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This Is Not A Drive-By	By : karmascars Category: Supernatural > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1986 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or make any money writing fanfiction about it.

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This Is Not A Drive-By

Summary: Smut-tastic, freakishly long sequel to Learning to Drive. AU. Dean can barely remember, Castiel can't forget - and Sam has far surpassed them both.

A/N: IF YOU HAVEN'T READ LEARNING TO DRIVE, go read it now. This story, right here, is the sequel. Don't worry; LtD is rather short. You'll back here before you know it. Go on!
This story is COMPLETE. I will be adding chapters as they leave beta. It contains angst and intense boy-on-boy action. There's also some hot girl-on-boy action, but it almost doesn't matter. (Don't hate Kendra, she's a means to an end.) Also, beware the angel whumping. And the absolutely evil!Sam.

Once again, thanks to my lovely beta-licious, Mistress Whimsy! You kick those finals in the ass, girl.

Oh but that one night

Is still the highlight

I didn't need you until I came to

and I was overwhelmed

and frankly scared as hell

Because I really fell for you
Oh, I swear to you

I'll be there for you

This is not a drive-by
"Drive-By" by Train

CHAPTER ONE

Somehow, Dean managed to get all the blood off the seats. And the windows, doors, dash, carpet... It was grueling work, especially without the benefit of angel mojo - but he needed something to do with his hands.
The Impala was currently basking in the shade of an ancient, sprawling tree, on the edge of a motel lot. Not the same motel, not even close.
The hunt hadn't ended that day. At least a week of skirmishes and elusive leads had gone by before they were able to confront and defeat the demon who'd organized that warehouse fiasco. Dean had forced himself to stop caring, for the time being, about the state of his beloved baby. Especially when, after the final battle, Castiel, Dean, and Sam piled into the car - all three of them now preferring the open road to angel-zaps - smearing new blood atop the old, which was by then completely caked and seeped into the Impala's pores.
Having no desire to do much else, they drove until they found a nice spot, an affordable motel in a quiet town, with only three or four low-level demons on a nearby farm to dispatch. They made short work of them, and set about enjoying what counted as summer vacation. Dean had begun to tackle the immense task of cleaning the Impala almost immediately, grateful for the temperate weather. He blasted jock-rock from the speakers and scrubbed, coaxing blood from the leather, trying not to wonder what their angel was up to.
Castiel hung around for a day or so after they arrived, having stayed with the Winchesters as they followed Bobby's leads and fought on through to the end - if he wasn't an angel of the Lord, one might have thought Castiel wanted revenge on the bastard for branding him. But then Heaven called him home, and the brothers hadn't seen him since. Sam said something about "got some 'splainin to do" and Dean couldn't even muster a halfhearted chuckle. He wasn't quite sure why.
Maybe because Sam couldn't, wouldn't, stop using his powers. They were handy - but they were killing him. Dean could see it happening. He hadn't watched the demons on the farm when they died slowly, wrung from their vessels screaming - he'd only had eyes for Sammy as his brother's face paled and blood ran from his nose, as that clenching hand he always had to hold out in front of him started shaking. That was the subject of many furious arguments these days, the most recent ones ending with Sam stalking out and staying out for hours, sometimes days at a time. Dean had no idea where his brother went, out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and Sammy never said.
So Dean just cleaned and tuned and re-tooled his baby, so he had something to do with his hands.
Even if he could force himself not to think of Sam, though, he couldn't keep his mind from wandering elsewhere. As he crouched on cracked asphalt, using an old toothbrush on the Impala's now barely-stained door frame, he dwelt on what flashes of memory he retained from that day.
The day the angel drove.
Mostly, it was a blur of varying shades and long streaks of black. If he focused on the shaky memories, Dean could hear himself saying things - and he always got the feel of urgency, of I can't leave this unfinished. It made his stomach roll to remember what it felt like, dying, with blood bubbling against his teeth with every word.
As he dipped the toothbrush back into his bucket of cleaner he could see, clear as a field under a full moon, the terrified look on Castiel's face when Dean told him he'd have to drive.
The angel'd been mortal, then - subject to all the whims and gimmicks a human body could throw at a soul. Dean remembered the way Castiel's pupils retracted to pinpoints, the way his knuckles whitened when he gripped the wheel for the first time.
Then, after a long stretch of black, interspersed with the thickness of that copper in his mouth and ghost hurt in his gut - he remembered the way Castiel looked when he began to love what he was doing, when he fell into the rhythm of the drive. Fierce, almost radiant. Dean had looked at him then, through eyes lidded with pain, and seen his own salvation.
When he looked back now, he wasn't sure what he saw.
The word angel had a really fluid definition.
Finally satisfied with his cleaning, Dean shoved the bucket away, ducked into the passenger seat, and shut the door decisively. In the stillness following the slam, heated breezes dancing through the open windows, he slid down on the leather until his gaze leveled on the dash. He didn't quite focus there, even as his eyes flickered across the surface, still seeking now-nonexistent specks of blood. His blood.
For a few days after that wild ride, Dean would sometimes catch Castiel staring at him like he was some kind of miracle.
"I'm no miracle," he groused aloud, his voice echoing oddly in the empty car, too loud even against the wind shifting the treetop above him. "I don't even really believe in miracles..."
Dean let his head loll back, and fell asleep with breezes kissing his skin. He dreamed, but when he woke to fading light, he couldn't remember any of it.

