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First and Last (the Last Night on Earth Remix)

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Inside Bobby’s house it’s warm and bright, belying the dark purpose that’s drawn them here, but Sam can’t really take any comfort from the familiar surroundings. The rooms seem full to bursting with bodies and he’s feeling slightly claustrophobic, his skin hot and itchy and his breath coming short, even though there’s only the six of them here—so few to fight the end of the world. So few left to represent Sam’s loved ones, his family.

It’s good to be back on the same page with Dean again, though, even if Sam doesn’t expect to have much time to enjoy their newly re-minted solidarity. He shakes his head at his brother’s back as Dean crosses the room, intent on his target. At one time Sam thinks Jo would have taken Dean up on his last-night-on-earth offer, but nowadays she’s not the same callow girl they first met at the Roadhouse.

But Dean’s got to try, Sam supposes. Jo’s a pretty girl. Sam has noticed. She’s actually more attractive now, he thinks, since she started hunting, the soft lines of youth honed into sharper edges, all sleek grace and efficiency of movement.

Still, Sam’s not tempted to try his luck even if he thought she’d welcome it, which he’s sure she wouldn’t after the…incident…in Duluth. He glances over again and smirks. Looks like Dean’s getting shot down, too.

Sam’s attention wanders to Ellen, like it’s been doing all night. Sam has never been able to ignore her, actually, but tonight he’s having trouble looking away. Maybe it’s the adrenaline born of fear, the almost unbearable pre-battle anticipation that means none of them is getting any sleep tonight, despite all the alcohol.

He can’t blame the alcohol he’s consumed tonight for the fact that he finds Ellen so much more attractive than Jo, though—she always has been that to him. She’s shapelier, more mature, more maternal…and Sam puts the brakes on that train of thought quickly. It’s probably the least surprising psychological revelation since Oedipus that Sam has some issues with older women. All the more reason to take a page from Dean’s book and avoid examining it too closely.

He needs some air.

Sam gets up—too fast, and his chair makes a loud scraping noise on the linoleum—but Dean is busy with Jo, and Ellen and Cas are apparently still trying to decide if Cas is actually drunk now, and if not, what it would take to get him there. Bobby is futzing around with something in the other room, so no one pays Sam any mind when he walks quietly out the front door.

It’s cool outside and Sam takes a deep breath, collapses back onto the old couch set against the front wall of the house, that’s been there for as long as Sam can remember. It creaks, distressed by his weight but not giving way. He sprawls, propping his feet on a milk crate, and tries to relax.

It’s not really working and he’s thinking about going back inside for another beer or maybe something stronger, when the door opens and Ellen steps out onto the porch. She’s got a bottle in her hand and her gait is steady, but Sam’s pretty sure she’s as drunk as he’s ever seen her. She hides it well, can drink Sam under the table without breaking a sweat even on an off day, but she did enough shots with Cas to fell an ox. Besides, there’s something kind of loose-limbed about the way she meanders to the steps, hips swaying fluidly, and then leans against the support post with her back to him, one ankle crossed over the other. He’s got a really nice view of her ass from this angle and he takes advantage of it for longer than he should.

“Hey, Ellen,” he says finally, not really trying to startle her but feeling a little twinge of satisfaction warm his belly at her tiny flinch. She turns, eyes narrowed, and Sam knows he can see her better than she can see him. The light from inside casts a soft glow across her face, makes her seem a lot younger than she usually does.

Not that she doesn’t look really good in the broad daylight, Sam thinks.

Ellen peers at him, and she doesn’t exactly give him a blatant once-over, but Sam is dead certain that Ellen is checking him out, sees her eyes track the shadowed lines of his body. The little smirk that follows her sweeping look just confirms what he was already thinking.

On the other hand, maybe she’s not the only one who’s drunk more than usual tonight.

“Hey, Sam,” she says.

