Title: Dean in His Car (Or, the real reason Dead Winchester stays a hunter.)
Author: waitforhightide
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Female OC
Genres/Warnings: PWP, Impala!sex
Spoilers? None; set generically in Season 1
Word Count: 5477
A/N: A gift for Shiloh, who has always loved old cars and needed a little Impala!love after finishing season one! And now that she's caught up with the entire series and I've had some decent sexual experiences to base fic on, I've dragged it out for revision and, hopefully, some love of its own.
I also owe Lauren and The Mysterious Unnamed One my life, for sitting up with me on Google docs and being my cheerleaders and my alphas, so that I had something worthy of sending to my first beta, the wonderful Anna! And Shiloh herself, for constantly checking it after guys make me smile 3 I owe you hugs and the pie of your choice.
Summary: Dean meets a girl who listens to Metallica of her own free will, and knows what model his car is. There's only one direction for this to go...
Dean glances up when the song changes.
The bar's old juke has been playing crap all night—mostly the depressing country/western shit that's all about how down the dude is on his luck—so when the unmistakable intro riff to "Enter, Sandman" by Metallica comes on, Dean's attention switches from his beer to the source of the tune.
He's not shocked easily, not in his line of work, but he's pretty sure he could almost use the term to describe his face when he sees the savior of his poor, c/w-sodden eardrums.
She must be just barely legal to drink—he's pretty sure Montana's drinking age is twenty-one, anyway—and damn, if she doesn't look every inch of it. He's sure he must be staring, but how could he not? Everything he's observing about this chick is contradicting itself. First off, she's a chick, and she just chose Metallica over Daughtry or whoever the fuck sings those sappy-ass country ballads. Plus, she seems out of place in Buttfuck Nowhere. She's wearing a plaid shirt—boyfriend's? Dean wonders, and hopes he's wrong—over a plain white t-shirt, neither of which does anything to hide her rack, which is, to use one of Sam's words, prodigious. And her fuckin' legs are a mile long from the tips of her black heels to the low-slung waist of a pair of jean shorts that are very little jean and a lot short.
A dozen cheesy, jack-ass pickup lines scroll through his head like some jacked-up CNN ticker, and he's sure his mouth is gaping wide enough for his jaw to hit the floor any second now, but holy hell.
He's so engrossed, he almost doesn't notice her making a beeline to the bar—and to the empty seat next to him. He recovers, though, tossing that patented Dean Winchester smirk on his face as she slides easily onto the stool to his right. He opens his mouth to say something—probably one of those stupid pickup lines from earlier—but before he can, she says the one thing that could possibly make her more surreal.
"You drive that Impala in the lot, don't you?" she asks.
He can only stare at her. She must be a ghost. Or possessed.
"I mean, it's got to be yours," she continues, as if having strange men stare at her is a daily occurrence. Actually, scratch that, with her looks, it probably is. "No one out here in Assfuck, Montana would have something like that, and yours is the only mug in this place I don't already know. What is it, a '69?"
"Sixty-seven," Dean chokes out.
"Sexy motherfucker," she says with a nod.
"I've been called it," Dean agrees, recovering a little of his swagger. She half-snorts in something that could be either scorn or amusement, but she stays put. Point for Dean.
"Does she run as good as she looks?" the girl asks.
"Better," Dean agrees, reaching for his beer, but before he can reach it, she's grabbed it and taken a long pull. Is she lingering with her mouth around the neck on purpose, or is he making it up? "So what's with the tunes?" he asks, only partly out of curiosity. The other half of his motives involves trying to keep himself from springing a tent-pole in his jeans. Dammit. A few months on the road with Sam, and he already misses the freedom to bring girls back to those seedy motel rooms and give them the time of their lives. He can't quite seem to quit it with the come-on, though. The girl is too goddamn attractive to just give up on. Hello, blue balls, he thinks, only half-bitterly.
