Category/Rated: Slash, R
Year/Length: 2007/ ~1686 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Car!Sex. Wincest.
Summary: Dean tilts his head, and indeed, there is a girl leaning against the door to the motel room beside theirs. She's sucking on a cigarette and smirks when she sees him looking at her. Nods her head and salutes him with her lighter, calls across to them, "Now I need two cigarettes."
Author's Notes: I needed some light and happy fic. So, car!sex. Dean and Sam are not nearly so private as they think they are. Title bastardized from a Grace Cooper quote. More in my Impala!Verse!
Beta: marysue007. Who is like, my crack idea dealer.
Sam seems to believe that everything associated with the Impala is automatically related to sex. Dean would explain that this isn't the case, but that would involve actually talking about any of this, and that's just not an option. Besides, it's funny to watch Sam getting all hot and bothered over pumping gas, which doesn't do anything to Dean but soothe the ache of hunger in his stomach.
Dean likes to request coffee just so that Sam has to go inside to pay, amused by his brother's flush and stiff–legged stride. Sam's always hard and desperate by the time he makes it back to the Impala, and Dean's always hard once Sam slides into him, so it all works out anyway.
They never make it more than five miles down the road before Sam is reaching over, hands desperate and pulling at Dean's belt. Yanking down his zipper and palming Dean's erection through the thin cotton of his boxer–briefs. It always ends with Sam's mouth around Dean's cock, Dean trying like hell to keep his wheels hugging the blacktop, Sam jerking himself off with rough, ragged strokes.
Once, a trucker saw them and laid on the horn at the same time Dean saw fireworks behind his eyes and came hard down his brother's throat.
They're rushing, late for a meeting with the anthropology teacher of the local college. Sam sets his steaming coffee on the seat beside himself for a split second, reaching up to straighten his tie. Dean snorts, "You fucking pansy, I swear," pops up the collar of his own leather jacket. Sam rolls his eyes.
Dean grins, winks, slams his engine into gear, and says, "Blow me, bitch." Watches Sam's eyes darken, watches a muscle in Sam's jaw jump and twitch. Is hopeful that in fact Sam will be using the thirty minute trip to the college to put his mouth to good use. They slide out of the parking lot just as Sam's coffee tips and spills.
For a second, a beat of silence, Dean contemplates how much he doesn't want to smell like coffee for the next week. And then it starts burning. He grunts, body curling, grasping at his stomach and the sudden, vicious pain low in his abs, beneath his skin.
Sam's jerking beside him, trying to right the cup and then throwing a bunch of napkins over the hot mess. Sam, cursing, "Shit. I'm sorry, shit, shit, are you okay?"
He is, or he will be, anyway. The pain is already fading away, the leather too tough to sustain lasting damage from hot coffee. But Sam's not waiting for him to answer, is pulling at his shirt, hitching it up till he can examine Dean's stomach. Sam pokes and Dean curses, throws his head back because, Christ, it still hurts when he does that.
Then the pain is gone, just like that, and all Dean can feel is Sam's fingers pressing into his skin. When he looks down at Sam's face there's some kind of awe written all over his brother's sharp eyes, soft lips, strong jaw. He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" Sam's voice is a low rumble, more felt than heard, Dean swears that it vibrates his bones.
"Like–" Dean's mouth snaps shut when Sam flattens his palm across Dean's stomach, so big that it covers almost from one side of Dean's waist to the other. His other hand is on the seatbelt, rubbing soft, big circles, his mouth, God, his mouth pressed open over the spilt coffee. Tongue, flicking against the leather. Dean's breath leaves him in a whoosh, his hips jerking helplessly, "–that."
Dean is tensing himself, preparing to drag Sam backwards with the seatbelt, hold him down and lick every inch of skin as thoroughly as Sam is lapping up what remains of the coffee, when someone taps on the driver's side window. It's an elderly lady, advising them that they are half in the road, half in the parking lot, and that they might want to fix that.
Sam thanks her, looking up from the seat, lips wet and obscene, and Dean slams into reverse without touching the gearshift. Has them back in the parking space in front of their room in seconds flat, is out the door and dragging Sam with him before the engine cuts off.
He puts Sam up against a wall the instant they're through the door, going to his knees and bracing a forearm across Sam's hips to hold him still.
They don't make it to see the anthropology teacher.
