They'd been sitting in the car for most of the day, waiting for the people currently occupying the haunted house to clear out. It was warm, steamy even in the greenhouse environment of the car.
Dean had sprawled against the driver's side door, half-turned towards Sam, his left arm following the bottom edge of the window, pressed against the glass. Most of his right leg was drawn up on the seat; at first he'd been jiggling his foot, but now he sat still, like a lion in the grass waiting for prey.
Occasionally Dean would get bored with the music and reach a slow hand out to the radio, and the Impala would find something else. The third time it happened, Sam realized that she was decreasing the volume with every shift, but he wasn't going to do anything to clue Dean in about it. The hunt before this one had been brutal, and then they'd had to get out just ahead of the cops; Dean had driven them through the night to get here.
They'd cracked the windows, but the bottom edges were still fogged, reminding Sam of shuttered eyelids. The pastrami sandwich from lunch sat heavily in his stomach.
He wasn't sure when he'd drifted off, but when the buzz of his phone woke him, the light coming through the windows was the honey-gold of late afternoon. He grabbed for the phone, opening his eyes, and realized that Dean was gone.
"Dean?" he said into the phone, confused. How could he have missed Dean leaving?
"Hey, Sammy," Dean said cheerfully. "Come on inside."
"You went in without me?" Sam asked, even more bewildered, struggling to open the passenger-side door.
"I've got someone here who wants to talk to you," Dean continued as if Sam hadn't spoken. Sam knew he should have been freaking out, but he was fuzzy with sleep. Still, he went to the trunk to retrieve the new Colt, because tired and stupid were not the same. The light outside was too bright in his eyes, turning the world into blurs of color, nothing clear except the path up to the house.
The door opened easily, and he stepped inside.
The furniture they'd seen through the windows earlier was gone; the house was empty. Gleaming hardwood floors stretched to both sides of the foyer. The air was thick, the heat slowing his blood to molasses.
"Up here, Sam," Dean's voice came down the stairs.
Clearly this was not real, for usual values of real. And it didn't feel like a vision; for one thing, there was a distinct absence of blood.
The upstairs hall was as bare as the downstairs, just a white corridor with a dark door at the end.
Sam entered, gun held loosely at his side. Dean was sitting on a chair, and on top of him, rubbing against him, was a woman. Dean was stripped to his boxers, his hands gripping her upper arms with the care and precision he brought to gun care, kissing her for all she was worth. He pulled away from her mouth just far enough to call out, "'lo!" as if this were all perfectly normal.
Sam stared at them, perplexed.
The woman swung one leg off Dean and stood to face him. She was stunning, with shaggy dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, messy bangs, carefully shaped eyebrows, serious eyeliner, a long straight nose, and wide, lush lips. She was wearing a black muscle T-shirt that revealed Sarah-Connor-in-T2 arms and black cargo pants, but no shoes.
"Sam!" she said, with evident joy. "Isn't this place awesome?"
The only other thing in the room, other than the chair that had held Dean and the woman, was a bed so large it could have doubled as a helicopter landing pad. The cover was black satin, the headboard a slab covered in black leather.
Dean stood and slung his arm around the woman, who looked up at him with such adoration that Sam wanted to yell at her for feeding Dean's already overlarge ego. Dean appeared perfectly content to stand there, half-naked, and drape himself over this stranger. Okay, that wasn't out of character or anything, but—
"This is a dream, Sammy," Dean said patiently, "and this is Baby."
Now, if anyone in waking life had ever asked Sam what the Impala would look like as a person, he would have said 'a six-foot-tall Amazon with pouty lips and sun-bleached hair,' but apparently his subconscious mind had other ideas. He blinked at her.
"Genie," she corrected, smiling at Sam. "Sam calls me Genie."
Nobody else knew about the Genie thing—the Impala certainly wasn't talking—and his remaining suspicions dissolved into calmness. He looked down sheepishly at the Colt still gripped in his fingers.
