Rush Hour Blues

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: Slash, R

Year/Length: 2007/ ~2085 words

Pairing: Impala/Dean/Sam

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Warning: Warnings: car!sex. Yes, still and more. Wincest.

Summary: Dean is fairly sure that his aggravation should be obvious. And Sam, genius Sammy, is attempting to give him the equivalent of a hand job.

Series: Impala!verse

Author's Notes: It's the fic that keeps on giving! In which Sam is befuddled, Dean gets in touch with his inner car, and the Impala gives up.

Beta: marysue007, who is only enabling me, for serious.

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Sam thinks he's being cute, one big palm flat on the leather seat, his other hand tracing idle patterns against the dashboard, but he's not.

Dean scowls straight forward at the traffic stretched for miles and miles unmoving in front of them, growls and listens as the Motley Crue blaring out of the speakers suddenly gets even louder. Vince Neil is singing about freight trains and rocket–ships and Dean is pounding out the bass beat with his index finger against the steering wheel.

Sam slides his fingers across the seat, rubbing little circles with his thumb, tracing patterns that burn Dean in the best way. Dean crowds closer against his door, temple pressed to the cool glass, glaring at the bumper of the Hummer in front of them, and its stupid 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy' bumper sticker. He eases in closer, till he knows there can't be much more than an inch separating their vehicles, watches the other driver flash him dirty looks through her rear view mirror.

Sam clears his throat, "Dean, I'm bored here man, what's going on?"

Sometimes, Dean forgets that even though his baby brother may have been college educated, may have been the smart one, may have scored something over fifteen hundred on his SAT, he can be dense as a rock about certain things. He's not sure what else he has to do to beat the fact that he's unhappy into his brother's thick skull.

Since this morning the Impala's doors refused to open for Sam when he tried to get in. When he finally did get in his hair got closed in the door and it took nearly five minutes for that to get sorted. His seatbelt keeps choking him. The air–conditioning vents on his side of the car are all out of order, oh, and the music hadn't dropped below ear bleeding levels for hours. Dean is fairly sure that his aggravation should be obvious. And Sam, genius Sammy, is attempting to give him the equivalent of a hand job.

Dean ignores him, edges even closer to the Hummer, till he can feel the metal of his bumper almost kiss the plastic–whatever crap of her's. Her arm comes shooting out of the window, flipping him the bird and he can see her mouth running though he can't hear her complaints over Mr. Neil's voice advising her to not go away mad, just go away.

"Dean–" Sam's trying to take his seat belt off, but the button won't compress, and he gives up after a second with a frustrated sigh. The buckle releases, jerks up so quickly that it catches Sam in the mouth, and he swears, hands flying up to his face. "Shit, Dean, break my damn teeth why don't you?" Dean hopes he did. "Okay, what's up?"

He wishes Sam would just shut up and sit still, can't edge the music any higher without bursting his own eardrums or speakers. Settles for looking over at Sam for the first time since they slid into their seats hours ago, and smiling as brightly as he can, "Nothing. Shut up." Tuns back to the traffic which has, praise the Lord, edged a whole eight inches. Dean snugs himself back against the Hummer.

Sam's silent, Dean revels in it, knowing it won't last.

He's right, of course. Not five minutes later Sam is shifting against the leather, stretching his long legs out as far as they'll go, sliding one arm across the top of Dean's seat till his fingers are almost brushing Dean's shoulders. The other hand has the seat belt buckle again, and for a second Sam just holds it, staring at his reflection or contemplating the meaning of the universe in its shiny depths or something.

And then he puts. It. In. His. Mouth.

Dean knows this without looking, because the feel of Sam's warm, soft, wet tongue around the cool thin metal has his blood surging south of his waistband and him choking on a groan. Sam's teeth clink against the metal, so he must have been lying about them being broken. Sam swirls his tongue, tracing and re–tracing every inch of the buckle and Dean feels his back involuntarily arch, feels his mouth fall open around the, "Mmm," that's sliding out of his throat.

Then he remembers he's angry, and why he's angry, and lets the glove box fall open with enough force behind it that when it hits Sam's knees he jumps and yelps. Sam's bitching, "Dean, you jerk, what's your problem?"

Dean's had it. He was trying to be civil about this, but obviously Sam's not going to just let it lie. The music cuts off, right in the middle of an impressive guitar riff, and Dean twists to look across the seat at his brother. Sneers, "Careful with revving my engine, Sammy, I hear that burns gas, and I'm already a fucking gas hog. These classics, you know. Bad that way."

"Dean–"

"Don't wanna kill a whale or koala or something with your tongue, over there, is all I'm saying."

"Dean–"

"It's criminal, how much fuel I burn on a good day. Do you know I'm burning a little hole in the ozone layer just by idling here? We really don't want to make that any worse, do we? Think of the caribou, Sam, their habitats being disturbed by arctic drilling for fuel to support the spoiled American consumer."

"Are you done now?" He's not, he could go on for hours, but whatever. Sam's eyes are all big and soft, his mouth set like he's about to say something terribly important. Dean just wishes he would stop gripping the back of the seat with his big crazy hand, which is both horribly distracting and also causing yet more of the engine interest. "That's what this is about? You're upset about something I said to some kid outside Denny's?"

