Year/Length: 2007/ ~1447 words
Pairing: Impala/Dean, mentions of John/Mary
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Car!sex. No, not just sex in a car, it's...I just...You know what, there is no explanation for this.
Summary: She likes it best when he's inside her, his long, lean body sprawling across the driver's seat.
Author's Note: Did I mention there was car!sex? Cause there is. Oh, God. A continuation of Five Hundred and Twelve, except with more Impala. And Dean. And sex. And less Sam.
Beta: marysue007, who this was also written for, when she expressed an desire for some Impala/Dean action. Oh, God, I cannot resist fic suggestions.
So the million dollar question is: When did it start?
Maybe it all started that muggy night when the semi plowed into her side, and buoyed by the power that had saturated her for years, she made the decision to save her fair–haired boy. No.
Perhaps it started those four long years ago when it had been her and the broken pieces of him. When she had been his confidant, comfort, home. One of those thousands of nights spent with him, struggling with his fears and pain while she watched and held him. Feeling what would have been pain, if she could feel such things. No.
Or during his teenage years, then, when he alone had talked to her, cleaned her, changed her oil and kept her leather conditioned while the other two ignored her. When he brought girls by the dozen by to her, and moved inside them inside her. Warmed her with his breath and pounding heartbeat. Afterwards he always kicked the girls out, and then cleaned up any mess he had made, all gentle hands and soft cloth. No.
Maybe it was during his first kiss, with a little freckled redheaded girl. When he'd pressed the girl against her hood, his hands pushing into the cool metal on either side of the girl, possessive and warm. No.
Farther back, then. Maybe it was his little eight year old body crumpled against her seat, bleeding all over her from the ragged wound in his side. Still holding the knife in the wound because his father was afraid that if they removed it he'd bleed out. At least, that's probably where the blood magic first took hold. But for the rest of it...No.
Back even further, almost past the time she remembers. A time when he and his brother had huddled against the cold hardness of a world suddenly turned against them in her seat. Four years old and he had curled himself around his brother, pressing them into the corner and promised he'd always be there, no matter what. And he'd meant it. Them against the world. Forever. No.
Getting awful close to the beginning. The woman, his mother, spread across her back seat, gripping the leather and gritting her teeth. Yelling at the man in the front seat, " Goddamnit John, drive faster, I am not having my baby in a car." No.
All that's left is the very, very, beginning, then. The woman and the man, entwined in her backseat, moving softly against each other. Breath fogging up her windows, voices filling her up with soft moans and dirty whispered words full of promises the world won't give them the time to keep. Rocking her springs as they become more desperate, striving towards some bright glow of heat and pleasure and–afterwards, lying together, they don't feel the warm burst of new life in the woman's womb.
But still, if she had to pick a time, that was probably when it all started.
It doesn't really matter where it started, so much as where it ends up. There's no logical explanation for how it happens, why she does it, how it's even possible.
Maybe it was all the power shifting around under the stars that night. Maybe it was the fact that they were hit exactly where two ley lines intersected. Maybe it was the blood he's shed into her over the years, gallons of blood that no amount of cleaning will ever remove, pumped out of him and into her.
What it all comes down to is that she had known he was going to die, bleed out inside her, breathe his last breath and pass to the gray shores of death, and somehow decided not to let him. It wasn't out of love, or anything like that, because while she had been far more than a hunk of steel she was still far less than a human and emotion was something she'd had no dealings with.
It was just...he'd been there, with her, forever. He'd promised her forever. Them against the world. Him and her and his brother. He'd taken care of her a thousand times, fixed her up when she was broken, kept her shining, loved her even if she'd been unable to love him back. He was also the only one that managed to not wreck her into things on a regular basis, a definite mark in his favor.
And so she'd decided, in the slow not–thought that she existed in, that he wasn't going to go anywhere, and held onto him.
Here's the thing: she still doesn't think, really. She can't. She's not even truly sentient. But there are parts of her in his brain, just like there are parts of him in her carburetor and fuel pump and each and every piston. When he thinks about it at all, when he can't force himself to ignore what's happened anymore, he tends to think about it in terms of a symbiotic relationship. He's wrong, of course.
They're almost one creature now, for better or worse.
Most of the time, it seems like for the worse.
She's never experienced pain before, not till the paramedics pull him out of her. Never felt empty either, till they drag him away and keep him in some huge white building far away from her. Never felt dirty, till that bastard sits in her and rubs his hands all over her and it still hurts her boy, thinking about that. Turns his stomach and makes him itch, residual guilt and fear and disgust that she worries will never go away.
He stops bringing girls back after that, for a long time. Flinches in some kind of unthinking panic about filth and worth and how he hasn't got any, when they touch him. Touches her more, though, as often as he can, and she's glad of that. Feels like she's missing her engine when he's not with her, like she's incomplete.
She likes it best when he's inside her, his long, lean body sprawling across the driver's seat. It feels good, feels like home, feels like safety and warmth. And this time, unlike every other time he's touched her in the last long months, it's accompanied by a tickle up his/her spine that she hasn't felt before. Her engine revs in time with his heart rate, jumping as he sharply inhales.
She thinks this is a big step, probably, back from wherever he's been. This long slow caress across her dash, fingers splayed and just shaking a little bit, him biting his lip against a moan as he presses harder. His other hand sliding against her steering wheel, dragging his fingernails across the seam in the leather, arching his head back and gasping up into the ceiling.
His hips jerk, sharp and desperate, up off the seat, rock into the rapidly warming air. His hand on the steering wheel slides across it, palm slapping into the window and balling into a fist at the cool, smooth, texture of it. Fingers of his other hand sliding across the dash painfully slowly, tracing patterns that might be runes or Latin text or whatever white hot light is playing on the insides of his eyelids.
His legs are trembling where they're braced on the floor, nowhere near the gas pedal, but her engine is roaring regardless. She feels, oddly, as though she might explode.
The loss of his hand against her dash is almost painful, he cries out, sharp and desperate, and then his hand finds the gearshift. Fingers tighten around the leather and it fits just perfect in the curve of his palm, melding into his touch by years of familiarity. He moans, arches almost completely out of her seat and twists his fingers just so–and–oh God–faster.
His other hand is fisting into her seatbelt, wrapping it around his wrist, hand and fingers tugging. Setting a desperate rhythm with both hands, shaking and whimpering and rolling his head against her leather. Eyes screwed shut, mouth open, panting and praying. Grinding against her and he flicks his thumb against the rounded side of the gearshift and pulls so hard on the seatbelt she'd worry it would snap if she could care about such things right now.
Her engine is revved around six–thousand rpms and she thinks she might literally be on fire, and his hands clench, body arching one more time and he yells into the burning hot air. Nonsense words, all relief and desperation and her engine slows, cools down, edges back towards normal.
Maybe she was wrong about the beginning.
Maybe this is it, here, now, and maybe she likes it that way.
::back to index::