The One Where Dean Turns Into a Car 1/1 (Supernatural)
The One Where Dean Turns Into a Car
By iamstealthyone
Summary: Crack!fic. One minute, Dean’s sitting in the car, and the next, he is the car.
Timeline: Season one.
Characters: Dean and Sam.
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG-13 (Genfic.) A bit of cussing. Some sexual situations.
Word count: 2,600
Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Not making money off of them.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to swanseajill for a helpful, reassuring beta read, and for being patient with all of my last-minute tweaking. Your assistance is always so, so appreciated.
---
One minute, Dean’s sitting in the car, and the next, he is the car.
It’s a little bizarre, to say the least.
---
Eight hours earlier …
It’s midnight, and the TV’s low hum is barely distracting Sam from the squeaks, thumps, and moans in the adjacent motel room when Dean flings the door open, slams it, and stomps inside.
The lighting sucks, the only illumination from the TV screen, but Sam can still see Dean’s creased forehead, pursed lips, and rigidly set shoulders. He’s pissed. And frustrated. Which, considering how hard he was flirting with that redhead at the bar earlier, means only one thing.
Sam doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. “She just wasn’t that into you, huh?”
Stripping off his jacket and tossing it over a chair, Dean flops on his bed and crosses his arms over his chest. Scowls. “Dude, I had her. She was totally into me. Hell, she was all over me.”
“What happened?”
A huff. “She wanted to do it in the car.”
Sam stifles a laugh. Dean’s always been borderline psychotic about sex in the car. Using the Impala to reel a girl in is okay, but using it in place of a bed, or wall, or table, or floor, or chair, or park bench, or tree --
Sam shudders, trying not to think about the many places Dean claims to have done it.
The moans next door swell, the thumps become hard thuds, and Dean pounds a fist on the wall behind his bed. “Hey!” he shouts. “Keep it down over there!”
It’s gonna be a long night.
---
A few minutes later, Sam’s heard the whole story. The girl, Annette, was ready and willing right up until Dean refused to get horizontal in the car. In a split second, she went from horny to pissed, and left Dean in the car with Dean Jr. standing at attention.
Dean’s never handled sexual frustration well, and now is no exception.
“Stupid-ass Ab Roller,” Dean mutters, glaring at the infomercial. “Who the hell uses those things, anyway?”
Sighing, Sam fluffs his pillow.
Dean shoots him a dirty look. “Dude, do you have to do that?”
Sam’s brow furrows. “Do what? Fluff my pillow?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious?”
Dean’s eyes narrow to mere slits.
Huffing, Sam jerks a thumb toward the bathroom. “Maybe you and Dean Jr. should spend some quality time in the shower. Take the edge off. I promise I won’t listen.”
“Screw you.”
“Screw yourself.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Turning on his side, away from Dean, Sam grinds his teeth together and silently curses horny brothers and the women who shun them.
---
Happily, eight in the morning finds both of them with a halfway decent night’s rest, because Dean can only stay pissy for so long before two-and-a-half beers and three back-to-back hunts drive him into sleep.
They shower, dress, and head outside, Sam sighing contentedly as a fall breeze musses his hair. They have no plans, other than food and R&R. Days like this have been few and far between lately, and he’s glad to have some down time.
Once inside the car, Dean slides the key into the ignition and starts the engine, only to still as two women approach him.
Sam recognizes one of them as Annette, her curly red hair tucked behind her ears, full, pink lips in pout mode. The other woman is tall and reedy, with long, black hair knotted high on her head. Her blue eyes are narrowed and flashing.
Dean rolls his window down, expression wary. “Annette? What’s up?”
The other woman crosses her arms over her chest. “This him?”
Annette nods.
Lips curling in obvious disgust, the woman shakes her head. “Boys and their toys.”
She mutters something softly, waves a hand in the air, and Dean disappears.
Sam blinks. Looks at the smugly smiling women. Blinks again. Looks back at the empty space where Dean should be.
