do." Because of course they're looking. They're touching and tasting like she did. Feeling the skin now within her reach heat under their hands, against their bodies...

"But they buy whatever story you give them," she says, and she knows her own smile is a solemn one.

He shrugs. "Long enough, anyway."

And there it is again, the double face laid out bare for her to see.

She shakes her head. When he frowns at her, his head cocking and his eyes asking, What? she leans forward and kisses the bruise high on his left shoulder.

His hand clenches around hers. "Andrea?"

She catches the wariness in his eyes as she pulls back, then she curls down, down, and bushes her lips across the darker bruise on his side, traces her tongue just above the waistband of his jeans. He's holding his breath now, she can feel the tension.

His eyes are dark when she straightens again, and they narrow even further when she licks her lips -- definitely looking at her mouth, this time.

When she lies back on her table, she pulls him forward and over her. He's pressed between her legs again with denim rough against her inner thighs. She knows he can feel how wet she still is, knows her heat is sinking through the fabric when she arches up just as he pushes forward.

"I..." She stops as his hips move again, and then smiles up at him. "I don't need a story, Dean. I just need this."

"Good," he says.

It's almost a growl, and that sound pulls at her. He bends his head and she wants his mouth; she's aching for the familiar pleasure of it to steady her, but he bypasses her lips to lick her throat, right along her pulse. Her breath catches. He heads lower as his free hand pushes up her shirt, and the sound he makes against her breast when he touches nothing but skin is a harsh one. She's tempted to echo it when he pulls away.

Then she hears other sounds, a curse, and then two thumps, and she blinks at the ceiling, realizing why he had to move. "Details," she mutters, and she hears a huff of laughter.

"I'd say they're little ones, but..."

Her laugh comes out more as a soft snort. "Right."

"Hey..." She hears a rip, and silently thanks him for thinking of all the details. "...if you don't believe me..."

"Just get back over here."

He is back, even before she finishes the half-joking order, and oh, yes, that's better. Now it's skin-on-skin everywhere. Addictive. She can't stop moving against it and he obviously doesn't mind. He braces one hand on the table by her head, and this time he does kiss her. Deep. His mouth taking hers. She opens up for him, curling her hand around his neck while their tongues taste and tangle.

Out of nowhere, it seems, a finger presses into her, then two. He's touching places when he twists them that she can never properly reach herself and his mouth takes her long moan along with everything else. When he breaks the kiss, Andrea whimpers. Her lips feel used, swollen, but the biggest ache is still building, higher, and when he adds another finger and whispers, "Come for me," she does, crying out.

She can feel a hand stroking her stomach as reason returns. He's murmuring things in her ear that make no sense to her right now, his voice too rough to be truly calming. Her emotions were riding up, down, back and forth, from the moment he appeared, and she hadn't thought she was that close to the edge, but he'd pushed her over with a force that still reverberates through her, leaving everything around her blurred and heavy.

"Oh my god," she breathes.

"Mm-hm," is all Dean says.

She thinks about swatting him on the head. Lying still under him and basking in the aftershocks seems easier.

He pulls back, though, braced over her now on both hands, and that move alone pushes his hips harder against her. His charm dangles between them, brushing against her collarbone, her breasts. She shifts just a little, just feeling him there, even harder than before, and then he's easing into her. Her breath catches, stutters at the renewed sensations and pressure. But it's too slow. She can see the effort in the set of his jaw, and the quickest way to convince him that he doesn't have to be careful is to simply wrap her legs around his waist again and pull him deep all at once.

Her back arches, hard. She barely hears his gasp. There's no-- She can't--

"Hell."

She forces her eyes open again to see his blown wide, the green just gone. Then his eyes squeeze shut.

He's holding himself so still, filling her so, so completely. Andrea breathes in, reaches up to touch his lips again, the only soft thing about his face. They open wider as he shudders against her, setting off all kinds of new sensations. Hot air rushes over her fingers. Her body is buzzing and she needs him to move.

"Just..." She has to swallow before she can continue. "Dean." She pushes up into him again and the hard pleasure of that pushes her hands up to her hair, pushes out, "Do it," on a moan.