The girl shrugs and tosses her hair—long, dark, and somehow mane-like—over one shoulder. Dean has a sudden vivid mental image of what it would be like to plunge his fingers into it. "Got tired of all that Southern-fried shit they were playing," she says. "You'd think they'd get bored with it and play something good once and a while, but the only time something decent ever plays on the juke is when I come in here and make it happen." She laughs, and Dean can't help but notice the way her nose—small and spattered with freckles—wrinkles when she does. That's fucking adorable, and adorable should not be a synonym for "sexy." Someone should explain that to his libido.
She takes another drink of his beer, which, he's just noticed, she never gave back to him. He holds his hand out for it, a look of expectation gracing his face, but she only smirks and finishes the last of the beer left in the bottle.
"Consider it payment for saving your ears," she says, smiling.
Dean shrugs, a lithe movement, and cocks one eyebrow. "You usually a beer girl?" he asks.
She shrugs herself. "Every so often. Rum's more my style. Why, are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Why, are you going along with it?"
She laughs again, but it's a friendly sound. He hasn't lost her yet.
"Depends," she replies. "You buying?"
"You better believe it," Dean says, and he's pleased to see her nod in approval. She's doing this thing with her lips that's half-smirk, half-pout, and wholly sex. God, he needs to get laid... it's just his luck that the one girl he's homing in on will probably brush him off. Oh well, at least he'll have some fresh material for when he goes home with balls so blue they should be made illegal. "Name's Dean, by the way. Winchester."
"Like the rifle," she says, nodding again. "I like it. I'm Shane. Shane Northman."
"Nice to meet you, Shane," he says, signaling the bartender. "How do you chase your shots?"
Now she's the one raising an eyebrow, and a moment later she apparently decides he's serious, because she gives a short laugh and says, "I don't. I'll take 'em straight." Dean lets a low whistle through his teeth. "What, you think I'm lying?"
Dean gives her a look that he assumes speaks for itself.
"Fine," she fires back. "I'll prove it."
"Even if you take them with no chasers, you'll never get through more'n three," he predicts, and Shane scoffs.
"I bet I'll get through more than you, hotshot," she challenges.
"You're on," Dean agrees, grinning. He likes this chick. He thinks of Sam for a second—but only a second. Poor kid doesn't know what he's missing out on.
Dean would take this over research every time.
An hour later, Dean's regretting his need to prove himself... mostly. Shane's got him beat by at least three shots, but he thinks he lost count in there somewhere, maybe around seven... or maybe it was nine... His tolerance is good, but he's usually a whiskey man. He hates the taste of spiced rum, and that, he will insist to anyone who asks, is why he's losing. When he's sure he can't beat her, he slams the last shot glass on the table with a grimace.
"Alright, alright, I surrender. White flags and all that shit. Damn, that's nasty."
Shane knocks back her own shot cool as you please, legs twined together over the bar stool, and God damn, if she isn't doing something sexy with her mouth again, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth and raising both hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "I told you," she says indulgently. Dean's trying to think of some clever comeback when the music change on the jukebox distracts him again. It's not Metallica this time, but it's not country, either. It's probably off whatever Top 40 selection the owner keeps updated, because he doesn't recognize it. Something bassy and electronic.
Shane must know it though, because her face lights up, making her look somehow younger than she already does. Practically jail-bait, Dean thinks, but fuck, if that's supposed to deter his dick, already semi-hard, it isn't working. Before he has a chance to find that comeback he was looking for, she's up out of her chair, dancing.
"Lady Gaga," she says, in answer to his questioning look. He must still look confused, because she just laughs again. "Forget it," she says. "I fucking love this song. Bloody fucking Mary." And after that he might as well not exist. Her hands are up in the air, and she's swaying her hips and her ass—a great one, from what he's seen so far—in a way that should be illegal. Her eyes are shut, and it's obvious she's thinking nothing but the music. She's even singing along, not loudly, but enough that he can hear the girl's got pipes. The moan he bites back comes a little to close to actually vibrating through his vocal cords—he's always too vocal when he's horny and drunk—but he's always had a thing for girls who can sing.
