fic: Summer's Here, and the Time Is Right (Supernatural; Mary/John)
Title: Summer's Here, and the Time Is Right
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: "I know you only want me for my car." "She's a beauty, all right."
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: All your characters are belong to Kripke.
Notes: Thanks to mousapelli for handholding and luzdeestrellas for betaing.
Word count: 2,645 words
Date: October 29, 2006
~*~
Summer's Here, and the Time Is Right
Daddy asks her if she wants something smaller--"You could have a Pinto, baby. Wilson says he's got a butter yellow hatchback in the side yard. You'd look real pretty in a yellow car."--but she's determined to have the Impala. It's big and black, and it makes her feel safe, like nothing bad could ever happen to her while she's in it, and wild, like anything at all could happen when she's behind the wheel.
"Nineteen sixty-seven was a good year for the Impala," the salesman says, smiling at her in a way that makes her skin crawl. She wishes she were wearing a sweater over her halter top, something to keep his gaze from skimming her freckles.
"I'll have to have my mechanic look at it," Daddy tells him, "but I think we'll take it."
They slide into the car, leather seats warm in the June sunshine, and Daddy says, "Happy graduation, baby."
"Thanks, Daddy." She leans over to kiss his cheek, breathing in the comforting scent of Old Spice and cigar smoke.
The car growls to life as she turns the key, and she grins. She tucks her hair behind her ear, checks her mirrors, and eases into traffic.
***
"Karl's not in. Maybe I could help you?"
She leans against the car door, crosses her arms over her chest, and looks him up and down. He's a big guy, dark hair, dark eyes, slow honey purr of a voice that makes her belly flip and her knees weak. The nametag on the chest pocket of his coveralls says, "John."
"Maybe," she says. She lays a hand on the door. "Just need her checked out before the deal is final."
"He can't help you, I sure can," one of the other mechanics says, leering at her from the doorway to the office, and for the first time, she wishes she'd waited for Daddy to get off work before she'd come. "That's a lot of car for a little girl like you to handle."
"It's okay, Ken. I've got it." Even she can hear it's a warning, and Ken takes the hint, disappearing back into the office. "She's a beauty," John says, turning back to her, and Mary can't help but smile.
"That she is."
He grins back at her, and her belly does that flip again. This one's way more dangerous than Ken will ever be. "Pop the hood."
He's thoroughly professional, looks over the engine, checks the oil, does whatever else it is mechanics do under there--she's never bothered to learn, though she knows she probably should--asks her a few questions about how it drives, but he never looks at her, and she finds she wants him to, very much.
"You're so interested in how she rides, you could take her for a spin," she says before she can lose her nerve.
He jerks his head up, and she can see heat flashing in his eyes before he looks away, warming her like sunlight after long hours in the shade. His mouth curves into that grin again, easy and sure.
"That I could," he says, meeting her gaze, full of humor now, heat banked for the moment, and he lowers the hood with a graceful snap of his wrist.
***
They don't go far--he's still on the clock--but by the time she drops him off, she feels comfortable with him in a way she usually doesn't with people she's just met, like she's known him a long time, and there's still so much about him she wants to learn.
Before he gets out of the car, she says, "You can take me to dinner tonight, if you like."
"I'd like that very much, but I still don't know your name."
"Mary," she says, offering her hand.
His hand is warm and large around hers, fingers long and callused, and she wonders what they'd feel like on her body. She forces herself not to squirm, though she can't stop a little shiver of anticipation from shimmying down her spine.
"Pretty name," he says, and the admiration in his voice makes her believe him, though she knows Marys are a dime a dozen. "Suits you."
"So, see you at seven, then, here? I'll pick you up."
He grins again and says, "I think you just did." She can feel the blush staining her cheeks, but she raises her chin and looks him in the eye. Smiles. She's not going to be outfaced or shamed by anyone.
He gets out, closes the door firmly, and ignores the whoops and catcalls from the other mechanics. "She's a good car," he says, patting the door as she slides into the driver's seat. "But you might want to get the brakes upgraded--they're not so good on the hard emergency stops. I can fix 'em for you."
"What'll that cost me?"