Dean rolled his eyes and waved his hand at the gun, which promptly disappeared. "So Baby and I got here—" they grinned at each other, wide and stupid, "and she said, such a big bed, seems a shame to leave it empty."
"That's great," he said slowly. There were reasons his unconscious would choose to show him this scenario, he supposed, but he'd really thought he was over all that. Then again, he still occasionally had exam anxiety dreams. And, yes, he felt guilty about what he'd been willing to do to the Impala. He'd been training himself to think of her as Dean's 'Baby,' no matter that he couldn't force himself to say such a stupid-sounding thing out loud, and the fact that she called herself 'Genie' in a dream where she had Dean was evidence that Sam hadn't finished atoning to her.
"So what now?" he asked.
Instantly, the Impala was holding a piece of equipment—Sam blinked at it for a moment, trying to place it among their arsenal, but then realized it was a strap-on harness. "I want to do Dean while he sucks you," the Impala said, tossing her head.
"What?" Sam asked, stupidly. He'd been expecting ... well, not that. Sure, maybe he had thought about watching Dean with a girl. But watching was a pretty important word there.
Dean strolled over towards him, leaving the Impala standing by the chair. "I should've known you'd be vanilla, even in a dream," Dean said, his amused contempt as grating as ever.
"Dude!" Sam snapped back. "I fucked your body eleven times when you were in the Impala. I'm pretty sure whatever flavor that is, it's not in the first thirty-one."
Dean's lips moved, obviously running the numbers in his head, and then he gave Sam a 'not bad!' moue/eyebrow raise combination. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
As a dream, it was a representation of something else.
"Okay," he said.
The Impala clapped her hands happily. "Great! Dean, help him get his clothes off."
Dean looked back over his shoulder at the Impala, who was stripping off her shirt—that stopped them both from talking for a minute. Her breasts were generous and firm, with large dark nipples. Sam could see some of the binding runes, darker than her skin, on her flat belly. She tossed her shirt on the floor and winked.
"Take a look at those headlights," Dean said in awe, and Sam punched him in the shoulder. "What?"
The Impala put her hands on her hips. "I'm waiting ...." she said warningly.
He glanced at Dean, raising an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have thought you liked them so pushy."
"Uh, right—" Dean cleared his throat. "Pushy is awesome, Sam. See what you want, say what you want, have what you want." His hands started working at the buttons of Sam's shirt.
"Yeah, you're so good at that." Impressive how dream-Dean had the same illusions about himself that real Dean did.
Dean stopped moving, his hands still tangled in Sam's shirt. "Has to be something you can actually have before it works," he said without looking up.
"No, no," the Impala called out from across the room. "Stop talking."
Sam could feel Dean's grin even though Dean's head was still bowed. He shrugged his shirt off while Dean undid his belt. When Dean knelt to unlace his boots, he was caught by the sight of the tattoos on Dean's back, symbols of power inked in black and red and green, matching the ones he wore. They were moving slowly, turning a circle on Dean's back like a constellation map at a planetarium, which in a non-dream-state would have been freaky but now Sam just found fascinating.
He stepped obediently out of his boots and socks, kicking off his puddled-up jeans and shorts at the same time. Then he got onto the bed, which was awkward just because of how big it was, and tried to position himself near the center, his back against the warm leather of the headboard. When he finished they were both watching him, the Impala with glazed eyes and an open mouth and Dean with an expression harder to place. Sam looked down, then closed his eyes.
"Sam," Dean said. Sam felt the mattress move a little as Dean climbed on and made his way to Sam. He sat down cross-legged, his knee just brushing Sam's thigh, then waited for Sam to meet his eyes. "C'mon, it's just a dream. Here," he made a writing motion in the air, "a note for teacher, or God or whoever."
"Get started, guys," the Impala called, her voice tinged with an impatience doubtless learned from Dean.
Sam reached out and caught Dean's wrist before Dean could move, and pulled until Dean brought his mouth to Sam's. He tasted like cherries and rye.
