Don't own SPN or HP - the idea came to me 'cause my mum just recently taught me the intricacies of checking my oil and filling the tank, in my country individual citizens are not allowed to change their oil due to the environmental pollution so that's as far as we go. Hope you enjoy!

Passing Glance

The Mustang pulled into the gas-station at a leisurely pace, catching the attention of the group of bikers gathered around the store entrance feeding on Hard-Rock-worthy snacks like Snickers and quenching their thirst with real metal cans fuller of foam than beer. Their chatter did not cease and they did not exhibit any kind of melodramatic behaviour when first the driver's door opened.

He himself watched only with partial interest – most of it focussed on the beauty of a car now parked underneath the shabby roof over the petrol pumps.

When, however, a young woman stepped out of the car he quirked a brow. She was put together, no doubt: black, sleek heels, black pencil skirt and a white, perfectly pressed blouse. He didn't doubt that there was a matching blazer hanging on an overhead-handle in the backrow, or folded neatly on the passenger's seat.

A few whispers arose amongst the onlookers, and he could guess what they were about – if the men to his left thought even only a bit along his lines, this could turn out to be interesting (to a point where he might be forced to intervene).

Rounding her vehicle to stop at the front, the young brunette had artfully squatted down, pencil skirt hugging her slim waist as perfectly as it enveloped her pert bottom, rolled up her sleeves and – without a moment of hesitance – grasped for the small lever hidden underneath the hood of her car to open it up, standing in a fluid motion that any exotic dancer would have been envious of.

Behind her back the snickers of the bikers escalated into snorts, whereas the woman decided to stubbornly ignore them as she locked her hood in place and bent over the machinery – he considered offering her assistance. Few women who dressed like sales-representatives usually knew their way sufficiently around a car – and a muscle car at that – to do anything else than maybe change a tire (and that was already a stretch).

Burger-wrapper disposed of with a confident – and successful – lob at the waste-bin, he straightened from his slouched position on his hood but stopped short when, grabbing a towel, the young woman reached for something he could not properly see and gingerly dislodged it. Coming away was a dark lid of the oil-tank – attached to it the gauge.

A first wipe, relocating it to its place and pulling it from there later and she nodded – as did he: the poor baby was low on oil.

The bikers next to him had quietened a bit as well – some select even nodding. He dared an appreciative smile as she wiped her dainty fingers before getting rid of the towel; she seemed to know her own car well (a woman after his own heart). Turning abruptly from the bin, she started, head held high, towards the ship in unwavering steps and he allowed himself to take her in.

Attire aside she barely looked over twenty – her hair was a riotous mess of curls framing a slender face and tumbling down to a slim waist accentuated by the high belt of her skirt. As she walked past him, he managed to catch a glimpse of her unexpected bust – cleverly hidden by her buttoned-up shirt; he had to admit that he turned head to glance after her long legs, muscles flexing beneath nylon with every step.

His train of thought was broken by a low whistle to his left when the automatic doors closed behind the curly-haired beauty – it would appear that his thoughts on the physique of the young woman were mirrored by the bikers.

A few lewd jabs later the woman in question returned to her car, studiously ignoring the few brave (and stupid) enough to attempt a take on her. He simply watched from his position.

Unhurriedly she unscrewed the lid of one of the oil-bottles in her hands before bending back over the hood to feed it to her car with the utmost caution. Considering the elegant way she was bent over her machine, pouring the bottle so attentively into her oil-tank he wondered if maybe he wasn't hallucinating – given the erotic undercurrent his mind added to the picture almost like an after-thought he might as well be.

First bottle guzzled up by the machine the woman gracefully straightened her back, eyes still on the motor, and lobbed the empty can into the nearest bin without looking. Silence ensued this time and as she bent to pick up her second bottle he could swear he saw a smirk playing at her lips – but before he could affirm, she'd fluently stood and filled her oil-tank again.

This time – and he wasn't certain if it was on purpose or on accident, see instinct – her right leg danced lightly backwards, stretching to seemingly impossible lengths. He was convinced though that his mouth wasn't the only one watering as it worked itself open and closed repeatedly sans emitting a single sound.

It was over before either of them realized: the empty bottle disposed of in the same way as the first and the hood carefully closed again after the oil-gauge had been re-checked.

With a clandestine yearning he took her in one last time, the shoes, the skirt, the blouse, until he boldly sought out her face determined to burn it into his retinas: the full lips, the small nose, the freckles on her cheeks, her long lashes, neatly plucked eyebrows and – finally – a set of honey orbs unabashedly answering his look before the moment was gone too and she started her engine.

Dean had, in his life, never been any more grateful for Sammy and his (ridiculous) demands for sleep.

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