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Eight Crazy Nights
Starting early because we're going out and I have Hanukah stuff to do for the kids. I am still taking prompts--I'll try almost anything until I fill my quota.
It's Impala night tonight! So, one sorta-Hanukah-themed snippet for the shamash, SPN gen for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cellia.
There are a few things about Sam that Dean hates, and only some of them have to do with Azazel and all the shit the demon put on Sam. One of them is the way Sam is still contemptuous of the things they have to do to get by, the credit cards and the pool, the petty scams and the shoplifting. That list is in increasing order of proficiency: Sam has quicker fingers than most of the magicians working in Las Vegas, and when they have a couple of days free he can do a pigeon drop the way Dean can put five bullets in a two-inch target, though Sam mostly refuses to commit outright, face-to-face fraud. Sam can do all these things, but he despises each and every one, even the ones that are just parting fools from their long green. He treats them like they’re optional.
Dean keeps the family accounts, always has. He knows the price of everything, whereas Sam only knows the value.
When Sam leaves seven hundred dollars on a pool table, Dean is fully prepared to jump the mark on his way out of the bar. It’s not classy and it’s not playing fair by his own rules, but that is living money, eating money. But Dean gets distracted by Ruby and her talk of angels, and the mark disappears with seven hundred dollars of hard-earned Winchester money.
Resentment is cheap but inedible. He shoves it aside.
Dean is tired, really bone-deep tired, Hell behind him and Hell in front of him and nothing but angels’ angry wings above. He doesn’t have a death wish, because he knows now how much worse it can get, but he sure enough has a wish that it would all just stop. But of course he can’t stop. There is still some hope that Sam will make it out of Lilith’s attempt to bring on the end times. He knows this is mostly delusion, but past the horror of ‘mostly’ there is a thin shred of ‘maybe’ and he will keep crawling towards it until his bones splinter into toothpicks.
There are some things Sam has never done to get by, would never lower himself to do. Gas is still over three and a half dollars most places they go, though, which adds up fast when you’re driving a boat built before Detroit had heard of OPEC. And you can’t get much farther down than Dean’s been. So, after the shit with Anna is over (however briefly), Dean heads them towards a city big enough that Dean can take care of business while Sam spends some quality time in a university library reading books Bobby doesn’t have.
Except that they’ve been driving over eight hours when Sam starts awake in the passenger seat. “Hey,” he rumbles, rubbing his eyes and smacking his lips as if to get a bad taste out of his mouth. “You shoulda woken me up, man, I need a piss and a drink.” And Dean puzzles over that, because Sam always wakes up when they stop the car, he’s delicate like that, but now that Dean thinks of it, he hasn’t—and Jesus fuck they must be driving on fumes, the next rest stop not for thirty miles. Honestly, he thinks he might start crying again if he has to walk down this dark road in the cold and then back, freezing heavy handle of the gas can digging into his palm, not to mention the mystery of how exactly he plans to pay for the can and the fill-up. But when he looks at the gas gauge, it’s pegging full, just like it was this morning.
It’s a moment of relief, and then another ton of god-fucking-dammit, because it’s not the first gauge that’s stopped working and it won’t be the last, but Dean doesn’t need the added stress of constantly keeping track of mileage until he can sweet-talk his way into a garage and get at the sending unit, which is the most likely source of the problem.
Then he actually does the math: twenty-four gallons at roughly fifteen miles a gallon, because it’s been highways most of the way (Dean loves his baby, every knob and gasket, but lying about her diet will fuck them both), is three hundred and sixty miles, which they passed well over two hours back.
He looks at the gauge again, suspicious. But she’s still flying down the road, the engine’s running no hotter than he’d expect, and Sam is still grumbling about his back and his thirst and how dangerous tired drivers can be, so he shifts his hands around the wheel, the rough edges of the leather more familiar than his own new and improved skin, and thinks.
Winchesters don’t stop when they reach the bottom of what they’ve got to give. He guesses she’s been a Winchester as long as any of them.
Moving Violations, from the Knight Moves 'verse
“Took you long enough to get yourselves back here,” Missouri told them from her porch.
Sam glanced at Dean, who didn’t seem to be taking offense. “We’re here now,” he offered. “You said it was important?”
Missouri tilted her head. “Come inside.”
Nobody but Sam would have caught the way Dean’s head twitched, like he wanted to look back at the Impala.
“Nobody’s gonna steal your car, Dean,” Missouri said impatiently, and Sam snorted. Part of him wanted to see what would happen if someone tried.
Inside, Missouri’s place was pretty much as he remembered, busy with all the things a person living in a house full-time might accumulate, as much of a rebuke to them as anything Missouri herself might say: even if you know what’s really inside the night, you can still have a life like any other.
“What are you thinkin’, boy, taking a—a car as your familiar?” Missouri demanded as soon as she’d closed the door. She was looking at Sam, for some reason.
“My what?” he asked.
“His familiar?” Dean demanded, overlapping.
“A familiar’s supposed to be a living thing. Not that you boys don’t do plenty you’re not supposed to—” and Sam was not, not, not going to flush, because that was none of her business—“but this, I don’t know where it’s going, and it frightens me.”
