Hello, hope not to be late for the party, can I havea deanlock, number one. I just wanna those together. Hope it's not hard to write, thank you.
Deanlock + 1: Hot, Steamy kiss
(ugh, this was fucking hard. I hate messing with my OTPs! Takes place during the hiatus/season 7 of SPN while Cas is dead)
“You resent this car.”
Dean tensed slightly. He was bent over the hood of the car he and Sam had been forced to start driving around now that it was too dangerous to drive Baby around. It wasn’t like the car was a piece of shit - even though it was - it just wasn’t his car. And the uppity accented voice reminding him of that was not helping.
“No shit,” he grunted, pushing himself up and glancing over his shoulder. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He wasn’t sure what it was about Sherlock that set him off. Was it the accent? The coat? He scowled.
Sherlock didn’t seem to be bothered. “But you are skilled,” he pressed on. “The way you handle this engine and its individual parts… you’re good with your hands. You take pride in your work, in your ability to finally put something back together in just as good as, if not better, shape than when you began. Because you ruin everything else.”
“Fuck you,” Dean hissed, dropping his wrench. He was tempted to put his fist right in the middle of Sherlock’s smug face, but Sam was right: they really did need all the help they could get.
The offer stopped him cold. Dean looked up, eyes narrowed, and grabbed a rag to wipe his greasy fingers. “What?”
“You miss someone,” Sherlock said flatly, and there was something about him -
“So do you,” Dean challenged.
Sherlock just stared at him, smug and silent and knowing, like what are you going to do about it, and Dean decided to show him. He threw the rag on the ground and crossed the space between them in a handful of long steps, slamming Sherlock back against the garage door.
“You’re a bastard,” he breathed.
“And you’re a drop-out with father issues and a tendency towards denial in terms of your -”
Dean shut him up with a kiss, furiously shoving open that annoying mouth and licking his way inside. Sherlock’s hands came up and tangled in the back of his leather jacket, holding him close. Close was fine, close was good, so long as it didn’t matter.