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alchemyaliceTitle: Stickshifts and Safetybelts
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Genre: Dean/Gabriel, snark and romance
Warnings/Spoilers: through season 5, after which I have no idea what’s going on, so it’s basically AU. Oh and also, car makeouts!
Word Count: ~1,150
Summary: In which bucket seats all have all got to go! (If the reference is obscure, do listen to this song. It is joy in auditory form!)
A/N: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morganoconner, who poked at me for more Dean/Gabriel, a pairing I will always oblige because they are epic and snarky and wonderful :) Also for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kissbingo square ‘type: French’. And as a sidenote: why am I so productive when I drink whiskey??? I’m like Hemingway, except less badass. Bollocks. Also, I borrowed the idea of Wendigo packs from someone, I don’t remember who. So if you know what I’m talking about, speak up and I’ll credit them. I needed a plot device, and that was a really good one, no stepping on toes intended.
“Father help me, but I’m starting to like your car. It has class.”
Dean starts, but only minimally. He’s getting better at nonchalance in the face of archangel invasion. “She. She has class,” he corrects, sort of automatically.
Gabriel snorts, but then says, “Excuse me,” rather exaggeratedly, before stroking the dashboard, and that’s just terribly condescending. Dean thinks it will be totally worth the broken hand when he finally finds the right motivation and situation to punch him.
He notices belatedly that the reformed Trickster is lounging in the passenger seat, all buckled in like he belongs there, with what looks like a milkshake dangling from the fingers of his left hand.
“Dude, if you spill that I will set you on fire,” he says.
“I like your threats. They make me feel loved.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I mean, come on.” He spreads his hands in invitation.
“I keep a separate bottle of holy oil with your name on it specifically for frying your carcass,” Dean quips amenably.
“So specialized!” Gabriel clutches his chest. “I swoon.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You got a reason for being here?”
“Yeah. Castiel’s occupied with sheriff stuff, and you’re an idiot for going into this hunt alone.”
Dean stiffens. “It’s one wendigo. I’ve taken on worse on my own.”
“How about three?”
Dean slams on the breaks. “What the fuck?”
Gabriel seems unconcerned. He caresses the leather seats with something akin to curiosity. “There’s something to be said for American engineering,” he says thoughtfully. “At least, when it comes to the classics. You’ve really got a beaut, Deano. I may have to pop in here more often.”
“Gabriel,” Dean grits out. “Three wendigos?”
“Yeah. New behavioral leanings. Possibly evolution gone haywire. Darwin would be rolling in his grave. It’s either that or Father’s fucking with us again, but I don’t really see the point at this stage.”
“Three?”
“They’re working out pack dynamics.”
Dean shakes his head, and looks out at the highway. “What the fuck.”
“I know, right?” Gabriel says, with minimal interest. “So I’m coming with you.”
Dean blinks rather rapidly. He hadn’t gotten used to Gabriel popping in and out by sheer determination--the archangel has seemed of late to insist on relating small but useful pieces of advice and information for their hunts fairly often since he’d been resurrected after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. But he’s never volunteered to go into the field with the Winchesters before. Dean would chalk it up to Sam sitting this one out due to a bum leg, but they’d done solo runs in the past without Gabriel’s interest too, so what the hell?
“What the hell?” he asks, in conclusion. “You’re seriously coming with me?”
“‘Swhat I said, isn’t it?”
“You’ve never been on a hunt with us before.”
“Haven’t I?” Gabriel says absently, still caressing the clean lines of the Impala. “Oh right. Sometimes human sight doesn’t register my presence.”
“Spit it out, Gabriel.”
Gabriel smiles faintly, and then reaches across the seat to press two fingers to Dean’s temple.
Pictures flood his consciousness. Impressions, fleeting memories, most of them his own, but not from his perspective--from Gabriel’s.
Oh.
“All of those?” he says eventually. He’s really glad he stopped the car before, because by this time they’d be wrapped around a telephone pole or something.
“Yup,” Gabriel says, and his tone is light, but it’s also strung tight with a tension of uncertainty Dean knows far too well.
