A Muscle Car Scorned
Title: A Muscle Car Scorned
Author: secondplatypus
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Warnings: Blatant, shameless crack and epic cock-blocking.
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 728
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: Dean and Castiel are getting up to some obscene shenanigans in the back of the Impala. She does not approve (told from her perspective).
Author's note: This is what happens when I'm given the prompt, "Dean/Castiel blowjob fic in the Impala". As per usual, thanks is owed to amor_remanet for keeping me writing.
The Impala shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable on the gravel of the remote road where she was parked, trying desperately to ignore the lewd sounds coming from the men locked together on the smooth leather of her backseat. She could tell from their soft grunts and the way they moved that the contact was limited to kissing for now, but that would no doubt lead elsewhere, and her patience was wearing thin.
She'd dealt with a lot of Dean's crap over the years -- putting up with his clumsy Sasquatch of a brother, all the sex she'd had to overhear, with the lingering aftermath of cheap perfume and nail-marks in her seats, and the incident with the transvestite who Dean still thought was a woman who had tried to blow him while he was driving and nearly caused him to hit a tree -- but she knew Dean loved her with all his heart, and trusted him to never intentionally put her in harm's way.
That is, until he decided to mess around with an angel inside her. She wasn't too familiar with the particulars of religious and societal standards, but she knew enough to know where penises were and were not meant to go, and that the orifices of an angel were pretty close to the top of the cosmic no-no list. Word on the street had it that the Wrath of God was pretty firey, and she wasn't too interested in becoming another piece of collateral damage in Dean Winchester's endless quest for new and interesting activities to entertain his dick.
The smacking noises coming from her backseat gave way to a series of rhythmic slurps interspersed with restrained moans; she could feel the pressure of a (thankfully still clothed) body sliding back on her seats and - was that a foot on the leather? If he was going to treat her like an ottoman, that prettyboy angel could suck his own cock.
She settled, her suspension letting out a creak of warning that neither of the backseat's inhabitants seemed to notice.
Since Dean had come into possession of her, she'd come to expect certain standards of treatment; he'd never ignored a single noise she made, and to punish him for the affront, she was going to teach him a lesson he'd never forget. If they wanted to get struck by lightning, they could do it somewhere that didn't involve her, and they could keep their mucky dress shoes off her upholstery in the process.
She switched her radio on quietly, and began searching for a station she'd noticed a few miles back. When she found it, she waited for the next song, then abruptly turned the volume dial well over halfway to maximum.
"SHAWTY HAD THEM APPLE-BOTTOM JEANS, JEANS
BOOTS WITH THE FUR
WITH THE FURRRRRRRRRRRRRRR"
Dean's mouth was off Castiel's dick so fast he practically levitated, cursing a blue streak as he launched himself into the front seat and fumbled vainly with the radio switches. The Impala responded by cranking the volume even louder, until the strains of "Low" shook her window-panes.
After thoroughly ruining the moment, the Impala completed the cockblock by letting the music play long enough to ensure that Dean's libido would be nonexistent for at least 24 hours. As quickly as the ear-shredding torment of the radio had started, her speakers went silent as she topped her performance off by shuddering and making noises as though critical parts of her were folding in on themselves, popping and twisting and curling into mangled lumps of useless metal.
Dean flew out of the car to tend to his baby, leaving a bemused Castiel high and dry without so much as a second thought.
As Dean stroked her hood and murmured plea after plea, the Impala smiled smugly to herself. She'd let him panic for a few more minutes before rumbling back to life. It would take more than sweet words and the promise of a new waxing for her to forgive him for the dirty seats, potential annihilation at the hands of whomever was in charge of divine justice, and failing to pay attention; for now, she was content to count the promises of lavish repairs and new hubcaps and spark-plugs Dean was offering. She would make sure he came through on every single one of them.
Author: secondplatypus
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Warnings: Blatant, shameless crack and epic cock-blocking.
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 728
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: Dean and Castiel are getting up to some obscene shenanigans in the back of the Impala. She does not approve (told from her perspective).
Author's note: This is what happens when I'm given the prompt, "Dean/Castiel blowjob fic in the Impala". As per usual, thanks is owed to amor_remanet for keeping me writing.
The Impala shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable on the gravel of the remote road where she was parked, trying desperately to ignore the lewd sounds coming from the men locked together on the smooth leather of her backseat. She could tell from their soft grunts and the way they moved that the contact was limited to kissing for now, but that would no doubt lead elsewhere, and her patience was wearing thin.
She'd dealt with a lot of Dean's crap over the years -- putting up with his clumsy Sasquatch of a brother, all the sex she'd had to overhear, with the lingering aftermath of cheap perfume and nail-marks in her seats, and the incident with the transvestite who Dean still thought was a woman who had tried to blow him while he was driving and nearly caused him to hit a tree -- but she knew Dean loved her with all his heart, and trusted him to never intentionally put her in harm's way.
That is, until he decided to mess around with an angel inside her. She wasn't too familiar with the particulars of religious and societal standards, but she knew enough to know where penises were and were not meant to go, and that the orifices of an angel were pretty close to the top of the cosmic no-no list. Word on the street had it that the Wrath of God was pretty firey, and she wasn't too interested in becoming another piece of collateral damage in Dean Winchester's endless quest for new and interesting activities to entertain his dick.
The smacking noises coming from her backseat gave way to a series of rhythmic slurps interspersed with restrained moans; she could feel the pressure of a (thankfully still clothed) body sliding back on her seats and - was that a foot on the leather? If he was going to treat her like an ottoman, that prettyboy angel could suck his own cock.
She settled, her suspension letting out a creak of warning that neither of the backseat's inhabitants seemed to notice.
Since Dean had come into possession of her, she'd come to expect certain standards of treatment; he'd never ignored a single noise she made, and to punish him for the affront, she was going to teach him a lesson he'd never forget. If they wanted to get struck by lightning, they could do it somewhere that didn't involve her, and they could keep their mucky dress shoes off her upholstery in the process.
She switched her radio on quietly, and began searching for a station she'd noticed a few miles back. When she found it, she waited for the next song, then abruptly turned the volume dial well over halfway to maximum.
"SHAWTY HAD THEM APPLE-BOTTOM JEANS, JEANS
BOOTS WITH THE FUR
WITH THE FURRRRRRRRRRRRRRR"
Dean's mouth was off Castiel's dick so fast he practically levitated, cursing a blue streak as he launched himself into the front seat and fumbled vainly with the radio switches. The Impala responded by cranking the volume even louder, until the strains of "Low" shook her window-panes.
After thoroughly ruining the moment, the Impala completed the cockblock by letting the music play long enough to ensure that Dean's libido would be nonexistent for at least 24 hours. As quickly as the ear-shredding torment of the radio had started, her speakers went silent as she topped her performance off by shuddering and making noises as though critical parts of her were folding in on themselves, popping and twisting and curling into mangled lumps of useless metal.
Dean flew out of the car to tend to his baby, leaving a bemused Castiel high and dry without so much as a second thought.
As Dean stroked her hood and murmured plea after plea, the Impala smiled smugly to herself. She'd let him panic for a few more minutes before rumbling back to life. It would take more than sweet words and the promise of a new waxing for her to forgive him for the dirty seats, potential annihilation at the hands of whomever was in charge of divine justice, and failing to pay attention; for now, she was content to count the promises of lavish repairs and new hubcaps and spark-plugs Dean was offering. She would make sure he came through on every single one of them.