A/N I'll confess to having shipped Dean/Impala from the start. Yes, him and the car. I REGRET NOTHING. Ehem, in any case, human!Impala (Kaz, or sometimes Baby) was something I just had to try. I guess doing her female is more uncommon...? Whatever, I think she's more of a girl than a guy, in any case. Also, god, I could not get her character right for the life of me. Seriously, she just ended up being like Idris from Doctor Who... damn. I think the boys came out pretty nicely, though. In any case, please review! ;D
Rated T for sexual crap (nothing explicit) and language (bad Dean)
Disclaimer I don't own Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc.
SHUT ME UP
The bass, the rock, the mic, the treble
I like my coffee black, just like my metal
'Cause I can't wait for you to knock me up
(In a minute, minute, in a fuckin' minute)
I can't wait for you to knock me up
In a minute, minute—in a second
~ "Shut Me Up," Mindless Self Indulgence
"Kaz," is the first thing she says, sitting in the middle of a rather smoky crater in the ground, her pale face framed by waves of dark hair and her eyes wide and curious. She blinks—once, slowly—then carefully tilts her chin down, as though afraid her head might wobble off, directing her gaze towards the leather jacket zipped up to her chin. It's a nice jacket, too, sleek and curved perfectly to fit her small waist and sizable cleavage. Plucking at the sleeve, she giggles lightly, a small and surprisingly innocent smile along her soft lips.
"Um," Dean stammers, matching her blink with one of his own. He's frozen with a paper cup of takeout coffee in one hand, the other arm dangling limply at his side. And he's probably staring. Staring quite pointedly, but he honestly doesn't care that much—in his opinion, it's an entirely reasonable reaction to returning from breakfast to find his prized '67 Impala replaced by a young woman who, by any definition, is far from unattractive.
"That's my name," she explains, widening her eyes and nodding vigorously before repeating it. "Kaz…" Her giggle fills the air again, light but somehow smoky, rather like the rumble of the engine Dean's used to. Shakily, she rises to her feet, making sure to hold her arms out as she teeters a bit. The edge of what looks like some sort of band T-shirt pokes out from under the jacket, and her long, slim legs are clothed in dark, dusty jeans ending in high combat boots. Black—it's all very, very black, and the only light thing in the whole image is her face, shining an abnormal ivory color.
"You—Kaz. You mean… like the license plate… like my license plate."
"Your license plate?" Sniffing disdainfully, she takes a number of long, wobbly steps towards him, until she's right up in his face. She's several inches shorter than him, but he finds himself leaning back slightly, teetering on the balls of his feet and trying to ignore her close proximity. Her eyebrows draw together for a quick second, then spread out again. "My license plate. Not yours. The old one, anyways," she enunciates, bobbing her head emphatically as she takes a step backwards, joining her hands behind her back and swinging them in a childish, excited sort of way. "Not… sink… is that how you'd pronounce it? Cunk," she tries, seeming to enjoy the experimental taste of the sound on her lips. "Kenk… it's hard, with no… vowels? C-N-K, in any case—ugh, it really doesn't have the same ring as 'Kaz'… it's your damn fault, of course, for getting me into that wreck—which was painful as hell, by the way, thanks a lot—"
"…Slow down for a moment here," Dean implores, instinctively reaching out to set down his coffee before he realizes that there's no familiar car surface on which to place it. He's left to flail his hand slightly, gritting his teeth before bringing it back over to his side. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my car? Sam…?" He glances to his left, where his little brother was situated last time he checked, only to be greeted by an empty parking lot.
Great. Where's he gotten himself to this time?
"Oh, don't be stupid," she groans. All of her vocal emotions are exaggerated, and there's something endearing about the overdone drama. "I haven't done anything with the car." She stares at him for a long moment, pouting slightly, and moves one hand to her hip while running the other obsessively through her long, silky hair. The strands seem to distract her momentarily, and he watches silently as she becomes completely enraptured by her ebony locks, twirling them around her fingers. She tilts to the side slightly, like a cat chasing its tail, then loses her balance and stumbles sideways, flinging her arms out and widening her already huge eyes impossibly.
