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More Than Meets The Eye

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More Than Meets The Eye
by astolat

Dean had them heading towards Golden Valley on US-93 when the semi and the fighter jet went screaming by, blasting at each other with what looked like laserbeams. That was crazy enough, even before both of them smashed into the overpass and stopped long enough to unfold into giant robots.

Dean yelled "Holy fucking shit!" and fishtailed the Impala around madly to avoid the falling debris from the overpass, skidding to a stop on the shoulder. They just sat there and stared for a minute. There was a military convoy in the middle of the highway blasting frantically at a tank that was starting to unfold itself too, and meanwhile a little robot was scuttling madly across the pavement right towards them, with a big metal cube clutched over its—head, or whatever the fuck it was, it passed for a head.

"Stop it, stop it!" A kid in jeans and a t-shirt was screaming and running after it, and Dean figured that meant the little robot was one of the bad guys. He grabbed the Glock out of the glove compartment and rolled out of the car and fired, emptied the whole clip into the goddamn thing. It wobbled back with every shot and kept on coming, but then Sam was there next to him with the shotguns out of the trunk.

"Use these," Sam said, shoving a couple of the rock salt and cold consecrated iron rounds into his hands.

"Dude, salt?" Dean said, already loading them up.

"At least they're charmed!" Sam said. "The regular bullets aren't doing much good."

"Whatever." Dean gave the creepy little bastard both barrels right into the chest.

The salt shells burst and ignited against something in its innards, and the robot screamed shrill bloody murder and dropped the cube. It hit the ground and flashed, blue crackling shot of energy rippling out towards them like a wave. There wasn't time to do anything, not even brace themselves, and then it was pouring over them and through and gone, nothing left but blue sparks skittering over the Impala like bugs. Her engine revved about a thousand miles per hour, and the whole frame shuddered. "Goddammit, my car!" Dean said, dropping the shotgun, and lunged for the hood cover. Sam yelped and grabbed up the shotgun and started reloading while the evil robot clawed and thrashed around on the ground, trying to get itself back up.

Dean shoved up the hood, muttering, "Goddamn fucking robots—" and stared in sick horror: the blue sparks were everywhere, chasing each other through the wiring, all over the engine block.

Sam blasted the thrashing robot with the salt and iron again, green flames bursting out of its guts, and it finally went limp.

"Get away from the car!" the kid was yelling, waving his arms at them. He'd grabbed up the cube. "Get away—"

"Dean—" Sam said, looking back at him.

"Shut up!" Dean snarled at him furiously. He jerked off his jacket and wrapped his hand in it—maybe he could, whatever, interrupt the reaction, whatever it was doing. He yanked the primary lead from the coil, but what the fucking hell, the car didn't shut off; the engine only roared louder.

The yellow car—yellow robot now, whatever, was lumbering towards them, playing something that sounded like a line from COPS: "Step away from the vehicle, sir," and the kid with the cube had run up and grabbed Sam's arm. "Come on, seriously, guys, you do not want to be standing here, you don't get it, the car's going to—"

"I am not leaving her!" Dean said, trying frantically to beat the sparks away with his jacket. "Keep that thing away from her—come on, baby, it's gonna be all right—"

The engine coughed twice, made one long rumbling throat-clearing noise, and then the car said, "It's all right, Dean, I'm fine."

Dean paused. He looked at Sam, whose eyes were popping. "Uh, did you just—"

The yellow robot was reaching down for them, and all of a sudden the Impala backed up a few paces, smacked her hood down and her doors shut, and then she was unfolding rapidly and standing up and up and up, gleaming black and silver, and she reached out and grabbed the yellow robot's hand before he could touch them. "They're mine," she said firmly.

"Oh my God," Sam said, staring up at the Impala.

"Oh my God," Dean said, fervently.


They never did get the details. The fight was one big fucking mess, and by the time they figured out who all the good guys and the bad guys were, it was all over but the crying, and five million cop cars were descending on the scene. The Impala folded herself down, popped open her doors and said, "Let's get out of here."

Dean dived right in; Sam hesitated a second, outside the passenger door. "Dude, come on!" Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't you think this is kind of weird?" Sam hissed, sliding in.

"Shut up, bitch, you're gonna hurt her feelings," Dean said.

"That's my point!" Sam said. "I mean, we're inside her."

"That's where you belong," she said, from the speakers, and when Dean rubbed her dashboard, her engine gave a low pleased purr. The radio flipped on, and ACDC played while she rolled out past the long line of RVs and tanks pulling into the city.