“What the hell did you do with my brother?”
The tall woman shrugs a shoulder. “Made him one with the car. He should like that, seeing how he loves the damned thing so much.” She smiles wryly. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back to normal in twenty-four hours.”
She waves her hand, and both women vanish.
“Well,” Sam mutters. “This sucks out loud.”
The engine growls loudly in response.
---
Sam rushes back into the motel, witch and spell and holy crap careening through his mind.
After consulting Dad’s journal and some online sites, he calls Bobby. Everything leads to the same conclusion. While it’s possible to break the spell on their own, they need to know the exact words Annette’s friend used, and neither of them does. Their best bet is to find the witch and get her to change Dean back.
So Sam starts the car and heads toward the bar where Dean met Annette, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s sitting on -- in -- his brother. It’s quiet for a while, no sound at all but the engine’s low rumble.
Sam chews his thumb. “I guess we should figure out a way to communicate. Like … honk once for yes and twice for no?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Too noisy. How about … make the windshield wipers go back and forth once for yes, and twice for no?”
A long pause, and then the windshield wipers swish back and forth. Four times.
Sam huffs. “Dude, are you being a smartass?”
Another pause, and then the wipers slowly move back and forth twice: No.
Features softening, Sam smiles sympathetically. “Kind of hard to figure out how to make things work, huh?”
One swish of agreement.
Sam nods. This is so not one of their better days.
---
Pulling into Bar None, Sam parks the car and pats the steering wheel. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The bar’s closed, but Sam peers through a window and spots a heavyset, balding man in his fifties sweeping the floor, and convinces him to come out and answer a few questions. The man, who turns out to be the owner, remembers Annette.
“Seemed like a nice girl,” he says, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “Came in every day this week. Said she’d be heading out of town this morning.”
Sam describes Annette’s friend, but the manager doesn’t remember her.
Figuring both women were just passing through town, Sam heads back to the motel room and grabs a phone book. He calls nearby motels and hotels, but nobody recognizes his description of either Annette or her friend.
So much for tracking them down and making the witch reverse the spell.
As Sam sits in the car and stews over their predicament, trying to figure out how to give Dean the bad news, Metallica starts playing. Dean’s apparently figured out how to work the cassette deck.
“Dean … ” Sam sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t find Annette or her friend at any of the motels. It … It looks like you’re a car until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
A series of short, angry honks blast through the air, startling several birds out of nearby trees.
Sam winces. “Sorry, man. You know if I could fix this, I would.”
A pause, and then the windshield wipers swish once, a slow drag back and forth, and Sam consolingly pats the steering wheel.
---
At lunchtime, Sam pulls into McDonald’s, fighting a losing battle with the cassette deck’s volume. It blares until he places his order, and resumes as soon as he’s finished paying. He tries not to yell at Dean, because being a car must suck, but it’s hard to keep his cool.
As he sits in the parked car, scarfing down a quarter pounder with cheese, no onion, the windshield wipers rapidly swish back and forth, hard squeaks on glass making the hairs on his neck stand up.
Sam can’t take it anymore.
“Dude, what is your problem?” he yells over the music.
The music turns off, and then the car lurches forward. Sam grabs the steering wheel with one hand and slams on the brakes, but they’re quickly moving again, lunging toward the parking lot’s exit.
“Dean, what the hell!” Sam tosses his burger back into the paper bag and tries to regain control of the car.
The Impala just keeps going, up the street and into a gas station, where it pulls up to a pump and stops, engine growling before it shuts off. It’s then that Sam notices the fuel gauge is nearly on empty.
“Oh.” Ducking his head, Sam smiles sheepishly. “You’re hungry, too, aren’t you? Sorry, man. I didn’t even think … I forgot we were almost out of gas.”
Taking a quick bite of burger and washing it down with a gulp of Coke, he gets out of the car and starts filling the tank.