He shrugs. "With parts and labor? Probably about a hundred bucks." She likes that he's straight with her, doesn't try to pretend he can give her a special price because he likes her, and she's pretty sure he does like her. Because she likes him, she doesn't try to take advantage of that and talk him down.
"But the car is worth buying?"
His smile is wide and warm. "Oh, yeah. She's a tank. You take care of her, she'll never let you down."
She looks up at him--dark eyes and lazy smile, five o'clock shadow on his chin, casual in his grease-stained blue coveralls--and thinks he could be talking about himself.
She wants the chance to find out.
***
Over dinner, she tells him about college, about how proud her father is that she went, that she graduated. How she had to take a year off to nurse her mother as she died of cancer. How she got her degree in accounting because it was practical, and there was a job waiting for her in Uncle Billy's store, but how she wishes she'd been able to study art.
"I want to go to Florence and Venice and Rome," she says, sipping her wine and smiling, secretly hoping he wants to go, too. "I want to go to Paris and see the Mona Lisa." She realizes she's been talking about herself for the past hour, and though he's leaning forward, elbows on the table and head resting on his hands as though he's interested, she suddenly feels flustered. "Oh, wow, I've just been chattering on, haven't I? What about you? Where did you go to school?"
He leans back, looks away, shadow in his eyes, and the silence is awkward now, where before it had been comfortable. "I didn't," he says finally, his voice low and serious. "I was in the Corps. I had a low lottery number, so I signed up right after graduation, shipped out six weeks later." He looks down into his glass of wine, takes a slow sip. "Served two tours and came home in one piece, mostly, but there wasn't much work available in Wabash. So I came here and got a job as a mechanic." It's the most he's said about himself all night, and she feels oddly privileged that he's sharing something so personal. He looks at her now, holds her gaze with those dark, sad eyes. "Is that a problem?"
She remembers the protests on campus, the flag-draped coffins in the cemetery, and Aunt Alice's tears over cousin Davy.
"No," she says softly, holding his gaze. She reaches across the table and takes one of his hands. "It's not."
***
She offers to let him drive home, and he says, "I'm not one of those guys who always has to be in charge," but he's grinning when he says it.
She laughs and tosses him the keys, and he catches them easily. "Liar."
It's a warm night, and the heat feels good against her skin after the air conditioning in the restaurant. She slides into the passenger seat and rolls down the window, enjoying the breeze playing through her hair as he drives. He lays his arm along the back of the seat, and she slowly scoots over to lean against him, sighing when he finally wraps it around her and squeezes her close.
She could get used to this.
He's staying at a boarding house on the edge of town, and when they arrive, she tips her head back to look at him, and says, "I had a really nice time."
"I did, too." His eyes are warm and his smile wide, and she wants to know what he tastes like.
"Kiss me goodnight," she orders, reaching up a hand to stroke his hair, which is soft and ticklish against her palm.
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," he answers like the good soldier he must have been, and then leans in to press his mouth to hers. The kiss is soft, and she can feel heat blossoming under her skin, slow and sweet as honey, good enough to make her breath catch in her throat and her belly twist in need.
He pulls back and brushes her hair behind her ear. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay," she says, and her voice is hoarse and breathless and unfamiliar.
"Good night, Mary."
"Good night, John."
She watches him climb the steps and unlock the front door, and then she takes a look at herself in the rearview mirror. She's flushed and grinning, and her skin is buzzing like she's in the middle of an electrical storm. She's humming with happiness as she pulls away, and the car purrs in response.
***
For the next week, John comes by every evening after dinner--she offers to cook for him, but he says he doesn't want to impose, though it's no imposition at all, since she has to cook for herself and Daddy anyway, and it'd be nice to have someone to eat with when Daddy's at the office late, like he has been recently, all wrapped up in his latest case. John sits on the porch swing with her and sips iced tea and they talk and kiss and touch until the world slips away into starry skies and darkness, and she can't think about anything but how much she wants him. But he never pushes her past what she's comfortable with, and she wants to go slow.
