posted by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rivers_bend at 09:10am on 25/04/2008 under fan fiction, slash, spn, stanford era, ust, weechesters
rivers_bend at 09:10am on 25/04/2008 under fan fiction, slash, spn, stanford era, ust, weechestersTitle: Baby, you can drive my car
Words: ~2550
Rating: R
Genre: Weechesters (UST)
Summary: Sam's thirteen and he wants nothing more than to drive the Impala and spend time with his brother.
A/N: serves as a prequel to Chocolate Shakes and Pecan Pie
It was late, one, or maybe even two in the morning, Sam's alarm clock didn't have a lighted dial, but he was pretty good at estimating the time. He wasn't sure if something specific woke him or if it was just one of those things. The house felt empty the way it did when Dad was out—not like when Dean was gone too, then it always felt empty in a homesick way—but Sam wasn't certain-sure Dad hadn't come back, so he looked out the window by the bed. No truck, just the Impala—Dean's Impala—a barely-visible hump crouching on its own in the front yard.
Sam and Dean weren't used to getting much in the way of presents for Christmas or birthdays, so when Dad told Dean that he needed someone to come with him to pick up some supplies the day after Dean turned seventeen, Sam would bet anything Dean never imagined the supplies would be in the back of a truck that was coming home with them, much less that Dad would give Dean his car. It turned out the truck and all the stuff inside was payment for a debt another hunter owed their dad, but that fact didn't make Dean any less happy about getting his hands on 'his baby'.
With a last look to make sure Dad wasn't back yet, Sam rolled over and got up. He was hot and thirsty and he needed to pee. Why Dad always had to find hunts in places like Louisiana in the summer and North Dakota in the winter was a total mystery. Sam figured it couldn't be that hard to find things that needed hunting where it wasn't humid enough to melt your skin. Even though Dean was in his own room, probably asleep, Sam heard him arguing with the unvoiced complaints. There was that summer in Michigan, Sam, and we spent a whole winter in Arizona when you were in fourth grade… Sam told the big brother in his head to shut up, and headed to the kitchen to get a drink.
The jug of water in the fridge was blissfully cold, and Sam held it against his chest for a minute until he shivered and almost dropped it. Hoping there might be a breeze on the front porch, Sam took a tall glass with him and investigated. The front door squeaked on its hinges and Sam listened for a minute to make sure he hadn't waked Dean. A half-full moon made it light enough to see the oak across the street, matte black silhouette against clear black sky, and from this angle picked out glints of chrome on the Impala's bumper. Sam stepped out onto the slab of concrete that stood in for a porch and took a deep breath.
It was still hot enough Sam was grateful the nearest neighbors were half a mile away and no one up late to let the dog out or drain the lizard was gonna see him wearing nothing more than a pair of Spiderman briefs—he was so never sending Dean to buy him underwear again—and a sleepy smile. The air outside was fresher than what'd been trapped in the house all day, and Sam set himself down on the top step and finished his drink.
He was thirteen. Thirteen and three months, which was more than five years older than Dean was when he learned to drive, but Sam'd only been behind the wheel twice. One time in a parking lot, when he was ten, Dad showing him the gas and the brake and the shifter, like he hadn't spent his whole damn life watching Dad or Dean drive the thing, and one time 'bout a year and a half ago when a something or other with claws ripped a hole in Dean's leg and another over John's shoulder blade and they'd stumbled back to the car bloody enough that Sam figured they were safer with him behind the wheel. He'd done it too, gotten them back to the motel, held a towel on Dad's back while Dad stitched up Dean's thigh, and went to get them coffee while Dean returned the favor.
"You're a good kid," Dad said, and ruffled Sam's hair, but maybe Sam did too good, cos dad didn't suggest any more driving time.
Now though, the Impala belonged to Dean, and it was up to him if Sam drove it or not. After eight months, some of the excitement might have worn off, and he might let his little brother have a turn. There wasn't hardly any traffic in this part of the state anyway, and Sam always was real careful. Dad might not come back tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow, and there was that lake they'd found, nice wide country roads between here and there. If Sam made sandwiches, he bet he could talk Dean into a picnic. No reason Sam shouldn't drive one way at least.