“Those,” Dean says slowly, pointedly not looking at the figure in the passenger seat. “Those were all when I was hunting alone.”
“Yup,” Gabriel says again, so casually.
“Why not Sam?” Dean demands, after a second.
Gabriel looks at him. “Because you’re looking after Sam,” he says.
Dean laughs hollowly.
“‘Cause I do such a good job,” he mutters.
“You do the best that any big brother has ever done,” Gabriel says sharply, and Dean swallows hard, because he has no reserve of answers or belief for that kind of pronouncement. This is not the conversation he wants to have halfway to a hunt for a Wendigo pack on some freeway in Montana or some shit. Never mind that Gabriel is the only one who ever laughs at his immature jokes, or vocally approves of his music choices. Or, apparently, backs him up invisibly when he’s putting himself in harm’s way. If anything, that makes it worse.
“Why me, then?” he asks instead, even more quietly.
Gabriel taps the armrest with his forefinger, regarding it like it contains the meaning of life or something. “Well, I am growing quite fond of this car. Because I can slide...like this.” And the archangel is extricating himself from the seat belt and shifting with some sort of strange liquid grace over the bench-style front seat onto the driver’s side, turning to prop himself against the dash while settling a knee on the seat so that he can splay one hand possessively over the steering wheel, and brace the other on the back of the seat over Dean's shoulder. Dean sees the blatant intent in the archangel’s eyes, and doesn’t believe it for a second.
“You’re just jonesing after my car, huh?” he says roughly.
Gabriel smirks, but its more of a crooked smile, painful with self-deprecation. “I’m jonesing,” he says slowly, “For justice, for righteousness, like how I used to know it. I’m jonesing for something to believe in. Because it’s, you know, been a while.”
He leans forward, and Dean stops breathing.
“So lemme protect what I believe in, huh? You’re making it really hard right now, what with your gallivanting off to--”
Dean cuts him off with his mouth. Gabriel tastes like caramel and vanilla milkshake. Dean chases after the taste, curling his way into the heat of his mouth that he knows is unnatural, because nothing human could burn so intensely without bursting into flame. He scrapes his teeth along Gabriel’s lips, urging them further open.
Gabriel answers, a low, surprised purr resonating in his throat, and then the hand that had been propped up against the backrest is cupping Dean's jaw, firm fingers bruisingly tight against his throat, protective in ways Dean is more used to being than receiving. In a haze, Dean liberates his own hands from the steering wheel to pull the archangel closer, grabbing the knee that’s shoved against the seat and pulling it to the other side of his hips so that Gabriel can settle properly between him and the wheel.
Gabriel murmurs a sort of shocked, “Oh,” before delving in again, almost frightening in his intent exploration that can’t not wreck Dean somewhere deep down in places he doesn’t really feel like contemplating.
When both of them manage to pull away, Gabriel is draped over Dean like an octopus in the front seat, wedged against the steering wheel and breathing heavily into Dean’s collar.
“See, that's why I love this baby of yours,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Dean’s neck. “None of that would have been possible with bucket seats.”
Dean chuckles, and ignores how his arm automatically tightens over the small of Gabriel’s back. “Carslut,” he remarks, and restarts the engine.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Genre: Dean/Gabriel, snark and romance
Warnings/Spoilers: through season 5, after which I have no idea what’s going on, so it’s basically AU. Oh and also, car makeouts!
Word Count: ~1,150
Summary: In which bucket seats all have all got to go! (If the reference is obscure, do listen to this song. It is joy in auditory form!)
A/N: For
morganoconner, who poked at me for more Dean/Gabriel, a pairing I will always oblige because they are epic and snarky and wonderful :) Also for kissbingo square ‘type: French’. And as a sidenote: why am I so productive when I drink whiskey??? I’m like Hemingway, except less badass. Bollocks. Also, I borrowed the idea of Wendigo packs from someone, I don’t remember who. So if you know what I’m talking about, speak up and I’ll credit them. I needed a plot device, and that was a really good one, no stepping on toes intended.“Father help me, but I’m starting to like your car. It has class.”