"Kaz," he repeats, disbelieving.
"Don't think I'm always going to be this clumsy," she reprimands crossly, jutting out her lower lip again. "It's not my fault if I don't know how to… properly control my gestures. I'm used to a less wobbly frame." As if to emphasize this declaration, her head oscillates a bit, and then she tilts it entirely to the side, so that her hair hangs unevenly in front of her forehead and chin. "You know, I think you're better-looking from this angle…"
"Yeah… don't worry, I'm just trying to figure out where you got a rack," he mutters honestly, ignoring her last comment.
She snaps her head back into place and folds her arms, though the muscles in them still jump and twitch a bit with uncontained energy. Her voice, however, seems to grow slightly lower, more controlled. "What's so exciting about that? I had a perfectly nice dashboard before, you realize."
He just shakes his head slightly, eyebrows rising up in unwilling disbelief. "Dude—Kaz—that was a freaking piece of machinery. I put my coffee cups on it. These are boobs."
"And you," she murmurs slowly, "like 'boobs,' don't you?" The edge of her mouth tilts up in a smirk, and her dark eyes glimmer with surprising intelligence, piercing through her rather ditzy demeanor. Her fingers curl around her elbows, and her forearms situate themselves rather pointedly under her cleavage.
"Yeah… yeah, I do," he agrees emphatically, a wide grin dancing over his face as she glances up through her absurdly long lashes. If Sam were here, he'd deliver a well-placed thump to the back of Dean's head around now—or, at the very least, step on his foot—but Sam isn't here, and though that's an issue that Dean should probably be more concerned about, he's rather distracted at the moment.
"Well." She locks gazes with him, and it's with an alarmingly intense smolder that she holds his stare, the tip of her tongue dancing along her bottom lip. Out of nowhere, her long fingers fly out and grip his wrist, twisting it and pulling it to her shoulder, so that his coffee cup slips and thuds to the ground, grayish brown liquid spilling over the dusty gravel of the parking lot.
He can't help but stiffen up—her mind seems to work incredibly fast, even considering his usual rapid pace with girls, and before he knows what's going on, she's flattening his fingers against her own breast, forcing them to curl around it. He gulps and stares, his expression freezing. She watches him in an almost challenging manner, her coal-colored eyes meeting his piney ones, before he finally pulls his hand away, her grip on his wrist bringing them to a sort of standstill between their two bodies.
"Alright, look, uh, Kaz," he begins.
"Baby," she interjects, her slim eyebrows drawing together.
"You always call me baby. I like it. It makes me feel special." Her mouth quirks up again, curving into her pale cheek and coupled with a tighter squeeze from her hand. "No need to stop now, is there? Just 'cause I have a proper body. And you don't mind, do you? You've even fantasized about it, sometimes… that's what he said…"
Dean stares openmouthed for a good three seconds before finally forcing his jaw shut, pretending that he can't feel the tingle of an entirely unmanly blush taunting the underside of his skin. "I have not—I don't—alright, first things first, who the hell is 'he?'"
"Ooh, nope. Can't tell you that one." Kaz pushes against his fisted hand a little harder, bringing it up to his chest this time, and he bracingly shoves back, so that their locked fingers are brought to the same stalemate as before. She rolls her eyes with exaggerated exasperation, a pout pulling at her full lips again. "Come on, you can't mind me that much. You want me at least a little bit… you know you do."
"…Maybe," he confesses, shrugging with an odd sort of guilt, "but I have to say, these are pretty suspicious circumstances—"
"Suspicious circumstances?" she repeats, her lips parted in incredulity. Another one of those surprisingly smoky laughs bubbles out, and she takes a half-step closer to him, so that they're practically brushing up against one another, and their joined hands are forced to bend upwards, a position reminiscent of ballroom dancing. "You sound like your brother. Give it a rest once in a while. Take advantage of the opportunity…"
"How the hell do I know that you're who you're saying who you are? For all I know you could be some sort of—of actress…"
"Really, Dean? An actress? God, you're stupid sometimes," she purrs, and he swallows heavily again at the sound of his name in her voice.