The engine purrs softly to life for a moment and then subsides.
Sam grins. “You’re welcome.”
---
Sam spends the afternoon driving around town, Metallica playing at a decent level so long as he goes five miles over the speed limit. Dean takes control of the car only once, pulling into a charity car wash set up at a donut shop and overseen by a cluster of sorority girls.
Sam groans. “Dean, seriously?”
One emphatic back-and-forth of the windshield wipers, and Sam can almost hear the Hell, yeah!
“Dude, you’re such a slut,” Sam says, shaking his head as he rolls down the window. He donates $10 to a busty blonde wearing a purple bikini that shows off tanned, toned skin.
“Thanks!” she practically chirps. “We need you to stay in the car while we wash it, okay? Liability reasons. Don’t want to get blamed for any fender benders, you know.”
Sam smiles. “No problem.”
“You can park over there,” she says, using a long, slender finger to point to a space off to his left.
Nodding, he rolls up the window, heads where indicated, and parks the car.
No sooner does he turn off the engine than a swarm of sorority girls descend with buckets of soapy water and hand towels. They lean over and up against doors and hood and trunk, pressing flesh on metal and glass, and start washing.
It takes less than a minute before the car starts gently rocking, and Sam’s sure it’s Dean, not the girls, making that happen. Soon after, the windshield wipers begin swishing back and forth, squeaking so loud and moving so hard Sam thinks they’re gonna fly off.
God, Dean’s having a freaking cargasm.
So, so awkward.
With a tense, sheepish smile at the girls shooting him strange looks, Sam hisses, “Dude, stop! You’re making a scene!”
Mercifully, the car stills and quiets.
Rolling the window down, Sam shrugs at the girl in the purple bikini. “Sorry about that. I really need to get those windshield wipers fixed.”
She smiles, looking a bit unsure, and waits for him to roll the window back up before returning to running a towel over the hood.
The windshield wipers perk up a few inches, practically vibrating.
“Dean!”
And then fall back down.
---
Sam hits yet another fast-food restaurant for dinner, and again eats in the car. Dean doesn’t protest this time.
“Pretty good day, considering,” Sam notes.
The windshield wipers swish back and forth once in agreement.
Smiling, Sam checks his watch. “Thirteen more hours, and you should be back to normal.” He clears his throat. “I was thinking … If you want me to leave you alone the rest of the night so you can get some sleep, I can do that. Or … I could keep you company.”
He feels idiotic, like he’s asking permission to sleep in Dean’s bed. Which he kind of is. And holy crap, that’s weird. Still …
He doesn’t feel right leaving Dean alone all night.
Sam clears his throat again. “So, uh … Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
A very, very long pause, long enough that Sam wonders if Dean’s actually fallen asleep, and then the windshield wipers swish back and forth once.
Smiling softly, Sam nods. “Okay,” he says, and leaves it at that, because even as a car, Dean would hate if he turned this into a Hallmark moment.
---
The hours pass, and Sam gets more than a few weird looks from the motel’s elderly night manager, who glances up every so often from the front desk of the office.
“Probably thinks we had a lover’s quarrel,” Sam muses at around ten o’clock, resting his head on the seat. “Anyway … Where was I?” His brow furrows, and then relaxes. “Oh yeah. Jennifer Aniston, or Angelina Jolie? I’m guessing Angelina.”
The windshield wipers swish once.
“It’s the lips, isn’t it?”
Another swish, and Sam grins. “Dude, I’m so glad you can’t go into some long, kinky explanation of why you like her lips.”
They continue their celebrity hot list until Sam’s eyes droop and he yawns. “Sorry, man,” he murmurs, and then smiles as the radio comes on and switches to a classical music station. “Softie.”
---
Sam jerks awake from a bizarre dream of a bikini-clad donut chasing him around a gas station.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to kick into gear and make sense of where and when and why, and when it does, he straightens up and checks the time.
