ultraviolet9a | Cars and Guitars

ultraviolet9a

>> Cars and Guitars

TITLE: Cars and Guitars

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: Route 666 mostly

GENRE: Het

CHARACTERS: Dean/Cassie, Dean/Impala (in a way)

SUMMARY: It’s about Dean and Cassie and Dean and the Impala. And a guitar features somewhere too. For more info look down at NOTE2.

RATING: PG-13. Strong one. Cuz I like cussing and there are some sex references.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned any of them I wouldn’t be writing about them. Much. Too busy, see.

NOTE: For the

spn_het_lovechallenge 2 “Little things” in which 5 objects have to be incorporated in the story. List #4 -- manual, cup, notebook, dust, desk.

NOTE2: I don’t like Cassie. I don’t. I might hate her just a little, not because she is canon with Dean, but because she seems so two dimensional. But she’s probably the only character I’ve never really written anything about. And I thought maybe adding another dimension would ease things. For me. Cuz (it may sound stupid but hey! I can’t help it) I hate disliking someone Dean is so fond of. I mean, hell…there must be something that got him going other than her looks.

First time Dean ever laid eyes upon Cassie, he thought of the Impala. All dark, sleek curves, purpose in the motion, edge. He liked that edge. Then he mentally smacked himself because no one could compare to his girl. Ever. “You’re my best girl, baby,” he whispered, hands caressing the steering wheel but his eyes were still drawn towards the hot dark tight-jean stride.

And even though he was younger, he already knew that sleek purposeful curves don’t give their rides for free. They latch on with deep hooks and won’t let go. You got to cut yourself loose one hook at a time, and when you do, you’ll be sure to have lost flesh.

By the time he fully realized that, he was already a goner.

****

First time Cassie laid eyes upon the Impala, a smile crossed her face. She didn’t know much about cars (and years later she’d have nightmares of four wheeled devils that come closer no matter how fast she ran) but Dean saw her expression and responded. The slight smile and tilt of the head, the nod equal to equal. She thought they were meant for her. The Impala seemed to purr back in reply.

She should have known that the smile would get her into trouble. Should have known that Dean had already been claimed by roads and miles and wasn’t hers for the taking. Should have known even back then how the ride was gonna go.

****

Dean likes watching her when she studies. She’s sitting with her notebook on her lap, and a book next to it, a coffee cup on the desk just within reach, pen stuck between her fingers, her teeth. She throws him a glance or two, but he doesn’t flinch, and then she pretends she’s still studying even though he knows she can’t focus. He swears his eyes could have drilled holes in a wall, but she’s still there, eyes reading the same sentence over and over again. That’s the thing with Cassie, see. She’s hard. Not hard to get. Not to conquer, the conquering bit comes easy once she decides to trust you, all open heart, open body, open instinct suppressed by journalist mentality. So the tough bit ain’t getting her. The tough bit is keeping her.

She’s got the mentality of a hunter, even when she’s prey, but Dean’s been around. It surprises him how he wants to stay. Cassie makes things go tight and loose in his stomach at the same time, sends jolts down his groin as she’s biting and licking the tip of the pen with what he now realizes is intent. She looks at him under long, heavy lashes, and saliva glints at her bottom lip.

He can’t suppress the small groan. She can’t suppress the smile playing on her lips. He smiles back. Just in the right way, the cocky, fucking-you-into-the-mattress kind of way that makes her sigh in resignation.

Then she tosses the notebook over her shoulder, and it flutters like a wounded bird in the air before landing in a papery thud.

“I can’t study and it’s all your fault, Winchester,” she says slowly, and her legs part as she slides back in the chair. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Well,” Dean says walking to her. “A lot.”

That evening he rides her high on the desk. The coffee cup shatters on the floor, but both are too caught up to even wonder if this was some sort of omen.

****

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” she says. She looks nervous. “It’s a surprise.”

And it is. When he realizes they’re going to an open night at Joe’s piano bar he dreads the kind of music he might have to listen to. He feels his mouth run dry as Cassie takes the stage in her black trousers and her velvet top. Feels shivers go up and down his body as she delivers Black Velvet in a voice that is kind of like her love-making: rough and deep, emotional, sincere. Warm.

When she leaves the stage under heavy applause and walks back to him, he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close for a deep, deep kiss. Thinks it tastes just like her singing.

“You never told me you could sing,” he says when they’re cuddled up on her bed later that night.

“That’s cuz it was a surprise,” she replies. “Been going to choirs and guitar lessons since I was tiny.”

“I didn’t see a guitar around.”

She doesn’t reply. He feels her stiffen in his arms. Then she gets up, walks to the closet and opens it. Pulls out a guitar case. Opens it on the bed.

Dean doesn’t know much about guitars, but this one looks smooth, expensive.

“My ex-boyfriend got this one for me,” she says. “I…”

“It’s got memories. You don’t want to play it.”

She nods. Snaps the case shut. Dean pushes it open again.

“Play for me,” he says.

“Dean…I don’t…”

“Take off your clothes and play for me,” he urges in his low, soft voice. She looks at him. There’s fear in her eyes, old pain rising like dirt water in a clean well.

His girl is no coward.