His eyes are glued to her—the way her t-shirt's pulling up to show tanned hips; how she moves so well with the music, she might as well have written it, and her fucking legs, Jesus Christ—
He can't quite figure out how it happens. Maybe her heels catch on the unevenness of the floor, or even on each other. Maybe she's drunker than she looks, and it throws her off balance. Maybe she does it on purpose. It doesn't really matter, though. What matters is that she trips, and Dean's a hunter, even when he's drunk, so it's practically in his DNA to catch her, but the way she's turned, she's pressed up against him, all the way against him. Her body, running hot from alcohol, in one searing line against his—
And fuck, if he isn't rock hard in record time. He expects her to move away, maybe smack him—God knows it happens enough—but Shane is just one fucking shock after another. Her mouth is on his in a flash, her lips small and soft and tasting of lipstick and alcohol. He finally gets to plunge a hand into that mane of hair he's been admiring, and it's softer than he thought it would be. He feels her pulling back, and his groan is stifled by the kiss that breaks a second later. He knew it was too good to be true.
Here it comes, he thinks. She's got a boyfriend, fuck, or even a girlfriend. She's not legal, she's the pastor's daughter, something.
But what Shane says is, "I wanna see your car."
Dean knows Sam would have a word for the look on his face—probably something like flabbergasted—but damn.
"I see how it is," he jokes, hoping his voice doesn't sound as strained as the front of his jeans. "You just want me for my wheels."
"I want you in your wheels," she says, and that's it, she's gotta be a hallucination brought on by too much crappy liquor and too long without a fuck. Before he has the chance to go for the vial of rock salt in his pocket, to be sure she's not some fucked-up evil spirit trying to shock him to death, she's on her way out the door, her stride sure and straight, her ass flexing under her shorts with every high-heeled step.
Shane's running a hand across on the hood when he gets out there. If it had been anyone else, he would have thrown a fit. No one touches his baby but the Winchesters. She's looking at it though, not him, when he comes out, and so he let's it slide. She seems genuinely infatuated with the Impala, not pretending to be interested like some girls will if they think it will earn them brownie points. Dean doesn't think of any of this for long, though. The sight of a sexy woman caressing hood of his car? If he was ten years younger, he would have practically come in his jeans by now. It's like a teenage-Dean's wet dream come true.
When she notices he made it out, she turns and meets him part way to the car. She's pulling him closer, kissing him again, her fingers entwined in his belt loops and back pockets. He's moving against her easily, hands moving down to grab her ass, and when he goes to lift her back onto the hood, she doesn't object. Whatever passes as a crowd in the bar is already there. It's after midnight on a weekday, and at this point, anyone who's stayed this long will be here 'til close. Dean knows the drill. It's the same in hick bars like this across the country.
He's rutting against Shane now. She's boosted up on the hood of the car. Her hands are on his shoulders, gripping him tightly, and he can just barely feel her nails through the two layers of cotton between them and the skin of his shoulders. God damn, that's hot. He tries to justify the ridiculous speed with which he's getting into this girl, but all he can come up with is Metallica and car love and too much time on the road with Sam and his father. He'd gotten accustomed to a different girl every few nights, when he wasn't hunting, and his system is still trying to adjust to having to go days, weeks, even, with nothing but a Playboy and his right hand...
But even with all the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick, his hunter's instincts refuse to back down. He and Shane are, for all intents and purposes, out in the open, and out in the open with this many distractions is never a good thing, hick-bar parking lot or not.
He breaks the kiss, pulling away from Shane against protests from every sensory input his body has. She had been doing some damn fine things with her mouth, and her fingers had been tracing patterns on the back of his neck that had sent shivers of pleasure up and down his spine. Still, being this out there is making him nervous, and instinct, or habit, or whatever the fuck it is, wins out.
"Got a place we can go back to?" he asks, his voice slightly breathless. Yeah, he really needs to start getting laid again more often.
