[ The rotting of the Impala had been a gradual thing. Dean stopped driving it, and it sat like a gravestone in the grass by his cabin. The wheels went flat; the whole thing was covered with leaves and pollen as remnants from past season, but it was still drivable, back then. Still salvageable. Then a transport vehicle needed a new battery. The fluids were drained. The seats were repurposed, and a door, the license plates, and the steering wheel. The next time Cas remembers really looking at it, it was a husk of a thing, irreparably damaged. A corpse rusting away. Cas knew better than to ask Dean about whether he planned to repair it; the answer was obvious, back then. But he sat on the hood sometimes, watching the stars and the lightning, the helicopters and bombs whistling away in the distance.
He's surprised by the leather under his hands, how supple and undamaged it is, no longer cracked and stripped of its shine, but new, the way it used to be. Cared for. Dean kisses him again and Cas's hands immediately seek out Dean's skin instead, pushing Dean's shirt up above his ribs, shameless about exposing him now that they're relatively concealed. He kisses Dean again and again, just as greedy and selfish, and he arches up against Dean, not to shove him off or direct him to do anything more than what he's doing, but just to feel the press of his weight, and the slide of their bodies together.
Dean's done so much work to restore his beloved car, and himself, that Cas feels used up and grubby in comparison, but it doesn't keep him from pressing up against Dean and kissing him breathless, from sliding his hands wide over Dean's back or shoving a thigh between Dean's legs and grinding up to feel everything he can through soft, worn denim. Really, it only encourages him more, knowing what he lacks, how ruined he let things become for them and all the time lost that they have now, here, to make up for. One drunken time he barely remembers wasn't nearly good enough to fill this corroded emptiness inside of him. He needs more of Dean's hands, his skin, his mouth. A full resortation. ]
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He's surprised by the leather under his hands, how supple and undamaged it is, no longer cracked and stripped of its shine, but new, the way it used to be. Cared for. Dean kisses him again and Cas's hands immediately seek out Dean's skin instead, pushing Dean's shirt up above his ribs, shameless about exposing him now that they're relatively concealed. He kisses Dean again and again, just as greedy and selfish, and he arches up against Dean, not to shove him off or direct him to do anything more than what he's doing, but just to feel the press of his weight, and the slide of their bodies together.
Dean's done so much work to restore his beloved car, and himself, that Cas feels used up and grubby in comparison, but it doesn't keep him from pressing up against Dean and kissing him breathless, from sliding his hands wide over Dean's back or shoving a thigh between Dean's legs and grinding up to feel everything he can through soft, worn denim. Really, it only encourages him more, knowing what he lacks, how ruined he let things become for them and all the time lost that they have now, here, to make up for. One drunken time he barely remembers wasn't nearly good enough to fill this corroded emptiness inside of him. He needs more of Dean's hands, his skin, his mouth. A full resortation. ]