“Missouri, I honestly have no idea—”
“Sam,” she said, heading back towards her kitchen, “what did you think you were doing with all those spells? What did you think you were becoming?”
She poured them coffee, ready just then because, well, psychic, and waited while Sam dumped his usual sugar in and Dean stood there until she gave him the milk herself and Dean realized there was no point in hiding his preferences from her.
“Okay,” Sam said, when they all had cups in their hands, “so maybe I’m a, a warlock, or whatever you want to call it. I haven’t done anything with it, I’m not consorting with demons, so why does that bother you?”
Dean was watching Missouri the way a dog watches a snake, flat and unfriendly. Chances were good that they’d both leave the encounter unharmed, but violence was a heartbeat away. He had his body subtly angled so that he’d be between her and Sam before she could complete a gesture or a threatening sentence. Instead of drinking his coffee, he was holding it in his left, where he could throw it in her face while reaching for his gun. Sam wanted to call it an overreaction.
Missouri examined Dean before she answered. “She riding you now, Dean?” Gentle, but with steel underneath.
Dean shrugged. “Yeah.” Sam hadn’t been aware of that, but if forced to it he’d admit that he thought that she was pretty much always sharing some of Dean’s consciousness these days, at least when they weren’t actually driving. Ever since Dean had figured out the trick of it without swapping bodies—Sam forced his thoughts away from the memory, because Missouri did not need to see them at that bar—he’d been, not different, but more himself (if that were even possible), and Sam thought that was the Impala’s doing.
“Riding him,” he said instead of getting caught up in memory. “You make it sound like voodoo.”
“If it was voodoo, I wouldn’t be so worried,” she said. “She’s not your familiar because you’re not the practitioner, Dean, but whatever you did to bind the three of you together’s got you tangled up like—like kittens in yarn.” Sam wondered about the hesitation, and flashed on a memory from one of Bobby’s books, the Rat King, a ball of rodents stuck together by knotted tails. A monster, a bad omen.
Missouri frowned at him. “Honey, I tell you true, I don’t know what to think. But you’re burning bright as a fireworks show at midnight, and you need to start working to control whatever it is you’ve done, or something else’s gonna do it for you.”
Sam didn’t recall much about familiars, other than that they served witches. They’d never actually encountered one.
“What do I need to know?” he asked.
Missouri smiled, for the first time since they’d shown up. “Now that’s the right question. Time’s wasting, boys. Let’s get started.”
****
And, because I know you might want to see them at that bar even if Missouri doesn’t, here’s that. (Anyone with any sense of shame, avert your eyes. Advanced Heechee science has been applied to pull this fragment from the Id Vortex event horizon.)
It turned out that Dean had been doing a lot of side reading on the binding symbols they’d used on the three of them, because the Impala—Baby, okay, but Sam usually felt like a moron or a molester calling her that—wanted to know.
Dean eventually figured out that the links that let the Impala reach into their heads could be used to let her piggy-back in him. With sufficient concentration, along with a talisman from the car, she could feel what his body felt. Dean had chosen a blackened metal ring from somewhere mysterious in the engine block, something he swore she didn’t need any more, and strung it on the same cord as his bull’s head amulet. The way Dean explained it, whichever one of them wasn’t driving could observe and offer commentary. Not a full body-swap, more like a ride-along, but she could be in charge when he let her, and Dean was a pushover when it came to his car.
Case in point: Dean began to do extra sprints to counter her demands for dessert at every meal.
Sam had known it disturbed him, but he hadn’t known just why until a few weeks later.
****
Dean pulled into the lot of their motel, but made no move to get out of the car. “Baby wants to see some action, so I’m gonna let her have a night at a bar,” he said, not looking at Sam.
“Okay,” Sam said, wondering why they were at the motel, then.
“’m not sure it’s gonna be your type of place.”
Like most of them are? he wondered, and stared at Dean until Dean gave up and resumed talking.
“She, uh, she’s only into guys,” Dean explained. “Tried to talk her into some girl-on-girl action, but—” He shrugged.
Sam was too flummoxed to point out that Dean had essentially just referred to himself as a girl. “Uh, okay,” he managed.
“See you in the morning?” Dean suggested.
“What?”
“C’mon, Sam, it’s not exactly your scene.”
True enough, but—“Are you—is she—are you sure it’s safe?”
Dean snorted. “Dude, I’ve been sucking cock since before you knew what yours was for. I think I can handle a gay bar.”
Which, if true, raised some deeply troubling questions, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. “Yeah, but she hasn’t. You said she was going to be in charge, so—” He remembered how she’d been those few days occupying Dean’s body. She wasn’t a child, but she also had no idea how non-Dean people behaved, and while Dean was a con man he wasn’t fundamentally treacherous. She could be drugged or hurt before Dean even noticed; Dean had never specified whether he could get back into control at will. “I’m going with you.”
Dean rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, looking like he wanted to protest, but in the end he just threw the car into gear and drove them to the bar.
Sam could tell when the Impala took over, between one step and the next as they approached the door to the bar. Her step loosened, the weight of decades of human loss and loneliness dropping off of her.
The place was nondescript, darkened windows and a big guy at the door who waved them in. The music was pounding, a deep bass throb that raised his pulse and buzzed through him. The smell of smoke and spilled beer instantly sank into his clothes.