Her smile is wide, unguarded now, and it does something to Sam’s insides. He swings his feet to the floor, sits forward, elbows on his knees, grins back. Ellen’s look warms slightly, then she leans back against the porch railing and takes a pull from the beer in her hand, licking her lips when she finishes.

“What’re you doing out here? All partied out?”

Sam snorts softly.

“Couldn’t stand watching Dean embarrass himself with Jo any longer.”

Ellen laughs softly and Sam suddenly needs to adjust himself, cock twitching in his jeans at the warm, husky tone of her chuckle. It’s not the first time her smoke and whiskey voice has had that effect on him, not by a long shot, but then it dawns on him that actually doing something about it might be a realistic possibility.

“I’m surprised she said no, honestly. He’s exactly her type,” Ellen remarks.

Sam gets up and joins her at the porch railing, standing close enough to feel the heat of her hip next to his thigh. He wonders if he’s overstepping some invisible boundary, wonders what she’ll do about it if he is.

“But not yours?” Sam asks, curving his body a little more into her space, looming over her, really, and she turns toward him so naturally that he’s reassured. He’s on the right track here. On impulse he takes her beer from her hand and steals a drink. She follows the motion with her eyes, and the way she has to crane her neck to see it makes him feel suddenly bigger…huge, sexy and powerful.

Ellen chuckles ruefully.

“Oh, I’ve fallen for my share of pretty boys in my time. Then I got too old for it. Maybe a little wiser, while I was at it,” she adds.

He raises an eyebrow, weighs that statement with a tilt of his head.

“I don’t know. Seems to me if you were all that wise, you wouldn’t have taken up with this bunch,” he says, nodding toward the house and grinning to emphasize the joke.

She laughs outright at that. “You just might just be onto something there,” she says, adds, “Seems like it might be a night for bad decisions.” From this close, he can see her facial expression even in the dark and it’s an intriguing one. Inviting.

“Dangerous mission tomorrow,” Sam says, taking his cue.

“Last night on earth?” Ellen teases, and the look in her eyes is so intense it sparks a surge of arousal low in his belly.

They’re standing well in each other’s space now, and Sam can smell the faint scent of her shampoo mingled with the whiskey on her breath. Her face is turned up to his, and they’re having some kind of moment or something. Her lips are parted, eyes hooded, and he’s on the verge of leaning down to kiss her when she puts a hand on his chest and slides it downward, slips her fingers into the loose waistband of his jeans. He gasps and his stomach muscles jump. Ellen laughs, husky and suggestive.

“Hey, why not? Ain’t none of us gettin’ any younger,” Ellen says, grinning. She wraps her hand around his belt buckle and tugs lightly, then turns and takes off down the steps of the porch, towing him behind her.

His reactions are slower than usual from the booze, but by the time they make it to the back door of her truck, his body has clued in to what’s about to happen. A sharp thrill pulses through him and he crowds her against the cool metal, wrapping one arm around her back and tangling the other hand in her hair, controlling the angle of their kiss. He slides his tongue inside, groaning deep in his chest when she opens for him easily, sucks gently, reminding him of all the other things he wants to do to her. All the things he’s wanted and thought he’d never have.

He’s not sure what he expected, really, hadn’t thought that far ahead, but Ellen is kissing him back like she means it, like she wants him, and Sam is so hard already. Ellen makes a little frustrated sound then, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down and arching up against him and he growls, grabs a double handful of her ass and lifts her, pinning her against the side of the truck. She wraps her legs around him and oh Christ it’s good, it’s perfect, hard pressure and rough friction of their jeans against his dick. He rides it, loses himself in it, in the rub and grind, the slick heat of her mouth and the goddamned pornographic sounds she makes, thinking he could do this all night, until Ellen finally pulls back, laughing hoarsely.

"If you nail me here, it's gonna be hell on my back, kid. Show some fucking respect and lay me down."

Sam laughs, too, feeling her breasts brush deliciously against his chest with the motion. He shivers.