Five minutes until eight.
Now that the moment of truth has arrived, his stomach turns over. What if the witch lied? What if the spell’s permanent? What if --
He shakes his head. The spell will end. Dean will come back. Everything will be fine.
Sam takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Dean. You awake, man?”
The windshield wipers swish once.
“Get any sleep?”
Another swish.
“Five minutes until showtime. You nervous?”
The pause before the windshield wipers swish twice -- No -- is just long enough for Sam to know that the answer’s really Yes.
“It’ll be fine, man. Don’t worry,” Sam says with more confidence than he feels.
He shifts his long body into the passenger side of the bench seat, figuring Dean will reappear in the same spot he left, behind the steering wheel.
And he does, gone one minute and back the next, like nothing ever happened. Relief washes over Sam as he surveys Dean and asks, “You all right?”
Forehead creased, Dean pats himself up and down, as if making sure everything’s still there -- he checks Dean Jr. first, surprise, surprise -- and then looks at Sam with a bemused smile. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “What a crazy-ass day.”
Sam nods, and lifts an eyebrow. “You remember everything?”
“Every last second.” Dean rolls his head side to side until a few pops sound. A slow, lazy grin appears. “Man, that car wash was hot.”
Sam snorts. “I think you mean ‘embarrassing.’”
“That chick in the purple bikini has freakin’ awesome hands. And what a rack,” Dean says, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “She was all over my hood, man. All wet and soapy.” His gaze drifts away, unfocused, and his grin becomes a leer. “Man, the things I could do to her.” A half sigh, half moan. “The things she could do to me.”
Dean bites his lower lip and releases another one of those noises.
Rolling his eyes, Sam shakes his head. Being a car obviously hasn’t affected Dean’s sex drive.
Dean’s leer morphs into a determined expression, and he turns to Sam. “Dude, after breakfast, we’re going back to that donut shop, see if that car wash is still there. And if it’s not, we’re driving around until we find another one.”
Sam groans.
It’s gonna be a long day.
---
End
March 2007
By iamstealthyone
Summary: Crack!fic. One minute, Dean’s sitting in the car, and the next, he is the car.
Timeline: Season one.
Characters: Dean and Sam.
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG-13 (Genfic.) A bit of cussing. Some sexual situations.
Word count: 2,600
Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Not making money off of them.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to swanseajill for a helpful, reassuring beta read, and for being patient with all of my last-minute tweaking. Your assistance is always so, so appreciated.
---
One minute, Dean’s sitting in the car, and the next, he is the car.
It’s a little bizarre, to say the least.
---
Eight hours earlier …
It’s midnight, and the TV’s low hum is barely distracting Sam from the squeaks, thumps, and moans in the adjacent motel room when Dean flings the door open, slams it, and stomps inside.
The lighting sucks, the only illumination from the TV screen, but Sam can still see Dean’s creased forehead, pursed lips, and rigidly set shoulders. He’s pissed. And frustrated. Which, considering how hard he was flirting with that redhead at the bar earlier, means only one thing.
Sam doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. “She just wasn’t that into you, huh?”
Stripping off his jacket and tossing it over a chair, Dean flops on his bed and crosses his arms over his chest. Scowls. “Dude, I had her. She was totally into me. Hell, she was all over me.”
“What happened?”
A huff. “She wanted to do it in the car.”
Sam stifles a laugh. Dean’s always been borderline psychotic about sex in the car. Using the Impala to reel a girl in is okay, but using it in place of a bed, or wall, or table, or floor, or chair, or park bench, or tree --
Sam shudders, trying not to think about the many places Dean claims to have done it.
The moans next door swell, the thumps become hard thuds, and Dean pounds a fist on the wall behind his bed. “Hey!” he shouts. “Keep it down over there!”
It’s gonna be a long night.