Leaving the glass on the porch, Sam picked his barefoot way across the patchy grass to where the Impala was parked. Dean left it unlocked, windows down, so it probably wasn't much warmer in there than outside, and Sam slipped behind the wheel. The seats were sticky on his sweaty thighs and back, but Sam barely noticed, used to the snag of his skin after more hours than he'd ever be able to count spent limbs to leather with the Impala. The smell of heated car lingered even this long after sunset, and it smelled like Dean and Dad. Closing his eyes for a minute, Sam breathed the smell into his lungs.
Even the slight discomfort in his bladder felt like home; Dad was only willing to stop so many times in a day, and if Sam drained his water glass too often at lunch, it was hold it or piss in a bottle. Dean was better at stopping, though Dad did like them to keep up, and anyway, it was ingrained in Sam after so many years not to ask unless it was an emergency.
Sam propped his left elbow on the window frame and reached for the steering wheel. Last time he drove his arms were too short, but now he was big enough to steer like Dean, all casual, like he owned the road. Stretching his other arm along the seatback, Sam imagined he was on the open highway somewhere cool. Colorado maybe, or Maine, no one telling him where to go or what to do. He could stop anywhere he wanted, get the biggest slushee at the gas-n-go, even stay in one spot for months and months if he felt like it.
Before long, the car felt empty without Dean, and Sam inserted him in the passenger seat. Imagining him there, Sam pulled his arm off the seat back, putting it on the gearshift instead. Dean would laugh if he caught Sam driving with his arm on the seat like that, though he did it himself sometimes, making Sam feel a little like he was one of the girls Dean took parking or to the movies. It made him all prickly in his skin. One time, pretending to be asleep, Sam rested his head back on Dean's hand, feeling the fingers curling around his skull, and hoping that Dean wouldn't move.
They rode like that for long enough that Sam thought he might be able to actually fall asleep, but then Dean squeezed his head, slipped his hand down and squeezed his neck too, and then said, "Hey, Sammy, I need my hand back, 'Kay?"
Sam mumbled and wiped his face in what he hoped was a convincing fashion, and sat upright. "We there?" His voice came out like he really had been sleeping.
"Just getting gas. Dad pulled in up ahead, we might as well stop too."
Sitting there now, Sam realized that had been the last time Dean'd rested his arm on the seat like that with his brother in the car. It made him wonder if Dean knew he'd been faking.
There was still a chance Dad would be back tonight, and Sam didn't really want to get caught in the front yard in Dean's car so long after he was supposed to be tucked in bed asleep, so he went back inside, put his glass in the sink and stopped to pee. Dean's room was between the bathroom and Sam's bedroom, and on his way past, Sam heard noises coming from behind the door. He thought at first his brother was having a nightmare, but the hushed little grunts suddenly sounded familiar and the prickles that he'd just been thinking about hit him again, only about a thousand times stronger.
Sam had caught Dean jerking off when they were both younger, of course he had, but that was different. A little weird and mostly funny. It never made him feel all squirmy and like he wanted to press his hand on his dick. Sam wanted to leave, go back to bed and forget he'd heard anything, but found himself leaning his forehead against the cool white of Dean's door, and letting his hand go where it wanted.
The combination of sensations, heavy, hot hand and smooth, cold paint, made Sam shiver, leading to a flash of panic that he'd accidently open Dean's door and fall inside, but there was no change in sounds, no creaking of wood, and Sam breathed again. When Dean's quiet noises sped up, Sam felt it as a hitch low in his belly. He pressed harder, rubbed a little, and had to stuff his wrist into his mouth to avoid making a grunt of his own. Sam stayed against the door, feeling his jizz cooling in his underwear, until he heard Dean make a broken whimper like a puppy when you stepped on its tail. Belatedly, he realized Dean might get up after, and Sam had just pushed his door nearly closed when he heard Dean's open. He stripped off his briefs to the sound of the house's old plumbing taking water to the bathroom taps, scrubbing at his crotch with the bunched fabric before tossing it towards the dirty laundry pile. It looked like it was time to go to the Laundromat. Offering to do it might give Sam another bargaining chip in his quest to drive the Impala.