When Dean broke the kiss, he was naked—another benefit of dream logic—and he pushed Sam's legs apart, positioning himself between them. He looked up at Sam, a mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Don't you have even a little—I don't know, hesitation, angst, about this?" Sam asked, sounding plaintive even to himself.
"Speak English," Dean chided. "And if you can't do what you want in a dream, what the hell are they for? Anyway it's not like you're in charge, not really. I had this one dream where Dad—"
"Stop!" Sam squawked. Of course Dean occupied the role of Sam's id; how could he have thought otherwise? Dean smirked at him, then lowered his head to Sam's already-hardening cock. It was wet heat, pressure, total immersion, and it took him from zero to sixty faster than should have been possible.
Dean stopped moving, and Sam came back to himself enough to notice that the Impala was now behind Dean, her hand moving against his ass. Dean's mouth slackened, still as hot and wet as a sauna, but now panting on him more than sucking, tongue just a tease. If this was his goddamned dream—Sam put his hand on the back of Dean's neck, right against the prickly hairs at his nape. He pushed until Dean got the point and resumed sucking on him, and Christ—Dean had once boasted that he could probably bench-press a girl with his tongue, and Sam's unconscious had clearly taken that to heart. Sam's fingers fell away as every nerve in him felt like it was migrating to his dick. Under the slick of Dean's saliva, he felt the slight roughness of Dean's tongue, the blood-heat of him.
He forced his eyes open again so that he could watch. The Impala had—Jesus, all four of her fingers were inside Dean; Sam could see her thumb, pressed against the upper curve of Dean's asscheek, denting the skin.
Sam groaned and tried to sit up straighter to get a better look. The Impala's strap-on was black rubber, shaped like a cock, flared head and ridges like veins, curving up towards her stomach. It even had heavy balls, looking as thick and smooth as the rest of it. Sam swallowed, his mouth dry.
She pulled her fingers out, causing Dean to make a noise deep in his throat that went through Sam like electricity. He grabbed desperately at the base of his cock to keep from coming right then. The Impala tugged at Dean's hips, forcing his ass further into the air, and Dean's mouth slid off him a few inches. Sam whimpered, but the view almost made up for it: the taut curve of Dean's spine, his arms straining to hold himself in place, the heavy muscles of his quads visible on either side of his body as he spread for her.
Dean yelled, coming completely off Sam's cock, when she pushed the head in.
Her head snapped back, her eyes closed, as she worked it in, circling her hips as she went. Sam was guessing that it was double-headed by the noises she was making. He clamped his hands on his own thighs to keep himself from interfering too soon.
She braced one hand on Dean's back, her palm skidding on his skin until she dug her nails in, and used the other to cup one breast, squeezing herself almost viciously. Dean shook underneath her as if straining at an invisible leash. Sam could smell them, like hot bread and sea salt, every breath of them searing his lungs.
At last her hips were flush with Dean's ass, and they started moving together. The runes on Dean's back were moving faster now, flowing under the skin as if they were being pushed by a current, the colors deepening every time they passed under the Impala's stabilizing hand. The muscles on Dean's arms stood out, shiny with sweat, and his eyes were open but unseeing.
The Impala groaned and shuddered, her motions slowing to nothing, and then resumed fucking Dean.
And here he was with his dick in his hand. He thought about bringing himself off on Dean's face, and then almost did involuntarily, but that wasn't what he'd been asked to do.
"A little help here," Sam rasped, because Dean seemed to have forgotten about the Impala's eminently reasonable request. Dean blinked a few times, then lowered his mouth again, taking as much he could and still keep up his rhythm with the Impala. The halfway suction felt amazing, and frustrating, and even when Sam snapped his hips up he couldn't quite get what he needed. He whimpered, just a little, and was treated to the sight of Dean frowning in thought while still sucking his cock.