Dean starts, but only minimally. He’s getting better at nonchalance in the face of archangel invasion. “She. She has class,” he corrects, sort of automatically.
Gabriel snorts, but then says, “Excuse me,” rather exaggeratedly, before stroking the dashboard, and that’s just terribly condescending. Dean thinks it will be totally worth the broken hand when he finally finds the right motivation and situation to punch him.
He notices belatedly that the reformed Trickster is lounging in the passenger seat, all buckled in like he belongs there, with what looks like a milkshake dangling from the fingers of his left hand.
“Dude, if you spill that I will set you on fire,” he says.
“I like your threats. They make me feel loved.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I mean, come on.” He spreads his hands in invitation.
“I keep a separate bottle of holy oil with your name on it specifically for frying your carcass,” Dean quips amenably.
“So specialized!” Gabriel clutches his chest. “I swoon.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You got a reason for being here?”
“Yeah. Castiel’s occupied with sheriff stuff, and you’re an idiot for going into this hunt alone.”
Dean stiffens. “It’s one wendigo. I’ve taken on worse on my own.”
“How about three?”
Dean slams on the breaks. “What the fuck?”
Gabriel seems unconcerned. He caresses the leather seats with something akin to curiosity. “There’s something to be said for American engineering,” he says thoughtfully. “At least, when it comes to the classics. You’ve really got a beaut, Deano. I may have to pop in here more often.”
“Gabriel,” Dean grits out. “Three wendigos?”
“Yeah. New behavioral leanings. Possibly evolution gone haywire. Darwin would be rolling in his grave. It’s either that or Father’s fucking with us again, but I don’t really see the point at this stage.”
“Three?”
“They’re working out pack dynamics.”
Dean shakes his head, and looks out at the highway. “What the fuck.”
“I know, right?” Gabriel says, with minimal interest. “So I’m coming with you.”
Dean blinks rather rapidly. He hadn’t gotten used to Gabriel popping in and out by sheer determination--the archangel has seemed of late to insist on relating small but useful pieces of advice and information for their hunts fairly often since he’d been resurrected after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. But he’s never volunteered to go into the field with the Winchesters before. Dean would chalk it up to Sam sitting this one out due to a bum leg, but they’d done solo runs in the past without Gabriel’s interest too, so what the hell?
“What the hell?” he asks, in conclusion. “You’re seriously coming with me?”
“‘Swhat I said, isn’t it?”
“You’ve never been on a hunt with us before.”
“Haven’t I?” Gabriel says absently, still caressing the clean lines of the Impala. “Oh right. Sometimes human sight doesn’t register my presence.”
“Spit it out, Gabriel.”
Gabriel smiles faintly, and then reaches across the seat to press two fingers to Dean’s temple.
Pictures flood his consciousness. Impressions, fleeting memories, most of them his own, but not from his perspective--from Gabriel’s.
Oh.
“All of those?” he says eventually. He’s really glad he stopped the car before, because by this time they’d be wrapped around a telephone pole or something.
“Yup,” Gabriel says, and his tone is light, but it’s also strung tight with a tension of uncertainty Dean knows far too well.
“Those,” Dean says slowly, pointedly not looking at the figure in the passenger seat. “Those were all when I was hunting alone.”
“Yup,” Gabriel says again, so casually.
“Why not Sam?” Dean demands, after a second.
Gabriel looks at him. “Because you’re looking after Sam,” he says.
Dean laughs hollowly.
“‘Cause I do such a good job,” he mutters.
“You do the best that any big brother has ever done,” Gabriel says sharply, and Dean swallows hard, because he has no reserve of answers or belief for that kind of pronouncement. This is not the conversation he wants to have halfway to a hunt for a Wendigo pack on some freeway in Montana or some shit. Never mind that Gabriel is the only one who ever laughs at his immature jokes, or vocally approves of his music choices. Or, apparently, backs him up invisibly when he’s putting himself in harm’s way. If anything, that makes it worse.