Don't look at the boobs. Anywhere but the boobs. No, not below the boobs—above, above. There. Her face, look at her face. Damn, so maybe her face isn't the best place to look, either—shit. Certain parts of his body are definitely starting to feel the effects of her nearness, and, judging by her delighted little murmur, she notices. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe. God. Damn. It.
But rendering himself blind was definitely a mistake, because then her hand is on his cheek, thumb running curiously along his chin. "You're so warm," she muses, and that's just about the exact instant when he realizes that he's in deep shit.
"Okay, we're moving inside," he growls. "Not gonna do this in a sunny parking lot, okay?"
"Do this?" she repeats eagerly, then releases his hand and moves both of hers to his shirt collar, bouncing up and down with anticipation. "Are you finally done being boring?"
"Yeah… sure. C'mon." Cursing himself for his weakness (though this does seem to be the Impala, and he trusts the Impala more than any damn living person), he turns around, making sure to get ahold of her upper arm and dragging her after him as he re-enters the coffee joint. Just to be safe, he sweeps his eyes around, checking for any sign of Sam. There's nothing, though, and he's unsure whether he should be relieved or worried as he pulls Kaz in the direction of the restroom, closing the door hastily behind them and pushing in the button on the handle to lock it. The clicking noise reverberates through the brightly lit room, lined with thankfully empty toilet stalls, and he steps back, evaluating her from a distance.
"Alright, prove you're the car," he demands, irritated by his own unwillingness to, well, jump right in. Sam's rubbing off on him, doubtless, he thinks, frustrated. But he does have to admit that that may not be an entirely bad thing. Sam himself disappearing, Dean's baby—Kaz—inexplicably becoming human… yeah, definitely a bit fishy.
(However, though he wouldn't possibly confess to it, it's also true enough that he just might have had some certain fantasies about the Impala taking on a human form. Nothing well-thought-out, but it was true enough that she was the biggest constant in his life, and probably the thing he cared about most on the damn planet other than Sammy.)
"Oh, Dean," she groans, twisting her wide eyes around in a massive roll. "Please. How much convincing do you need?"
"You mentioned a 'he.' Tell me what happened."
"It's nothing that you need to worry about," she grumbles emphatically. When he doesn't react, she sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright, fine. Fine. Prove that I'm the car? How about this: a long time ago—years, all the way back to that one time with the scarecrow… you remember that?"
He does remember that, but he doesn't want to think about it right now. He's afraid that he can tell where she's going with this, and it's nowhere particularly pleasant to recall. But he's the one who asked her to prove herself in the first place, so he obliges to give a slow, grudging nod, clenching his teeth and trying to suppress a glare.
"When Sam got pissed and hiked off—driving away, you cried, Dean. Not a lot. No sobbing or anything. Just a couple tears… right here." She swipes her fingers along the expanse of clear, creamy skin right below her collarbone, clearly indicating the car's dashboard. "Nobody else would know that, would they?"
"You—" he begins, then cuts himself off, unsure whether to be amazed or furious. God, it's really her. He doesn't speak, though, just keep staring, hoping that she keeps talking, makes another move on him—anything to distract from the alarmingly personal experience that she managed to dredge out of the deepest corners of his memory.
It takes one hell of a person to strike Dean Winchester speechless. But Kaz isn't a person at all. She's a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and it comes easy for her.
"And if you need even more stupid proof…" She sighs, then ducks away, long strands of her dark, wavy hair falling over her features. It takes him a second to realize that she's lifting up the corner of her tight T-shirt and leather jacket, exposing the delicate hip underneath it. And, right above it, marring the perfect skin—thick, pinkish scarring, crude lines joined to form letters. Initials.
And he can remember it now, crouched with Sam in the back of the car with that pen knife, carefully positioning it over the car's stiff plastic and carving in those letters, slowly and methodically, sitting back and grinning as the two of them admired a job well done.
It's definitely her.