Sam realized, watching her appraise the room, that she and Dean must have planned tonight, waiting for a big enough city that she’d be able to find a place like this.
She settled Dean’s jacket on her shoulders and headed over to a group of friends who were laughing together. She put her hand on the shoulder of a brown-haired guy—cute enough, Sam thought, but nothing special. The guy turned, unsettled, then smiled with happy surprise. “Hi,” she said, loud enough to cut through the music. “Is there a back room in this place?”
One of the guy’s friends whooped. “Uh, yeah?” the guy said, blinking up at her. He had gym muscles, Sam noted, good-looking if you went for that sort of thing.
“Wanna show me?”
The guy stood, ignoring the color commentary provided by his friends, then looked uncertainly over at Sam, who returned his best indifferent stare. The Impala shook her head, dismissing Sam, and the guy rather obviously decided not to question his luck.
The back room was quieter, and darker, but fortunately there was an open space where Sam could keep an eye on the Impala as she knelt and made short work of Gym Bunny’s pants, pushing him back against a side wall.
Two of Gym Bunny’s friends had also followed, standing close enough to Sam for him to overhear them as they discussed how Greg was never going to stop talking about this.
The Impala had Greg’s cock out now, already hard in her hand. She hesitated a moment—getting some sort of advice from Dean, Sam figured—and then opened her mouth.
“Holy fuck,” the shorter one of Greg’s friends said after a minute. The taller one just whimpered.
Sam was, to be honest, pretty impressed as well. It wasn’t like he walked around watching people have sex all that often, but still: she’d just straight-up deepthroated Greg, one smooth move like accelerating onto a highway. The muscles of Dean’s—of her jaw and throat worked. Greg’s hands flailed around her head, briefly ruffling the short hair at the sides, then fell back against the wall.
Greg only lasted a few minutes. Sam wasn’t judging; he wasn’t sure he could have done as well.
She pulled back and sat on her heels, smiling and licking her lips, full and gleaming even in the low ambient light. “Thanks,” she said, as if she’d been done the favor. Sam deliberately unclenched his jaw and forced his hands to his sides.
Greg made a noise from the “unhh” category.
She rose easily, not bothering to wait for him to put himself back together, and turned to run her eyes over the small but growing crowd of spectators. “Who’s next?”
After a frozen moment, four hands shot into the air. She smiled and tilted her head, considering. Her eyes glittered and her grin was as free and open as Sam had ever seen on Dean’s face. He remembered how she’d been when she’d had full possession of Dean’s body, locked in that motel room together. He’d been so desperate and she’d been so hungry to explore every sensual thing a human body could do.
Sam swallowed and watched her pick one of the contenders, shoving him back against the wall with a blinding smile.
Sam deliberately didn’t keep count of the other men. He had to confiscate two cellphones, but most of the others in the audience scowled with him at the would-be videographers, so Sam thought Dean’s face would probably stay off PornTube. Not that Dean would necessarily mind, but Sam was having enough trouble with the Impala’s indulgences without a permanent record.
At one point, Greg’s shorter friend tapped at his bicep. Sam managed not to react violently, keeping his arms crossed as he turned away from the Impala—it was safe; she wasn’t going anywhere at the moment. “Yeah?”
Greg’s friend looked a little disappointed, but not surprised. “Just—if you wanted to get out of here. You seem like maybe—” He was five-eight, brown hair and brown eyes, kind of a Fox Mulder nose and a gentle curve to his lips. He looked like a nice guy.
Sam dredged up a smile, the reassuring one for authority figures and nosy nellies who thought that the Winchesters were the authority figures. “I’m fine here, thanks.”
Greg’s friend bit his lip. “Looks to me like you should be closer or farther away. But, none of my business, just hoping.”
Sam kept the smile going, though he expected it probably wasn’t working all that well, and went back to watching.
Eventually, when she turned away from her latest liquefied conquest, she didn’t pick another one. Instead, she shrugged off the leather jacket and reached for the hem of the black T-shirt underneath, letting them all watch as she got half-naked. The amulet and the metal ring next to it were smudges against the golden glow of Dean’s chest. She put her hands at her waist and flicked open the top button of her jeans, then paused.
“I’m in the mood to get fucked. If you’re volunteering, take off your shirt.”
At least ten guys started to strip down, including Greg’s friend, who was still only a couple of feet from Sam.
The Impala, he remembered, had always been cock-happy. Sam thought she loved sex more purely even than Dean, because Dean always was a little bit counting coup when he got laid, whereas she lacked any human prejudices to feed or morals to rebel against.
She was moving around her circle of admirers now, feeling them up, complimenting one guy’s shoulders, another’s pecs. Sam’s blood was boiling in his veins, everything about the situation screaming wrong and no and stop even though she was smiling and no one had been even slightly rough with her so far.
She stopped to run her hands over Greg’s friend’s arms, from biceps to forearms, and Sam took a deep breath. He knew what was wrong, and it wasn’t these guys.
Fuck it, he thought, and ripped his overshirt off, buttons pinging away into the darkness. He fumbled with his T-shirt, and when he’d wrestled it over his head, she was in front of him, watching.
He looked at her: shining green eyes, thick sweep of lashes, lips bowed and plump enough to drive a saint to sin. He wondered what she was seeing.