"About fifteen miles south," she says, her voice almost husky now. "Shit economy, job's got a bit of a commute, blah blah blah. You got a place closer?" Another pang of desire hit Dean low on the gut at the near-urgency in her voice. She must want is as badly as he does.
"Just passing through," he says by way of explanation. Easier than explaining that Sam is his roommate in the crappy hotel and would bitch him out if Dean so much as brought a girl through the door. He expects a protest, something about not wanting to go back to her place, but she only grins and does that half-pout, half-smirk with her lips again.
"My place it is then," she agrees, and before Dean can say anything else, she's swung her legs over the side of the Impala's hood and slid off to stand almost impatiently in front of the passenger door. "Are you gonna unlock her, or are you too protective to let me even ride in her?"
"Cool your jets, babe," he says. "She's my pride'n'joy, but it's not like she's my date or anything." But he's smirking as he moves around to unlock the driver's side door and slides across the bench seat to flip the button on Shane's side. "Hop in, then," he invites as he slides back to start her up. He glances up as Shane slides into the passenger side, though, and he's glad to see a look of appreciation on her face. The girl knows a good thing when she sees it. Point for Shane.
She's giving him directions before they're even out of the parking lot.
She spends maybe ten minutes of the drive damn near interrogating him about the car. When did he get her, where was she from, how much of her was original and how much was replacement? Dean answers mostly in fragments. Between trying not to get lost on country roads and trying not to think of Shane in compromising positions, he's answering the questions about the Impala mostly on auto-pilot. It isn't until he notices her constant questions have stopped that he glances over at her. She's gazing vaguely at the dashboard... or possibly at him. It's hard to tell.
"Cat got your tongue?" he asks, almost sullenly.
She doesn't reply for a moment, and Dean thinks perhaps she hadn't heard him, when she says, "She's bigger inside than she looks, isn't she?"
"Sure, it's one of the things I love about her," Dean agrees, turning his attention back to the winding back road, but that gets beyond difficult a second later, because fuck, Shane's unbuckling her seatbelt and sliding across the bench seat towards him. He forces himself to focus on the road as he feels her shift her weight, her hands braced on his knees. Her hands move up his legs, from his knees to the insides of his thighs and then further. He practically misses the curve in the road when he feels the pressure of her mouth—not her hands—over his zipper. His hands clench, white-knuckled and abrupt, on the steering wheel. Her breath is hot and sultry and humid through the denim, and God, is that her tongue tracing the line of his cock through the fabric?
She laughs. He would call it a giggle, but fuck, giggles are not sexy, and this sound is sex through and through. Low, full of intention, and vibrating through him in a way this is entirely too attractive—and not conducive to staying on the road. He barely catches another turn and swears under his breath, but he doesn't tell her to stop. He hadn't been looking forward to the drive, and here Shane is offering to sweeten the deal.
He just has to focus on not getting them killed.
He snaps his eyes back to the road, barely aware that he had been busy watching her undo his belt and work the fly open with her teeth. Sideways. Dean feels his grip on the wheel tighten again, and he has to fight against the urge to let his eyes close and focus only on the feeling of her breath and her tongue against the cotton of his boxers. She seems determined to coax him from his pants without ever using her hands, and while Dean isn't sure how effective it will be, he's certainly enjoying the effort. The girl has the tongue of an angel. A fallen one, probably.
"Holy fuck," Dean moans. Shane has apparently succeeded in her mission of only using her tongue. He feels her lips slide over him and thinks disjointedly that he's lucky there's no one else on this little farm road after midnight, or they'd both be in trouble. He keeps expecting her to stop, to wrap her hand around the base and go on from there, but she must have had a good amount of practice, because she takes him all at once.
Dean, as sexually frustrated as he is, nearly loses it. He feels nearly every part of him react, and the engine of the Impala growls as he practically floors the accelerator, which somehow makes everything all the more intense. As it is, he can;t help himself from accidentally revving the engine.
Shane must have noticed, because she laughs again, and this time Dean has evidence that the phrase "a throaty laugh" is not just words. Shane pulls back then, gripping his cock in her hand for a moment, and Dean shudders. God, why did she stop?