And that's all the clearance he needs—Sam, of course, would check over some more, try to figure out why and how she was made human, by whom—but he isn't stupid Sam, and that shows more than ever in moments like these, when he closes the paces between them quickly, gathers her in close with a single rough motion, and forces their mouths together.
She obliges to his obvious desires all too eagerly, her legs twining through his and her tongue darting out almost immediately to slip into his mouth. Her hands reach up, clutch his neck and shoulders, and he winds his own fingers through the long, silky mess of her dark hair, tilting his head and letting his eyes fall shut as he kisses her harder, tasting her lips and tongue and teeth, sighing deep in his chest because this is perfect, because it's so her, so absolutely his baby, and it's also a hot-ass young woman whose body he can feel pressed up against his, slim but strong.
He nudges harder against her, and she stumbles backwards, slamming against the long counter dotted with sinks. Unwilling to slow down, he slips one hand under her thigh, keeping the other twisted in her hair, and hefts her up, settling her on the edge of the counter. She lets out an odd but undeniably sexy sound, a mix between a sultry moan and a floaty giggle, her mouth moving against his with the noise. She draws back for a moment, watching him with her eyes half-closed, the shadows of her lashes dancing over her cheekbones.
"Now you're getting nice and eager," she whispers, her fingers tickling along the back of his neck and teasing at the top of his spine.
"You bet I am," he retorts fiercely as he unzips her jacket in a quick motion, pulling it off one of her shoulders. The shirt beneath does indeed feature a band—Asia.
That's probably when he should begin to suspect the truth, but he's too wrapped up in her to make the obvious connection.
She laughs again, looping her arm around his neck and delivering a sloppy kiss as his fingers inch around the edge of the T-shirt, creeping upwards and brushing along the flawless expanse of warm, smooth skin underneath. "That's my baby," he murmurs roughly as she pushes in closer, nudging their hips together. Blood is really pounding through him now, and he presses harder against her mouth, biting at her bottom lip as his fingertips meet her bra strap, slipping around it. She sighs pleasurably, her dangling ankle hooking around the back of his knee, and he presses against her, straining eagerly against his jeans as her hips tease his waist. The pressure elicits a light gasp from her swift, strong mouth, and he nuzzles against her, his jaw against her cheek.
But, out of absolutely nowhere, it's not so smooth. In fact, his skin is catching on the roughness of hers, and he frowns in puzzlement but doesn't pull back, just moves closer to her as though doing so will somehow erase the oddity.
As a matter of fact, there's suddenly a rather prominent obstruction in his way farther down—and that's when he lets go of her all at once, half-leaps backwards and crashes straight into the door of one of the stalls, his shoulders and tailbone stinging from the impact.
"Oh, what the hell," he whines.
Because the figure seated on the sink counter is suddenly quite different. The clothes are the same—jeans, Asia T-shirt, leather jacket—but at the same time, they're looser, too accommodate the… rather wider, flatter shape they're suddenly hung on.
Kaz blinks his eyes—still large and dark—and reaches up to run his fingers along the black stubble on his own pale cheek, then continuing upwards, nervously tugging at the ends of his suddenly short hair.
"…Oh," he mumbles, the single syllable low and scratchy and absolutely masculine.
"No, seriously—what the hell?" Dean demands anxiously, unable to stop himself from gaping. She was definitely female—for God's sake, he'd felt her bra strap—but now it's none other than a young brunette man that he's facing, and a rather guilty-looking one at that.
A sort of snapping pop breaks the moment of tense silence, occupied only by Kaz staring nervously at the ground, and Dean's head whips around to see the two men suddenly standing by the doorway—the taller of the two is stiff, biting at the edge of his lip and keeping his hands tucked pointedly in his pockets. But the shorter lounges carelessly against the door, his eyebrows raised in clear amusement and his mouth quirked up in what can only be considered a gloating expression, his arm slung around the other's waist casually.
The first person is Sam, obviously.
The second is a bit less familiar, but Dean recognizes him all the same.
"Gabriel," he snarls.