Dean's door clicked closed as Sam was sliding between his sheets, naked in the absence of anything not muddy, come-stained, greasy or denim to put on. It felt daring somehow, and Sam felt his dick stirring again, but rolled over, trying to ignore it. He fell asleep with lazy heat buzzing in his groin.
Sam was making pancakes when Dean got up in the morning. Dad still wasn't home.
"What do you want, Sam?" Making breakfast wasn't something Sam usually did, and Dean wasn't stupid.
"I can go to the Laundromat this morning if you want, and maybe we can go to that lake after?"
"Breakfast and laundry? Sam, if you did anything to my car, so help me—"
"I wouldn't!" This was not boding well for Sam's plan to get behind the wheel.
"Then what is all this? You do know my birthday's in January, right?"
Sam considered asking Dean now, but then decided later would be better. "Syrup or jelly?" he said instead.
"Syrup," Dean answered. He smiled as he tucked into the stack Sam set in front of him. "Da' 'nt cuh' ho'?"
"Nah, not yet." Sam sat down in front of his own food. "He said maybe not til Monday."
They ate in silence for a while, Dean getting up to get more juice when the glass Sam had poured for him ran out, and Sam divvying up the last of the pancakes between them when they'd eaten the first batch.
"So," Dean finally said. "You even offering to wash the sheets?"
Sam felt heat creeping up his chest and ducked his head, pretending to focus on cutting a bite-sized piece from the last pancake. "Sure," he muttered, when the urge to ask what Dean had been doing to get his sheets so dirty in the first place had passed.
"Did you lose one of Dad's guns? Break the bowie knife he gave you?"
"I just wondered if I could maybe drive the Impala a little bit." The words tumbled out before Sam could stop them. "Just on the road down to the lake or something? Maybe?"
Dean belched and patted his belly. "A few pancakes in return for trusting you with my baby?"
"And the laundry. And I can make a picnic, I mean if you pick some stuff up while I'm at the Laundromat. Please?" Sam totally wasn't begging. Begging never worked on Dean. He was just asking. Really nicely. With the look.
"None of that flowery crap in the dryers. I saw you last time. I smelled like fricken air freshener for a month."
"No fabric softener. Got it." Sam looked at him, but Dean just sipped at his juice, didn't give anything away. "Is that a yes, then?" Sam finally asked when he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Get the clothes. Don't forget Dad's. You can drive as far as Meyer's Lane, but not in town. If you don't speed, don't drive over any bumps, and don't try to kill my car, maybe you can drive out to the lake." Dean looked at him sternly. "Maybe."
Sam wanted to whoop, and he wanted to hug his brother, but he just grinned and went to pack up all the dirty laundry. When he came back with it, Dean was doing the dishes and… well, singing wasn't exactly the right word—making noises that sounded vaguely like the bass line from Immigrant Song. Sam didn't interrupt, just carried on out to the car and stuffed the bags in the back seat.
When he turned around, Dean was coming out the front door. He caught Sam's eye and threw the car keys in a glittering arc. Sam reached out and caught them, grinned so hard at Dean his cheeks hurt, and got behind the wheel. When Dean slid in beside him, he didn't say a word. Sam could almost feel him shaking with restraint.
The Impala's engine roared to life when Sam turned the key, carefully giving her just a little gas like he'd seen Dean do a hundred times. "Good girl," he heard Dean say.
Sam started to reach for the gear shift, but Dean put a hand on his wrist. He held up the box of tapes. "Driver picks the music," he said.
There was a Beatles tape Sam'd found for 10 cents at a yard sale up near Poughkeepsie. Out came White Snake, and in with the Fab Four. "Drive my Car" roared out of the speakers. Dean gave him a look, but Sam said, "Passenger shuts his cake hole."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't forget to stop at Meyer's Lane." Dean lowered the volume a little, but didn't turn it off.
