Category/Rated: Slash, R
Year/Length: 2007/~2072 words
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: And then Sam's got his fingers curled in Dean's belt, tugging him incessantly towards the middle of the seat with a wicked look on his face. She lets him go, because there doesn't officially need to be any contact between them for her to drive. And besides, her awareness of Sam just went all tingly and electric, and she does so enjoy it when that happens.
Beta: marysue007. So, among various and sundry other saint–like qualities, possesses the patience of all the angelic hordes.
She's aware of Sam in the passenger seat. Not that she has any choice in whether or not she wishes to be aware of him. Both his steady warm weight, and the constant attention of Dean–who she sometimes, always, is–to him mean she cannot ignore him. Sometimes that awareness is safe and comforting, sometimes it is electric and burning.
Right now, at this very moment, it is knowledge of his weight, how he affects the pressure in her tires, the balance of her axles. And it is perfect.
She's idling at a stoplight, some nowhere town that she doesn't concern herself with at all, and in front of her there's nothing but empty, open highway. And she wants it, a growing, expanding need for the road that dances across her engine and up Dean's spine and she shudders with his body and breathes out sharp and fast through his nose.
Sam looks away from the window, his posture radiating surprise, and says something to Dean, but Dean's with her right now, down deep in her pistons and oil and pumps. He's breathing with her, thinking with her, opening her up and letting her go full throttle. Urging her to.
She hears his voice, her words, right before the light turns green. "Hold on tight, Sammy baby."
And then it's nothing but seeing how fast she can attain that horizon. She can feel her engine, working with a perfection that sends sharp jolts of adrenaline and joy down her arms, through each finger, back into her steering wheel.
She can feel the thrum of asphalt passing under her tires, kissing up against the rubber through a layer of grease and oil and rain. They're approaching the foothills of the mountains, and she takes the first turn at over a hundred miles per hour. Feels the edges of her tires flatten and grip at the road, and Dean reaches out and grabs Sam and pulls him across the seat to get her balance right.
There's bugs and small stones bouncing off her grill, a few splattering themselves across her windshield and she wipes them away more out of vanity than any real annoyance. The road noise surges up through her, echoes and rebounds and sings off the inside of her glass, an amplified symphony that vibrates the marrow of her bones in the best possible way.
She leaves her lights off, doesn't need them, not with the road talking to her, telling her which way it's going to turn, when the grade is going to change, where any holes or defects might be. She cuts a path over the country as nothing more than a deeper shade of black in the night.
The rumble of another engine, smaller than hers, newer and streamlined, dances over the metal of her hood. She rearranges her position on the road, waits and watches and feels the low burn of anticipation in the back of her throat, a tightening in her thighs and abs.
The car that speeds past, going back towards the town, is a Camaro, bright yellow with a heavy black racing stripe down the hood. And she knows the car's specifications, the knowledge heavy and just there in the forefront of her brain. Four hundred horsepower, six point oh liter LS2 V8 engine. It's a marvel of design and technology.
She knows, the way she knows things, that a year ago she didn't have the degree of control that she has now. But now, oh, now it takes her seconds to spin in a one–eighty so tight that Sam slams hard into her door, Dean laughing loud and giddy at him.
It's a matter of another few seconds to draw level with the Camaro, she snorts briefly at it's vanity plate, BMBLBEE. She settles in beside it, and looks over at the driver, a boy no older than twenty with short brown hair and big brown eyes. The boy stares across, open mouthed, surprise written all over his face. It's his girlfriend that catches on first, that leans across him, her cherry lips spread into a wide grin, and yells across the distance between them, "You wanna?"
She smiles with Dean's lips, wild as the roar of her engine, and Sam leans half out the window anyway, doing ninety miles an hour, yells, "See you at the light."
Dean catches the back of Sam's shirt, hauls him bodily back into the safety of her cab and she opens every fuel line in her engine, sucks in air and just goes. Beside them the Camaro roars, and they race, side by side, nose to nose, down the road.
It's the turn that throws the balance. The turn that sings to her, that tells her where to direct her tires and when to speed up. She hears the Camaro's tires scream, and she pulls ahead, leaves behind a trail of dust and her boy's laughter.
She's singing, her engine, and Dean's voice, winding around one another, blending to perfect harmony.
The light is red when she reaches it, and she slams on the brakes and turns her wheels and spins a tight three–sixty to end up stopped right at the light. She purrs in contentment, stretches an arm out across the top of her seat and cracks her neck.
The Camaro catches up less than fifteen seconds later, screeches to a halt beside them. The girl is laughing, head thrown back, hands flattened against the glove box. The boy still looks vaguely shell shocked, but manages a small smile when Sam proceeds to lean out the window once more, still laughing himself, and waves.
And then the light turns green, and she guns her engine, back through town, back to their motel, while Dean drags Sam back into the cab once more. Sam's breathless, flushed, saying, "I didn't, I mean, that was fast. That was crazy, Dean. What was that?" And then he seems to decide he doesn't care, "Lets do it again!"