For their second date, on Saturday afternoon, he takes her to the Spencer, and they wander the cool, dim halls of the museum hand-in-hand, and somewhere in the middle of the exhibit on heirloom wedding quilts, Mary knows--she knows, deep in her bones--that she's going to marry John Winchester. She's not sure he knows it yet, though sometimes when he looks at her, there's a dreamy smile on his face that makes her think he does.
A few days later, he shows up at the house with his toolkit and a sheepish grin. "Thought I'd give her a tune-up," he says, nodding towards the Impala. "And maybe a wash and wax."
"I know you only want me for my car," she teases, and he laughs.
"She's a beauty, all right." But his gaze never leaves her face.
He tinkers with the engine for a while, and then she joins him, dressed in cutoffs and a halter top, the asphalt of the driveway hot against the soles of her bare feet. She pulls the hose out from the garage and they spend more time flinging soapsuds at each other and dodging blasts of cold water than they do actually washing the car.
He picks her up and twirls her around, and kisses her while she's laughing, pressing her up against the side of the car. The door handle digs into her lower back, and his wet shirt is chilly against her skin, but she doesn't care, lost in the heat of his mouth, the feel of him, lean and hard under her hands, against her body.
The sound of her father clearing his throat startles them and they jump apart.
"And who might you be?" he asks, giving John a skeptical once-over.
"John Winchester, sir." He holds his right hand out, his left still warm and reassuring on Mary's back. "I'm in love with your daughter."
She looks up at him, feeling like she's going to cry from joy, like she's never going to stop smiling, and then she looks at Daddy, whose mouth is quirked in a half-grin.
"Well, I can't fault your taste, son," Daddy says, shaking his hand. "I guess you'll be staying for dinner."
***
For their third official date, she takes him to the drive-in on Friday night. Halfway through the movie, she stops paying attention to the screen, way more interested in the feel of John's fingers sliding over her collarbones, the skin of her shoulder and upper arm. It's not like she didn't see Jaws three times last summer anyway--twice with her ex-boyfriend and once with the girls from the neighborhood.
She swallows hard as his fingers brush the side of her breast, and then she grabs hold of her skirt and swings herself into his lap. She's glad she drove--she doesn't have to worry about the steering wheel poking her in the back while she's kissing him, hot, open-mouthed kisses that make her ache for more.
His hands cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over her already-hard nipples, and she grinds down against him, gasping for breath as their kisses become more heated, more desperate. Then he mouths her nipples through her dress, and the suction sends need rushing hot and wet between her thighs.
When he reaches down to stroke her through her panties, she moans, "John, please."
"Mary?"
"I'm on the pill," she whispers in his ear. "Can we please--"
"Don't need to ask me twice," he murmurs, voice hoarse and broken in her ear, and she feels giddy that she can do this to him.
He's pretty good at maneuvering in the tight space, and she doesn't want to think about who he learned that with, and then her panties are on the floor and his fingers are inside her, thumb circling over her clit, and she can't think at all.
She manages to get his jeans open, and he's hot and hard in her hand. As she strokes, he mutters, "Yeah, just like that. God, Mary, you're so hot." And when she sinks down onto him, so slowly she thinks she's going to die of wanting it, he bites out a hoarse, "Fuck, Mary." She buries her face in the crook of his neck for a moment, overcome, and he rubs a gentle hand down her back, cups her head gently. "You okay?"
She raises her head and presses a kiss to his jaw, "Yeah," and nips at his lower lip, "I'm great." She starts moving then, riding him slowly at first, and then harder and faster as he urges her on with words and kisses and quick, rough touches that make her shiver like she's going to shake apart.
He comes first, hot and deep inside her, head thrown back so she can bite down on the tender flesh of his neck, which makes him growl. Another twist and flick of his fingers, and she follows, pleasure pulsing through her in waves, making the world disappear for a few endless moments that don't last near long enough.
She slumps against him, panting, and he cradles her close, those big, gentle hands on her back making her feel safe and loved and wild and wanted all at once.
She breathes in the scent of sex, of herself and John mingled together, of popcorn and leather, and says, her voice still rough and shaky, "I love this car."
He laughs, and she can feel it rumble up from his belly like the joy that's burbling up inside her, and he says, "Me, too."
end
~*~
Note: The title is from Bruce Springsteen's "Racing in the Street."