He hears Sam before he sees him, splashing through the puddles in the parking lot, trying to dance through the drops of rain and failing. Dean keeps his eyes closed, sitting cross legged on his hood, head tilted up to the sky, letting the rain wash over him. He's dimly aware of the engine cooling beneath him, the click and clack of metal. More distantly aware that it's cold, that he's taken off his jacket and shirt, boots and pants.
The water feels good. Clean. He's sitting on his hood with his hands pressed flat against the cool metal, feeling the water trace wanton patterns all across him and it feels like a miracle. He feels happy, at peace, and slightly guilty that he woke Sam up at this ungodly hour to chase him out into the rain.
Sam stands beside him for a long moment, hip leaning warm against the fender. Dean can feel him tracing patterns through the raindrops with his fingers. Slow and languid and patient. Can smell him, smoke and ash from last night's grave desecration. When Sam speaks his voice is low and thick with sleep, "You know what rain is–"
Dean interrupts, "Angels pissing on us?" Opens his eyes and looks across at Sam, tall enough that they're eye level now. His brother's hair is hanging in tight wet ringlets around his face, his right eye purple and black from the rocks the poltergeist had thrown. Sam's smiling, anyway, big and loose.
"No," he sounds like he might be laughing.
"Oh, what then?" Sam shrugs, motions Dean towards him with a jerk of his head. Dean leans towards him, letting his hands slide across the slick hood, till he's close enough to share Sam's breath. Lingers there, waiting, listening to Sam's short, shallow breath, feeling the heat pouring off his brother's skin.
One of Sam's hands comes up, curls against his face, thumb brushing aside a raindrop while his fingers card through Dean's wet spiky hair. Sam's breathless when he says, "I don't remember," right into Dean's mouth. Dean smiles, leans forward enough to crush their mouths together, tastes Sam and smoke and rain.
Sam groans, one hand shooting out and grabbing Dean's closest knee, pulling him across the hood till their bodies are pressed close and tight. Dean cooperates, lets his legs fall open on either side of Sam's hips, the wet fabric of Sam's jeans rough against his bare skin. Sam's shirt is coarse as well, Dean pushes his hands under it, flat on Sam's broad back, kneading at the hard muscles moving beneath bronzed skin.
Sam hisses, "Shit, Dean," before tilting Dean's head further back and kissing him like the world depends upon it going on forever. Sam's rocking against him, erection hard and fire hot through his jeans, digging low into Dean's stomach. Hands sliding down Dean's sides, gripping Dean's hips and holding him in place as he grinds against him fast and desperate.
Sam's panting into Dean's mouth, making desperate little sounds that play up and down Dean's spine like a live wire. Dean manages to get his hand between them, next to impossible with Sam crushing their bodies together. Manages to pop his jeans open and tug his zipper down, manages to get his fingers around Sam's cock. Lets the rain ease the friction of his strokes.
There's nonsense pouring out of Sam's mouth, "Fuck, Dean," as Dean twists and slides, "Please, oh, please," his fist, rolls his, "Oh, oh, God," fingers, curling his thumb and, "God, Dean, Dean," Sam comes apart at the seams. Jerks hard and rhythmless four times into Dean's fist before collapsing against him, letting his head slide down to rest in the curve of Dean's neck and shoulder.
He sounds confused when he murmurs into Dean's skin, "There's a girl over there."
Dean tilts his head, and indeed, there is a girl leaning against the door to the motel room beside theirs. She's sucking on a cigarette and smirks when she sees him looking at her. Nods her head and salutes him with her lighter, calls across to them, "Now I need two cigarettes."
Dean grins, about to say something witty back when Sam starts sliding down his body, dragging open–mouthed kisses over every inch of Dean's skin. Words fail him, and he fists a hand in Sam's hair, tugging though he's not sure whether he's intending to be encouraging or discouraging.
Sam takes it as encouragement. Puts a hand in the middle of Dean's chest and pushes him flat across the hood, has Dean's boxers off in one smooth movement. Which is impressive, but nowhere near as impressive as Sam's lips sliding down over him, as Sam's tongue when it wraps around him, as the little groaning sounds Sam's making that shoot through his nerves.
Later, when Sam crawls up his body, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins like a loon, Dean keeps a hand wound into his hair. Drags Sam's mouth down to his for a kiss and shudders from the feel of Sam pressing him down into the hood, Sam's hands boxing him in. He's hard again, just like that, and Sam grins.
When his head falls sideways, offering Sam access to his neck as Sam starts rocking and pressing into him, easing his thighs farther apart, the girl is gone. Just as well.
He hisses into Sam's ear, "C'mon, c'mon," and lets himself begin the long slide towards falling apart again.
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