“Sammy,” she said, and then he had her face in his hands, stubble scraping against his palms and his thumbs rubbing up at the razored edges of hair ending just below her ears. He bent down and kissed her, her mouth opening smoothly to his. She tasted like sex, salt and musk, and he wanted to go back in time and punch every last one of them out before they could get to her, but he settled for sweeping his tongue through her mouth, searching out every slick wet hot part of her. He slid one hand around to cup the back of her neck and let the other fall to her shoulder, then her upper back, solid muscle he knew could perform any task put to it.
Now all he wanted was permission, tilting her back a little—distant applause from the crowd—as he bent over her. Her skin was hot, flushed from excitement, and she hung on to his shoulders with a grip that would have taken a lug wrench to break.
At last, she leaned back far enough to separate their mouths, but didn’t let go. She had to take a few breaths before she could speak. “Sammy,” she rumbled. “So, you gonna fuck me or what?”
He stared at her for a second, until someone tapped on his arm. It was Greg’s friend again, holding out a condom and a packet of lube, smiling with no meanness. “Thanks,” the Impala told him, squeezing Sam’s shoulder reproachfully.
“Yeah, thanks,” he said hurriedly and grabbed for the supplies. If he stopped to think for even half a second, he was going to turn into a pillar of fire right there on the floor, so obviously the thing to do was not think.
The Impala had pulled away just enough to look around. She took his free hand, lacing their fingers, and tugged him towards the center of the room, where there was a couch of indeterminate age, construction, and cleanliness.
He swallowed. If he didn’t get inside her soon he was going to die, but—she stopped, and he bumped into her, and it turned out that he had no particular objection to public sex at all.
“You, uh, okay with them watching?” he asked, leaning into her, just to make certain.
She shuddered when his lips brushed her ear, then tossed her head. “I watched for years,” she pointed out. “They can watch now.”
So he bent her over the skanky couch, barely daring to rest his hands on the back for fear of what was already there, and fucked her. She was as vocal as he remembered, but he knew it wasn’t the Impala who grabbed his hand and put it on Dean’s thigh and showed him how to hitch Dean’s leg up to put him at just the right angle to make her whine and beg and fall apart.
****
The next week, the iPod holder showed up on the dashboard.
“Dude!” he complained as soon as Dean slid into the driver’s seat. “You told me you’d saw off my balls with a spork if I—”
“I asked him to, Sam,” the speakers said in a throaty feminine voice, each word distinct and a little cut-off at the end. Sam nearly hit his head on the roof.
Dean, twisted in the seat to face Sam, lit up like a casino in Vegas. “Found a spoken-language dictionary. She doesn’t have to use whole songs any more.”
“Great,” Sam said, lying through his teeth.
But, surprisingly fast, he learned to tolerate her outraged commentary on how badly the other drivers around them were treating their vehicles. That wasn’t much different than what he regularly heard from Dean, anyway.
It got a little weird when she asked them to strip down and wash her. And then it turned out that the dictionary Dean had bought off of iTunes had a shocking number of filthy words in it, and she turned out to enjoy telling jokes that employed every last one of them. Not to mention her willingness to review Dean’s past adventures in the car, talk about what sex with Sam was like, and speculate on what new debauchery might be forthcoming. It was like living with the podcast of Letters to Penthouse.
So it completely wasn’t his fault if, sometimes, he ended up with a hardon. And it was only fair of her to take over from Dean and lean over in the seat and help him out. And naturally he had to return the favor.
When Sam remembered to wonder what Dean thought of the whole business, he thought he’d spontaneously combust. But Dean never said a word (“yeah” and “like that” and the rest were all the Impala), so Sam was learning to live with it.
It's Impala night tonight! So, one sorta-Hanukah-themed snippet for the shamash, SPN gen for
cellia. There are a few things about Sam that Dean hates, and only some of them have to do with Azazel and all the shit the demon put on Sam. One of them is the way Sam is still contemptuous of the things they have to do to get by, the credit cards and the pool, the petty scams and the shoplifting. That list is in increasing order of proficiency: Sam has quicker fingers than most of the magicians working in Las Vegas, and when they have a couple of days free he can do a pigeon drop the way Dean can put five bullets in a two-inch target, though Sam mostly refuses to commit outright, face-to-face fraud. Sam can do all these things, but he despises each and every one, even the ones that are just parting fools from their long green. He treats them like they’re optional.
Dean keeps the family accounts, always has. He knows the price of everything, whereas Sam only knows the value.
When Sam leaves seven hundred dollars on a pool table, Dean is fully prepared to jump the mark on his way out of the bar. It’s not classy and it’s not playing fair by his own rules, but that is living money, eating money. But Dean gets distracted by Ruby and her talk of angels, and the mark disappears with seven hundred dollars of hard-earned Winchester money.
Resentment is cheap but inedible. He shoves it aside.
Dean is tired, really bone-deep tired, Hell behind him and Hell in front of him and nothing but angels’ angry wings above. He doesn’t have a death wish, because he knows now how much worse it can get, but he sure enough has a wish that it would all just stop. But of course he can’t stop. There is still some hope that Sam will make it out of Lilith’s attempt to bring on the end times. He knows this is mostly delusion, but past the horror of ‘mostly’ there is a thin shred of ‘maybe’ and he will keep crawling towards it until his bones splinter into toothpicks.
