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Dean sighed as he parked the Impala in the middle of a deserted cornfield. Kansas, thankfully, was bountiful in the amounts of farmland it had, and this cornfield was far enough from civilization, plus the roads, that what he’ll be doing won’t be seen too much. The harvest is done for the year, and the fall chill’s about to set in, heralding winter, but Dean knew that the farmers won’t lay down the new seeds until spring. And even though he’s going to be cold as the Impala will barely be on, he knows that not only will he warm up quickly, but he can’t do this in a warmer place, such as the bunker’s garage. Too many close calls for what he’s about to do.
He popped in a fresh cassette into the player and “Kashmir” started playing. He reached across the leather seats and popped open the glove box. Rummaging around, he found the bottle of lubricant he had stashed in there this morning before breakfast. He leaned back and undid his belt, eyeing the shiny steering wheel in front of him.
He’s not sure why he has this obsession with the car. He’s always had it, ever since he was a young boy. Maybe it’s because after his own mother died, it was the closest thing to a mother figure he had. Baby had kept them warm, kept the safe. It was a place to make sure that Sammy was safe and where he could run to when he was in trouble. He was thrilled when John gave him the car to hunt with. It wasn’t long after that that he got off in her, to her, rutting against the leather seats in the back until he came. The clean up was a bitch but it was worth it.
Besides, it’s not like Sam could say anything. Dean’s walked in enough times on Sam’s crazy ass sex to know that his baby brother wasn’t exactly. . . normal in the sack either- especially after the whole Ruby thing.
Dean’s hips have started protesting using the seats to get off. This old age thing sucked, he thought, but now he had a better alternative.
He lubed up his cock once it was out, hissing as he leaned his head back against the leather, groaning in need. The cold leather against his skin felt great, electrifying his neurons and he made sure his cock was covered in plenty of lube before sitting up slightly. He leaned forward and placed his cock on the steering wheel. Slowly, he began to rock back and forth, groaning. He had placed it right up against the leather and close enough to one of the metal parts of the wheel that it provided that edge of adrenaline that he needed to get off.
“Fuck, Baby, you feel so good,” he groaned as the thudding bass played through the Impala’s speakers. It was just loud enough that he couldn’t hear much, yet wouldn’t disturb anyone and he could hear people approaching the car if need be.
The Impala sat there, impassive as always, and yet it was a comforting impassiveness, as if the car understood somehow what Dean needed. He clung to the steering wheel as he rocked his hips back and forth, gasping. The denim strained against his thighs and he ran his hands around the wheel and up and down the column.
Leather, denim, motor oil. The crispness of fall, the tabooness of making love to his car (not fucking, because she’s a lady and deserves to be treated as such). Memories of growing up with her, of fucking her seats, of fucking in her. She was a perfect lady. She never got jealous of Dean needed the taste of flesh instead of leather; she understood if other people needed to ride in her (or fuck in her). And moreover, she knew Dean would always take care of her. Clean her up, tell her how beautiful she is. He’s rebuilt her from the ground up more times than he cared to admit. Everything about that car was perfect, and Dean knew her more intimately than he could ever know a woman.
Robert Plant was crooning over the speakers, during the song he thought would get him laid as a teenager and as a young twenty something. Hell, it’d probably get him laid now. It was getting him laid now, and his pace quickened as he fucked the steering wheel of the only car he’s ever cared to know, of his home, of his first love. Of Baby the Impala.
He cried out as he came all over her steering column, the steering wheel. It was wordless passion, and she seemed to understand as he slumped back in the driver’s seat, panting heavily. He ran his hand over the top of the steering wheel, patting it fondly after a time.
“Thanks, Baby,” he murmured.
The car remained silent, “Kashmir” fading into the background as Dean set to work cleaning the column and the wheel with the tissues he had packed.
Later in the week, he’ll give her leather a good cleaning, make sure that there weren’t too many suspicious stains. He’ll wash her exterior and her interior, maybe wax her if he was feeling ambitious and maybe. . . maybe he’ll give the seatbelts a try before then.