Metallicar Pr0n
Good Saturday Morning!
Well, here is the first complete peice of fan fiction I ever wrote (and a bit of practice learning to use the LJ editor). It's a short little one-off about Sam's creepy hero-worship issues. Okay, so it's a thinly-veiled excuse for some car porn.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and I'm not trying to make any money off it. Please don't hurt me.
Gen.
No warnings to speak of.
Except this: unbeta-ed and now quite old. In general, if you've been re-watching seasons 1 and 2 lately, it's good timing to read the next few fics I'll post here.
-Snick
_______________________________________________
Sun and Steel
_________________________
In which Sam observes Dean.
And yes, it’s supposed to be kinda disturbing. Hero-worship is like that.
_______________________________________________
Sam wondered what her name was. He was sure she had a name, though he was equally sure he would never hear it. Even if he asked. Especially if he asked. He was also certain that she was a she. Dean would never think of his car in any other terms but female, because Dean treated the Impala like any good lover should.
Sam really didn’t mind Dean’s obsession with the glossy black machine. He never resented the attention he lavished on her, never showed impatience when her needs dictated both their schedules.
“Gotta stop at the next station, time to check the oil.”
“Back in a bit, Sammy. The Chevy needs a wash.”
An oil change, a tune-up, topping up the wiper fluid, treating the upholstery, the Hey - you hear that rattle? the endless, endless tinkering. No, Sam would never complain. It was the only time when he could really watch his brother.
Ever since they were kids, Dean hated when Sam watched him.
“Stare much, Sammy? Or are you just practicing?” At eleven.
“Dude, take a picture, it’ll last longer.” At fifteen. Seventeen. Twenty-two.
“Do I look like Paris Hilton?” Last week.
Or Dean’s personal favourite, which he always delivered without even turning to look at Sam: “Quit staring. Freak.”
But when Dean worked on the Impala he relaxed, let his guard down.
Their double room at the Little Opry Motel has a single window that predictably, reliably, faces the dusty parking lot. Sam sets his laptop on the table next to the window. They aren’t on a job and Sam has already searched for leads twice this morning. It’s just - quite literally - window dressing, in case Dean looks up from his work, but he won’t. He never does.
So Sam watches. Even though on a good day all he can see of Dean are his legs in destroyed blue-jeans. One black boot flat on the ground with the knee in the air, the other kicked out casually, tapping lazily to the beat. On a good day, Dean plays Iron Maiden.
On a bad day, Dean plays Iron Maiden, but he doesn't sing along. On a bad day, Dean drinks one beer more than he does on a good day. He tosses the socket wrench in the dirt and has to oil it that night after cleaning the weapons. He curses. Thinks about Dad. On a bad day, Dean spends more time sitting on the hood than under it. He can sit there for hours, nursing his beer and scratching absently at the short hairs at the back of his scalp. It’s a nervous habit from their childhood that seems to have gotten more severe with age. Sometimes when they are driving, Sam looks at Dean's profile and sees little half-moons of dried blood under the close-cropped hairs where Dean's fingernails have broken the skin.
But today is a good day.
Sam can tell by the way Dean lies right down in the dirt. He watches as his brother brushes twigs and stones out of his way, and then Dean is under the car, rocking on his back and getting as comfortable as possible. Sam smiles.
At first Dean murmurs softly, whispering sweet nothings while he looks his lover over. When he finds what he’s looking for, Dean reaches for his tools, brows drawing together in a concerned frown.
Sam watches as Dean sets his teeth, muscles straining slightly against a rusted bolt. It’s a hot day in Indiana, dust and gravel sticking to the thin sheen of sweat glistening on Dean’s skin. Then the bolt is loose and Dean is talking again, low and soothing like a mother combing the tangles from a child’s hair.
On some other day, Dean will get clumsy removing the oil pan and take the skin off his knuckles. He will spill the radiator fluid and close the hood before he remembers he hasn’t screwed the cap back on. He’ll tell Sam to go to Hell for asking if he wants a bandage from the first aid kit. But not today. Today is a good day.
- Persnicket, April 25, 2007
You killed your first man at 13,
Killer instinct, Animal supreme,
By 16 you had learned to fight
The way of the warrior, you took it as your right.
Sunlight, falling on your steel,
Death in life is your ideal,
Life is like a wheel, rolling on and on.
Through earth and water, fire and wind,
You came at last - nothing was the end,
Make a cut by fire and stones,
Take you and your blade and break you both
in two - break you both in two.
Sunlight, falling on your steel,
Death in life is your ideal,
Life is like a wheel - and it's rolling still.
