Crimping off the last bit of pie crust, Skye wiped her hands on a dish towel before double-checking that the oven had finished preheating. Setting an egg timer, she stuck the pie in and tossed the towel onto the counter. Looking up as the back door opened, the little-used hinges squeaking in protest, she smiled, "So, what's the verdict? Think you can get it up and runnin' or is it a fancy paperweight?"
"It was pretty well maintained, but it's been sittin' in that barn for a while." Kicking the door closed behind him, Dean walked over and grabbed the dish-towel Skye had just used, leaning back against the counter as he wiped the grease off his hands. Or most of it, at any rate, at this point some of it was likely embedded all the way to the bone, "A few days, I think I can get it goin' again. Can you drive a stick?"
"Grandma used it to get around the property after Granddaddy died. She's-she was a very preventative maintenance kinda person." Hopping up on the counter beside Dean, she drummed her bare heels against the cabinet doors, hands wrapping around the edge of the smooth granite counter as she smiled sweetly up at him, "Nope, I don't. Yet."
"Yet?" Tossing the now stained rag into the sink, Dean plucked at the collar of the oversized sweater she wore over a pair of dark leggings, peeking under it and grinning when he saw the bra she wasn't wearing, "Cute outfit, I like it."
"Well, I figure there's not a snowball's chance in hell you don't know how to drive a stick." Swatting his dirty hands away, she leaned against his shoulder, holding her sweater closed at the throat and giving him an impudent grin, "So I'm thinkin' you're gonna teach me."
"Is that what you're thinking?" Turning to face her, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before tracing the curve of her neck with a fingertip, amping up his already charming smile to full wattage, "And what do I get outta this?"
"My gratitude?" Hooking her ankles around the back of his legs, she pulled him closer, slipping her fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and tilting her head back to look up at him, "Or maybe we could play driving instructor and his overeager student who'll do anything to pass her test."
"Sounds like my kinda game." Winding a few strands of hair from the end of her braid around his fingers, he ran his free hand slowly up her thigh, appreciating for the first time how thin leggings really were, "Now I really do have to get the damn thing up and running."
"Oh, I fully intend to let you win." Fending off his seeking hands, she laughed and lowered her feet, releasing him from her clutches and pushing him toward the sink, "No way. You go wash your hands first. That's how clothes get stained and people get UTI's."
"So I take it we have plans for the evening." Not that he was complaining. The day he started complaining about plans like that was the day he should be taken out back and shot. He'd even provide the ammunition. Turning on the sink, Dean looked over his shoulder at her as he reached for the dish soap, "Is that a pie in the oven? I swear I smell pie."
"Damn straight we do. I mean, as long as you have no objections." If he had objections to that, she'd eat her sweater. Not a bet she had any fear she'd have to pay up any time real soon, "And yes, that's a pie in the oven, but it's for after dinner and I have no compunctions about smackin' your hand with a wooden spoon if you poke at it. Who knows I might be into that kinda thing."
Rinsing the soap off under water just short of scalding, he turned the water off and turned to look for a clean dish rag to dry off with, not wanting to get them dirty all over again by drying them on his shirt, "Somehow I seriously doubt it."
"Wouldn't it be messed up if I were?"
"It really would." Eyeing her intently for a minute, Dean advanced slowly before snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her snugly against him, tugging gently on the end of the braid that lay over her shoulder before tickling the end of her nose with her own hair, "It's not funny."
Shaking her head in a way that plucked the end of her braid from his grasp, she smirked up at him before poking the end of his nose with a fingertip, "I beg to differ."
"You have a twisted sense of humor." Sliding his hands under her sweater, Dean leaned down and nuzzled the side of her neck, lips moving against her skin as his fingers tickled her ribcage, his voice growing husky, "But you can beg if you really want to, Tinkerbell. Who knows, I might be into that kinda thing."
"So what does it mean if I think you're hilarious?" Because there was any chance at all that Dean Winchester didn't know exactly what he was into. Skye might have been born at night, but it wasn't last night, and that was very clearly a hint. And Dean said he didn't do subtle. Or maybe he'd said he didn't do it well? Filing that bit of interesting information away for later, she raised a brow, studying him critically for a second, "That was smooth, Winchester. Excellent delivery. The Russian judge gives it a solid seven out of ten, but I'm afraid the French judge wasn't impressed."