"If you're not going a hundred miles an hour by now," she says, her tone teasing, "I'm not doing it right." Before he has a chance to react to that, her hand is gone, replaced by the wetness of her lips and her tongue again.
"Jesus fuck," Dean groans, "If this is you doing it wrong, I don't think I'd survive you doing it right." He can't resist glancing over at Shane again. He expects her to be focused on the task at hand—curvy road, only one hand bracing her balance against the seat, deep throating him like crazy—but her hair is all spilling over one shoulder, and her eyes are glowing gold-green and catlike, looking up at him. Her tongue is swirling around the head of his cock and then sliding along the side, and her eyes are locked on his like all she wants is to watch him watch her. Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks him, and he can see her throat working. He feels her nails again, and he's not sure if she's doing it on purpose, but she's scratching them along his leg, little vibrating trails across the denim, and Dean has a mental image of what those nails would feel like digging into the flesh of his back, or the back of his neck—and he feels the Impala swerve bizarrely as he completely loses track of everything but her mouth—hot and wet and bright red in the vague light—on his dick.
"Fuck!" Dean gasps. "Off, Sloane, off," he chokes. He's going to get them both killed, and besides, that's it, he's not waiting anymore. Thank God, she listens, and as soon as she's sitting up again, he yanks the wheel right, hard, and the Impala skids into a field that will probably be corn in late summer, but now is just a place to be where they won't have to worry about crashing. Dean Winchester is many things, but he is not suicidal. Not even for the sake of the most spectacular blowjob he's ever had.
But before he can do a damn thing, Shane's got him pressed up against the seat, somehow managing to fit herself between his body and the dash, and she's kissing him. He can taste his own skin, salt and musk, on her lips, and why the hell is that so damn sexy, anyway? He moves, hands gripping her waist and they're horizontal on the bench seat, Dean supporting most of Shane's weight as they tangle on the seat. His plan is to flip them so that Shane is underneath him, but she seems to have other ideas. She's kissing him fiercely, biting his bottom lip, and she's straddling him, pulling off his t-shirt. He had shucked the button-up after getting in the car. Her lips are grazing his jaw now, kisses turning to small bites, and she shows no sign of wanting to be beneath him.
Dean has to admit, there's something incredibly hot about being under Shane. Besides, she seems to enjoy it, taking her time as he lets her drag his jeans and boxers down his legs to puddle on the floor before losing her own shirts. Dean can't help but utter an appreciative sound at the sight of her breasts in a sheer black lace bra. Her nipples are hard against the fabric, and as he tweaks them with his thumbs, he wants to feel them under his tongue, between his teeth. Shane looks down as she unfastens the bra, her hair spilling forward, and she moves to wiggle out of her shorts. A moment later, she's gyrating her hips over his, and he can feel the friction of the black lace on his dick. He feels his breath hitch, and Shane make an appreciative noise of her own.
Finally, Dean can't take it. He hooks his thumbs into the sides of her lace panties and yanks them down. She seems more than happy to help him get them off of her legs and onto the floor. Shane moves, adjusting her position, and Dean wonders if she plans to fuck him now when she slides against him instead, from the head of his cock to the base of his shaft, letting her cunt, hot and wet, tease his entire length.
"Holy fuck," Dean breathes, hands gripping her waist, bucking his hips up to meet hers, teeth clenched in an effort to keep himself from coming. Not yet, not now. His hands move to cup her breasts, and now he's the one doing the teasing, work-callused thumbs moving in slow, concentric circles getting closer and closer to her nipples, but not touching—not quite.
"Fuck," Shane says, arching her back to press against his touch. "Stop fucking teasing."
"It's only fair," Dean says, a smile in his voice, but he decides to follow her advice anyway, and he's glad a moment later, when he feels Shane's hips thrust forward and down so she's slipping against him again, all heat and eagerness.