Thank God for all those one-armed push-ups; Dean bunched his shoulders, put his weight on one arm, and brought his other hand up to wrap around the base of Sam's cock, covering what his mouth couldn't reach and giving him just the right amount of pressure. It was like getting punched up through another level of heaven. Sam felt his eyes roll back with pleasure. The Impala's thrusts rocked through Dean, pushing him further onto Sam.
Coming was like an avalanche, a roil of sensation so intense that he was momentarily afraid of the old die-in-a-dream legend.
Dean kept sucking, come leaking over his knuckles, until Sam gasped and pushed him away. Right after, with perfect timing, the Impala cried out again, and slowly pulled out of Dean while he stayed braced on both hands, his face inches from Sam's stomach.
"Please," Dean said, turning his face up. His pupils were blown so wide that Sam could see his face reflected in the black, with the strange detail of dreams. "Please, I wanna—"
The Impala, completely naked, threw herself down beside them, her breasts bouncing in the corner of Sam's vision. "Fuck me, fuck me now."
"God yes," Dean breathed, and clambered over Sam's sex-heavy limbs. He wrenched the Impala's arms over her head, holding them at the wrists, and fucked into her unhesitatingly, his hips moving like an oil rig working in the desert. Sam noticed that the Impala's underarms weren't shaved, which he guessed said something about his psyche, though he wasn't sure what that was.
Dean with the Impala was more what he'd expected from this scenario.
He could smell them, everything familiar—sweat, leather, road dust, the faint sweetness of girl-come swirled over Dean's skin—and yet completely new because, if he wanted, he could just lean over and put his tongue—
He pushed himself a foot or so away from them to get a better view—why the hell not?—and was well rewarded for it. The Impala's skin was sun-kissed, the color of the very best kind of diner pancakes, a long line of smooth girl-flesh from the tips of her fingers to her curled toes. She stretched out under Dean, one knee up so that her inner thigh pressed against Dean's hip.
Dean—Dean was rutting into her, almost frenzied, the muscles of his ass clenched, his shoulders tight, his head bowed so that his forehead touched her shoulder. Dean had a farmer's tan, white skin turned brown at a line across his biceps, darker on his left arm of course. Compared to her all-over glow, the paleness of Dean's shoulders was like a shared secret.
Sam wasn't sure who started it, but all of a sudden the Impala was repeating "I love you," again and again. Every time, Dean would thrust into her so hard the bed shook, then grit out, "Say it." It sounded like an order, except that Sam knew him.
And yeah, he could be okay with this. Freud said anxiety dreams were really reassurances, the subconscious reminding itself that you didn't ever really go to class naked. Looking at it in the most coldly selfish way, this was only a metaphor. He'd made his peace with the fact of the Impala's soul, but she still wasn't a person.
They kept going, Dean's voice sounding almost pained.
With a sudden jump-cut, the Impala had turned her head to Sam. "Help me," she said, breathless. "It doesn't work without you."
He stared for a second, and then felt a surge of tenderness towards the version of Dean he kept in his head. "I love you," he said, not quite in time with the Impala, and Dean's whole body shuddered.
Like that, he knew how the dream ended. He rolled back towards them, getting to his knees. By the time he had settled himself between their legs, he was hard again.
Dean was still slick from whatever the Impala had used, or it was just the dream, taking care of logistics, because he slid ruthlessly in and the only sounds Dean made were gasps of pleasure. He was fever-hot around Sam's cock. Sam groaned and put his hands down on Dean's ass, not quite a slap, spreading his fingers to squeeze as much as he could, feeling the flushed and humid skin over the solid muscle.
Watching the slide of his cock framed by his hands on Dean's ass was almost unbearably hot, and he didn't want to come instantly—even dream-Dean would make fun of him for that—so he dragged his gaze upwards.
When he'd thought about it—not that he had thought about it—he'd assumed that the tattoos made them look, if not unattractive, at least more specialized in their appeal. That might still be true, but if so he was a specialist. Dean's back was as sleek and muscled as a mountain lion's. The tattoos swirled like a hurricane seen from space, the colors fierce and proud.
