Title: All I Needed Was the Rain
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam has a thing for storms, and Dean's hands. Complete with Impala!sex. Sort of PWP, but not really.


When the engine roars to life the first time, it swallows the thunder in the distance. Sam calls out from Bobby's porch, but Dean's got his sunglasses down and one dusty boot on the gravel, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. There's a slow smile tugging at his mouth as he teases the gas.


"Not yet." Dean is all sweat and grease, a rag hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans and a black smudge on his jawline, near the corner of his mouth. As his brother carries bottles and terry cloth, drags over an old length of hose with oil-scuffed knuckles, Sam tries to concentrate on what Dean's skin wouldn't taste like.


Lightning has been dancing on the horizon for days, grey, sloth clouds drifting dangerously low. Dean's hands are white with too much soap, running wide over the Impala. It's too hot for this time of year, and rain hangs heavy in the air. It takes a week for it to roll in.


Sam's lost track of time, the hours he's watched Dean from the window, from the steps, from atop an old junker, rusting metal digging into the backs of his legs. The paint's been laid, smoothed with clay careful in Dean's grip, slow and easy. Sam follows the one way strokes for what feels like days. The steel's so polished the sun is scatter-reflected bright enough to blind.


The sky begins to to spit, flecks of water pricking skin. Sam has forgotten the number of times Dean's polished wax over the Impala.

"Son of a bitch." Dean squints upward, the sun somehow bright behind the clouds, and holds out a hand, palm up, fingers curled. "Fucking weather," he mumbles, brow drawn. He wrings out a towel and looks at the car, impatient. Sam jumps down off a rusting Barracuda and yanks down the bottom of his shirt.

"Might as well wait," Sam says, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, kicking up little motes of dust that are beaten down quickly as he walks. "You've been washing the car for three days now, Dean. At least I've lost track."

Dean shoots him a wounded look and places a hand protectively on the side mirror, wax caked white around his nails. "I haven't just been washing her, Sam. And I've got at least one more full coat to put on her before..." He trails off, glaring spitefully skyward.

Sam can feel flecks of water sticking to his skin now, larger drops falling faster from the yellow-grey sky. He concentrates on the sound of his shoe soles over the gravel.


They're shoulder to shoulder, the car to their backs, looking out at the junkyard. Sam glances down at Dean with a crooked smile.


His brother's glaring upward again, blinking at the sky as the rain picks up and falls into his eyes. "I'm gonna have to start all over again."


"What?" Dean bites out, complete with a childish huff. He doesn't notice Sam towering over him until he drops his head to wipe the water out of his eyes, smearing caked wax over one eyebrow. The rain is falling steadily now, weighing down Sam's hair and plastering it to his skin, dripping down the back of his neck into his shirt collar.

Sam wants to laugh, but his brother's mouth is hanging open, lips rain-slick. Dean doesn't have a chance to look anything but confused before Sam jerks him sideways, pulls Dean against him and presses their hips together.

"Then start over later."


Sam's hands find his brother's sides, thumbs sliding up under the hem of his grease-stained t-shirt, brushing over warm skin. He hooks his fingers into Dean's jeans, pulling him closer.

Dean tastes like sweat and rain, his mouth hot under Sam's. He smells like the car and needs a shower, but fuck if it doesn't make Sam grip harder, lick his tongue deeper. A small, guttural sound hums through Dean's throat as he pushes into Sam until they bump back against the rear quarter panel, the metal cold through Sam's wet jeans.

Hands on his shirt jerk Sam forward, and his eyes snap open. Dean's brow is creased, and he's looking over Sam's shoulder at the Impala. His eyelashes are heavy with rain.

"Dean, what--"

Dean tugs, yanks and turns and pulls Sam into him as he leans back on the car. He claims Sam's mouth again, teeth grazing Sam's lower lip, and mumbles against him.

"Anyone's ass is gonna screw up the wax job, it's gonna be mine."


Water is streaming down Sam's back, the cotton too soaked to hold any more out. It smells like pine and oil, and the clatter of the rain against the broken cars is deafening. His jeans are clinging to his skin, rough and scathing, front pulled open with Dean's hands working down his boxers.

"Fuck, Dean."

His brother just hums against his mouth, lips bruising, and Sam wrenches at Dean's fly, growls until the button pops free. Sam pulls back, watches the rain beading on Dean's skin just like it is on the Impala. His chest swells, and he pushes Dean's arms back, peels his brother's shirt off and tosses it on the ground beside them. It melts into the pile of rags.

He tastes his name on Dean's lips when he leans feverishly back into him, and thunder cracks to the south.


Sam. Dean.


When Sam looks up, Bobby's shoulder breaches the corner of the house by the porch.