---
A few minutes later, Sam’s heard the whole story. The girl, Annette, was ready and willing right up until Dean refused to get horizontal in the car. In a split second, she went from horny to pissed, and left Dean in the car with Dean Jr. standing at attention.
Dean’s never handled sexual frustration well, and now is no exception.
“Stupid-ass Ab Roller,” Dean mutters, glaring at the infomercial. “Who the hell uses those things, anyway?”
Sighing, Sam fluffs his pillow.
Dean shoots him a dirty look. “Dude, do you have to do that?”
Sam’s brow furrows. “Do what? Fluff my pillow?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious?”
Dean’s eyes narrow to mere slits.
Huffing, Sam jerks a thumb toward the bathroom. “Maybe you and Dean Jr. should spend some quality time in the shower. Take the edge off. I promise I won’t listen.”
“Screw you.”
“Screw yourself.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Turning on his side, away from Dean, Sam grinds his teeth together and silently curses horny brothers and the women who shun them.
---
Happily, eight in the morning finds both of them with a halfway decent night’s rest, because Dean can only stay pissy for so long before two-and-a-half beers and three back-to-back hunts drive him into sleep.
They shower, dress, and head outside, Sam sighing contentedly as a fall breeze musses his hair. They have no plans, other than food and R&R. Days like this have been few and far between lately, and he’s glad to have some down time.
Once inside the car, Dean slides the key into the ignition and starts the engine, only to still as two women approach him.
Sam recognizes one of them as Annette, her curly red hair tucked behind her ears, full, pink lips in pout mode. The other woman is tall and reedy, with long, black hair knotted high on her head. Her blue eyes are narrowed and flashing.
Dean rolls his window down, expression wary. “Annette? What’s up?”
The other woman crosses her arms over her chest. “This him?”
Annette nods.
Lips curling in obvious disgust, the woman shakes her head. “Boys and their toys.”
She mutters something softly, waves a hand in the air, and Dean disappears.
Sam blinks. Looks at the smugly smiling women. Blinks again. Looks back at the empty space where Dean should be.
“What the hell did you do with my brother?”
The tall woman shrugs a shoulder. “Made him one with the car. He should like that, seeing how he loves the damned thing so much.” She smiles wryly. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back to normal in twenty-four hours.”
She waves her hand, and both women vanish.
“Well,” Sam mutters. “This sucks out loud.”
The engine growls loudly in response.
---
Sam rushes back into the motel, witch and spell and holy crap careening through his mind.
After consulting Dad’s journal and some online sites, he calls Bobby. Everything leads to the same conclusion. While it’s possible to break the spell on their own, they need to know the exact words Annette’s friend used, and neither of them does. Their best bet is to find the witch and get her to change Dean back.
So Sam starts the car and heads toward the bar where Dean met Annette, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s sitting on -- in -- his brother. It’s quiet for a while, no sound at all but the engine’s low rumble.
Sam chews his thumb. “I guess we should figure out a way to communicate. Like … honk once for yes and twice for no?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Too noisy. How about … make the windshield wipers go back and forth once for yes, and twice for no?”
A long pause, and then the windshield wipers swish back and forth. Four times.
Sam huffs. “Dude, are you being a smartass?”
Another pause, and then the wipers slowly move back and forth twice: No.
Features softening, Sam smiles sympathetically. “Kind of hard to figure out how to make things work, huh?”
One swish of agreement.
Sam nods. This is so not one of their better days.
---
Pulling into Bar None, Sam parks the car and pats the steering wheel. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The bar’s closed, but Sam peers through a window and spots a heavyset, balding man in his fifties sweeping the floor, and convinces him to come out and answer a few questions. The man, who turns out to be the owner, remembers Annette.
“Seemed like a nice girl,” he says, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “Came in every day this week. Said she’d be heading out of town this morning.”
Sam describes Annette’s friend, but the manager doesn’t remember her.
Figuring both women were just passing through town, Sam heads back to the motel room and grabs a phone book. He calls nearby motels and hotels, but nobody recognizes his description of either Annette or her friend.
