Jun. 10th, 2008 10:02 am

Fandom: SPN

Characters: Dean/Sam

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Smut

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Sam's head flops forward to rest on the top of the car automatically, his mind still pleasure drunk as the mechanic shoves Sam's pants the rest of the way off his hips.

Kink: (18) Roleplay/au (domestic/tradesman)

Author's Note: I went with the AU route again, for this one. Featuring mechanic!Dean and pissy!law!student!Sam.


Sam slams the door to his car, scowling at the last sad whine of the engine, stomping his way over to the glass front door of the garage. He yanks on the door without any expectation of it actually opening, and feels some of his ire get temporary displaced when it swings open with an annoyingly cheerful bell ringing.

There is not a soul in the office, if that's what it's supposed to be. There are lots of pictures of cars, and greasy engine parts sitting on the counter beside the cash register. There's also a clock that's an hour slow, and a television playing some kind of daytime soap.

Sam frowns, shoving his heavy hair out of his face, irritated that it's every bit as hot in the office as it is outside. He's about to stomp back out when he hears faint music, nothing he recognizes, and finds himself pushing through the door into the garage proper.

It smells like grease, and oil, and it's insanely fucking hot, even with two of the bay doors open. At first it also looks empty, but then there's movement to the side, and Sam finds another man leaning over the engine of some unnecessarily large black car. All Sam can see of him is his legs, the blue-gray slacks that are apparently the uniform for dirty, greasy professions the world over.

The music out here is louder, something pounding with filthy lyrics that make the tips of Sam's ears feel hot. He picks his way across the floor to the other man, some of his fervor stolen by the toolboxes, rags, and barrels of suspicious looking liquids sitting around.

The man doesn't look up while Sam makes his way over, and up close Sam can see, and hear, that he's singing along to the music. He's got fair hair, darkened and separated above one ear by what Sam assumes must be motor oil. Sam frowns, turns off the radio that is sitting on a stool beside the black car. The man jerks up, and Sam snaps, "Are you open?"

For a moment the man just stares at him. He has surprisingly nice eyes, freckles across the bridge of his nose, stubble over his jaw, and there's another smear of grease across his cheek. Sam feels a chill race up his spine, and looks away.

The guy says, "Nice to meet you too. And no. There's a sign on the front door that says I'm closed today."

Sam heaves a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to beat back some of his frustration, "Every shop in town in closed." He can't keep the bite out of his voice, and admits to not trying very hard. He needs to get home, or at least away from here.

The guy sounds amused when he says, "It's Sunday," like that explains everything, turning back to his work. Sam watches him frown, wiping a particularly dirty part of the engine with a rag, which only really seems to smear the dirt around.

Sam's first instinct is to just leave, but there's nowhere else to go. He grits his teeth instead, speaking slowly, "Look, can you just look at my car? It's probably nothing serious, and I need to get out of here. I, I have money."

"If it's nothing serious then why are you at a garage?" the guy looks sideways at him, grinning brightly. Sam hates him, just a little bit, and not just because he's part of this stupid, retarded town.

Sam grits out, "It's making funny noises, and I have a long drive ahead of me. I just want to get the hell out of this town. Please, just look at the fucking car. My father assures me it probably just needs some alternator fluid."

The guy laughing is not the response that Sam had been anticipating. After a moment the mechanic catches himself, snorting against the back of his forearm, his eyes dancing with mirth. When he speaks his voice is strained, "He does, does he?" Sam just stares, not sure what's funny, and the guy shakes his head, his lips curled up into an unrepentant grin. "Well, how can I say no to a alternator fluid problem? Give me your keys, I'll see what I can do."

Sam hesitates before handing them over, because the guy still looks like he's about to burst into gales of laughter. He gives them up, because there's not another garage in town open, and even if this guy is insane, he should at least be able to fix the car enough for it to get Sam back to California.

Sam hooks his thumb back towards the waiting room, saying, "I'm just going to wait, then." The mechanic only nods, heading out the big bay doors, chuckling softly to himself. Sam shakes his head, wondering what the man's problem is, making his way back across the messy floor to the burning hot office and whatever shenanigans are going on in the world of day time television.

The plastic chairs set around the room, supposedly for customers, are hard, uncomfortable, and too small for Sam's frame. He sits in one anyway, stretching his legs out, thumping his head back against the wall, and trying to convince himself that he was adopted.

It doesn't take long for that to lose its appeal. Sam passes the time counting the ceiling tiles, and then watching a fly zip around the room. There's a candy machine full of M&Ms beside the counter and Sam eventually gets up, wanders over to it, and blows every quarter in his pocket loading up on chocolate.

Then he sits down and roasts some more.

By the time the mechanic finally steps through the door, Sam is a sweaty, miserable, mess. Sam has his button down shirt off, his undershirt clinging to his skin, a drop of sweat running down the back of his neck when he pushes himself to his feet.

The mechanic, at least, looks every bit as hot, and dirty as well. There's dirt under his fingernails, ground into his skin, when he hands Sam his keys back. Sam says, "So, is it better now?" Trying not to stare at the other man. It's more difficult than he likes to think about to resist.

The guy says, typing something into his ancient computer with the tried and true hunt-and-peck method, "It wasn't anything serious. Just a loose belt. And you need an oil change. Not doing that on my day off." The man flashes Sam a quick smile, big and bright.

Sam feels flustered, warm under the collar, and says in an attempt not to just stare helplessly at the guy's lips, "How was the alternator fluid?"