She and Dean confer for a half–second. Pros and cons and it all narrowing down to the fact that it really was a fuck load of fun and if Sam liked it too then, well, why the hell not?
There's a gas station on the right, and she swings in, makes a tight loop around the pumps, close enough that if Sam had chosen that moment to stick his hand outside the window he could have brushed the nozzle, and then they're back on the road again. They pass the Camaro, and the kids pivot and stare at them as they go by, but don't try to follow.
The light is red, again, but there's no traffic in either direction, and she doesn't slow down.
And then Sam's got his fingers curled in Dean's belt, tugging him incessantly towards the middle of the seat with a wicked look on his face. She lets him go, because there doesn't officially need to be any contact between them for her to drive. And besides, her awareness of Sam just went all tingly and electric, and she does so enjoy it when that happens.
Sam shifts, finally used to moving around inside her, comfortable with his size and height. He twists, back pressed briefly against her dashboard, and then he's sinking forward, a knee on either side of Dean's hips, boxing his brother in and letting his weight push Dean into the supple leather.
Dean blinks, and she feels herself swerve a little too close to the white line, suddenly distracted. Dean's voice is a rough murmur, brushing across Sam's cheekbones. "Trying to drive."
Sam's got a hand between their bodies, fingers loosening belt buckles and letting down zippers and she echoes the sound Dean makes in the back of her throat in the roar of her engine. Sam presses his mouth to Dean's neck, bites and sucks and whispers dirty low, "You can do this and drive at the same time."
Dean laughs, breathless, his head rolling back, cushioned on the back of her seat and she takes the first turn sloppy, almost fishtails. "Can and should are different things." But as far as protests go that's pretty weak, and it ends breathy anyway because Sam chooses that moment to slide his hand past the elastic of Dean's boxers and wrap his long fingers around his brother's erection.
"Oh, come on," Sam's voice, wet and slick as his spit, trailing across the seat as he presses kisses to the leather, drawing patterns with his tongue, "Let's live dangerously."
Dean grunts, and then he's got his hands at Sam's waist, tugging down on the jeans already unbuttoned. He bites out as she struggles to stay on the road, "These. Off. Now." And Sam's laughter, throaty and rough, has her engine whining.
There's a brief tangle of limbs as Sam tries to remove his jeans and Dean tries to hold him in place and it's resolved with Dean somehow shirtless and Sam naked from the waist down and still straddling him. She wishes she knew how that happened, but it's hard enough remembering to stay between the lines with oh god Sammy right there, yes, like that.
Skin on leather is one of her favorite things, the way it sticks and peels off so slowly, the sound it makes and the sheen of sweat it always leaves behind. Dean arches up off the seat, pressing himself against Sam and she's painfully aware of Sam's hands on Dean's shoulders, trying to hold him still.
The loud wail of a horn snaps her back to the road, to the semi bearing down on them and the fact that she's very much in the wrong lane. She jerks back with inches to spare, fear battling with lust, and Dean shoves at Sam, trying to push him off and tuck himself back in at the same time.
But Sam's not having any of that, has got one hand around Dean's wrist and the other around Dean's dick. Has got his mouth closed over Dean's collarbone, sucking and biting and breaking the skin. She can feel the slow slide of blood and spit down Dean's chest, just like rain down her hood, and for a few horrible seconds they're off the road, bouncing and sliding over gravel as she tries to regain the asphalt.
Sam groans, and it vibrates through his body into Dean's into her, and she can feel him grab one of Dean's hands and drag it down and back. Can feel him push the blunt end of one of Dean's fingers into his body and god, god, god.
There's lube, honest to God lube, in the glove compartment and she opens it since Sam's apparently forgotten. There's another brief rearrangement of limbs, and drips of liquid across her seat and Dean's skin, and coating his fingers. And then there's nothing but Sam's voice in Dean's ear, growling, "Race you."
And then Sam's canting his hips forward and down and Dean groans and pushes up and into him and she almost spins out. Sam's not playing fair, not giving Dean or her any time to adjust, his rolling his hips and running his big hands over every available surface and leaving nips and licks anywhere he can reach.
Dean reaches between them, gets a hand still slick and wet around Sam's cock and pumps and maybe he isn't playing fair either. Not when he gets his other hand in Sam's curls and jerks his head back, not when she flips the radio on, something fast and with a bass beat that pounds and pounds and pounds.
Dean's hips are stuttering against the seat, his belt buckle jangling below the music and Sam's groans. And when he shoves up one last time, she just gives up, feels them spin and is powerless to control it. They circle once, Dean still working his hand on Sam's cock, twice, Sam grinding down on Dean, three times, and it's over. Dean's voice is rough, thick, "Beat you."
Sam settles over him, body loose and limp now, head heavy on the back of the seat. She turns the music off, listens to the pops as her engine cools down. A police cruiser speeds past, some new model, but it doesn't give them a second look, and that's the only other vehicle she can hear for miles. Sam sighs, a puff of breath against Dean's neck. "Rematch?"
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