~#~#~

Castiel wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he was addicted.
Curse his eidetic memory. While he wandered the eternal gardens, he could refocus on any given point of that terrifying, glorious drive - usually the parts when the symphony was so profound that even now, fully re-immersed in the Host, he felt he could weep from it - and he reveled in those memories over and over again.
The sore muscles of his wings twitched, and he stretched them out with a low groan. Too long cooped within his vessel, coiled up and repressed. Castiel sighed. He really should get in some air time, while he was here.
He didn't even enjoy flight anymore, not really. That should have tipped him off. Angelic flight was one of the most rapturous experiences ever created. Castiel had been born to that, though, and so in his mind it could not compare to the raw, bursting energy he felt behind the wheel. Something so carnal and base, it sounded like the descriptions he'd heard of human copulation when he put it in to words. That, too, should have bothered him, but Castiel had always been so clinical in his observations. He'd never had cause to think in such human terms as obsession, addiction, compulsion. Angels were compelled by obedience - to their superiors, to God - never by something as base as desire.
Castiel was becoming something new, and he didn't even know it.
He sighed, glaring at a rhododendron, flexing his wings. His time in Heaven was fast becoming unbearable, but not because of his memories. Time after time he was summoned to one office, then another, being ordered to explain himself, explain the Winchesters. He answered honestly, completely, but they were not satisfied - and after the fifteenth go 'round Castiel began to wonder what exactly it was that they were after.
Unfortunately, when they weren't interrogating him, Castiel had nothing to do but think. And remember. He couldn't leave Heaven - and it never occurred to him that it might be odd for him to want to leave - so he drifted aimlessly, barely glancing at the splendor of gardens and pure white architecture, for the most part utterly focused on the thrill sealed in his memory. Lightning sizzling down his spine. Knuckles locked and splitting, jaw clenched, eyes dry. He remembered the power of the Impala, her speed and grace, and it did things to him that he assumed could only happen to humankind.
Castiel never would have thought that a member of the heavenly Host could suddenly find himself aroused.
Not that there were any outward signs. This was Heaven, after all. His vessel was immaterial here - this dull ache of desire throbbed from within his very grace, and that somehow made it worse. There was no escape, no way to seek relief. He'd never experienced something so insufferable.
It occurred to him that he might be able to ask Dean about it, but then he was called into yet another interminable session and by the time it ended the idea had flown his mind.
He had a flawless memory, but distraction would always be the death of inspiration.
Castiel wandered another flowering park in perpetual spring, reveling in the ever-fresh memories and not quite wondering what it was he'd meant to do.

~#~#~

Later that evening, when hours had passed and Sam still wasn't back, Dean locked the room with a shrug and wandered down to the local bar.
At night, it was lit up like a Christmas tree and looked much more impressive than it had when they drove up a few days ago. Dean had fully intended to visit that bar their first night in town, but they had several bottles of Jack in the trunk and Sammy, good ol' "know your limit" Sammy insisted they watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on his laptop and play a tropes drinking game he'd found online.
They were both still drunk the next day, a commendable feat for Dean.
After it wore off, though, the fights started back up again. Dean shook his head, mourning the temporary reprieve, and let his boots scuff in the dust. The roadside sported an impressive collection of weeds, so he walked the edge, watching how the ground reflected the encroaching neon lights.
The door to the bar stuck slightly, and he almost stumbled in, boots clomping on the worn wooden floor. The place had a warm, welcoming atmosphere, with Zepp playing on the jukebox in the corner and a pleasantly stifling cloud of smoke lingering near the ceiling. There was barbeque in the air, and sweat, and as he noted the pool tables with a practiced eye Dean noticed (with no small amount of satisfaction) that several pairs of eyes were tracking his movement across the floor. He strode straight to the bar, flashed the lissome bartender his trademark grin - not quite a smile, not quite a leer - and ordered a series of tequila shots.
Half an hour later he was comfortably buzzed, licking vestiges of salt from his lips and not really watching the Patriots game above the bar.
He was downing a double whiskey - having decided to switch poisons so he didn't end up on the floor - as the door snap-caught open, and he didn't see who entered. There was a ragged chorus of "hey girl"s and the bartender's lips pursed up in a sensual smirk. "Heya, Liv," came a voice from behind him, and Liv the bartender simply quirked an eyebrow. Now incredibly curious, Dean turned on his stool just as a girl slid to the bar beside him.
Her hair was shoulder-length, auburn, full and silky. Her eyes when she glanced his way were the color of a tropical sea, deep cerulean with a hint of green, and the appraising look she gave him held promise.
She flashed him incredibly white teeth between two perfect lips. "I'm Kendra," she said, and the timbre of her voice stroked his spine. Turning on the charm, he let his eyes darken. "Dean," he replied, and he was pleased to hear just the right pitch to his own voice.
"I'll have what you're having." There was a laugh and something else in her tone. Dean felt his grin go a little feral as he waved Liv over. "Doubles," he said, his eyes not leaving Kendra's, "and keep 'em comin'."
They made love in the cool nest of her feather bed, sloppy with drink but lit by each other like live wires. Kendra was vocal, plenty confident, and had stamina to rival his own - they went through five positions before slamming in to one another as Dean took her from behind. He bit her shoulder as he came, and her answering orgasm rippled through her, crashed into him like a wave. They collapsed, spent, but after a moment or two of just breathing he turned his head to nip lightly at her lips, and this time they rolled to the floor.
By the time he stumbled back to the motel, dawn was breaking, and as Dean collapsed on his twin bed by the door he saw a familiar tousled head on the other bed's pillow.
His brother's soft snores lulled him to sleep.