So they hadn't waited around for explanations, and the TV news was dead silent about the whole thing, but Dean didn't give a damn how or why, anyway. This was the third best thing that had ever happened to him, right after the day he'd shot the yellow-eyed demon and the day Sam had torched the crossroads demon. It might even have been better than those, a little, because those had been the best fucking moments, but this was just beauty that kept going on and on.

She didn't need gas anymore, although she liked a tankful of premium for a snack every once in a while, and a top-up of oil made her get kind of dreamy and put on Prince or sometimes disco, which Dean didn't know how she'd gotten hold of; he'd never given her any of that crap—Dean eyed Sam suspiciously, but Sam kept trying to feed her his emo-rock crap, and she just spat the CDs back out like frisbees, so at least she wasn't really under a bad influence.

She wanted to be washed and waxed a whole lot more often, almost every day they weren't in the middle of a hunt, but Dean didn't mind that. She deserved it. Give her a quiet night in the parking lot and a pile of scrap metal, and by morning she'd have worked out any dents or scratches; and she didn't need tuneups anymore or get flats. So Dean just kicked Sam when he grumbled and made him carry the buckets. It was just plain and pure awesome. She even still let him drive once in a while, when she wanted a nap, and it was like having a jet engine under his hands.

They got stuck in the snow outside Choteau a few months after the whole thing had started—not stuck, exactly, but it kept coming down faster than she could clear her windshield, and she skidded every time she tried to break ten miles per hour, so Dean said, "Hey, baby, come on, let's pull off and let them clear the roads."

They got the blankets from the trunk, and when they opened the doors to climb back inside, she'd done something with the seats—they were all folded down into a single big cushiony platform from the dashboard to the rear window, and Dylan was playing, soft and low. They put their wet boots on the dashboard—Dean made Sam put his coat under them—and got settled under the blankets. Her engine was still murmuring away under them, and Dean put his arm behind his head and said, "Man, screw motels," blissfully happy: he had his car, he had Sam lying warm and safe next to him, they were fresh off a good hunt, and the only way this could've gotten better would be if he was getting a blowjob at the same time. He elbowed Sam in the side. "You can't tell me this isn't awesome."

Sam was staring up at the roof of the car with a pained expression. "Dean, she's vibrating."

"Yeah," Dean said happily, and stretched long. This beat the hell out of the Magic Fingers.

"I think I'm getting uncomfortable with this."

"Don't listen to him," Dean said, patting the door arm. She gave a little rumble and the cushion quivered under him harder. Dean groaned low and spread his legs so he settled a little lower, while a slow kneading pressure ran up and down his back. Man, that felt good.

"Dude, you are not doing that," Sam hissed. "You and the car can wait until we're at a motel."

"Come on, Sammy, this is the best," Dean said. "Just relax. Baby, he needs some of this too, he's way too uptight."

"Don't you tell her to, uh, I—" Sam gulped and shut up, and after a while he started breathing a little heavy, and Dean took that as license to slid his hand down over his shorts and cup himself. After a while more he started thinking about maybe kicking them off, and wondering whether it was worth putting up with the fuss Sam would make, and then Sam abruptly shifted next to him, and Dean realized Sam was taking his off.

His dick jerked, almost painful against the snug hold of his briefs, and he shoved them down his thighs, not even all the way off, and wrapped his hand around his happy, happy cock and gave it a good slow pull. Sam was going for it right next to him, breathing fast and gasping, and then the seats tipped up to either side and rolled them into each other in the middle. "Oh, fuck," Dean said, trying to keep their hips apart. "Hey, baby, listen, the seats—" and Sam curled his hand around the back of his head and kissed him.

"Sammy," Dean said, when Sam finally let go of him.

"Shut up," Sam said."This is all your fault," and it so goddamn was not, because Sam was the one dragging the t-shirt up off his head and shoving at Dean's shorts.

"Dude," Dean hissed, half-heartedly trying to fend off Sam's hands, "she's right here."

"I don't mind," she said, blinking at them with the hazard lights. "Sex is good for you. Just don't get stains on my upholstery."

"There, happy?" Sam said, and kissed him again. Dean's shorts were stuck somewhere around his knees, and Sam's cock was hard and hot and slick against his belly, she was playing some Barry White on the radio, and outside the windows the snow was softly falling.

= End =



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