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: "I know you only want me for my car." "She's a beauty, all right."
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: All your characters are belong to Kripke.
Notes: Thanks to mousapelli for handholding and luzdeestrellas for betaing.
Word count: 2,645 words
Date: October 29, 2006
~*~
Summer's Here, and the Time Is Right
Daddy asks her if she wants something smaller--"You could have a Pinto, baby. Wilson says he's got a butter yellow hatchback in the side yard. You'd look real pretty in a yellow car."--but she's determined to have the Impala. It's big and black, and it makes her feel safe, like nothing bad could ever happen to her while she's in it, and wild, like anything at all could happen when she's behind the wheel.
"Nineteen sixty-seven was a good year for the Impala," the salesman says, smiling at her in a way that makes her skin crawl. She wishes she were wearing a sweater over her halter top, something to keep his gaze from skimming her freckles.
"I'll have to have my mechanic look at it," Daddy tells him, "but I think we'll take it."
They slide into the car, leather seats warm in the June sunshine, and Daddy says, "Happy graduation, baby."
"Thanks, Daddy." She leans over to kiss his cheek, breathing in the comforting scent of Old Spice and cigar smoke.
The car growls to life as she turns the key, and she grins. She tucks her hair behind her ear, checks her mirrors, and eases into traffic.
***
"Karl's not in. Maybe I could help you?"
She leans against the car door, crosses her arms over her chest, and looks him up and down. He's a big guy, dark hair, dark eyes, slow honey purr of a voice that makes her belly flip and her knees weak. The nametag on the chest pocket of his coveralls says, "John."
"Maybe," she says. She lays a hand on the door. "Just need her checked out before the deal is final."
"He can't help you, I sure can," one of the other mechanics says, leering at her from the doorway to the office, and for the first time, she wishes she'd waited for Daddy to get off work before she'd come. "That's a lot of car for a little girl like you to handle."
"It's okay, Ken. I've got it." Even she can hear it's a warning, and Ken takes the hint, disappearing back into the office. "She's a beauty," John says, turning back to her, and Mary can't help but smile.
"That she is."
He grins back at her, and her belly does that flip again. This one's way more dangerous than Ken will ever be. "Pop the hood."
He's thoroughly professional, looks over the engine, checks the oil, does whatever else it is mechanics do under there--she's never bothered to learn, though she knows she probably should--asks her a few questions about how it drives, but he never looks at her, and she finds she wants him to, very much.
"You're so interested in how she rides, you could take her for a spin," she says before she can lose her nerve.
He jerks his head up, and she can see heat flashing in his eyes before he looks away, warming her like sunlight after long hours in the shade. His mouth curves into that grin again, easy and sure.
"That I could," he says, meeting her gaze, full of humor now, heat banked for the moment, and he lowers the hood with a graceful snap of his wrist.
***
They don't go far--he's still on the clock--but by the time she drops him off, she feels comfortable with him in a way she usually doesn't with people she's just met, like she's known him a long time, and there's still so much about him she wants to learn.
Before he gets out of the car, she says, "You can take me to dinner tonight, if you like."
"I'd like that very much, but I still don't know your name."
"Mary," she says, offering her hand.
His hand is warm and large around hers, fingers long and callused, and she wonders what they'd feel like on her body. She forces herself not to squirm, though she can't stop a little shiver of anticipation from shimmying down her spine.
"Pretty name," he says, and the admiration in his voice makes her believe him, though she knows Marys are a dime a dozen. "Suits you."
"So, see you at seven, then, here? I'll pick you up."
He grins again and says, "I think you just did." She can feel the blush staining her cheeks, but she raises her chin and looks him in the eye. Smiles. She's not going to be outfaced or shamed by anyone.
He gets out, closes the door firmly, and ignores the whoops and catcalls from the other mechanics. "She's a good car," he says, patting the door as she slides into the driver's seat. "But you might want to get the brakes upgraded--they're not so good on the hard emergency stops. I can fix 'em for you."
"What'll that cost me?"