Sam nodded, smoothly moved the shifter to D, and eased out of the yard. Wind whipped in the windows as he picked up speed, and despite the nervousness of the grin Dean gave him, Sam felt like he'd been given the keys to the world.
find out where Sam got his underwear here
or read on with Chocolate Shakes and Pecan Pie
Words: ~2550
Rating: R
Genre: Weechesters (UST)
Summary: Sam's thirteen and he wants nothing more than to drive the Impala and spend time with his brother.
A/N: serves as a prequel to Chocolate Shakes and Pecan Pie
It was late, one, or maybe even two in the morning, Sam's alarm clock didn't have a lighted dial, but he was pretty good at estimating the time. He wasn't sure if something specific woke him or if it was just one of those things. The house felt empty the way it did when Dad was out—not like when Dean was gone too, then it always felt empty in a homesick way—but Sam wasn't certain-sure Dad hadn't come back, so he looked out the window by the bed. No truck, just the Impala—Dean's Impala—a barely-visible hump crouching on its own in the front yard.
Sam and Dean weren't used to getting much in the way of presents for Christmas or birthdays, so when Dad told Dean that he needed someone to come with him to pick up some supplies the day after Dean turned seventeen, Sam would bet anything Dean never imagined the supplies would be in the back of a truck that was coming home with them, much less that Dad would give Dean his car. It turned out the truck and all the stuff inside was payment for a debt another hunter owed their dad, but that fact didn't make Dean any less happy about getting his hands on 'his baby'.
With a last look to make sure Dad wasn't back yet, Sam rolled over and got up. He was hot and thirsty and he needed to pee. Why Dad always had to find hunts in places like Louisiana in the summer and North Dakota in the winter was a total mystery. Sam figured it couldn't be that hard to find things that needed hunting where it wasn't humid enough to melt your skin. Even though Dean was in his own room, probably asleep, Sam heard him arguing with the unvoiced complaints. There was that summer in Michigan, Sam, and we spent a whole winter in Arizona when you were in fourth grade… Sam told the big brother in his head to shut up, and headed to the kitchen to get a drink.
The jug of water in the fridge was blissfully cold, and Sam held it against his chest for a minute until he shivered and almost dropped it. Hoping there might be a breeze on the front porch, Sam took a tall glass with him and investigated. The front door squeaked on its hinges and Sam listened for a minute to make sure he hadn't waked Dean. A half-full moon made it light enough to see the oak across the street, matte black silhouette against clear black sky, and from this angle picked out glints of chrome on the Impala's bumper. Sam stepped out onto the slab of concrete that stood in for a porch and took a deep breath.
It was still hot enough Sam was grateful the nearest neighbors were half a mile away and no one up late to let the dog out or drain the lizard was gonna see him wearing nothing more than a pair of Spiderman briefs—he was so never sending Dean to buy him underwear again—and a sleepy smile. The air outside was fresher than what'd been trapped in the house all day, and Sam set himself down on the top step and finished his drink.
He was thirteen. Thirteen and three months, which was more than five years older than Dean was when he learned to drive, but Sam'd only been behind the wheel twice. One time in a parking lot, when he was ten, Dad showing him the gas and the brake and the shifter, like he hadn't spent his whole damn life watching Dad or Dean drive the thing, and one time 'bout a year and a half ago when a something or other with claws ripped a hole in Dean's leg and another over John's shoulder blade and they'd stumbled back to the car bloody enough that Sam figured they were safer with him behind the wheel. He'd done it too, gotten them back to the motel, held a towel on Dad's back while Dad stitched up Dean's thigh, and went to get them coffee while Dean returned the favor.
"You're a good kid," Dad said, and ruffled Sam's hair, but maybe Sam did too good, cos dad didn't suggest any more driving time.
Now though, the Impala belonged to Dean, and it was up to him if Sam drove it or not. After eight months, some of the excitement might have worn off, and he might let his little brother have a turn. There wasn't hardly any traffic in this part of the state anyway, and Sam always was real careful. Dad might not come back tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow, and there was that lake they'd found, nice wide country roads between here and there. If Sam made sandwiches, he bet he could talk Dean into a picnic. No reason Sam shouldn't drive one way at least.
