Category/Rated: Slash, R
Year/Length: 2007/ ~3311 words
Spoilers: up to 2:19 (Hollywood Babylon)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Car!sex. Wincest.
Summary: It's been a long time since he washed a car, Jessica's little red Neon, and he's never washed the Impala. It's always, always, been Dean's thing to take care of her. He feels sloppy and awkward with the first stroke across her roof, like the first time he kissed a girl, the first time he kissed Dean.
Author's Notes: I'm going to hell. Continuation of my Impala!Verse. Smut. Lots and lots of smut.
Beta: marysue007, who I inadvertently killed dead. No! Don't be dead!
He waits as long as he can, on Dean, fighting against him every time Dean pushes him at some random girl. But the weeks wear into months, and it gets to the point that his skin itches all the time, an undercurrent of need, surging through him like a second pulse. Gets to the point that every time he looks at Dean, smells Dean, hears Dean, he's painfully hard, just like that.
He holds on as long as possible, telling himself that he should be able to wait this out with Dean.
And then there's Madison, and Dean throwing them together, smiling his broken too–big smile. He gives up, can't hold out any longer. Holds her and moves inside her and whispers his brother's name into the chocolate of her hair when he crashes over the edge.
Afterwards he's ashamed of the betrayal, of the pain that Dean hides behind his stone–face. Afterwards he puts a bullet in her head, because it's the only way. Afterwards Dean wraps an arm around him, and leads him out of her apartment, and like a switch being flipped he is instantly and blindingly hard again.
He gulps down air when he realizes that he could fuck a million other people, but none of them will ever be able to make up for being unable to fuck Dean. Hates Andy.
The only good thing that comes out of Hollywood is Tara. She is, to Sam's knowledge, the first person Dean's been with since Andy. She's painfully boring, has as much personality as a board, is completely and totally safe. Sam's never been happier to see Dean get laid.
His first response, of course, is the urge to slam Dean into the nearest wall. Rush them back to that state of grace they'd been living in those months ago. Wants it so bad that it might be need.
Making himself wait is some heretofore undiscovered measure of self–restraint, but he does it. Waits even when Dean starts grinning at him again, starts softly touching him at every opportunity, starts flirting with him and edging into his space till Dean's heat is every bit as familiar as Sam's own.
As much as he wants to bury himself in Dean, sink into him, blend himself right into his brother, as much as all that, he doesn't–won't–hurt him.
So he waits, patience personified, itching under his skin with want and need. It's so hard with Dean eye–fucking him over breakfast in a little diner, lips shining with bacon grease, skin flushed with whatever dirty thoughts he's contemplating. Sam's hard in his jeans, and Dean smirks when Sam tries to readjust himself without it being noticeable.
And then he's sliding into the passenger seat of the Impala, and it goddamn purrs, and he freezes. Goes still and tries to suck air down into his suddenly tight chest. Because Dean might lie to him, Dean might do anything if he thought it would please Sam, but he doesn't think that the Impala would. Doesn't think she can.
Sam grins, feels relief shoot through his chest, and takes it as the permission he's been waiting for.
He waits another few days, till they're out at the coast in a little trailer that Dean rented for the weekend, somewhere for them to relax and lay low for a while. Wakes up when the sun is just starting to stain the sky pink and gold and spends almost an hour finding a hose, sponges, rags, soap, and a bucket.
The west–coast sun is already edging the air into hot and sticky territory by the time he hauls his bounty out onto the gravel driveway. For a long moment he just stands and stares at the Impala, glistening in the sun, waiting on him. His cock twitches, and he spares a second to wonder about the state of his sanity. Decides he doesn't care if he's crazy or not.
There's already a line of sweat down his spine when he pulls his shirt over his head, tosses it to the side. His jeans are awkward in the heat, but he doesn't own a pair of shorts, and they're not secluded enough for him to be comfortable in his boxers. Especially not with the throbbing, needing, ache in his groin.
God, he's got butterflies in his stomach when he sets the bucket down beside her. Tests the water's heat against his palm before filling the bucket to the brim. Splashing Dean's special soap into the bucket and watching its blue tint curl like smoke through the water.