"Yes, ma'am," he grins, shifting her weight onto one arm and reaching behind her for the door handle with his freed hand. He spares a look back at the house as the pickup door opens, feels a quick flash of gratitude when the truck’s dome light malfunctions, then gets back to business.

It’s hard to concentrate on getting them inside, though, the way she clings to him, nipping and sucking at his neck and sending waves of goose bumps down his back, Christ, and he narrowly misses smacking his head on the doorframe. He sets her down on the seat and leans in, lets her have her way with him for a bit, even though he suspects she's leaving marks behind that he’s going to have to hear about tomorrow. It’s good, her clever tongue and sharp teeth making him shiver and pant, but when she runs her hands up under his shirt, drags her short nails lightly down his back, he decides it’s time to take back the reins.

He has to peel her loose from him, she’s so intent on his neck—which he more than appreciates, anyway—but he finally manages to get her laid out like he wants, starts undoing her jeans and pulling them off, underwear and all. He has a little trouble with her boots, and she teases him for it, but he uses the time it takes her to get them unzipped and thrown aside (and zippers on boots…what’s that all about, anyway?) to strip off his own shirts. He sees her looking at him then, eyes raking over his naked chest and abs, and he stills. If he puffs his chest out the slightest bit and grins cheekily at her, it’s just because he wants to get a little of his own back, even though if he’s honest, her frankly appreciative gaze just makes him harder.

She has her shirt off now, her bare stomach and chest rough with goose bumps, from the cold, or something else. There’s just a plain white bra between him and bare breasts now, and he covers her body with his own, reaches around to unfasten the offending garment.

“No, leave it,” she says, gripping his bicep. Sam is puzzled at first, then it hits him: she’s worried, self-conscious, and she doesn’t want him to see. He gets a slight lump in his throat at that, a surge of something approaching tenderness, a sudden protective urge he covers with a grin.

“No fucking way,” he whispers into her neck, nuzzling as he works the clasp open, pushes the straps off her shoulders and tosses the bra into the floorboard. “I’ve wanted to do this for years…not gonna half-ass it now that I’ve got you here.”

Sam has no idea what she was worried about anyway; her breasts are beautiful, not huge, but full and soft. He only looks for a second before covering her right nipple with his mouth, sucking gently, roughing it with his tongue, enjoying the feel of it hardening under his attentions. He pulls off with a soft suck and moves to the other one, playing there for a few moments before he trails his tongue further down, making his way to where he really wants to be.

He can smell her arousal, see the beads of moisture collected on her soft curls and it makes his mouth water. He pushes her legs up, spreading her open, hooks her foot over the back of the seat, out of his way, and rakes his stubbled cheek gently down the inside of her thigh, smiling at the gasp it elicits.

Sam likes oral sex pretty much any way he can get it and he takes his time, pushes his tongue inside her wet cunt, fucking her with it, savoring the sharp scent, the faintly metallic flavor. Ellen bucks and swears and Sam grins against her skin, moves up to her clit, sucking gently, licking, and rubbing it with his thumb while he slides his tongue back lower. Inside her, and then back up, over the swollen nub, quick suck and back down, he keeps going, enjoying the taste of her slick on his tongue, the hot satiny feel of her flesh against his lips, the pretty sounds she makes. In just a few minutes he has her trembling with it and he’s not in much better shape, pressing his cock against the seat just for a little relief.

Finally, Ellen snaps. “Goddamn it, Sam…will you just fuck me already?” she demands, panting. Sam laughs and raises his head to look at her, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, smirking.

“You know what you can do with that shit, too,” she says, giving his chest a little shove, a mock-grumpy expression on her face. He sits back on his haunches and wrestles a condom out of his wallet, tosses it onto her belly. Then he undoes his jeans and wriggles them down, sighing in relief when his cock springs free.