Leaving the glass on the porch, Sam picked his barefoot way across the patchy grass to where the Impala was parked. Dean left it unlocked, windows down, so it probably wasn't much warmer in there than outside, and Sam slipped behind the wheel. The seats were sticky on his sweaty thighs and back, but Sam barely noticed, used to the snag of his skin after more hours than he'd ever be able to count spent limbs to leather with the Impala. The smell of heated car lingered even this long after sunset, and it smelled like Dean and Dad. Closing his eyes for a minute, Sam breathed the smell into his lungs.
Even the slight discomfort in his bladder felt like home; Dad was only willing to stop so many times in a day, and if Sam drained his water glass too often at lunch, it was hold it or piss in a bottle. Dean was better at stopping, though Dad did like them to keep up, and anyway, it was ingrained in Sam after so many years not to ask unless it was an emergency.
Sam propped his left elbow on the window frame and reached for the steering wheel. Last time he drove his arms were too short, but now he was big enough to steer like Dean, all casual, like he owned the road. Stretching his other arm along the seatback, Sam imagined he was on the open highway somewhere cool. Colorado maybe, or Maine, no one telling him where to go or what to do. He could stop anywhere he wanted, get the biggest slushee at the gas-n-go, even stay in one spot for months and months if he felt like it.
Before long, the car felt empty without Dean, and Sam inserted him in the passenger seat. Imagining him there, Sam pulled his arm off the seat back, putting it on the gearshift instead. Dean would laugh if he caught Sam driving with his arm on the seat like that, though he did it himself sometimes, making Sam feel a little like he was one of the girls Dean took parking or to the movies. It made him all prickly in his skin. One time, pretending to be asleep, Sam rested his head back on Dean's hand, feeling the fingers curling around his skull, and hoping that Dean wouldn't move.
They rode like that for long enough that Sam thought he might be able to actually fall asleep, but then Dean squeezed his head, slipped his hand down and squeezed his neck too, and then said, "Hey, Sammy, I need my hand back, 'Kay?"
Sam mumbled and wiped his face in what he hoped was a convincing fashion, and sat upright. "We there?" His voice came out like he really had been sleeping.
"Just getting gas. Dad pulled in up ahead, we might as well stop too."
Sitting there now, Sam realized that had been the last time Dean'd rested his arm on the seat like that with his brother in the car. It made him wonder if Dean knew he'd been faking.
There was still a chance Dad would be back tonight, and Sam didn't really want to get caught in the front yard in Dean's car so long after he was supposed to be tucked in bed asleep, so he went back inside, put his glass in the sink and stopped to pee. Dean's room was between the bathroom and Sam's bedroom, and on his way past, Sam heard noises coming from behind the door. He thought at first his brother was having a nightmare, but the hushed little grunts suddenly sounded familiar and the prickles that he'd just been thinking about hit him again, only about a thousand times stronger.
Sam had caught Dean jerking off when they were both younger, of course he had, but that was different. A little weird and mostly funny. It never made him feel all squirmy and like he wanted to press his hand on his dick. Sam wanted to leave, go back to bed and forget he'd heard anything, but found himself leaning his forehead against the cool white of Dean's door, and letting his hand go where it wanted.
The combination of sensations, heavy, hot hand and smooth, cold paint, made Sam shiver, leading to a flash of panic that he'd accidently open Dean's door and fall inside, but there was no change in sounds, no creaking of wood, and Sam breathed again. When Dean's quiet noises sped up, Sam felt it as a hitch low in his belly. He pressed harder, rubbed a little, and had to stuff his wrist into his mouth to avoid making a grunt of his own. Sam stayed against the door, feeling his jizz cooling in his underwear, until he heard Dean make a broken whimper like a puppy when you stepped on its tail. Belatedly, he realized Dean might get up after, and Sam had just pushed his door nearly closed when he heard Dean's open. He stripped off his briefs to the sound of the house's old plumbing taking water to the bathroom taps, scrubbing at his crotch with the bunched fabric before tossing it towards the dirty laundry pile. It looked like it was time to go to the Laundromat. Offering to do it might give Sam another bargaining chip in his quest to drive the Impala.