The guy's mouth twitches, his eyes glinting with something that might be amusement. Sam can hear it in his voice too, when he says, "You were completely out. I went ahead and refilled it for free." Sam nods, swallowing heavily, and then the guy is turning away, printing something off and handing the paper across to Sam. It takes him a moment, mind thick from the heat and attraction, to realize it's a bill.

It really wasn't very much, and Sam fumbles in his pocket for his wallet, handing across his credit card. The guy raises his eyebrows, "Winchester, huh? You John's boy?" while running the card through the ancient looking machine and Sam finds himself glowering.

Sam snaps, "John Winchester is my father, yes."

The guy raises his eyebrows, hands extended, and Sam feels himself flush again. Then he's handing back Sam's card, and a receipt, and maybe his fingers brush over the back of Sam's knuckles, maybe they don't. The guy says, "Drive safe, Sammy," and Sam forgets that he doesn't want to be called that anymore.

Sam storms out to his car, parked in a different spot than where he left it. Inside it smells just slightly like grease, and his radio has been changed, blaring deafeningly loud crap when Sam turns it on. Sam sits there, gripping the steering wheel and wondering if the heat has just cooked his brain.

And then he pushes back out of the car, finding himself marching back into the empty office, out to the garage, and over to the mechanic, who is bent over the black car again. The guy looks surprised when Sam grabs his shoulder, and then Sam is stepping in close, ducking his head and kissing the other man.

Sam knows that, really, this is not the way to pick up guys in little red-neck towns. He's probably going to get his ass kicked. And his father is almost certainly going to hear about this. It's such a bad idea for innumerable reasons.

The guy gets a hand in Sam's hair, dirty fingers tangling among the lank strands, a clever tongue teasing its way into Sam's mouth. Sam groans, pulling himself closer to the other man's body, insane with the heat, yanking at the man's shirt.

The nip of teeth at his bottom lip is enough to make Sam shiver, even in the heat. He thinks he makes a sound, but he can't hear it over the pounding of the music, the slow, rolling beat, while some man mumbles words that Sam can't quite make out.

Not that it matters, because then the mechanic is pushing at Sam, not shoving him away, instead slamming Sam against the front passenger door of the black car. The movement ends with one of the guy's thighs shoved between Sam's legs, groping hands wandering across Sam's body.

Sam feels swept away, attempting to hold his own and barely managing. He finds one of his hands settling on the man's ass, squeezing and pulling him closer. Sam can feel the man smile against his mouth, and then a rough hand is sliding down Sam's stomach, opening Sam's pants with a quick twist of the man's wrist.

Sam has time to frown at the thought of grease and god knows what else being rubbed all over his dick, and then the man is sliding down Sam's body, settling on his knees. Sam boggles down at him, finding himself holding his breath, locking his knees to keep from just falling over.

The mechanic grins up at him, cocky and blinding, and then he's licking over the head of Sam's cock. Sam whimpers, his hips jerking, and the mechanic grabs Sam's hips, pinning him to the car with strong hands. The slow slide of his tongue is torture, up and down Sam's cock, and then another long lick across the tip before the man finally closes his lips around the head of Sam's aching dick.

Sam reaches one hand down, petting back over the man's head, his hair short and prickly against Sam's palm. The man's eyes flutter at the touch, and he groans, a noise that Sam can't hear, but a vibration he can feel. Sam strokes his hair again, his other hand pressed flat against the window, looking for stability that he can't find.

The mechanic bobs his head fast and dirty, his cheeks hollowed from the suction he's maintaining, each slide of his mouth aided by his wicked tongue. Sam is gasping, breathing hard, shuddering when he realizes that the man is pacing his blowjob to the beat of the music.

And then the man starts humming along, his gaze locked with Sam's, and that's way too much. Sam tugs on his hair, on his ear, on whatever Sam can reach, and the man pulls his mouth off Sam's cock, sliding his stubbled cheek along Sam's aching flesh as he goes, and Sam's groans long and thick when he comes.

When the mechanic pushes back to his feet, Sam barely registers it, groping out in an attempt to grab the other man and pull him in for a kiss. Instead Sam finds himself being pushed, manhandled around, his stomach pressing against the slick window of the car.

Sam's head flops forward to rest on the top of the car automatically, his mind still pleasure drunk as the mechanic shoves Sam's pants the rest of the way off his hips. Sam groans, rubbing his forehead back and forth against the hot metal, trying to spread his knees.

The mechanic is pressing up against his back in seconds, warm, solid strength blanketing Sam. Sam can feel the other man's cock, sliding across his sweat slick ass and back. It's all burning hot, everything, all their skin, but the man's dick feels like fire itself, searing as he grinds against Sam.

Sam gasps, hands sliding sweat slick across metal, the mechanic nipping and biting at the back of Sam's neck, one hand on Sam's hip, the other sliding up under Sam's shirt, fingers rough and callused. Sam is just coherent enough to rock back against the other man, and he feels the answering groan in the man's chest.

The man comes biting the nape of Sam's neck, come spilling hot and slick across Sam's back. They stay there, frozen, both of them breathing hard and fast. Sweat is running down the side of Sam's face, down the line of his spine, and his thighs. He can feel the man's thumb, rubbing back and forth over the jut of Sam's hip.

After a long moment the man shifts back, grabbing a rag that looks mostly clean and wiping it down Sam's back. When Sam clumsily pulls his pants back up, feeling fumble fingered, the man says, "My name is Dean, by the way."

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