Sam was the one setting the pace now, experimenting with the way that short sharp thrusts made Dean curse and clench his hands and long slow moves pushed him right into the Impala, as if his knees couldn't hold him up when Sam moved like that. Fucking this way was a little more difficult, remembering to keep his weight off of them, fighting for a consistent rhythm, but they got there. It was like the way they were hunting, parts of a single, greater machine, responding to each other's moves like the left hand responds to the right.
He looked down and saw that Dean had laced his hands with the Impala's, her fingertips pressing into the backs of his hands.
My dream, Sam thought, and covered their joined fists with his hands, feeling the scrape of her fingernails and Dean's sun-roughened skin.
"I love you," Sam choked out, right before he came for the second time. Just as he collapsed onto them, Dean sobbed out garbled words of his own and clenched around him.
Sam was aware of several things at once: He was awake. He was sitting in the passenger seat. His back hurt. And he'd come in his pants, possibly more than once.
Beside him, Dean was blinking as well, with a similar you're kidding me look on his face.
"Whoa," he said, with his usual bluster when he was embarrassed. "I just had a hell of a—"
If the look on Sam's face could repress Dean, that meant that Dean was even more freaked than Sam had thought. "In the house?" Sam asked, because sometimes you were headed off a cliff even if you managed to hit the brakes near the end, in which case there was little point in false bravado.
They looked at each other, then simultaneously swiveled their heads to stare straight forward. Dean flexed his hands on the wheel.
"I think it was the binding runes," Sam said at last. "In the dream, they were moving, and this is the first time we've both fallen asleep in the car at the same time. The binding, uh, brought us together. Psychically, on a psychic level," he added quickly, and found nothing else to say.
After a while, Dean cleared his throat. "So whose dream was that?"
There was a pause, and then both turn signals came on at once, blinking in and out on the dash.
Sam stared down at his hands; he could only presume that Dean was doing the same thing.
"Let's, ah, find a motel," Dean suggested quickly.
"Yeah," Sam agreed, his voice sounding strangled in his own ears.
But as they were driving—which couldn't have been much fun for Dean; it was uncomfortable enough just sitting there—Sam thought back over what dream-Dean had said. Well, gasped, anyway.
"You know, Dean," he said slowly, keeping his face blank. "It's okay if you want me to say it more often."
"What?" Dean asked distractedly. Then: "Oh, no, no, that is not fair!"
Sam allowed himself the grin, which stayed on his face for a while. If Dean was going to infuriate and terrify Sam with his bottomless need for the rest of their lives—which were going to be long and productive, thank you—Sam was damned well going to make him own it.
"'Genie'?" Dean asked, after another five minutes had passed. "What, Baby's not good enough for you?"
Sam put his hand on the dash. "Baby is just fine by me."
They pulled into the parking lot of the first motel they found. "You go check in," Sam ordered.
"Why me?" Dean bitched.
"'cause you can pull your jacket down," he bitched right back.
Dean glanced down at Sam's lap and gave a bark of laughter. "Told you you'd regret growing so much."
"Just go," he said, and Dean did, walking a little oddly towards the rental office.
When he saw Dean returning, he went to get their bags out of the trunk. "I call first shower," he said before Dean could.
"No way!" Dean protested, grabbing his bag out of Sam's hand. "I just spent five minutes getting that frigging key, making small talk with a seriously skanky guy who kept sniffing at me. I'm traumatized."
"Traveling rules, Dean." He didn't point out that, last week, Dean had insisted on that rule when Sam had been covered in mud and Dean had only had a splotch on his jeans from where Sam had kicked him for laughing.
"Sammy—" Dean whined.
There was a clicking sound from the car. Sam looked down to see that once again, both turn signals were on.
They looked at each other, frozen. Then Dean shrugged and started towards their room.
Sam stayed a second, then tapped her gently on the trunk and followed.