"Helloooo!" the archangel trills, twitching his fingers in a wave. Dean can't help but stare at the arm not caught in the gesture, the one that's snuggled comfortably around his brother. Sam himself is blushing, actually blushing like some high school girl, and he refuses to meet Dean's eyes.
"What the hell," he repeats for the third time, moving his eyes from Sam, embarrassed and dodgy, to Kaz, nervous and awkward, before they finally settle on Gabriel, who's consumed by an air of such utter smugness that Dean feels nauseated.
"Aw, shove that attitude, will you?" the Trickster drawls, rolling his eyes and straightening up slightly, though he doesn't move his hand from Sam's waist. "You can't complain this time, can you? You have been wanting your little 'baby' as a girl for a while now, don't deny it. I did you a damn favor."
"I—I didn't—" Dean's choking on his words, spluttering with pure disbelief. "Why—why the fuck—"
"Language," Gabriel taunts.
"Shut your face," Dean spits. "Why'd you—I didn't want her to become a freaking guy, you know, I don't—that's not my—"
"You sure about that? I swear, some of those looks that you've tossed my little brother's direction…"
He's not going to deny that accusation, even if it's completely ridiculous. Cas is a friend, for Christ's sake; why does everyone have to see things the wrong way?
That is, you tell yourself he's a—
Nope. No. Not gonna think like that. Cas—friend. Friend—Cas. No two ways around it.
"Oh, and you're one to whine about hitting on little brothers, you dick," he growls.
"Dean," Sam begins, speaking for the first time. His voice is a bit shaky, almost shy. "Just… leave him alone, alright? You don't have to be a jerk to absolutely everyone."
"Oh, I don't have to be a jerk to everyone?" Dean half-yells, waving his hand in Gabriel's direction. His words are so laden with exasperation that he can barely get them out. "Just take a look at who you've got yourself hooked up with, Sammy! God, why the hell are you letting him treat you like his bitch?"
"He's not that bad," is the quiet objection. "Give him a break, alright?"
"Give him a—give him a…" Dean's eyes are popping with disbelief now, and he swings around to face Kaz, who seems to be the only somewhat reasonable person left in the room, even if that 'reasonableness' takes the form of sitting in the corner and staring at the wall. He tries not to let himself think about just how wound up in that same person he'd been mere moments ago—it's a memory that he rather didn't want to relive quite so soon. "You, Kaz, is this the he that you were talking about? It was friggin' Gabriel the archangel the whole damn time and you couldn't tell me? So, what, he—he turns you into a girl, right, then snags Sam and counts on you to distract me, waits a few minutes, then decides that he's ready to give me my brother back and scares me off my making you a dude?"
Kaz avoids his glare, not replying, but Gabriel offers a congratulatory whistle.
"Full marks, Dean! I wouldn't expect you to pick up on things so quick—you've always been a bit slow on the uptake, in my experience. Never even remembering your own death, now, that's tedious. Sammy here was just complaining about how annoying it was to give you the time loop talk over and over…"
"No." Dean rounds on Gabriel, his eyes flashing and his lips drawn back from his teeth furiously. "Not Sammy. You can't call him that. Not allowed. Only me, you got it? That nickname is only for me."
"I don't—" Sam tries.
Dean flings a hand up, indicating that he stop. "If you're about to say 'I don't mind,' then go ahead and can it right now, because I'm not gonna put up with that shit. So, what, you two are boyfriends now? When the hell did that happen? Because I'll let you know that I am not letting my brother get it on with the douchiest angel in the whole damn garrison. The hell do you see in him?" he continues, addressing Sam again. "Is it just the appeal? Famous name, right? Scrawled all over the Bible, wow, how sexy." His voice is dripping with disgust, but Sam's eyes flash with surprising defiance, and he seems ready to retort sharply, though he's cut off by Gabriel's finger flying up, pressing his lips shut.
"Nope, let's not have the brothers get into a jealous little tiff, that's just gonna upset us all."