Sam's heart almost stops, and he can't tell if it's because Bobby's right there or because Dean's sucking the skin of his throat right there and--

"Shit--" Sam twists sideways, reaches out one long arm, and his stomach flips as his fingers find the door handle, cold and slippery under the downpour. He shoves Dean, slides him over so fast they almost fall, and somehow he manages to pull the door open enough to push Dean inside.

Dean half-grunts, half-shouts, and Sam shuts him up the only way he can, claims his brother's mouth. Sam's shins slam hard against the car, and his knees slip along the leather seat as he scrabbles, claws for grip. Dean finally gets it, scrambles backward until his head slams against the other door.

"The fuck, Sam?" Dean brings a hand to the back of his head, the other grabbing at the back of the seat. Sam forces him back farther, draws his knees up and feels like his spine might snap as he twists around and pulls the door closed.

It's like drowning, water pouring from his hair and over his face, the closed-off air already thick with sweat and rain and breath. Dean stares up at him, hair plastered in points to his forehead, bare chest heaving. When Sam strips off his own shirt, the fog on the windows hides the thick, sheeting rain.


A blurry, dark shape slinks past the windows, a curse or two and the sound of wet vinyl shaking: an umbrella.

Dean bites the side of Sam's palm when Sam slides his hand over his mouth, grinning. There's laughter bubbling in Sam's chest, and he can barely keep it down until Bobby walks away.

"We're not twelve, Sam," Dean admonishes, but he laughs just as hard, shoulders curling in, teeth flashing in the dim light.

It's been too long, and Sam doesn't tell his brother when he giggles.


There's more sweat than rain now, skin sliding over skin, soaked jeans strangling their knees. They're tangled together, awkward and crowded and maybe painful, but all Sam feels is Dean. Sam is half-falling off the bench seat, legs thrown over Dean to keep from sliding into the footwell, leather sticking, pulling against his skin. The air is heavy, his lungs full, every breath blending into the next, and his dick is trapped between them, pressed hard into Dean's upper thigh.

He's half-lying on one arm, and he curls those fingers around Dean's neck with his palm against his brother's jaw, stubble burning into his skin. His other hand slides down Dean's side, falling flat over his hip. He presses his thumbnail into his brother's skin, over the arc of bone, drags it down and inward over softer flesh.

Dean exhales his name as Sam thumbs over his brother's abdomen, fingers trailing, fire-branding skin until he reaches Dean's cock. He wraps long fingers around it and squeezes, fists slowly until Dean's head cracks back against the window.


Sam just grins, his mouth sliding over Dean's collarbone, toward the hollow of his throat. His hips jerk, stomach pooling with heat, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes the arm he's lying on is going numb. His ankle is twisted, jammed into a space between the front seat and the side of the car, and there's no leverage until Dean bucks upward into his hand, making him gasp, making silver flit at the edge of his vision. He feels Dean's nails cut bluntly into his shoulder, watches his brother's other hand carve grooves into the seat-back as he arches, knuckles white.

"Fuck, Dean, so--"

A growl cuts him off, and Sam smiles against Dean's skin, open-mouthed before he bites his lip.

"This fucking car," Sam mutters, fingers digging into Dean's hip as he forces them together, closer, harder in the space he dwarfs.

"Shut your mouth." The words are groaned, and when Sam looks up, Dean's eyes are closed; his head back against the door. Sam pulls himself upward and licks against his brother's neck, drags his teeth over the skin by his Adam's apple. He sucks a light line downward, jacking Dean faster and grinding against him, his skin prickling with goose bumps beneath sweat. Dean's practically writhing now. His chin bumps the top of Sam's head as Sam's lips seal around a spot just above Dean's clavicle, just where a shirt would cover, and blossom a blood-purple bruise.

"Sam--Sammy--" Dean arches again and comes, covering their stomachs, Sam's hand. Sam watches, cheek slick against his brother's chest, and he can't bite back a groan. He spills between them, white and hot. What would have been Dean's name turns into a string of curses as his ankle slams hard into something metal.

"That good, hunh?"

Sam punches his brother's upper arm, half rolls off into the backseat floor and throws out his arm to catch himself. He looks pointedly up at his brother, smirks as the pain starts to fade and says slowly, "This. Fucking. Ca--" Dean's fist connects with his shoulder, and Sam laughs.

"Bitch," Dean mumbles, mouth quirking at the corners. He glances at the windows, still streaming with water behind the steam. "I hate the rain."

The rain sluices harder, thrumming and sputtering over the car around them and drowning out the world. "Really?"

Dean fails at a scowl. "Yeah. Maybe."


Bobby asks what they were hunting, and Dean doesn't miss a beat.

It's two days before the rain breaks and four days of sun before Dean finishes another layer of wax. When Dean shifts it into drive and stomps on the gas, they leave Bobby's behind in the engine's growl of a thunderstorm.