Sam’s always figured Ellen would know her way around a man’s body, and she confirms that impression now, doesn’t waste any time wrapping her fingers around him with an appreciate little hum. She jacks him slow and firm, running her thumb through the moisture collecting at the head, and he rolls his hips into her grasp easily, soft grunt escaping him at the delicious pressure. She’s only holding him firmly, not squeezing very hard and he thinks that’s a damned good thing. It’s been a while since he’s had a hand on him other than his own and he’s liable to go off too soon if she’s not careful.

She lets go of him to open the condom and Sam watches, sort of hovering over her, since there isn’t much else he can do in the cramped space. There’s something almost obscene about the way his cock hangs hard and heavy between them, potent and ready, and his balls give a heavy throb at the thought. Her light touch as she rolls the condom onto his rigid length is tantalizing, but he’s not a teenager anymore and he manages to hold on to his control until she gets it on.

It’s a little tougher to be a gentleman when she takes hold of his dick and guides him between her legs, rubs the head against her wet folds, but he manages to take it fairly slowly, sinking inside her with a groan, her cunt gripping his twitching cock. He watches her face, scrunched up in something that could be pain or pleasure or a mixture of both, but he can feel her shaking under him.

“Are you…” he starts, panting, but she wraps her legs around his hips, grips him hard by the shoulders, fingers digging in.

“Move, damn you,” she orders through clenched teeth, and Sam does.

He fucks into her with long, smooth thrusts, unable to bite back the moans that the tight heat of her body wrings from him, arms shaking, a trickle of sweat running down his back despite the cool night air still filtering in the open door of the truck. She’s panting hard under him, the blissed-out look on her face incredibly hot, husky little sounds of pleasure forced out of her with every thrust and it’s nearly too much, will be too much very soon, the knowledge that he’s actually doing this after all the times he’s thought about it, taking her apart, making her lose control.

It occurs to him then that as long as he’s known Ellen, he’s never been all that sure what she’s thinking at any given time, and it suddenly seems important that it’s really him she’s seeing, that Sam’s the one making her arch and moan and come, not the image of somebody else in her mind.

“Come on, Ellen,” he whispers between thrusts, “want you to come for me…come screaming my name, let me hear it…your voice…so fuckin hot…”

She gives him a look at that, almost amused, one that would probably embarrass him if he had the wherewithal to care right now. As it is, he’s right on the edge of coming himself, but damned if he’s going to go first, and he rears back, hooks his arms under her thighs, changing the angle and fucking her harder, faster. Just enough, too, judging from the way she gasps and arches against him, suddenly coming hard, body twisting, crying out, “Sam…fuck…Sam!”

Just like that he’s gone too, pleasure washing over him as her orgasm milks his cock, all his muscles seizing as he grinds into her, trying to get deeper, balls throbbing as he pulses into the condom. Too bad we didn’t go bareback—the thought flits through his brain, some atavistic part of him, maybe, wishing that if he has to die tomorrow he could have left some of himself behind, as ridiculous as he knows that is.

He catches his breath by increments, but he waits, not wanting to separate from her warmth just yet, even though the way they’re tangled together on the too-narrow seat is not exactly comfortable. He supports most of his weight on one elbow and thumbs one of her nipples gently, thinking how beautiful she is, about how she’d wanted to keep herself covered, and what a shame that would have been.

“Knew you’d be hot,” he says, against her hair. She chuckles, still sounding a little breathless.

“If you tell your brother—or God forbid, Jo—about this, I’ll hunt you down and cut those pretty balls of yours off,” she says.

Sam laughs.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, drily, anticipating the smack she aims at his shoulder and absorbing it. He laughs and pulls her in, wraps her close in his arms. She settles into him a lot easier than he’d have expected, and he knows they need to get out of here before the others come looking, but he’s kind of touched that she’s letting him do any of this at all. For all that it’s a cliché, he thinks this was exactly the comfort he needed tonight. Maybe for Ellen, too, he thinks, as she shifts and breathes a contented sigh against his shoulder.

Last night on earth. Sam thinks he’ll hold on for just a little while longer.