"That's it," he growls, and he doesn't intend to say it out loud, but it doesn't really matter either way. Dean realizes belatedly that it's hot and humid in the car, the early spring pressing in and sliding against their bare skin, making sweat bead on his skin. Shane bites her lip as her back arches beneath him. Dean trails his tongue along the line of her collarbone, trading the taste of her skin for a small bite every so often, moving down until he reaches the swell of her breast. He grazes his teeth over her nipple, still hard from his teasing earlier, and red lust flares in him as Shane spills words from her lips without thinking them through.
"Oh God Dean please don't even, just please—!"
"Please?" he repeats, his tongue flicking over one nipple between words, his rough hand teasing the other. "Come on, baby, tell me what you want."
He dips his free hand down between her legs before she has the chance to say anything, and he feels her entire body react.
"Fuck me, dammit," Shane gasps.
"Say it," Dean breathes into her ear, even as he's shifting underneath her, fumbling for something in his glove compartment with one hand.
"Fuck me, fuck me. Here. Now. God!"
Dean's sound of triumph as he finds his stash of condoms is muffled by the way his mouth is pressed into Shane's neck, and he's got it open with one hand, thanking whatever powers that be that that little trick worked-it has its bad days and good days. In no time at all, he's got it over his cock, now so hard it's practically painful. He takes half a second to mourn the fact that he has to feel her through a layer of latex, but that thought's driven from his mind a second later, because she slides herself onto him, and he's thrusting into her, and her nails are digging into his skin, scoring lines that will glow an angry, accomplished red for days. He's giving no thought to the things coming out her mouth, and by the sound of it, neither is she. Their voices meld into a scrambled soundtrack that hangs in the humid air and presses on the steamed-over windows.
"Oh fuck, yes, there, just like-"
"So fucking good, don't even-"
"No, God, just-"
"There-!"
Dean's got one hand tangled in her hair, damp and dark and wonderful, gripping it just tightly enough. Almost pulling, but not quite, using it to help her time the movement of her hips to the rhythm of his thrusts-hard and fast. Then she moves, teeth pressing into the line of his clavicle, tongue laving the sharp line of his bone beneath the skin, and Dean's rhythm falters as he groans, speeding up into something frenzied. Shane's holding her own, and suddenly her bite on his collar bone is gone, her breath singing in his ear instead.
"Come for me, fuck, I want to feel you lose it. Come on, baby, come for me."
And he's gone, one hand tightening in her hair, the other digging into the humid leather of the Impala's seat so he doesn't grab Shane too hard instead. He feels her come right as he does, like a chain reaction, a series of high, breathless sounds escaping her as her own grip on his shoulders and the pressure of her thighs turns vice-like. The small part of his mind that's always running on hunter's thoughts notes that neither of them calls the other's name, and he's glad-he knows he can drive her home when they both come down from the temporary high and not have to hand her some fake phone number, or try and kill that snag of guilt that comes with lying to a girl with yet another shot.
Dean's staring up at the roof of the Impala with Shane's head resting on his chest. He can feel a stinging on his back that means he'll have a set of crescent moons welling blood on his skin for a while, and he grins. Marks from sex beat marks from hunts any day.
"You know," Shane says after a few minutes, her hand tracing idle swirls on his chest to balance the Devil's Trap Dean is unconsciously outlining over her spine. "I'm kind of disappointed."
Dean is about to splutter some indignant response when she laughs. "Chill. I mean I'm sad I didn't get you pulled over for speeding. I know the deputy who works this stretch of road for this shift, and she probably would have wanted to join in on the fun."
Dean's laughing again, really laughing, and he wonders how long it's been since he honestly laughed with someone after sex instead of playing the chivalrous Prince Charming role. He decides that maybe he'll come inside with Shane when he brings her home, after all. Another round (or two, or three) sounds like it'd be right up his alley.
But for now, he's content to be here, tangled up with her in the front seat of his car, smelling sex and car leather, and knowing that tomorrow, he'll be a few hundred miles from here, doing what he does best-
Keeping people like her safe, so they never know to be afraid of the dark.