There are some things Sam has never done to get by, would never lower himself to do. Gas is still over three and a half dollars most places they go, though, which adds up fast when you’re driving a boat built before Detroit had heard of OPEC. And you can’t get much farther down than Dean’s been. So, after the shit with Anna is over (however briefly), Dean heads them towards a city big enough that Dean can take care of business while Sam spends some quality time in a university library reading books Bobby doesn’t have.
Except that they’ve been driving over eight hours when Sam starts awake in the passenger seat. “Hey,” he rumbles, rubbing his eyes and smacking his lips as if to get a bad taste out of his mouth. “You shoulda woken me up, man, I need a piss and a drink.” And Dean puzzles over that, because Sam always wakes up when they stop the car, he’s delicate like that, but now that Dean thinks of it, he hasn’t—and Jesus fuck they must be driving on fumes, the next rest stop not for thirty miles. Honestly, he thinks he might start crying again if he has to walk down this dark road in the cold and then back, freezing heavy handle of the gas can digging into his palm, not to mention the mystery of how exactly he plans to pay for the can and the fill-up. But when he looks at the gas gauge, it’s pegging full, just like it was this morning.
It’s a moment of relief, and then another ton of god-fucking-dammit, because it’s not the first gauge that’s stopped working and it won’t be the last, but Dean doesn’t need the added stress of constantly keeping track of mileage until he can sweet-talk his way into a garage and get at the sending unit, which is the most likely source of the problem.
Then he actually does the math: twenty-four gallons at roughly fifteen miles a gallon, because it’s been highways most of the way (Dean loves his baby, every knob and gasket, but lying about her diet will fuck them both), is three hundred and sixty miles, which they passed well over two hours back.
He looks at the gauge again, suspicious. But she’s still flying down the road, the engine’s running no hotter than he’d expect, and Sam is still grumbling about his back and his thirst and how dangerous tired drivers can be, so he shifts his hands around the wheel, the rough edges of the leather more familiar than his own new and improved skin, and thinks.
Winchesters don’t stop when they reach the bottom of what they’ve got to give. He guesses she’s been a Winchester as long as any of them.
Moving Violations, from the Knight Moves 'verse
“Took you long enough to get yourselves back here,” Missouri told them from her porch.
Sam glanced at Dean, who didn’t seem to be taking offense. “We’re here now,” he offered. “You said it was important?”
Missouri tilted her head. “Come inside.”
Nobody but Sam would have caught the way Dean’s head twitched, like he wanted to look back at the Impala.
“Nobody’s gonna steal your car, Dean,” Missouri said impatiently, and Sam snorted. Part of him wanted to see what would happen if someone tried.
Inside, Missouri’s place was pretty much as he remembered, busy with all the things a person living in a house full-time might accumulate, as much of a rebuke to them as anything Missouri herself might say: even if you know what’s really inside the night, you can still have a life like any other.
“What are you thinkin’, boy, taking a—a car as your familiar?” Missouri demanded as soon as she’d closed the door. She was looking at Sam, for some reason.
“My what?” he asked.
“His familiar?” Dean demanded, overlapping.
“A familiar’s supposed to be a living thing. Not that you boys don’t do plenty you’re not supposed to—” and Sam was not, not, not going to flush, because that was none of her business—“but this, I don’t know where it’s going, and it frightens me.”
“Missouri, I honestly have no idea—”
“Sam,” she said, heading back towards her kitchen, “what did you think you were doing with all those spells? What did you think you were becoming?”
She poured them coffee, ready just then because, well, psychic, and waited while Sam dumped his usual sugar in and Dean stood there until she gave him the milk herself and Dean realized there was no point in hiding his preferences from her.
“Okay,” Sam said, when they all had cups in their hands, “so maybe I’m a, a warlock, or whatever you want to call it. I haven’t done anything with it, I’m not consorting with demons, so why does that bother you?”
Dean was watching Missouri the way a dog watches a snake, flat and unfriendly. Chances were good that they’d both leave the encounter unharmed, but violence was a heartbeat away. He had his body subtly angled so that he’d be between her and Sam before she could complete a gesture or a threatening sentence. Instead of drinking his coffee, he was holding it in his left, where he could throw it in her face while reaching for his gun. Sam wanted to call it an overreaction.
Missouri examined Dean before she answered. “She riding you now, Dean?” Gentle, but with steel underneath.
Dean shrugged. “Yeah.” Sam hadn’t been aware of that, but if forced to it he’d admit that he thought that she was pretty much always sharing some of Dean’s consciousness these days, at least when they weren’t actually driving. Ever since Dean had figured out the trick of it without swapping bodies—Sam forced his thoughts away from the memory, because Missouri did not need to see them at that bar—he’d been, not different, but more himself (if that were even possible), and Sam thought that was the Impala’s doing.
“Riding him,” he said instead of getting caught up in memory. “You make it sound like voodoo.”
“If it was voodoo, I wouldn’t be so worried,” she said. “She’s not your familiar because you’re not the practitioner, Dean, but whatever you did to bind the three of you together’s got you tangled up like—like kittens in yarn.” Sam wondered about the hesitation, and flashed on a memory from one of Bobby’s books, the Rat King, a ball of rodents stuck together by knotted tails. A monster, a bad omen.