Dawn finds her sitting naked, strumming the guitar with long fingers.

She’s fearless, see. Sam will say so years later, but Dean already knows the minute she takes off her skimpy baby-doll nighty and takes the guitar off the case. Just like his girl, Cassie’s always willing to be taken where he wants to take her.

Next day she puts the guitar in plain view, like some sort of trophy.

****

Cassie’s straddling him, moving in just the right way to drive him insane. They’re in the library. Anybody could come and find them any minute, but he doesn’t care, and she seems to be turned on by it. Cassie (the Impala) are made for show, not dusty corners.

When they’re done, there’s a wicked twinkle in her eyes. She smoothes her skirt back down, watches him buckle up.

“I kept my end of the bargain,” she says. “Your turn.”

Dean smoothes his hair.

“What do you want to know?”

“About your family.”

“I got a father, and a brother. He’s in Stanford now. My mom died when I was little.”

He shrugs. She waits.

“That’s all there is to it,” he says. “Don’t go all journalist on my ass, okay?”

He doesn’t understand why she gets so pissed off at him. The librarian actually kicks them out because the fight is a loud one.

Dean discovers that fucking isn’t the only thing they’re good at. They’re good in fighting too.

****

Cassie’s best friend is Joey, and she’s a freshman with washed out blonde hair, and pretty blue eyes. When she first met Dean she tells her how this one is a one-gig guy.

But it’s been weeks, and, despite all prediction and fears, Joey’s wrong. Cuz, thing is, Dean kinda shucks up with her. He does his share of the laundry, sometimes does the shopping too. Then it’s her birthday and he’s bought her that espresso machine she had been mooning over forever. She’s got the manual for it in hand determined to figure it out, but doesn’t know how to work it. And there is Dean fixing it in zero time, shrugging and telling her how his dad is a mechanic so he’s good with that sort of stuff.

It pisses her off. It annoys her. She tells herself that that is only because she doesn’t want to be so dependant on him. She knows it’s because that’s only the second time he’s talked about his family, despite her prodding.

He doesn’t get it.

****

Cassie always starts with how her mom and dad did this and that. Where she spent her childhood. Thinks it’s only fair to give something in return for every piece of info he gives. Cuz information is precious. She doesn’t have to be a journalist to know that.

But Dean can’t give her that. It seems like he doesn’t know how to.

“Tell me,” she prods.

“I’m a journalist,” she laughs. “Or will be.”

“I can handle the truth,” she promises.

“Dean, you gotta trust me,” she pleads.

Somehow, he never replies. Somehow, it always ends up with him buried deep in her.

She knows how to touch the right chords then, the right flick of tongue, right orbit of hips.

Dean often asks her to play the guitar for him, and she does. She re-learnt how to love strumming it again. Knows exactly which chords to push to make it sing. Make it talk to her. With Dean, the chords she strikes are always wrong.

****

Cassie wants him to talk. The Impala never claims that, he’s thinking. She thinks he can’t trust her, and Dean knows that that feeling is terrible.

So he tells her a bit more about Stanford Sam. Shows her the picture of his mother he’s got tucked in his wallet like a holy charm. She’s so beautiful, she says. So golden.

And it hits him (cuz her emo rubs on him like with Sam) how he doesn’t really like blondes. How the golden glow leaves a hollow in him, a need for his mother that will never leave him. No, Dean can’t do that. There is only one mother, all the rest are women and what he wants aren’t hugs, but dirty sex, like the Brazilian tongue licking on Cass in the back room of the campus club. They’re good at that, they are. He knows how to take her for a ride.

****

Dean’s different. Not just cuz he’s the best bed she ever had. He’s honest in what he says. I’m not much for commitment, he said when he first met her, and what he seemed to promise was one wild ride. He stayed. He stayed.

Cassie’s…well. She’s relentless. She guesses she’ll make a fine journalist cuz of that, so she doesn’t stop prodding, even when they end up in big fights.

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t scare her. Dean makes her feel safe, like he’s leading her calmly through every day panic as if he knows that term papers and hassling professors are not really a problem. He’s a mystery, some deep core away from her, and that part of her that chose to be a journalist is forever attracted to it.

****

She loves him. Knows by the slight pause and deeper thrusting when she tells him so, that he loves her too.

****

He loves her. Feels the hooks deep in him, but for now they only feel like velvet.

****

“Get the hell out of here,” she says.

“You wanted the truth. You said you could handle it.”

“I can’t believe I thought… Just get the hell out of here.”

“Cass, come on. It’s my dad. You know I can’t.”

“Out.”

Relentless, alright.

****

Later Dean, already pounds of flesh lighter, sits in the Impala on the side of a road.

“You and me, baby. You and me.”

Then he goes to find his father.

****

Cassie spends a long time looking at the guitar. It’s gathering up dust. She doesn’t dare touch it. Doesn’t want to listen to its music.

She thinks that hiding it in the back of her closet would make her too much of a fucking coward. Thinks she is a fucking coward anyway. Because deep down, the part of her that is journalist and gut doesn’t think that Dean lied.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: I owe people fics. Gimme time. Please?

SIDENOTE2: Title ~~stolen~~ from a Tori Amos song.