Has to take a deep breath to steady himself before pointing the nozzle at the Impala and soaking all the smooth, shining, metal. Trying to trace each drop with his eyes as they bounce and slide down her long, lean body. His fingers itch with want. His mouth is painfully dry.
He needs to touch, sees no further reason to deny himself, and lets the hose drop, grabs a rag and plunges his hand into the bucket.
It's been a long time since he washed a car, Jessica's little red Neon, and he's never washed the Impala. It's always, always, been Dean's thing to take care of her. He feels sloppy and awkward with the first stroke across her roof, like the first time he kissed a girl, the first time he kissed Dean.
He grins, nerves battling against want, whispers, " Hey, it's Sammy, okay?"
She doesn't respond, of course, but he feels better for identifying himself. Calmer for hearing his own voice. Drags the rag across her roof, slow and soft with a trembling hand. Rubs big, slow circles across the metal, captivated by the blue–white bubbles spreading, by the wet sheen catching and reflecting the sun.
He's breathing sharp and shaky, blood singing with lust, rubbing across the side windows. Sinking to his knees, trying to ignore the heat gathering between his legs, worshiping each inch of steel from her grill to her rear bumper. Trembling at each wheel well, hesitating and licking his dry lips before moving over them, untouched.
He's spread across the hood, feeling the sun beating across his shoulders and down his back, when the engine turns over. He holds his breath, trapped between the wide–open sky and the rumble of the engine, staring into the empty driver's seat. Rubs another long slow stroke against her and feels the answering rumble of the engine down to his toes.
He's sliding his hand over the curve of her fender, his back to the trailer, when he hears the front door slam open. Forces himself not to turn, to drag a long swath with the rag under the windows. Feels the engine rumble when he flattens his other palm against the driver's door handle, curling his fingers around it and squeezing.
" Sam." Dean's voice is sleep–rough and sharp. Warning. Sam arches his head over his shoulder, feels whatever answer he had been planning die in his throat at the sight that greets him. Dean's leaning against the doorframe, steadying himself. Sam can see the flush across his brother's cheeks, the heat in his eyes, but he barely notices. His eyes get captured by the way Dean's shirt is all rucked up, like he was twisting in his sleep, by Dean's cotton boxer–briefs, tented out for God and the world to see.
Sam's not sure he's ever wanted anything as badly as he wants Dean right now.
Deliberately stands and turns to face his brother, spreading his arms across the Impala's roof, tracing patterns in the bubbles with each finger. Feather light, teasing, coaxing. In the doorway Dean jerks his head to the side, eyes sliding closed and, oh God, moaning. Sam swallows heavily, crinks his fingers twice against the roof, 'come here'.
Dean hesitates another moment, and Sam can see the tremble in his shoulders now. Can see the wet dark spot in the front of Dean's briefs where his pre–come is soaking through. Sympathizes, his own jeans are painfully constricting. Sam's voice, when he speaks, is a low, rough plea, " Dean, please."
The engine roars, Dean growls, and his eyes are predatory when he looks up. He's off the front steps like a shot from a gun, stalking towards Sam with such naked purpose that Sam freezes. Deer in the headlights. Helpless against what he's initiated.
And then Dean is Right There, stepping between his legs, pressing chest to chest, bracing one hand on her roof by Sam's shoulder, wrapping the other hand around the back of Sam's neck and yanking his head down .The kiss is all fire and urgency and Dean tastes like the morning, stale and just slightly sour. Sam's got the soap and oil smell of the Impala in his nose and it all blends together in his brain.
He makes a half–hearted effort to gentle the kiss, but Dean's having none of that, all teeth and tongue and his fingers tight in Sam's hair. Sam hears the echo of his own groan in Dean's mouth, finally marshals some control over his body and reaches his arms out for his brother. He's still got the rag in one hand, feels Dean shudder when he presses it against his shoulder, drenching his shirt before his fingers cooperate and let go of the rag, grasp at the short prickly hairs on the back of Dean's neck instead.