Missouri frowned at him. “Honey, I tell you true, I don’t know what to think. But you’re burning bright as a fireworks show at midnight, and you need to start working to control whatever it is you’ve done, or something else’s gonna do it for you.”
Sam didn’t recall much about familiars, other than that they served witches. They’d never actually encountered one.
“What do I need to know?” he asked.
Missouri smiled, for the first time since they’d shown up. “Now that’s the right question. Time’s wasting, boys. Let’s get started.”
****
And, because I know you might want to see them at that bar even if Missouri doesn’t, here’s that. (Anyone with any sense of shame, avert your eyes. Advanced Heechee science has been applied to pull this fragment from the Id Vortex event horizon.)
It turned out that Dean had been doing a lot of side reading on the binding symbols they’d used on the three of them, because the Impala—Baby, okay, but Sam usually felt like a moron or a molester calling her that—wanted to know.
Dean eventually figured out that the links that let the Impala reach into their heads could be used to let her piggy-back in him. With sufficient concentration, along with a talisman from the car, she could feel what his body felt. Dean had chosen a blackened metal ring from somewhere mysterious in the engine block, something he swore she didn’t need any more, and strung it on the same cord as his bull’s head amulet. The way Dean explained it, whichever one of them wasn’t driving could observe and offer commentary. Not a full body-swap, more like a ride-along, but she could be in charge when he let her, and Dean was a pushover when it came to his car.
Case in point: Dean began to do extra sprints to counter her demands for dessert at every meal.
Sam had known it disturbed him, but he hadn’t known just why until a few weeks later.
****
Dean pulled into the lot of their motel, but made no move to get out of the car. “Baby wants to see some action, so I’m gonna let her have a night at a bar,” he said, not looking at Sam.
“Okay,” Sam said, wondering why they were at the motel, then.
“’m not sure it’s gonna be your type of place.”
Like most of them are? he wondered, and stared at Dean until Dean gave up and resumed talking.
“She, uh, she’s only into guys,” Dean explained. “Tried to talk her into some girl-on-girl action, but—” He shrugged.
Sam was too flummoxed to point out that Dean had essentially just referred to himself as a girl. “Uh, okay,” he managed.
“See you in the morning?” Dean suggested.
“What?”
“C’mon, Sam, it’s not exactly your scene.”
True enough, but—“Are you—is she—are you sure it’s safe?”
Dean snorted. “Dude, I’ve been sucking cock since before you knew what yours was for. I think I can handle a gay bar.”
Which, if true, raised some deeply troubling questions, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. “Yeah, but she hasn’t. You said she was going to be in charge, so—” He remembered how she’d been those few days occupying Dean’s body. She wasn’t a child, but she also had no idea how non-Dean people behaved, and while Dean was a con man he wasn’t fundamentally treacherous. She could be drugged or hurt before Dean even noticed; Dean had never specified whether he could get back into control at will. “I’m going with you.”
Dean rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, looking like he wanted to protest, but in the end he just threw the car into gear and drove them to the bar.
Sam could tell when the Impala took over, between one step and the next as they approached the door to the bar. Her step loosened, the weight of decades of human loss and loneliness dropping off of her.
The place was nondescript, darkened windows and a big guy at the door who waved them in. The music was pounding, a deep bass throb that raised his pulse and buzzed through him. The smell of smoke and spilled beer instantly sank into his clothes.
Sam realized, watching her appraise the room, that she and Dean must have planned tonight, waiting for a big enough city that she’d be able to find a place like this.
She settled Dean’s jacket on her shoulders and headed over to a group of friends who were laughing together. She put her hand on the shoulder of a brown-haired guy—cute enough, Sam thought, but nothing special. The guy turned, unsettled, then smiled with happy surprise. “Hi,” she said, loud enough to cut through the music. “Is there a back room in this place?”
One of the guy’s friends whooped. “Uh, yeah?” the guy said, blinking up at her. He had gym muscles, Sam noted, good-looking if you went for that sort of thing.
“Wanna show me?”
The guy stood, ignoring the color commentary provided by his friends, then looked uncertainly over at Sam, who returned his best indifferent stare. The Impala shook her head, dismissing Sam, and the guy rather obviously decided not to question his luck.
The back room was quieter, and darker, but fortunately there was an open space where Sam could keep an eye on the Impala as she knelt and made short work of Gym Bunny’s pants, pushing him back against a side wall.
Two of Gym Bunny’s friends had also followed, standing close enough to Sam for him to overhear them as they discussed how Greg was never going to stop talking about this.
The Impala had Greg’s cock out now, already hard in her hand. She hesitated a moment—getting some sort of advice from Dean, Sam figured—and then opened her mouth.
“Holy fuck,” the shorter one of Greg’s friends said after a minute. The taller one just whimpered.
Sam was, to be honest, pretty impressed as well. It wasn’t like he walked around watching people have sex all that often, but still: she’d just straight-up deepthroated Greg, one smooth move like accelerating onto a highway. The muscles of Dean’s—of her jaw and throat worked. Greg’s hands flailed around her head, briefly ruffling the short hair at the sides, then fell back against the wall.