~#~#~

There were times when Castiel wished he could just separate from his mind and not think, not remember, just be for awhile.
Anything that ran through his head lately just felt like sin.
Apparently, Heaven agreed, because he'd been forbidden - implicitly - from contacting the Winchesters until such time as their importance and potential threat could be assessed.
It sent an awkward, shadowed jolt through Castiel's gut if he dwelt too long on the implications of that particular edict.
Another jolt came any time he realized he was considering disobeying Heaven.
At first he was convincing himself that he just wanted to see the car. That seeing her, touching her, even sitting in one of her seats would be enough, would stem this rising tide within him so that he could carry on being a good little solider. When that fantasy was no longer adequate, he imagined that driving again would fix it, that if he could just floor the gas on an empty road and scream down the asphalt for miles and miles, he would feel right again.
But he was an angel, and in the presence of the Host he was thoroughly couched in the wisdom of millennia. He couldn't fool himself.
Castiel didn't miss the car, or driving, or even the Winchesters. He missed feeling, all the sensations coupled with being flawed.
He wanted another taste of being human.
That revelation, when it came, shocked him to his core. He was in a section of the everlasting garden that produced large, sprawling trees. He'd stopped walking, stared at nothing as his feet sank into the grass. I don't want to fall, he thought, stricken. I love my Father, and I am completed by my brothers and sisters. I am a soldier of the Lord.
I just... His eyes slowly widened. I don't know what I want.
With that thought, green eyes flashed through his mind, and if he'd been breathing he would have found it suddenly difficult.
Confusion swept through in the space where his thoughts should be. That doesn't make any sense, he thought rather frantically. "That doesn't make any sense," he growled, as though speaking aloud would help untangle the mess he'd suddenly found himself in.
All of it was synonymous, but he had yet to figure that out.

~#~#~

"I like to change, every so often," Kendra said, by way of explanation.
She and Dean were curled up on her overstuffed sofa, still wafting through their latest afterglow, her hands lazily toying with his hair as he flipped through one of her photo books. The pictures were all of her - in places, with people - and she looked different in every single one of them.
"I like this one," Dean said, nudging the page. Soft brown eyes stared from beneath wheaten bangs. Her face had more flesh to it, too, but it was cute. Beside him Kendra wrinkled her nose. "That look's got memories attached. Sorry, kid - the world won't see that one again."
"How about -" he flipped back to an earlier favorite "- this one?" Electric blue hair with pink roots, and violet-gray eyes. "How many color contacts do you own, anyway?"
She giggled. "All colors." She studied the image for a moment. "I remember that phase... it was all raves and X and living in the moment, under a heady cloud of bass drops and nameless boys." A short huff. "Yeah, those were the days." Her tone was heavy, sardonic.
Dean closed the book and shifted her, lifting her bodily to sprawl on his lap. "How about we make this look -" his hand toyed with her hair "- the one with good memories?"
She was entirely too serious, aquatic eyes wide in a solemn face. "Sounds like a plan."
Then she smiled capriciously, and he kissed that smile.

~#~#~

"The order is simple, Castiel. You must destroy Sam Winchester."
Nothing showed on his face. He didn't question it. One did not question Heaven.
They'd put a stop to his walks in the garden. Someone had seen him reeling with realization, seen the look on his face, and the next office he'd been called into had contained a reset.
He no longer questioned his existence. He no longer had any desires, untoward or otherwise. He barely thought about that frantic drive - those memories were no longer appealing.
Expressionless, Castiel accepted his orders and flew, appearing outside the country town where he'd left the brothers weeks ago. To him, ranging the gardens of Heaven, it had been at least a year - if he'd any concept of the passage of time.
None of it mattered. He had his orders.

Stay tuned for the next chapter!~ And please review. I love to hear from my readers.

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This Is Not A Drive-By