Dean slides the hand wrapped around Sam's skull forward, thumb flicking against Sam's ear, fingers tracing the bone structure of his brow, cheek, jaw. Dancing down the pounding line of his pulse, rough fingertips and ragged nails and the metal cool brush of Dean's ring glancing across his collarbone. Dragging his knuckles across Sam's shoulder, till his hand finds its way to the wet metal, flattens against her.
Sam chokes, feels his knees give.
It's like a circuit closing, electricity and completeness and him in the middle of it, lost in the circle of Dean–steel and Dean–skin and they're both the same thing, oh God.
Dean presses him hard into the Impala, keeping him mostly upright with his body. Can't stop the sag of Sam's shoulders, the way his head flops backwards, no strength left in him to keep it upright. Sam thinks that Dean is rumbling when he takes advantage of Sam's thrown back head to drag his hot sucking mouth down Sam's neck. Nips and sucks at his skin till Sam knows there will be marks even though he can't bring himself to care.
He's to busy holding desperately onto the back of Dean's neck, fingers sliding up into Dean's hair, gripping and urging and quivering, to worry about anything. Dragging his other hand up the line of Dean's spine, feeling lightning dance along the tips of his fingers, clenching his fingers into Dean's shirt when his brother starts grinding against him.
Feels himself sink another few inches on his liquid knees, clawing at Dean's shoulders in a desperate attempt to stay upright at all, and then Dean's mouth is against his again. It's barely a brush of lips and Sam tries to press closer, to draw Dean back into his mouth till he can't think anymore, but Dean holds himself back. Says, his breath dancing down into Sam's lungs, " Get in."
Sam shudders at the heat in his voice, overwhelmed, thrumming, barely able to form the words, 'The keys are inside' in his brain, much less his throat. He's just opening his mouth, trying to force something besides a moan out of his mouth, when he registers the tiny click from the Impala.
And then Dean kisses him, hard and deep and he's sucking on Sam's bottom lip when Sam finally manages to close a hand around the door latch for the backseat. He's not surprised when it pops open at his touch. Jerks his arm back to Dean's body, hand melding against his brother's hip, fingers questing beneath Dean's sopping wet shirt.
Dean grins into the kiss, and then he's stepping back, dragging Sam with him, and the door is swinging open and Sam can't remember if Dean touched it or not. Doesn't matter, because then Dean's forcing him forward again, voice whiskey over gravel in Sam's ear, " Get in. Right now."
And then his hands, mouth, skin are gone. They're standing apart and Dean is staring at him with such barely buffered heat in his eyes that Sam can't believe his skin doesn't just give up and catch fire. He swallows, sucks in a breath through his nose, and scrambles into her backseat.
He's rearranging himself, settling onto his back, when he hears Dean's muffled curse. Is looking up, worry bubbling up beneath the sex haze, when Dean goes to his knees, curling in on himself. Sam's jerking, preparing to lunge out of the Impala when Dean looks up at him, eyes huge and blown, mouth half–open and trembling. Not pain, then.
Dean shoves himself back to his feet, crossing the distance to the Impala in two long strides, peeling his shirt off as he moves, tossing it absently off to the side. And then he's crawling in on top of Sam, growling into the skin of Sam's stomach, " Next time, in slower."
Sam doesn't have time to consider that before Dean's licking a hot trail from his belly button to his collar bone, taking his sweet time and Sam grabbing at his shoulder's, trying to pull him up, needing to see him, taste him, breath him in. And then Dean's there, looming over him, eyes green fire, a trail of sweat from his temple to his chin, saying, "Legs."
Sam's body reacts without waiting for his brain, jerking his legs up into the Impala just as the door slams shut and it should be uncomfortable, he should be to long for this, but it's not. It's the greatest thing ever. It's a million little explosions all over his body, it's heaven and hell on earth in his skin.
There's nothing quite like being balls–deep in another person. Sam can't help but think that he's presently whole–body–deep. He's far too out of it to pay much attention to Dean pulling back, to the quick work that Dean is making of his jeans and boxers, to the kisses that Dean presses against his heel, calf, knee, all along the inside of his thigh. Doesn't even notice Dean shrugging out of his own briefs.
And then Dean's maneuvering himself back between Sam's legs, grinding down against him while Sam gasps and stutters and tries to remember how to breathe. Sam's leg trapped between Dean and the seat ends up thrown across his brother's back, his other foot flat on the floor, bouncing and shaking.