His first thrust, shallow, makes her writhe and beg, "More." The second is faster, harder, and she scrabbles at the wood under her as she slides back, before he pulls her hips higher and thrusts in deep again.

"So good."

The words are just out there. She thinks he said them. It must be -- she can hear the hitching little sounds she's making, louder as another sensation hits: his hand between her legs, his fingers on her, her body screaming just short of overload.

"That's it. Yeah, good. Again."

He's talking and she's flailing, release right there, almost. "Damn it, Dean!" she sobs.

There's a deep chuckle, but she has enough wits left to recognize how strained it is, and when he presses into her again, she uses all the leverage she has to twist up against him.

"Goddamn..."

It truly sounds holy when he says it. Then he moves as she does, and her body convulses around him, his orgasm just another thing battering at her control.

He's under her when she tries to move again. Steady. All that solid muscle, she thinks, vaguely noticing that they're upright in one of her high-backed chairs. Her legs are straddling his, now, her arms around his waist and her face hot in the crook of his neck. One of his hands is stroking up and down her spine, her shirt shifting with it, and she arches slightly into the pressure, letting out a hmm.

"Hey."

She really doesn't want to -- Chris was always good at letting her linger -- but she pulls back with a soft smile. "What time is it?"

Dean's eyes narrow, but only for a moment before his chin rises, his lips pursing as she watches him realize why she's asking. That hand leaves her back, leaves behind a chill as he raises it to look at his watch.

He clears his throat. "One fifty-five."

"Mmm," she says. There's time, then.

With both hands on her hips, he cocks an eyebrow. "And that means...?"

She makes sure the smile she gives him this time is a bright one. "Past time for lunch. And I need to pick up Lucas at three."

"Right." His hands drop away and his lashes fall, just far enough to keep her from seeing what's come into his eyes.

Determined to keep this okay, she pushes off, sliding back off his lap and standing upright without stumbling, she's glad to say. And then there she in the middle of her kitchen, half-naked, her body still sensitive and aching in newly-remembered places.

"Clothes," she says, and bends down for her underwear and jeans.

She can hear him move and dress behind her, and hears the sounds he doesn't make, too, like any words about what just happened, what will happen now. Whether or not this happens again, she needs to know one thing, and she turns to him with that.

"Can you stay for a while after Lucas comes--"

"Yeah." His voice is sharp as he cuts her off, and he yanks his t-shirt down even as he crosses to frown down at her. "Why wouldn't I?"

He knows how to intimidate -- she's experienced it second-hand before and is well aware that this is a weak version of what he can level at a person -- but she refuses to look away now. "I don't know. When did you tell Sam you would be back?"

"Told him I'd call." Dean's lips twist on a huff. "He's a big boy."

She smiles at that, because it didn't take long into their second visit to see that kind of comment was equally about height and age. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure he's glad you've noticed."

The look Dean shoots her is still sharp but truly amused. "Yeah, whatever." Then he's looking off to the side and sighing. "I didn't come here just for..." he turns back at her and waves a hand between them, "...for this. I came to see you two. Because we were here."

"And we'll be here for some time," she says, nodding. "Just call next time, okay?"

A smile flashes across his face, lingering as he steps back. "Okay."

While he shrugs on his outer shirt, she walks over to open the refrigerator and pull out the makings of sandwiches. "Maybe while I'm picking up Lucas," she says as she lays it all out on the counter, "you could go get Sam. Bring him back for dinner."

There's silence behind her, and she bites her lip, wondering what line that crossed. But then he's there at her side, leaning a hip against the counter.

"We need to be on the road before midnight," he says when she glances at him. "We want to get to West Virginia by the fourteenth."

"Do I want to know what happens in West Virginia on the fourteenth?"

"Probably not," he says, entirely serious, so she nods before starting in on the sandwiches again.

"Well, I'll be kicking you out before midnight, so that works, doesn't it?"

She looks over in time to see his eyebrows shoot up. Then he shakes his head, once, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. "That it does," he finally says.

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