Greg only lasted a few minutes. Sam wasn’t judging; he wasn’t sure he could have done as well.
She pulled back and sat on her heels, smiling and licking her lips, full and gleaming even in the low ambient light. “Thanks,” she said, as if she’d been done the favor. Sam deliberately unclenched his jaw and forced his hands to his sides.
Greg made a noise from the “unhh” category.
She rose easily, not bothering to wait for him to put himself back together, and turned to run her eyes over the small but growing crowd of spectators. “Who’s next?”
After a frozen moment, four hands shot into the air. She smiled and tilted her head, considering. Her eyes glittered and her grin was as free and open as Sam had ever seen on Dean’s face. He remembered how she’d been when she’d had full possession of Dean’s body, locked in that motel room together. He’d been so desperate and she’d been so hungry to explore every sensual thing a human body could do.
Sam swallowed and watched her pick one of the contenders, shoving him back against the wall with a blinding smile.
Sam deliberately didn’t keep count of the other men. He had to confiscate two cellphones, but most of the others in the audience scowled with him at the would-be videographers, so Sam thought Dean’s face would probably stay off PornTube. Not that Dean would necessarily mind, but Sam was having enough trouble with the Impala’s indulgences without a permanent record.
At one point, Greg’s shorter friend tapped at his bicep. Sam managed not to react violently, keeping his arms crossed as he turned away from the Impala—it was safe; she wasn’t going anywhere at the moment. “Yeah?”
Greg’s friend looked a little disappointed, but not surprised. “Just—if you wanted to get out of here. You seem like maybe—” He was five-eight, brown hair and brown eyes, kind of a Fox Mulder nose and a gentle curve to his lips. He looked like a nice guy.
Sam dredged up a smile, the reassuring one for authority figures and nosy nellies who thought that the Winchesters were the authority figures. “I’m fine here, thanks.”
Greg’s friend bit his lip. “Looks to me like you should be closer or farther away. But, none of my business, just hoping.”
Sam kept the smile going, though he expected it probably wasn’t working all that well, and went back to watching.
Eventually, when she turned away from her latest liquefied conquest, she didn’t pick another one. Instead, she shrugged off the leather jacket and reached for the hem of the black T-shirt underneath, letting them all watch as she got half-naked. The amulet and the metal ring next to it were smudges against the golden glow of Dean’s chest. She put her hands at her waist and flicked open the top button of her jeans, then paused.
“I’m in the mood to get fucked. If you’re volunteering, take off your shirt.”
At least ten guys started to strip down, including Greg’s friend, who was still only a couple of feet from Sam.
The Impala, he remembered, had always been cock-happy. Sam thought she loved sex more purely even than Dean, because Dean always was a little bit counting coup when he got laid, whereas she lacked any human prejudices to feed or morals to rebel against.
She was moving around her circle of admirers now, feeling them up, complimenting one guy’s shoulders, another’s pecs. Sam’s blood was boiling in his veins, everything about the situation screaming wrong and no and stop even though she was smiling and no one had been even slightly rough with her so far.
She stopped to run her hands over Greg’s friend’s arms, from biceps to forearms, and Sam took a deep breath. He knew what was wrong, and it wasn’t these guys.
Fuck it, he thought, and ripped his overshirt off, buttons pinging away into the darkness. He fumbled with his T-shirt, and when he’d wrestled it over his head, she was in front of him, watching.
He looked at her: shining green eyes, thick sweep of lashes, lips bowed and plump enough to drive a saint to sin. He wondered what she was seeing.
“Sammy,” she said, and then he had her face in his hands, stubble scraping against his palms and his thumbs rubbing up at the razored edges of hair ending just below her ears. He bent down and kissed her, her mouth opening smoothly to his. She tasted like sex, salt and musk, and he wanted to go back in time and punch every last one of them out before they could get to her, but he settled for sweeping his tongue through her mouth, searching out every slick wet hot part of her. He slid one hand around to cup the back of her neck and let the other fall to her shoulder, then her upper back, solid muscle he knew could perform any task put to it.
Now all he wanted was permission, tilting her back a little—distant applause from the crowd—as he bent over her. Her skin was hot, flushed from excitement, and she hung on to his shoulders with a grip that would have taken a lug wrench to break.
At last, she leaned back far enough to separate their mouths, but didn’t let go. She had to take a few breaths before she could speak. “Sammy,” she rumbled. “So, you gonna fuck me or what?”
He stared at her for a second, until someone tapped on his arm. It was Greg’s friend again, holding out a condom and a packet of lube, smiling with no meanness. “Thanks,” the Impala told him, squeezing Sam’s shoulder reproachfully.
“Yeah, thanks,” he said hurriedly and grabbed for the supplies. If he stopped to think for even half a second, he was going to turn into a pillar of fire right there on the floor, so obviously the thing to do was not think.
The Impala had pulled away just enough to look around. She took his free hand, lacing their fingers, and tugged him towards the center of the room, where there was a couch of indeterminate age, construction, and cleanliness.
He swallowed. If he didn’t get inside her soon he was going to die, but—she stopped, and he bumped into her, and it turned out that he had no particular objection to public sex at all.