Sam's whole world is sweaty skin and hard muscle and the slick leather against his back. He's dragging one hand across Dean's shoulders, down his back, up his side, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer. The other dances across the door behind his head, up across the window, fingertips finding the ceiling and flattening out.
Dean lifts his head, stares down at him and tells him while rocking their bodies together, "I'm going to fuck you now. Spit."
Sam is not going to argue.
Spits into Dean's offered palm, blinking and trying to concentrate and then Dean is kissing him again, groaning into Sam's mouth, "Goddamn, Sam, Goddamn, gonna fuck you so hard–" pushing the blunt end of one fingertip inside Sam and for a half–second Sam is with it enough to consider that this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch tomorrow. Spit? Seriously?
Dean shifts, arching his body back, curling over and all the warning Sam gets of what his brother is planning is a warm puff of breath against his cock because then Dean's mouth is There doing Things and oh, God. There's no slow ease in, there's no teasing strokes. Dean pulls Sam's head between his lips, sucks hard and swirls his tongue in a long slow circle before flicking it across Sam's slit and sucking hard again.
It's what Sam likes, exactly the way he likes it, and he's got a hand tugging on Dean's hair without realizing it, pressing up so hard on the ceiling that in a lesser vehicle he's sure he would be bending it. Not her though.
Dean bends his finger and sets off white–hot lightning up Sam's spine and Sam hadn't even realized his brother had managed to get a whole finger worked into him yet. He arches, involuntarily, up off the seat and the leather clings to his skin, peels away grudgingly and Dean's got another goddamn finger in, is scissoring him open and he can't even keep track of what's happening anymore.
He can feel Dean grinning around his cock, the bastard.
And then Dean's lips slide off him with a dirty pop and his mouth is so red when he's looming over Sam again, "Spit." Sam does and then Dean's got a hand wrapped around his hip, head bent, eyes squinting with concentration, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and worrying it and–
Sam forces himself to keep his eyes open the entire time Dean is sliding into him. Has to watch the way his brother's head falls back, the way the muscles in his shoulders and chest jump and twitch, the thin line of blood that leaks out the corner of his mouth when he bites his lip too hard. Dean groans when he's finally in, lets his head hang forward till his forehead brushes Sam's.
He says, "Sam," voice breaking around the word and Sam arches up as far as he can, presses a kiss into the corner of Dean's mouth, stroking big soothing circles on the ceiling. Dean's still not moving, and Sam wonders what this feels like for him, wonders how overloaded he's got to be, wonders why the hell he's bothering with thinking at a time like this.
Grunts when he rocks his hips as best he can, sandwiched between the leather and Dean's heavy body. Again, and again, and one more time and then Dean is gasping, remembering how to breath, staring down into his soul and rocking his body back till he almost pulls out before slamming back in. Sets a slow rhythm and Sam can feel the stutter in it already, when he can feel anything besides oh God–Dean–and–he–with–
His hand on the ceiling slides, looking for purchase, his other gripping at Dean's skin, looking for the same. Keeps slipping against the sheen of sweat covering them both, keeps forgetting how to make his fingers work, turns his head and presses a kiss into Dean's arm, braced beside his head.
Dean groans, the engine, oh God, has it been roaring this loud the entire time? Sam's pretty sure it has been, he can feel the entire car shaking from the vibration of the engine, can feel it rocking back and forth when Dean starts moving faster, starts fucking him in earnest. He's sucking a welt into the smooth skin below the inside of Dean's elbow when Dean reaches his other hand down, fists Sam's cock, fast and sloppy.
Sam doesn't know what he says when he comes so hard he thinks he might turn inside out, but he can feel his mouth moving. Words spilling out like the hot wet mess against his belly. Quivering when Dean slams into him, hard, a half–dozen more times before the engine screams and Dean grunts and Sam swears he feels the heat of Dean coming inside him in his throat.
Dean collapses on top him, all heavy loose limbs, shaking even worse than Sam is. Sam curls an arm around him, fingers absently stroking Dean's side, and thinks that he should probably wash the Impala more often.
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