(no subject)
Kings of the Highway
Supernatural/Drive
Dean, Tully; PG-13
775 words
A/N: Thanks to cathybites for rockin' the beta-fu.
Dean almost keeps driving when he sees that gas is $3.18 for regular, even though he's already below a quarter of a tank and he has no idea how far it'll be before the next gas station. But then he sees the car, all sleek black curves and shiny chrome. He can't tell the model, but whatever it is, it's in great shape.
"Fill 'er up, would ya, Sam?" Dean pulls a credit cad from his wallet, a gold Visa courtesy of Mr. Bradley Scott. "Use this one."
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, the words almost lost under the creak of Dean's door.
"To get a closer look at that car. What year you think it is--seventy one?"
Sam climbs out of the car, leans his elbows on the roof. "Maybe?" He squints. "What is that, a Challenger?"
"Looks like it, yeah. I'll be right back."
"Hurry up, I'm starving."
There's something cagey about the guy at the pump, that sort of guarded, tense look that only hunters and criminals have. He keeps his eyes on the horizon as Dean approaches, but Dean takes the twitch of his jaw to mean that he knows Dean's there.
"Nice car," Dean says. He bets she has the same smoker's-cough rumble as the Impala, like that bartender he banged back in Alabama. "She yours?"
The guy glances up. He's taken a good beating recently; the skin under both his eyes is the sickly yellow-green of healing bruises. "Yeah."
"What year?"
"Seventy-two." The guy's watching him closely, carefully.
"Nice." Dean touches the warm hood with the tips of his fingers, sees the guy stiffen in his peripheral vision. He takes his hand back. "That's my Impala over on three. Sixty-seven. Rebuilt her from scratch just a few months ago."
The guy looks over Dean's shoulder, nods politely. Not the chatty type, then, and Dean's surprised; guys who drive cars like they do were almost always good for at least an hour of talking shop, maybe a little trash. He met a good ol' boy in Texas once who went on for forty-five minutes about how Mustangs are strictly for pussies.
"Tully."
The voice, deep and smoky but distinctly female, comes from behind them, and Dean turns to see a blonde with legs for days and the most perfect pair of tits he's seen in a thousand miles striding towards them. She reaches through the open passenger window and grabs her purse off the front seat.
"I'm gonna get a coffee," she says. "You want one?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Her eyes flicker over to Dean. He smiles, but she just arches an eyebrow and turns back to Tully. "I'll be quick. We need to get back on the road."
She turns on her heel, her hair swinging as she walks away, and Dean'll be goddamned if she doesn't have the ass to match those tits. The pump clicks off and Dean catches the flash of a wedding band when Tully pulls the nozzle from the tank.
"She yours too?"
"What? No, she- We're-" Tully shakes his head, two deep lines appearing between his eyebrows. "It's complicated."
Dean chuckles. "It always is, man."
Tully shakes his head, too solemn for the joke, and there's something in his face, suddenly, that reminds Dean of Dad. The silence stretches on into awkward.
"Dean," Sam calls, and for once, his impatience comes in handy. "Let's go!"
"That, unfortunately, is mine," Dean says, shaking his head. "Kid brother. We're road-tripping cross-country."
A ghost of a smile flickers across Tully's face. "You ever let him drive?"
"Sometimes." Dean shrugs, grins wider. "But mostly not."
"Hey, Dean." Sam appears around the edge of the pump. "C'mon, we gotta go."
"Keep your panties on, I'm coming."
Tully's eyeing Dean curiously, like he wants to ask something. But then the bells over the mini-mart door chime, followed by the click-clack of high heels on asphalt. The blonde, and Tully's expression turns hard again, blank, as she thrusts a Styrofoam cup into his hand.
"Here," she says, ignoring Dean. This whole ice queen thing is kind of hot; Dean always did love a challenge. "You ready?"
"Yeah." Tully wipes his hands on his jeans, extends one to Dean. He's got a grip like a vise. "Nice talking to you."
"You too," Dean says. "And uh, good luck." He doesn't know why, but it felt like the right thing to say. Tully nods.
The Impala's horn honks twice. "I'm coming!" Dean yells over his shoulder. When he turns back, Tully's smiling. Only halfway, but genuine enough, far as Dean can tell.