-Sun and Steel, Iron Maiden
Well, here is the first complete peice of fan fiction I ever wrote (and a bit of practice learning to use the LJ editor). It's a short little one-off about Sam's creepy hero-worship issues. Okay, so it's a thinly-veiled excuse for some car porn.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and I'm not trying to make any money off it. Please don't hurt me.
Gen.
No warnings to speak of.
Except this: unbeta-ed and now quite old. In general, if you've been re-watching seasons 1 and 2 lately, it's good timing to read the next few fics I'll post here.
-Snick
_______________________________________________
Sun and Steel
_________________________
In which Sam observes Dean.
And yes, it’s supposed to be kinda disturbing. Hero-worship is like that.
_______________________________________________
Sam wondered what her name was. He was sure she had a name, though he was equally sure he would never hear it. Even if he asked. Especially if he asked. He was also certain that she was a she. Dean would never think of his car in any other terms but female, because Dean treated the Impala like any good lover should.
Sam really didn’t mind Dean’s obsession with the glossy black machine. He never resented the attention he lavished on her, never showed impatience when her needs dictated both their schedules.
“Gotta stop at the next station, time to check the oil.”
“Back in a bit, Sammy. The Chevy needs a wash.”
An oil change, a tune-up, topping up the wiper fluid, treating the upholstery, the Hey - you hear that rattle? the endless, endless tinkering. No, Sam would never complain. It was the only time when he could really watch his brother.
Ever since they were kids, Dean hated when Sam watched him.
“Stare much, Sammy? Or are you just practicing?” At eleven.
“Dude, take a picture, it’ll last longer.” At fifteen. Seventeen. Twenty-two.
“Do I look like Paris Hilton?” Last week.
Or Dean’s personal favourite, which he always delivered without even turning to look at Sam: “Quit staring. Freak.”
But when Dean worked on the Impala he relaxed, let his guard down.
Their double room at the Little Opry Motel has a single window that predictably, reliably, faces the dusty parking lot. Sam sets his laptop on the table next to the window. They aren’t on a job and Sam has already searched for leads twice this morning. It’s just - quite literally - window dressing, in case Dean looks up from his work, but he won’t. He never does.
So Sam watches. Even though on a good day all he can see of Dean are his legs in destroyed blue-jeans. One black boot flat on the ground with the knee in the air, the other kicked out casually, tapping lazily to the beat. On a good day, Dean plays Iron Maiden.
On a bad day, Dean plays Iron Maiden, but he doesn't sing along. On a bad day, Dean drinks one beer more than he does on a good day. He tosses the socket wrench in the dirt and has to oil it that night after cleaning the weapons. He curses. Thinks about Dad. On a bad day, Dean spends more time sitting on the hood than under it. He can sit there for hours, nursing his beer and scratching absently at the short hairs at the back of his scalp. It’s a nervous habit from their childhood that seems to have gotten more severe with age. Sometimes when they are driving, Sam looks at Dean's profile and sees little half-moons of dried blood under the close-cropped hairs where Dean's fingernails have broken the skin.
But today is a good day.
Sam can tell by the way Dean lies right down in the dirt. He watches as his brother brushes twigs and stones out of his way, and then Dean is under the car, rocking on his back and getting as comfortable as possible. Sam smiles.
At first Dean murmurs softly, whispering sweet nothings while he looks his lover over. When he finds what he’s looking for, Dean reaches for his tools, brows drawing together in a concerned frown.
Sam watches as Dean sets his teeth, muscles straining slightly against a rusted bolt. It’s a hot day in Indiana, dust and gravel sticking to the thin sheen of sweat glistening on Dean’s skin. Then the bolt is loose and Dean is talking again, low and soothing like a mother combing the tangles from a child’s hair.
On some other day, Dean will get clumsy removing the oil pan and take the skin off his knuckles. He will spill the radiator fluid and close the hood before he remembers he hasn’t screwed the cap back on. He’ll tell Sam to go to Hell for asking if he wants a bandage from the first aid kit. But not today. Today is a good day.
- Persnicket, April 25, 2007
You killed your first man at 13,
Killer instinct, Animal supreme,
By 16 you had learned to fight
The way of the warrior, you took it as your right.
Sunlight, falling on your steel,
Death in life is your ideal,
Life is like a wheel, rolling on and on.
Through earth and water, fire and wind,
You came at last - nothing was the end,
Make a cut by fire and stones,
Take you and your blade and break you both
in two - break you both in two.
Sunlight, falling on your steel,
Death in life is your ideal,
Life is like a wheel - and it's rolling still.
-Sun and Steel, Iron Maiden