He shrugs. "With parts and labor? Probably about a hundred bucks." She likes that he's straight with her, doesn't try to pretend he can give her a special price because he likes her, and she's pretty sure he does like her. Because she likes him, she doesn't try to take advantage of that and talk him down.
"But the car is worth buying?"
His smile is wide and warm. "Oh, yeah. She's a tank. You take care of her, she'll never let you down."
She looks up at him--dark eyes and lazy smile, five o'clock shadow on his chin, casual in his grease-stained blue coveralls--and thinks he could be talking about himself.
She wants the chance to find out.
***
Over dinner, she tells him about college, about how proud her father is that she went, that she graduated. How she had to take a year off to nurse her mother as she died of cancer. How she got her degree in accounting because it was practical, and there was a job waiting for her in Uncle Billy's store, but how she wishes she'd been able to study art.
"I want to go to Florence and Venice and Rome," she says, sipping her wine and smiling, secretly hoping he wants to go, too. "I want to go to Paris and see the Mona Lisa." She realizes she's been talking about herself for the past hour, and though he's leaning forward, elbows on the table and head resting on his hands as though he's interested, she suddenly feels flustered. "Oh, wow, I've just been chattering on, haven't I? What about you? Where did you go to school?"
He leans back, looks away, shadow in his eyes, and the silence is awkward now, where before it had been comfortable. "I didn't," he says finally, his voice low and serious. "I was in the Corps. I had a low lottery number, so I signed up right after graduation, shipped out six weeks later." He looks down into his glass of wine, takes a slow sip. "Served two tours and came home in one piece, mostly, but there wasn't much work available in Wabash. So I came here and got a job as a mechanic." It's the most he's said about himself all night, and she feels oddly privileged that he's sharing something so personal. He looks at her now, holds her gaze with those dark, sad eyes. "Is that a problem?"
She remembers the protests on campus, the flag-draped coffins in the cemetery, and Aunt Alice's tears over cousin Davy.
"No," she says softly, holding his gaze. She reaches across the table and takes one of his hands. "It's not."
***
She offers to let him drive home, and he says, "I'm not one of those guys who always has to be in charge," but he's grinning when he says it.
She laughs and tosses him the keys, and he catches them easily. "Liar."
It's a warm night, and the heat feels good against her skin after the air conditioning in the restaurant. She slides into the passenger seat and rolls down the window, enjoying the breeze playing through her hair as he drives. He lays his arm along the back of the seat, and she slowly scoots over to lean against him, sighing when he finally wraps it around her and squeezes her close.
She could get used to this.
He's staying at a boarding house on the edge of town, and when they arrive, she tips her head back to look at him, and says, "I had a really nice time."
"I did, too." His eyes are warm and his smile wide, and she wants to know what he tastes like.
"Kiss me goodnight," she orders, reaching up a hand to stroke his hair, which is soft and ticklish against her palm.
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," he answers like the good soldier he must have been, and then leans in to press his mouth to hers. The kiss is soft, and she can feel heat blossoming under her skin, slow and sweet as honey, good enough to make her breath catch in her throat and her belly twist in need.
He pulls back and brushes her hair behind her ear. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay," she says, and her voice is hoarse and breathless and unfamiliar.
"Good night, Mary."
"Good night, John."
She watches him climb the steps and unlock the front door, and then she takes a look at herself in the rearview mirror. She's flushed and grinning, and her skin is buzzing like she's in the middle of an electrical storm. She's humming with happiness as she pulls away, and the car purrs in response.
***
For the next week, John comes by every evening after dinner--she offers to cook for him, but he says he doesn't want to impose, though it's no imposition at all, since she has to cook for herself and Daddy anyway, and it'd be nice to have someone to eat with when Daddy's at the office late, like he has been recently, all wrapped up in his latest case. John sits on the porch swing with her and sips iced tea and they talk and kiss and touch until the world slips away into starry skies and darkness, and she can't think about anything but how much she wants him. But he never pushes her past what she's comfortable with, and she wants to go slow.
For their second date, on Saturday afternoon, he takes her to the Spencer, and they wander the cool, dim halls of the museum hand-in-hand, and somewhere in the middle of the exhibit on heirloom wedding quilts, Mary knows--she knows, deep in her bones--that she's going to marry John Winchester. She's not sure he knows it yet, though sometimes when he looks at her, there's a dreamy smile on his face that makes her think he does.