"You too."
Supernatural/Drive
Dean, Tully; PG-13
775 words
A/N: Thanks to cathybites for rockin' the beta-fu.
Dean almost keeps driving when he sees that gas is $3.18 for regular, even though he's already below a quarter of a tank and he has no idea how far it'll be before the next gas station. But then he sees the car, all sleek black curves and shiny chrome. He can't tell the model, but whatever it is, it's in great shape.
"Fill 'er up, would ya, Sam?" Dean pulls a credit cad from his wallet, a gold Visa courtesy of Mr. Bradley Scott. "Use this one."
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, the words almost lost under the creak of Dean's door.
"To get a closer look at that car. What year you think it is--seventy one?"
Sam climbs out of the car, leans his elbows on the roof. "Maybe?" He squints. "What is that, a Challenger?"
"Looks like it, yeah. I'll be right back."
"Hurry up, I'm starving."
There's something cagey about the guy at the pump, that sort of guarded, tense look that only hunters and criminals have. He keeps his eyes on the horizon as Dean approaches, but Dean takes the twitch of his jaw to mean that he knows Dean's there.
"Nice car," Dean says. He bets she has the same smoker's-cough rumble as the Impala, like that bartender he banged back in Alabama. "She yours?"
The guy glances up. He's taken a good beating recently; the skin under both his eyes is the sickly yellow-green of healing bruises. "Yeah."
"What year?"
"Seventy-two." The guy's watching him closely, carefully.
"Nice." Dean touches the warm hood with the tips of his fingers, sees the guy stiffen in his peripheral vision. He takes his hand back. "That's my Impala over on three. Sixty-seven. Rebuilt her from scratch just a few months ago."
The guy looks over Dean's shoulder, nods politely. Not the chatty type, then, and Dean's surprised; guys who drive cars like they do were almost always good for at least an hour of talking shop, maybe a little trash. He met a good ol' boy in Texas once who went on for forty-five minutes about how Mustangs are strictly for pussies.
"Tully."
The voice, deep and smoky but distinctly female, comes from behind them, and Dean turns to see a blonde with legs for days and the most perfect pair of tits he's seen in a thousand miles striding towards them. She reaches through the open passenger window and grabs her purse off the front seat.
"I'm gonna get a coffee," she says. "You want one?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Her eyes flicker over to Dean. He smiles, but she just arches an eyebrow and turns back to Tully. "I'll be quick. We need to get back on the road."
She turns on her heel, her hair swinging as she walks away, and Dean'll be goddamned if she doesn't have the ass to match those tits. The pump clicks off and Dean catches the flash of a wedding band when Tully pulls the nozzle from the tank.
"She yours too?"
"What? No, she- We're-" Tully shakes his head, two deep lines appearing between his eyebrows. "It's complicated."
Dean chuckles. "It always is, man."
Tully shakes his head, too solemn for the joke, and there's something in his face, suddenly, that reminds Dean of Dad. The silence stretches on into awkward.
"Dean," Sam calls, and for once, his impatience comes in handy. "Let's go!"
"That, unfortunately, is mine," Dean says, shaking his head. "Kid brother. We're road-tripping cross-country."
A ghost of a smile flickers across Tully's face. "You ever let him drive?"
"Sometimes." Dean shrugs, grins wider. "But mostly not."
"Hey, Dean." Sam appears around the edge of the pump. "C'mon, we gotta go."
"Keep your panties on, I'm coming."
Tully's eyeing Dean curiously, like he wants to ask something. But then the bells over the mini-mart door chime, followed by the click-clack of high heels on asphalt. The blonde, and Tully's expression turns hard again, blank, as she thrusts a Styrofoam cup into his hand.
"Here," she says, ignoring Dean. This whole ice queen thing is kind of hot; Dean always did love a challenge. "You ready?"
"Yeah." Tully wipes his hands on his jeans, extends one to Dean. He's got a grip like a vise. "Nice talking to you."
"You too," Dean says. "And uh, good luck." He doesn't know why, but it felt like the right thing to say. Tully nods.
The Impala's horn honks twice. "I'm coming!" Dean yells over his shoulder. When he turns back, Tully's smiling. Only halfway, but genuine enough, far as Dean can tell.
"You too."