“Why me, then?” he asks instead, even more quietly.
Gabriel taps the armrest with his forefinger, regarding it like it contains the meaning of life or something. “Well, I am growing quite fond of this car. Because I can slide...like this.” And the archangel is extricating himself from the seat belt and shifting with some sort of strange liquid grace over the bench-style front seat onto the driver’s side, turning to prop himself against the dash while settling a knee on the seat so that he can splay one hand possessively over the steering wheel, and brace the other on the back of the seat over Dean's shoulder. Dean sees the blatant intent in the archangel’s eyes, and doesn’t believe it for a second.
“You’re just jonesing after my car, huh?” he says roughly.
Gabriel smirks, but its more of a crooked smile, painful with self-deprecation. “I’m jonesing,” he says slowly, “For justice, for righteousness, like how I used to know it. I’m jonesing for something to believe in. Because it’s, you know, been a while.”
He leans forward, and Dean stops breathing.
“So lemme protect what I believe in, huh? You’re making it really hard right now, what with your gallivanting off to--”
Dean cuts him off with his mouth. Gabriel tastes like caramel and vanilla milkshake. Dean chases after the taste, curling his way into the heat of his mouth that he knows is unnatural, because nothing human could burn so intensely without bursting into flame. He scrapes his teeth along Gabriel’s lips, urging them further open.
Gabriel answers, a low, surprised purr resonating in his throat, and then the hand that had been propped up against the backrest is cupping Dean's jaw, firm fingers bruisingly tight against his throat, protective in ways Dean is more used to being than receiving. In a haze, Dean liberates his own hands from the steering wheel to pull the archangel closer, grabbing the knee that’s shoved against the seat and pulling it to the other side of his hips so that Gabriel can settle properly between him and the wheel.
Gabriel murmurs a sort of shocked, “Oh,” before delving in again, almost frightening in his intent exploration that can’t not wreck Dean somewhere deep down in places he doesn’t really feel like contemplating.
When both of them manage to pull away, Gabriel is draped over Dean like an octopus in the front seat, wedged against the steering wheel and breathing heavily into Dean’s collar.
“See, that's why I love this baby of yours,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Dean’s neck. “None of that would have been possible with bucket seats.”
Dean chuckles, and ignores how his arm automatically tightens over the small of Gabriel’s back. “Carslut,” he remarks, and restarts the engine.
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Date: 7 Nov 2010 21:41 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:39 (UTC)no subject
Date: 7 Nov 2010 21:42 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 7 Nov 2010 23:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:40 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 00:33 (UTC)*dies laughing*
no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:40 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 00:39 (UTC)lol. lol.
This was so cute! I loved how Gabriel has been looking out for Dean when he goes solo. So adorable *loves*
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:41 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 03:25 (UTC)And you just made me smile, and laugh, and fall completely in love with this whole story, and everything feels so much better right now and...
Yeah. Seriously. I ♥ you.
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 07:54 (UTC)Only one minor quibble - I've never seen head rests in the Impala... :D
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:28 (UTC)As to your quibble...you are entirely correct and I will fix that! :D
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 08:57 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:04 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:44 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 09:57 (UTC)Thanksfully you are here to save us from the lack of works on them! \0/
Their snark is epic and it so hot when they stop it! XD
Thank you!
Winged Golden Tiger
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 17:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 8 Nov 2010 11:14 (UTC)And their firecracker chemistry!
And Gabriel's protective tendencies!
Thanks for reminding me about the awesomeness of this pairing. Erm . . . not that I ever really forgot, but you know . . . *g*
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Date: 8 Nov 2010 17:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 9 Nov 2010 06:09 (UTC)no subject
Date: 9 Nov 2010 11:24 (UTC)no subject
Date: 14 Nov 2010 02:41 (UTC)Hehe, 'carslut.' Brilliant.
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Date: 14 Nov 2010 11:02 (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 17 Nov 2010 23:21 (UTC)no subject
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Date: 6 Dec 2010 01:39 (UTC)