A few days later, he shows up at the house with his toolkit and a sheepish grin. "Thought I'd give her a tune-up," he says, nodding towards the Impala. "And maybe a wash and wax."
"I know you only want me for my car," she teases, and he laughs.
"She's a beauty, all right." But his gaze never leaves her face.
He tinkers with the engine for a while, and then she joins him, dressed in cutoffs and a halter top, the asphalt of the driveway hot against the soles of her bare feet. She pulls the hose out from the garage and they spend more time flinging soapsuds at each other and dodging blasts of cold water than they do actually washing the car.
He picks her up and twirls her around, and kisses her while she's laughing, pressing her up against the side of the car. The door handle digs into her lower back, and his wet shirt is chilly against her skin, but she doesn't care, lost in the heat of his mouth, the feel of him, lean and hard under her hands, against her body.
The sound of her father clearing his throat startles them and they jump apart.
"And who might you be?" he asks, giving John a skeptical once-over.
"John Winchester, sir." He holds his right hand out, his left still warm and reassuring on Mary's back. "I'm in love with your daughter."
She looks up at him, feeling like she's going to cry from joy, like she's never going to stop smiling, and then she looks at Daddy, whose mouth is quirked in a half-grin.
"Well, I can't fault your taste, son," Daddy says, shaking his hand. "I guess you'll be staying for dinner."
***
For their third official date, she takes him to the drive-in on Friday night. Halfway through the movie, she stops paying attention to the screen, way more interested in the feel of John's fingers sliding over her collarbones, the skin of her shoulder and upper arm. It's not like she didn't see Jaws three times last summer anyway--twice with her ex-boyfriend and once with the girls from the neighborhood.
She swallows hard as his fingers brush the side of her breast, and then she grabs hold of her skirt and swings herself into his lap. She's glad she drove--she doesn't have to worry about the steering wheel poking her in the back while she's kissing him, hot, open-mouthed kisses that make her ache for more.
His hands cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over her already-hard nipples, and she grinds down against him, gasping for breath as their kisses become more heated, more desperate. Then he mouths her nipples through her dress, and the suction sends need rushing hot and wet between her thighs.
When he reaches down to stroke her through her panties, she moans, "John, please."
"Mary?"
"I'm on the pill," she whispers in his ear. "Can we please--"
"Don't need to ask me twice," he murmurs, voice hoarse and broken in her ear, and she feels giddy that she can do this to him.
He's pretty good at maneuvering in the tight space, and she doesn't want to think about who he learned that with, and then her panties are on the floor and his fingers are inside her, thumb circling over her clit, and she can't think at all.
She manages to get his jeans open, and he's hot and hard in her hand. As she strokes, he mutters, "Yeah, just like that. God, Mary, you're so hot." And when she sinks down onto him, so slowly she thinks she's going to die of wanting it, he bites out a hoarse, "Fuck, Mary." She buries her face in the crook of his neck for a moment, overcome, and he rubs a gentle hand down her back, cups her head gently. "You okay?"
She raises her head and presses a kiss to his jaw, "Yeah," and nips at his lower lip, "I'm great." She starts moving then, riding him slowly at first, and then harder and faster as he urges her on with words and kisses and quick, rough touches that make her shiver like she's going to shake apart.
He comes first, hot and deep inside her, head thrown back so she can bite down on the tender flesh of his neck, which makes him growl. Another twist and flick of his fingers, and she follows, pleasure pulsing through her in waves, making the world disappear for a few endless moments that don't last near long enough.
She slumps against him, panting, and he cradles her close, those big, gentle hands on her back making her feel safe and loved and wild and wanted all at once.
She breathes in the scent of sex, of herself and John mingled together, of popcorn and leather, and says, her voice still rough and shaky, "I love this car."
He laughs, and she can feel it rumble up from his belly like the joy that's burbling up inside her, and he says, "Me, too."
end
~*~
Note: The title is from Bruce Springsteen's "Racing in the Street."
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~