"Jealous—tiff? I—I'm already fucking upset!" Dean stutters, wondering how every one of the archangel's words manages to aggravate him. "How about you just give me my damned car back and flap off to scare some more sorry asses with your conjured Marvel monsters? 'Cause I am not going to sit here and listen to you brag about your own cleverness, especially not with your hands all over him. Frankly, if I have to look at you two for three more seconds, I think I'm gonna throw up."
"How insensitive. And poor Sam has to deal with you and Castiel almost daily, too."
"Cas and I are friends!"
"Right, forgot that little detail." But he finally does let Sam go, and Dean exhales slightly, though he's still incredibly tense.
"Okay, now give me my car back."
"You're gonna hurt poor Kazzy's feelings," Gabriel whines, but Dean gives him a steely enough glare that he reluctantly gives his fingers a light snap, rolling his eyes in a wholly exaggerated motion. "There," he grumbles as a surprised-looking Kaz evaporates into a thin wisp of familiar-smelling smoke. "All taken care of. Don't get me wrong, though, I'm all willing to bring him—or even her—back if that's what you want in exchange for your little bro and I to get some more private time later on."
"You won't be getting any more private time with him as long as I'm breathing," Dean growls, stepping forward and managing to keep his distance from the archangel while grabbing Sam's shoulder and pulling him in closer, draping his arm around his brother's shoulders in a protective gesture. "Get the hell out of here, or I swear to God I will call Cas down, grab his freakin' angel-killing blade, and cut that holy smirk right off your face."
"Touchy, touchy. I didn't have to be so considerate about this whole procedure, you know. It would have been much easier to—"
"Gabe," Sam interjects softly.
Dean's stomach heaves.
"Gabe?" he repeats, the single syllable managing to come out twisted and strangled as he whips around to face his brother. "You just—did you just call him—wh—"
"Hey, calm down!" Sam protests, raising his hands defensively. "It's just a nickname, okay? You say 'Sammy' and 'Cas' all the time."
"You and Cas aren't fucking archangels. That's acceptable. This—this is not."
"I'm not a kid anymore, Dean! I can do what I—"
"Don't you dare say 'I can do what I want.' 'Cause I'd agree with that most of the time, only it looks like what you want to do is pretty fuckin' idiotic."
"Oh, like you're one to talk!"
"I'm not hooking up with the archangel!"
"No, you were going to have sex with the car!"
That's enough to bring Dean up short, and he's silent for a moment, trying to come up with a reasonable comeback while Sam sighs through his nose and shifts uncomfortably. Dean ends up glancing over towards where Gabriel was standing, ready to throw a snarky comment in his direction, only to see that the angel has vanished.
"Oh, fuck you, too," he grumbles in the door's direction, then takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his face quickly, trying to pull his thoughts together. "Alright," he finally says dully to Sam, "I can yell at you later. Right now, I'm friggin' exhausted."
"It's nine in the morning," Sam points out.
"Don't care. I'd sleep in the car, only there's no way you're driving after this. Next town we pass by, we're stopping at the crappiest motel we can find and staying there until tomorrow."
"…Fine," he mutters, turning his head away. Dean shoves open the door and the two of them traipse through the coffee shop, ignoring the odd looks that are thrown in their direction, presumably at the fuming expressions painted across both of their faces. Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the space ahead of him, trying not to let his overwhelming irritation break through as they start across the parking lot, where, to his relief, the Impala is sitting, dark and shiny as always.
"That's better," he grumbles, resting his hand on the comfortably familiar hood of the car and letting out a breath that he didn't realize himself to be holding. He gives her two firm pats, then pops open the door and swings himself in. Sam, however, isn't moving, but rather glancing back and forth, scanning the contours of the vehicle.
"You comin'?" Dean demands.
"Yeah, it's just… seriously, dude? The car?"
"Seriously, dude?" he shoots back, his voice raised in a strained attempt to mimic Sam's. "An archangel?"
"Fair enough," Sam admits, a grin touching his cheeks. Dean rolls his eyes as he grips the steering wheel, but by the time his laughing brother slips in behind him, he really is starting to think that maybe the situation isn't so bad after all.
He still has all rights to be pissed, after all.
Because, really? Gabriel?