Test Drive

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: NC-17 cos it's porn.

Year/Length: 2007/~1,288 words

Pairing: Just Dean

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Author's Notes: This is a repost of a story I did madly to meet a deadline. It's been trimmed and brushed up and is now ready for me to post! *giggle* Written for the spn_wank_off challenge, my prompt was as follows: After rebuilding the Impala, Dean takes her for a first test drive (with or without Sam). He gets overwhelmed to have his baby back and needs a moment with himself. This is what I ended up with.

Beta: thanks to lorelei633 and audiencing by digital_opium

It was done. Dean gave the window a last swipe and tossed the chamois down, then stood surveying his car. It sat low to the ground, looking menacing as only a black car can.

There was his baby, shiny, black and sexy, looking better than she had since he'd owned her, and there was the open road. Dean had buffed her, polished her, loved her, bled for her and she was fine, good as new – better, because now her door didn't squeak.

He was filthy, sweaty, oily and at peace with the world. For a moment, all he felt was the triumph of finally finishing what he'd needed to do in order to shout his defiance at the yellow eyed bastard who'd stolen everything of value from him.

"Take that, fucker," he growled, looking at the sky as if the demon was somehow watching him.

He needed a shower. He needed a drink. He slid in behind the wheel of the Impala and cranked her up, the growl and purr of the newly rebuilt engine making him forget the long hot afternoon spent lying in the dust.

"Sweet," he said softly. "Come on, baby, let's roll."

Music filled the air at the touch of his finger. When he put his foot on the gas, the car leapt to take the road, leaving a trail of dust behind her, and Dean felt like a god.

"Smoke on the Water" wove its sinuous way through the air, and Dean wound down the window so that the rush of air made his speed more exhilarating. Singing out loud was not merely desirable but necessary, and Dean raised his voice in song, raspy-sweet and edgy as he put his foot down.

The sun blazing down, wind in his hair and the purring of the sweet engine were giving him the hard-on to end ‘em all, and he wished that Sammy was riding with him. He pressed the heel of his hand down against his groin and sang louder, imagining his brother reaching in to take care of him, feeling his cock leap under his own tickling fingers.

Speed and the crackle of tires across the blacktop amped up his tension. The song changed, Yippee-yay-ay, and Dean was into "Ghost Riders in the Sky." His dick was sending him signals that he couldn't ignore, didn't want to ignore, the scent of oil and sweat and car and sunshine and holy shit, he wanted nothing more than to get off.

He pulled into a rest stop, drove off the asphalt and a little way down the dirt road leading to a service hut. This was a place he'd been before, most recently with Norma Rae from the diner down by the turnpike. There was the picnic table where he'd fucked Norma Rae, jacked off, spit-slick, between her magnificently augmented boobs and seen the face of a small god. He ignored the table, the wood stained by weather and picnics gone by and maybe a little cum. Today was all about his best girl, and she didn't need silicone, thank you very much. She had the perfect body.

He climbed out from behind the wheel and stretched in the sunshine, his bones popping luxuriously, each pop a tingle down his spine to curl around his balls.

Fingers reached for buttons, and flipped open the fly, loosening his worn old 501s so that they slipped down his hips and allowed his dick to peek out.

His wife-beater came off, slipping easy over his head to be discarded into the recesses of the car, while Dean stood, admiring her glossy blackness all over again, loving her for the comfort she'd always provided him. He touched the hood, and the metal, sun-warmed, made him draw back swiftly for fear of burning his fingers.

"Bitch," he growled and snickered. "You wanna bite?"

There wasn't a soul around, only Dean and his car, his precious car, risen again. "When I said what's dead should stay dead, I didn't mean you, baby. I didn't ever mean you."

Not going there, not even for his car. He was so not going there. Putting the hospital, and his father and the whole goddamned yellow-eyed bastard thing out of his mind – or at least pressing it down until it had the decency to return to the swampy morass of his subconscious, =Dean whooped, then climbed up onto the hood of his baby, careful not to scratch, however mean to him she might have wanted to be.

And the sun warmed his chest; the car warmed his back, while he lay back against the windshield, skin pressed flat to the metal and glass.

He presses his hand down again, pushing his jeans over his thighs so that he could feel the sun on his dick. "Oh, yeah, that's what I'm talking about," he murmured, gripping, then changing his mind and bringing it up to his mouth to lick, spit-slick and juicy.

Back to his dick, his hand slippery now, he started easy, little tugs and squeezes, knowing just where to touch, just when to let go.

Arousal was in the gasoline smell that didn't ever quite leave the car on a day like today. Arousal was in the sun's heat and the delicate breeze playing on pale skin. Dean closed his eyes and threw back his head, sending up a voiceless prayer of thanks for moments like these. He could feel the warm breeze on his thighs. It might have been kind of exposed where he was, but he wasn't moving, because, oh, god, it felt too good. He imagined the breeze was Sammy, blowing on his belly, ruffling the treasure trail that led down to his dick.

Eyes closed against the sun, Dean arched his neck, let his jaw fall open, breathed in the summer scented air. His jeans were tangled around his thighs, restricting his movements, keeping them small. Hand moving now, up, down, slip and slide. Body spread out, dick red and hard and jutting as it leaked.

He stroked his thumb over the crown, reached with his other hand and carried it to his lips to taste. If Sammy were there, he'd have sucked it for Dean, but that was okay; that was fine, because Dean knew what felt good, and this, his car and his hand, and the whole of the world going on the way it should, were getting him there, making him hot in every way there was.

And his hand moved faster. He licked again, stroke, squeeze and twist, as the tingling started somewhere deep behind his balls. "Oh, yeah," he growled, hand sliding up and down, tightening his muscles, pulling the tension up through his thighs. "Come on, you got it."

And when he came, it was like the rush of the wind, like the flashpoint when the fire burst from smolder to blaze and he was consumed.

His jizz spurted, fountain of life, and he was there to catch it in his hand, protecting his car even while he was shuddering out a bliss that felt almost unbearable. He cried out, and came and came, tingling and shaking while his muscles jittered.

When it was done, and he was lying limp and sated, he allowed himself at last to think of the open road and moving on, once and for all. Give him a chance; that was all he needed. He'd run from their destiny and take Sam with him, protect him from what was coming, whether the dude liked it or not.

He could do it. He could hold it together for damned sure, and if it turned out that he couldn't, well, dude, what was dead should stay dead after all.

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