Dean's door clicked closed as Sam was sliding between his sheets, naked in the absence of anything not muddy, come-stained, greasy or denim to put on. It felt daring somehow, and Sam felt his dick stirring again, but rolled over, trying to ignore it. He fell asleep with lazy heat buzzing in his groin.
Sam was making pancakes when Dean got up in the morning. Dad still wasn't home.
"What do you want, Sam?" Making breakfast wasn't something Sam usually did, and Dean wasn't stupid.
"I can go to the Laundromat this morning if you want, and maybe we can go to that lake after?"
"Breakfast and laundry? Sam, if you did anything to my car, so help me—"
"I wouldn't!" This was not boding well for Sam's plan to get behind the wheel.
"Then what is all this? You do know my birthday's in January, right?"
Sam considered asking Dean now, but then decided later would be better. "Syrup or jelly?" he said instead.
"Syrup," Dean answered. He smiled as he tucked into the stack Sam set in front of him. "Da' 'nt cuh' ho'?"
"Nah, not yet." Sam sat down in front of his own food. "He said maybe not til Monday."
They ate in silence for a while, Dean getting up to get more juice when the glass Sam had poured for him ran out, and Sam divvying up the last of the pancakes between them when they'd eaten the first batch.
"So," Dean finally said. "You even offering to wash the sheets?"
Sam felt heat creeping up his chest and ducked his head, pretending to focus on cutting a bite-sized piece from the last pancake. "Sure," he muttered, when the urge to ask what Dean had been doing to get his sheets so dirty in the first place had passed.
"Did you lose one of Dad's guns? Break the bowie knife he gave you?"
"I just wondered if I could maybe drive the Impala a little bit." The words tumbled out before Sam could stop them. "Just on the road down to the lake or something? Maybe?"
Dean belched and patted his belly. "A few pancakes in return for trusting you with my baby?"
"And the laundry. And I can make a picnic, I mean if you pick some stuff up while I'm at the Laundromat. Please?" Sam totally wasn't begging. Begging never worked on Dean. He was just asking. Really nicely. With the look.
"None of that flowery crap in the dryers. I saw you last time. I smelled like fricken air freshener for a month."
"No fabric softener. Got it." Sam looked at him, but Dean just sipped at his juice, didn't give anything away. "Is that a yes, then?" Sam finally asked when he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Get the clothes. Don't forget Dad's. You can drive as far as Meyer's Lane, but not in town. If you don't speed, don't drive over any bumps, and don't try to kill my car, maybe you can drive out to the lake." Dean looked at him sternly. "Maybe."
Sam wanted to whoop, and he wanted to hug his brother, but he just grinned and went to pack up all the dirty laundry. When he came back with it, Dean was doing the dishes and… well, singing wasn't exactly the right word—making noises that sounded vaguely like the bass line from Immigrant Song. Sam didn't interrupt, just carried on out to the car and stuffed the bags in the back seat.
When he turned around, Dean was coming out the front door. He caught Sam's eye and threw the car keys in a glittering arc. Sam reached out and caught them, grinned so hard at Dean his cheeks hurt, and got behind the wheel. When Dean slid in beside him, he didn't say a word. Sam could almost feel him shaking with restraint.
The Impala's engine roared to life when Sam turned the key, carefully giving her just a little gas like he'd seen Dean do a hundred times. "Good girl," he heard Dean say.
Sam started to reach for the gear shift, but Dean put a hand on his wrist. He held up the box of tapes. "Driver picks the music," he said.
There was a Beatles tape Sam'd found for 10 cents at a yard sale up near Poughkeepsie. Out came White Snake, and in with the Fab Four. "Drive my Car" roared out of the speakers. Dean gave him a look, but Sam said, "Passenger shuts his cake hole."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't forget to stop at Meyer's Lane." Dean lowered the volume a little, but didn't turn it off.
Sam nodded, smoothly moved the shifter to D, and eased out of the yard. Wind whipped in the windows as he picked up speed, and despite the nervousness of the grin Dean gave him, Sam felt like he'd been given the keys to the world.
find out where Sam got his underwear here
or read on with Chocolate Shakes and Pecan Pie
There are 54 comments on this entry.