"It means you have excellent taste in men." Pausing briefly in what was shaping up to be a more thorough physical examination of the underthings Skye wasn't wearing than had originally been intended, Dean looked offended, "Fuck France, it was a good line."
"I think my taste in men is questionable, at best." Somehow or other, her own hands had found their way under Dean's t-shirt. As palms slid smoothly over taut muscle and warm skin, she didn't spare a lot of thought to wonder exactly when that had happened, "The last guy I fell for wasn't great relationship material, he was kinda crazy and always disappeared right when you needed him."
Not that Dean had any room to talk, but that brought him up short for a second. He could have sworn he was her first everything. Leaning back, he looked down questioningly, not totally sure he wanted to know the answer, "There's a last guy?"
"Yeah, it didn't work out." She didn't seem to notice his hesitation, not looking up as she played with the zipper on his jeans, something suspiciously approaching a giggle escaping her. Not that she'd ever admit to giggling, "He was the Cheshire Cat and I was six and couldn't figure out how to get to Wonderland. It was a rough time for me."
"I can understand how that'd be a problem." A hand on her hip, Dean rested his forehead against hers, a stupid grin on his face that he could feel was there but couldn't seem to get rid of and didn't really want to, "Did you really have a thing for the Cheshire Cat?"
"I really did. My best friend Oscar would tell me stories about Wonderland," Unsnapping the button on his jeans, she slid a fingertip under the waistband of the black boxer-briefs he wore and smiled, raising her head to look at him as she spoke, "Sometimes when Mama would stick me somewhere and I hadn't managed to hide a book or the flashlight was outta batteries, I'd curl up and imagine I was runnin' around Wonderland with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare."
"Oscar?" Closing his eyes and sucking in a breath as she closed nimble fingers around an especially sensitive part of his anatomy, Dean had to take a second to herd his thoughts back on track when her soft touch threatened to scatter them to the four winds, "I thought you didn't have any friends."
"Well, see, Oscar wasn't so much a friend as he was imaginary. He was a Bandersnatch and he was awesome." Her eyes drifted half-closed as she leaned her head back, heart beating faster at the feel of Dean's lips at her throat, his hands moving restlessly over her skin, "I swear I'm not crazy."
"Your imaginary friend was a bandersnatch named Oscar? That's adorable." Pausing for a second to take a breath, Dean looked at her with a smirk as those questing hands of his elicited a gasp and the air around them blossomed with her sweet scent, "That last part's debatable though."
Before Skye's thoughts started to haze over into the delightful fog Dean tended to inspire in moments like these, she spared a second to wonder exactly where her sweater had gone and how Dean had managed to get it off without her noticing. The man really was smooth as silk when he wanted to be, dammit, "Fuck off, Winchester."
"I'd rather f-" Dean's words were interrupted when Skye stuck a hand over his mouth, her head cocking as she recognized the sound of a car coming up the gravel drive seconds before he registered it.
"Oh, goddammit." Wilting dramatically into his arms, Skye groaned and reached for his hand, pulling his wrist up to check the time before reluctantly slipping out of his increasingly heated embrace and scrambling to find her stupid sweater. How in the unholy fuck had it wound up under the kitchen table? A minor mystery that would have to wait, "It's gotta be Mac."
"...guess we'll get back to this later." Hanging his head, Dean grudgingly let Skye go before leaning back against the counter. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before adjusting himself and re-buttoning his jeans, grumbling under his breath the entire time, "Great timing, Mac."
"Damn straight, we will." Yanking her sweater on over her head, she startled and cursed when the egg timer went off, all thought of dinner and pastries having flown straight out of her head for some mysterious reason, "Shit. I almost forgot about the pie. Would you go let Mac in, please? I'll only be a minute."
"Sure, just...give me a second." Retrieving his long-sleeve shirt from the kitchen table where he'd left it before going out to look at the truck earlier, Dean slowly pulled it on and buttoned it, giving himself a moment to be a little less obvious about the fact that his train of thought had derailed hard into a gutter and stalled there. Looking over at Skye as he buttoned his sleeves, he started laughing, "Might wanna fix your sweater there, Tink."
"Take your time." A smug little smile crossed her lips as she hunted around the kitchen drawers for an oven mitt before glancing down at herself. With a groan, she raised a hand and oh so gracefully flipped Dean off as she stripped her top back off, turning it right side out and making sure it was facing the right direction before tugging it back on and smoothing down her hair, "Don't look at me in that tone of voice, I don't wanna hear it."
"I didn't say a damn thing."