“You, uh, okay with them watching?” he asked, leaning into her, just to make certain.
She shuddered when his lips brushed her ear, then tossed her head. “I watched for years,” she pointed out. “They can watch now.”
So he bent her over the skanky couch, barely daring to rest his hands on the back for fear of what was already there, and fucked her. She was as vocal as he remembered, but he knew it wasn’t the Impala who grabbed his hand and put it on Dean’s thigh and showed him how to hitch Dean’s leg up to put him at just the right angle to make her whine and beg and fall apart.
****
The next week, the iPod holder showed up on the dashboard.
“Dude!” he complained as soon as Dean slid into the driver’s seat. “You told me you’d saw off my balls with a spork if I—”
“I asked him to, Sam,” the speakers said in a throaty feminine voice, each word distinct and a little cut-off at the end. Sam nearly hit his head on the roof.
Dean, twisted in the seat to face Sam, lit up like a casino in Vegas. “Found a spoken-language dictionary. She doesn’t have to use whole songs any more.”
“Great,” Sam said, lying through his teeth.
But, surprisingly fast, he learned to tolerate her outraged commentary on how badly the other drivers around them were treating their vehicles. That wasn’t much different than what he regularly heard from Dean, anyway.
It got a little weird when she asked them to strip down and wash her. And then it turned out that the dictionary Dean had bought off of iTunes had a shocking number of filthy words in it, and she turned out to enjoy telling jokes that employed every last one of them. Not to mention her willingness to review Dean’s past adventures in the car, talk about what sex with Sam was like, and speculate on what new debauchery might be forthcoming. It was like living with the podcast of Letters to Penthouse.
So it completely wasn’t his fault if, sometimes, he ended up with a hardon. And it was only fair of her to take over from Dean and lean over in the seat and help him out. And naturally he had to return the favor.
When Sam remembered to wonder what Dean thought of the whole business, he thought he’d spontaneously combust. But Dean never said a word (“yeah” and “like that” and the rest were all the Impala), so Sam was learning to live with it.
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Viagra: As with any ED tablet, in the rare event of an erection lasting more than 4 hours, seek immediate medical help to avoid long-term injury.
Love the story. God is in the details:
“Sammy,” she said, and then he had her face in his hands, stubble scraping against his palms and his thumbs rubbing up at the razored edges of hair ending just below her ears. He bent down and kissed her, her mouth opening smoothly to his. She tasted like sex, salt and musk, and he wanted to go back in time and punch every last one of them out before they could get to her, but he settled for sweeping his tongue through her mouth, searching out every slick wet hot part of her
Writing like that makes me sigh with envy.
jordan
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I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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Sadly, I lack a plot for the Impala, other than "and then they had weird sex happily ever after."
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Oh man, yes! I loved how you made the Impala keep going--she's a Winchester too!
And I also loved this phrase:
Dean keeps the family accounts, always has. He knows the price of everything, whereas Sam only knows the value.
It just turns on so many ideas. In particular here it made me think of Sam as a much more abstract thinker in many ways compared Dean (more practical and concrete). While this can be very helpful and even make him the more moral at times, it can also mean he can argue himself onto the wrong path and forget to attend to the nitty-gritty details that can often end up being truly important in life. There's this parent/teenager or working class/middle class dichotomy hinted at too there... /tangent
The Id Vortex seems an extremely awesome place imho. Also, when Missouri first mentioned "riding"... I *loved* the idea. An old school supernatural reference, but also the switch of the Impala riding/driving Dean makes me grin. And Dean being stupidly in love with his baby, and perfectly happy to give her what she wants and let her ride him.
Dean snorted. “Dude, I’ve been sucking cock since before you knew what yours was for. I think I can handle a gay bar.”
Man, was I supposed to get a little "what? what?" whiplash there?
Bar scenes were awesome and hot, and I loved Sam's protectiveness over them both (the Impala having little experience with "non-Dean people"), and the guys in the bar having some personality and some being totally decent dudes having hot crazy sex.
Greg’s friend bit his lip. “Looks to me like you should be closer or farther away. But, none of my business, just hoping.”
The so-careful pronouns make me really happy, but I'm also loving the crazy blurring happening at the end. All entangled like kittens in yarn! Maybe not the most normal and healthy situation, but I like it for them.
Also, that last part will now be in my mind whenever I think about "the miracle of the oil" and things lasting longer than they usually should.
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On the second: well, I don't think Dean's ever made clear to Sam the extent of his sexual experience with men, but in this series he's definitely done guys before. I'm glad you liked the bar and the pronouns! If she wants to be a girl, she's a girl, and Sam has extra reasons to think of her that way.
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Winchesters don’t stop when they reach the bottom of what they’ve got to give. He guesses she’s been a Winchester as long as any of them.
That's so very right, especially now that we know that Dean talked John into buying the Impala in the first place.
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*pokes at puddle of flambeed brain cells*
Nope, not going to get more coherent than that.
*happysigh*
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Please can there be Impala!Sam/Dean from Dean's pov? I mean, I know she's a girl, but maybe she wants to try it! (Sorry, not trying to be demanding, honest! Just loved this so much!)
And since I was too spastic to say so earlier, thank you so much for posting! =D
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*is going to read through other fics in this 'verse now* yay!