So much for tracking them down and making the witch reverse the spell.
As Sam sits in the car and stews over their predicament, trying to figure out how to give Dean the bad news, Metallica starts playing. Dean’s apparently figured out how to work the cassette deck.
“Dean … ” Sam sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t find Annette or her friend at any of the motels. It … It looks like you’re a car until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
A series of short, angry honks blast through the air, startling several birds out of nearby trees.
Sam winces. “Sorry, man. You know if I could fix this, I would.”
A pause, and then the windshield wipers swish once, a slow drag back and forth, and Sam consolingly pats the steering wheel.
---
At lunchtime, Sam pulls into McDonald’s, fighting a losing battle with the cassette deck’s volume. It blares until he places his order, and resumes as soon as he’s finished paying. He tries not to yell at Dean, because being a car must suck, but it’s hard to keep his cool.
As he sits in the parked car, scarfing down a quarter pounder with cheese, no onion, the windshield wipers rapidly swish back and forth, hard squeaks on glass making the hairs on his neck stand up.
Sam can’t take it anymore.
“Dude, what is your problem?” he yells over the music.
The music turns off, and then the car lurches forward. Sam grabs the steering wheel with one hand and slams on the brakes, but they’re quickly moving again, lunging toward the parking lot’s exit.
“Dean, what the hell!” Sam tosses his burger back into the paper bag and tries to regain control of the car.
The Impala just keeps going, up the street and into a gas station, where it pulls up to a pump and stops, engine growling before it shuts off. It’s then that Sam notices the fuel gauge is nearly on empty.
“Oh.” Ducking his head, Sam smiles sheepishly. “You’re hungry, too, aren’t you? Sorry, man. I didn’t even think … I forgot we were almost out of gas.”
Taking a quick bite of burger and washing it down with a gulp of Coke, he gets out of the car and starts filling the tank.
The engine purrs softly to life for a moment and then subsides.
Sam grins. “You’re welcome.”
---
Sam spends the afternoon driving around town, Metallica playing at a decent level so long as he goes five miles over the speed limit. Dean takes control of the car only once, pulling into a charity car wash set up at a donut shop and overseen by a cluster of sorority girls.
Sam groans. “Dean, seriously?”
One emphatic back-and-forth of the windshield wipers, and Sam can almost hear the Hell, yeah!
“Dude, you’re such a slut,” Sam says, shaking his head as he rolls down the window. He donates $10 to a busty blonde wearing a purple bikini that shows off tanned, toned skin.
“Thanks!” she practically chirps. “We need you to stay in the car while we wash it, okay? Liability reasons. Don’t want to get blamed for any fender benders, you know.”
Sam smiles. “No problem.”
“You can park over there,” she says, using a long, slender finger to point to a space off to his left.
Nodding, he rolls up the window, heads where indicated, and parks the car.
No sooner does he turn off the engine than a swarm of sorority girls descend with buckets of soapy water and hand towels. They lean over and up against doors and hood and trunk, pressing flesh on metal and glass, and start washing.
It takes less than a minute before the car starts gently rocking, and Sam’s sure it’s Dean, not the girls, making that happen. Soon after, the windshield wipers begin swishing back and forth, squeaking so loud and moving so hard Sam thinks they’re gonna fly off.
God, Dean’s having a freaking cargasm.
So, so awkward.
With a tense, sheepish smile at the girls shooting him strange looks, Sam hisses, “Dude, stop! You’re making a scene!”
Mercifully, the car stills and quiets.
Rolling the window down, Sam shrugs at the girl in the purple bikini. “Sorry about that. I really need to get those windshield wipers fixed.”
She smiles, looking a bit unsure, and waits for him to roll the window back up before returning to running a towel over the hood.
The windshield wipers perk up a few inches, practically vibrating.
“Dean!”
And then fall back down.