Dean snorts, "I'm not upset, I'm concerned. About the environment. And how selfish we've been." The woman in front of him is banging on her steering wheel, turning to whoever is in her passenger seat and yelling at them. Dean feels a brief swell of pride for having made her day as awful as his own.

"Oh, God, you're jealous." Sam says it like he's just discovered the cure for cancer, like he just found the fountain of youth, like he just won the World Series single handedly. Dean shifts, uncomfortable, and scoffs across at his brother.

"Please? You think I'm jealous of some little Toyota? Do you know what kind of horse power that thing gets? You open her up and get maybe–maybe–eighty. If you're lucky. But, hey, at least you're saving the caribou." The caribou can go fuck themselves for all he cares. He's got no respect for an animal that would just as likely be called a reindeer, anyway. He snorts, "Hybrid. That's great."

Sam's silent for a long moment, and then he's sliding across the seat, dragging his big, long body across all that leather. Dean jerks, tightens his hands on the wheel and bites hard on the insides of his cheeks. When Sam speaks again his voice is low and right beside Dean's ear, "I was just making conversation with the kid, Dean."

Dean snarls, jerks his head sideways so he can stare in his brother's eyes even though that means he has to go a little cross eyed because Sam's so close. Calls foul. "You sat in her." And he hates how accusatory he sounds. Sam can sit in other cars if he likes. He can even drive around in them, if he wants to. He just better not expect Dean to be all warm and rumbling for him when he gets done his little joy rides.

Sam half laughs, breath coffee scented across Dean's face, says, "I'm sorry I didn't know that I wasn't allowed to sit in other cars. I was thinking about you the whole time, you know."

"Shut up, Sam." He's in no mood to be laughed at. So what if his gas mileage isn't the best? So what if he was constructed in a factory where the workers labored like slaves with heavy metals that were over priced and a sign of the nation's filthiest habits? So what if people think that? It's not true. He knows what he is and he's not those things.

He's a goddamn classic and if Sam wants to sit is some pretty young thing and coo about how it gets fifty miles per gallon and if you wreck into a tree you're fucking screwed because you're riding around in something with less fortitude than your grandmother's tupperware, well then, fine. He can. Whatever. Dean just doesn't want to think, talk, or dwell on it. He can feel how tense he is, how upset, and hates himself for it.

But Sam's not relocating himself to the other side of the seat. He's leaning in closer, resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder and sliding one broad palm onto Dean's thigh. The other hand is hanging behind the seat, trailing back and forth over it and Dean feels each touch in his spine. Goddamn his little brother, anyway.

"It was just a car, Dean."

It wasn't. There's no such thing as 'just a car'. Sam must read this, somehow, through the bunch and tension in Dean's body, through the unhappy rumble of the engine. Must understand this, where he's failed to understand everything else Dean tried. Sam says, breath warm on Dean's neck, down his collar, "I didn't know, okay, I didn't know, I'm sorry." Dean grunts. God, he just wants to be out of this traffic and far away from Sam's little Prius girlfriend. "And I shouldn't have joked earlier. Seriously, Dean, forgive me, okay?"

He shifts, and thinks that it would be far easier to argue this with Sam if he wasn't dragging patterns all over the back of the seat and rocking his hips against the leather like that. "Whatever." It's the closest he can get to 'okay' and apparently it's enough for Sam. Dean feels his brother grin against his shoulder, and then Sam's dragging his fingernails over the leather, sliding his other hand over Dean's thigh and cupping the gearshift in his huge palm.

Right before he closes his teeth on Dean's ear lobe, hot and sharp, he rumbles, "How about I make it up to you?"

Dean manages, "Yeah, how about you do," as his head falls backwards. Sam's palm is rough and hot, fingers long and thick and gliding across the leather like some kind of miracle. His other arm is curved behind Dean's head, his hand gripping and releasing the seat.

Dean's never far from the edge when Sam's contained within the space between his windows. It's, well, he doesn't have words for what it's like, feeling Sam's big body all inside him and it does crazy things to him. He gasps up at the ceiling, overloading from Sam's wet mouth on his neck, Sam's hands on his gearshift and seat, Sam's hips, rocking slow and steady into the seat.

Sam slides, trails his tongue across the back of the seat in a long, hot stripe and just like that Dean's arching off the seat, biting his lip to hold in his surprised shout. Coming hard and so fast he's almost dizzy with it and the engine gives up, shuts down in self defense.

He sits there, breathing slow and shaky in through his nose, out through his mouth, listening to the rasp of Sam's breath in his ear. Sam murmurs, "You're the only car for me, you know," and squeezes the gear shift one more time and Dean's cock, despite all his orders to the contrary, gives a twitch of renewed interest.

Dean lets his head slide sideways, meets Sam's lips in a sloppy kiss that goes on forever and yes, he's hard again, and that's just not fair. When he pulls back Sam is grinning at him, big and happy, and he only hates his brother a little bit when he says, "Traffics moving."

It is. Horns are honking, people are making some very rude gestures, and the Hummer is nowhere to be seen. Dean groans, restarts the engine and then pulls himself back into a position at least marginally reasonable for driving. Lets Sam stay crowded up close to him.

Only speaks when he's in gear and cruising down the blacktop, "You still owe me, Sammy boy."

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