. •.•.•.

When Dean throws away the cheap waterproof tarp, letting it balloon away into the grass behind Rufus's cabin, it's like his throat wants to clog up with sudden emotion.

The Impala — his baby — she needs two good washes and at least a thirty-minute waxing, along with those front-work repairs for when Meg smashed her straight through the SucroCorp entrance display, but, fuck, she's a sight for sore eyes. His keys and his hand trembles when he goes to start the ignition.

The loud, reverberating hum of the running engine tells him welcome home welcome home, and Dean smooths his hand across the sun-hot bodywork, silently answering missed you before he frees his slowly hardening dick from his jeans.

He knows every inch of her, and how could he not — rebuilding every working circuit, every valve; how much diesel she needs, how and why the doors still squeak, how to get her to purr just right before stepping on the gas pedal, and how she doesn't like when Sam jerks her wheel too hard to the left and brakes when turning. He can feel her displeasure when she moves, though obedient to the driver.

Dean eyes her, and rolls up his sweat-sticking shirt, flipping it inside-out as he yanks it over his head. Flattens himself down over the Impala's hood with a small groan. Scorching heat and chrome to his skin. He savors it like a rightful punishment. Jerks his hips against her, leaving the glisten of his fluids to the hue of midnight-black. Christ, he's fucking missed this.

Running around in Purgatory, fighting crazed monster after monster almost every hour of every uncountable, dusk-permanent day that passed, nearly drained of what kept him sane, whatever good memories of staying alive could have meant. But here, sliding his hands over her familiar, large shape, over her sides, tilting his head back and moaning when his hips snap forward again — it reminds him why he needed out. How good it feels. Mine. Mine.

Dean fumbles into his pocket for a pre-lubricated condom, hurrying and rolling it on like he needs now and tossing aside the packaging, walking around her. Pets along her locked passenger door, and then the length of her trunk, first with his rock-hard dick, then a hand, continuing a soothing rhythm as he goes to his knees and positions.

"Baby," he mumbles, lips opening to the glass of her backlight, the sharp bitterness of dirt melting onto his tongue. He thrusts shallow into her tailpipe. It's not anywhere slick enough, not like fucking a woman, and too, too narrow. His cock barely gets a comfortable drag. But she's tight and warm from switching on, and she's goddamn perfect.

Dean's fingers brush affectionately over CNK 80Q3, over the ridges of the license plate, and he swears on every holy deity he knows that she vibrates harder when Dean's thrusts get sloppier, longer. His forehead leans softly on her, his breathing ragged, his jeans covered in sandy brown where his knees press into the ground. His legs quiver. The scented tinge of motor oil to enter his flaring nostrils — a little slick would take the blaze of pain out of the pleasure he's experiencing but he wants to feel this, every rough centimeter. Dean's THIS close to blowing his load when the back screen-door swings open, loud enough to be heard but discrete enough like the person doing the opening is uncertain about revealing themselves.

His naked skin prickles with embarrassment of being found out. There's a charge of how surprisingly intense it is when Dean comes, grunting. He slaps a hand over his mouth to suffocate the rest, squeezing his eyes shut.

Dean gives himself a few moments before pulling his cock out of the shuddering tailpipe, peeling off and knotting the dirtied condom. He's halfway back inside his boxers when he realizes Sam hasn't said a thing yet. It's not like he couldn't see him from the porch steps. See Dean fucking his car.

Sam wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. He had been visiting a fellow hunter three states over with big info on where more Leviathans were nesting in the upper Midwest.

Dean stands, hiking up his jeans and buttoning them, and he dares a chance to glance at his brother who had stopped only eleven feet away. There's no taunting, no disgust in Sam's eyes — actually, he can't make out anything when Sam's face is lowered like this, shaggy bangs drooping, and staring down at his feet. The necks of two, opened beers wrapped in one of his gigantor hands. Sam's mouth screws up but still he says nothing, and Dean clears his throat. Better do this now.

There's an audible cracking noise as Sam's neck lurches his head upright, hazel-green eyes widening. "Nothin' on Leviathan?" Dean asks, expressionless, and gesturing Sam closer for a cold beer. He grabs it from him when Sam does, taking a swallow.

"Haven't left yet." Sam tells him, impulsively licking his lips, "Haven't gotten a call back." Lips flushed red, bitten.

Dean mimics the lick, tasting a bit of foam.

"How long were you—?" he asks.

"—since you, um… you took off your shirt."


Dean's beer sloshes at his feet and soaks up in the dirt. A complete waste. Sam's back crashes into the Impala's trunk when his older brother hauls him against it, knuckling his plaid button-up. Those lumberjack-sized legs crook apart for Dean invading his space, and his eyes can't get any bigger. Dean's mouth latches onto a corded, golden line of exposed throat. It's not refreshingly cool, like the glass, but the thickness of real flesh with Sam's pulse flying as his brother groans and rides his crotch up towards Dean's abs.

Oh, jesus… was he this hard staring out the kitchen window, sucking and chewing on his bottom lip, rubbing his erection trapped in denim against the heel of his palm — did he just want to wait it out for Dean before considering touching himself?

The thought maddens him, coils his belly with more heat.

"So you enjoyed the show, baby boy?" Dean mutters into his ear, sinking his teeth into cartilage and earning a low whimper of shit, Dean.

And, fuck, fuck, he's a great view, chest rising and falling with heavy gasps, redder than Dean's ever seen him drunk off his ass, his baby rumbling contently under them. Sam's brow wrinkles, confused; Dean's fingers loosen and finally untangle from his button-up, carding through Sam's hair, pushing brown strands from Sam's face. Mine. An impossible, clogged swallow inside Dean's throat. Weeks since returning and all he wants to do is indulge in his comforts. The two, most important symbols of his life.

It's a rare and old compulsion, but Dean shifts up to bow Sam's head a little towards him and gruffly press his mouth to the top of his head.

"Glad you're home," Sam whispers. A weak, smiling laugh.

"No shit."

. •.•.•.

Supernatural isn't mine. This was high on my list to attempt as soon as I started watching Supernatural. Dean and his car. It's clearly sexual tension, hurrhurr. ALWAYS WANTED TO TRY MY HAND AT SOME OBJECTUM SEXUALITY. And, eheh, love my Wincest. Good stuff. Deeply appreciative of any thoughts on this, thank you~.


"Dean/Impala, mechaphilia, Voyeur!Sam"