---
Sam hits yet another fast-food restaurant for dinner, and again eats in the car. Dean doesn’t protest this time.
“Pretty good day, considering,” Sam notes.
The windshield wipers swish back and forth once in agreement.
Smiling, Sam checks his watch. “Thirteen more hours, and you should be back to normal.” He clears his throat. “I was thinking … If you want me to leave you alone the rest of the night so you can get some sleep, I can do that. Or … I could keep you company.”
He feels idiotic, like he’s asking permission to sleep in Dean’s bed. Which he kind of is. And holy crap, that’s weird. Still …
He doesn’t feel right leaving Dean alone all night.
Sam clears his throat again. “So, uh … Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
A very, very long pause, long enough that Sam wonders if Dean’s actually fallen asleep, and then the windshield wipers swish back and forth once.
Smiling softly, Sam nods. “Okay,” he says, and leaves it at that, because even as a car, Dean would hate if he turned this into a Hallmark moment.
---
The hours pass, and Sam gets more than a few weird looks from the motel’s elderly night manager, who glances up every so often from the front desk of the office.
“Probably thinks we had a lover’s quarrel,” Sam muses at around ten o’clock, resting his head on the seat. “Anyway … Where was I?” His brow furrows, and then relaxes. “Oh yeah. Jennifer Aniston, or Angelina Jolie? I’m guessing Angelina.”
The windshield wipers swish once.
“It’s the lips, isn’t it?”
Another swish, and Sam grins. “Dude, I’m so glad you can’t go into some long, kinky explanation of why you like her lips.”
They continue their celebrity hot list until Sam’s eyes droop and he yawns. “Sorry, man,” he murmurs, and then smiles as the radio comes on and switches to a classical music station. “Softie.”
---
Sam jerks awake from a bizarre dream of a bikini-clad donut chasing him around a gas station.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to kick into gear and make sense of where and when and why, and when it does, he straightens up and checks the time.
Five minutes until eight.
Now that the moment of truth has arrived, his stomach turns over. What if the witch lied? What if the spell’s permanent? What if --
He shakes his head. The spell will end. Dean will come back. Everything will be fine.
Sam takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Dean. You awake, man?”
The windshield wipers swish once.
“Get any sleep?”
Another swish.
“Five minutes until showtime. You nervous?”
The pause before the windshield wipers swish twice -- No -- is just long enough for Sam to know that the answer’s really Yes.
“It’ll be fine, man. Don’t worry,” Sam says with more confidence than he feels.
He shifts his long body into the passenger side of the bench seat, figuring Dean will reappear in the same spot he left, behind the steering wheel.
And he does, gone one minute and back the next, like nothing ever happened. Relief washes over Sam as he surveys Dean and asks, “You all right?”
Forehead creased, Dean pats himself up and down, as if making sure everything’s still there -- he checks Dean Jr. first, surprise, surprise -- and then looks at Sam with a bemused smile. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “What a crazy-ass day.”
Sam nods, and lifts an eyebrow. “You remember everything?”
“Every last second.” Dean rolls his head side to side until a few pops sound. A slow, lazy grin appears. “Man, that car wash was hot.”
Sam snorts. “I think you mean ‘embarrassing.’”
“That chick in the purple bikini has freakin’ awesome hands. And what a rack,” Dean says, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “She was all over my hood, man. All wet and soapy.” His gaze drifts away, unfocused, and his grin becomes a leer. “Man, the things I could do to her.” A half sigh, half moan. “The things she could do to me.”
Dean bites his lower lip and releases another one of those noises.
Rolling his eyes, Sam shakes his head. Being a car obviously hasn’t affected Dean’s sex drive.
Dean’s leer morphs into a determined expression, and he turns to Sam. “Dude, after breakfast, we’re going back to that donut shop, see if that car wash is still there. And if it’s not, we’re driving around until we find another one.”
Sam groans.
It’s gonna be a long day.
---
End
March 2007