Prompt: #177 - Dean/Car. No, I don't mean sex with the tailpipe, I'm thinking more along the lines of Dean waxing his car, getting turned on, and jerking off.
Rating: R, for mentions of m/f and m/m sex, and male masturbation.
Notes: Information on car care from here, because I honestly don't know that much about it. But I just stayed up half the night because I wanted to get this thing written. *sigh* And I thought SPN might become my gen fandom.
Dean gave it serious thought, but in the end, he didn't take his car into the cheerleaders-fundraising-bikini-clad-car
Instead, he set her up in the back corner of the motel parking lot, borrowed a bucket from the cleaning lady (fifty if she's a day, but with just a wink and a smile she's putty in Dean's hands) and rummaged in the backseat footwell for the car care kit Sam gave him years before - for his nineteenth birthday, maybe? - and the new drying towel he'd picked up at a garage in town. He'd had to replace the car shampoo a few times, and the original mitt was destroyed long ago while disposing of acidic demonic remnants, and if he'd thought about it, Dean might have realised that nothing there had been part of the present he had received, but, whatever.
He tossed his jacket into the driver's seat - and both of them could use a little leather conditioner - and rolled up the sleeves of the old flannel shirt he kept for doing this - it wasn't exactly stylish, but there was enough of a chill standing in the shadows that he'd rather not strip to his tank.
It was like a ritual, dousing and washing and rinsing and moving on to another section, yet another thing that he'd learned from his father without really paying attention, and he relaxed as he got into it, let himself forget that he was out on his own with nobody watching his back and a comparatively small arsenal in his trunk. He could just be another guy, looking after his pride and joy, losing himself in the movement, the stretch and return, and letting himself sprawl across the hood for a moment or two just because it feels good.
The side-panels were harder work, covered in splash-back from the muddy track Dean had sped along in pursuit of an idiot warlock in an old Ford Escort, of all things, and by the time they were clean, the muscles in Dean's thighs were burning from the crouch, but it didn't feel bad. It just felt like work, like he'd been sparring or - he bounced on his toes a little - fucking some girl up against a wall. That was a pleasant thought, and maybe something like a plan for the evening.
He went to his knees to deal with the hubcaps, rubbed them down and polished them until they shone like new chrome even though they were old steel. The tires were fine, though, and the rasp of asphalt through his jeans might have brought back memories but they weren't all good ones. Some of them, sure, but not all. So Dean got up off the ground and dried the sheen of water off his car with lazy swipes of the towel, soft and easy and slow like sliding a nice girl's shirt off her shoulders.
There was a vending machine just outside the office, and Dean had to go over there to return the bucket anyway, so he fed all the change he had in his pocket into the machine in exchange for a can of Coke and a packet of nuts. He would have to eat proper food at some point, but that could wait until he was done.
The waxing was always his favorite part, scooping the paste onto his fingers and gently working it in, building up another layer of gloss on his baby so she shone like something eerie in the moonlight. Closed fingers, a gentle back-and-forth that he'd once found himself using on a girl's thigh, and rhythm that followed the backbeat to whatever song was playing in his head at that moment in time.
At the end of each section, he shucked his shirt and used it to buff off the little excess wax, shirt carefully bundled so the buttons were covered and nothing would scratch the finish. It was just as well he didn't use anything fancy with his laundry; he'd heard things about dryer towels and nasty streaking.
He was surprised to see how far down the sun had gone when he turned to the hood - last section, stretching out again after the cramping of working on the doors, spreading his legs a little to relieve his thighs and bracing himself with one hand when he reached up to just below the windshield. It was slow, and good, and Dean only realised that he was getting turned on when he caught himself pressing his hips forward against his car.
He was in a great position to get fucked, he realised, and then he was definitely hard. Not that he would do something like that, because coming on the car would probably do horrible things to the finish, but as a fantasy, it was a good one. Back and forth and back and forth his fingers went with the wax, and he let his body rock a little to the same beat. Like a lazy second round, the sort of thing he didn't get to do on a regular basis, with his body lax and satisfied but not averse to getting some more. Forget the world, he decided. Oh, maybe he should go out and pick up a bit more cash and a girl if he was lucky, but there was nothing urgent about any of it and sometimes he got sick of all the stories he had to tell.
At least his car didn't expect any more from him than a wash and a wax once in a while.
He stripped off his shirt one last time, buffing and rebuffing with long smooth strokes, moving slightly awkwardly because of his hard-on; but he wasn't about to discourage it, was in fact thinking about just jumping inside his car and jerking off as soon as he was done with her outside.
Back to the hood, finally, and if someone tall-dark-and-handsome were to walk up behind him and grab his hips, he'd... well, actually he'd knock the bastard's teeth out, but in fantasy-land he'd just hump back against the guy's dick and ask what he was waiting for. Dean doesn't bottom often - doesn't do guys all that often - but when he does, he goes for it full-throttle. Picks someone who can make him feel physically small, be it in height or muscle. (The psychological angle is one he doesn't appreciate, because Dean is complicated, and he may always behave like the biggest guy in the room but he doesn't always believe it, which doesn't help matters at all.) Someone good-looking and maybe dangerous. Someone who'll fuck him so he's still feeling it a day or two later, and Dean could imagine it, humping against the smooth surface in front of him, hands sliding off to the sides as some guy thrusts inside him, and. OK.
He took one last swipe at the hood then dug the keys out of his pocket and opened her up. He let himself sprawl in the back seat, lie back with his shoulders against the far door and his knees up, and he's had a girl or five in this position but he's never been in it himself, and maybe he should change that at some point. But thinking of sweet Caroline and all the others just got him harder, so he unzipped his fly and took himself out, letting his head drop against the seat to inhale the scent of leather and rub his cheek against the fine grain.
It was good, comfortable; his Impala was his home, and his hand on his dick was familiar and practised, and really, what else did he need? He let his free hand drift up under his tank, rubbing over muscles with the same back-and-forth he used in waxing, and it was good.
He could think about the girls he's fucked here, or other ones, or guys he'd fucked, or that had fucked him, or any of the things that he had done, a list of memories that might make a porn star jealous, because Dean was young and good-looking and he took whatever came his way. He had an imagination, too, could think about getting fucked over the hood of his car or in the back seat, could think of those two pretty blondes twined together and kissing and inviting him to watch with their sultry glances, could pretend that Cassie was here with him about to join in.
But mostly, he just touched himself and let himself feel it, let himself feel good and aroused, let himself move with it so he ended up fucking into his hand, hips lifting off the seat in a fast grind, and it was good, and if he stripped a little further he'd look like something straight out of porn, a back-up plan that he's never quite resorted to yet because Dad would go apeshit, but Dean knew he looked good.
He knew that people would look at him like this and get weak in the knees, and somehow that was what tipped him over, stroking himself and imagining people looking at him and wanting, wanting to look and to touch, looking at this picture and jerking off themselves, and...
Dean came all over his tank, but it needed washed anyway.
He slouched down and relaxed. In a little while, he'd put himself together enough to go back to his room, and then he'd put on a clean shirt and go pick up some food, and then finally he'd go to bed and get a good night's sleep, but right then, he just relaxed, safely cradled inside his precious car.