SPN Fic: Pour Down Your Warmth
It's a tiny bit late, but I wrote this for my darling wendy's birthday this week from her prompt asking for a cold night, flannel sheets, snuggling boys, and SCHMOOP. Happy birthday, Wendy-Bird!
Title: Pour Down Your Warmth
Author: deirdre_c
Rating: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1000 words
Author's Notes: Heartfelt thanks to missyjack for the extra quick beta while on the road; any remaining errors are entirely my own. Title from Walt Whitman's wonderful “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”.
Summary: Winter: a good excuse for snuggling.
***
Dean surrenders once he can no longer feel his fingers or toes or either set of cheeks. He’s bundled up pretty well, but a pair of knit gloves and one layer of socks aren’t much proof against a Michigan midwinter blizzard in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.
He’s spent the last thirty minutes on his back in the salty, hard-crusted ice on the shoulder of the road, distracted from the weather with sussing out the pinhole leak in the Impala’s brake line after an awful, sick moment of mashing on the pedal to stop and meeting nothing but the floor. Luckily, there’d been no one in front of them-no one out here for miles- so all he’d had to survive was Sam’s so-called wit when Dean had done that involuntary, dad-sticks-an-arm-out-to-keep-you-from-flying-through-the-windshield thing. Stupid Sam. Shoulda let him eat dashboard.
Dean shoves out from under the car. Now he’s so damn cold he can’t even feel his teeth chattering as he trudges up the ridge, following Sam’s near-obscured trail through the mounded snow to a (hopefully) unoccupied cabin they’d spotted not too far back. They’re both banged up and looking dangerous enough to get run off the property by any occupant with sense, even with Sam’s orphan-puppy eyes on their side.
He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and falls into this zone so that he almost walks smack into one cinderblock wall before realizing he’s there. In the blue beam of his flashlight, he sees the cabin is a tiny box of a thing, shuttered for the season, but at this point any shelter is better than the notion of trying to maneuver a brakeless Impala over these slick back roads. There’s mellow light glinting under the doorframe-candle, fire, something warm-which means Sam.
When he reaches for the doorknob it takes both frozen-block hands to turn it, and when it finally opens he stumbles in and shoves the door closed with a shoulder. The light is coming from a makeshift fire of what appears to be a combination of old logs and broken-up furniture crackling merrily in an undersized hole-in-the-wall hearth. Most of the heat must be getting sucked up the flue, though, because Dean can still see puffs of his breath fogging the chilly air.
But there’s a bed and Sam is in it, huddled under five layers of scavenged army blankets and moth-eaten down.
“I was just about to come out on a rescue mission, you hypothermic idiot.” Sam crawls out from his nest and grabs Dean where he’s standing stock-still in the middle of the room. He meant to warm up by the fire, but his body’s not listening to his commands anymore.
Sam tugs him gently toward the bed, peeling off gloves and hat and coat as they go. Sam’s muttered litany of fucking freezing and should’ve stopped hours ago and less sense than a kindergartner and frostbite flows over Dean like bathwater. Then one light push and he’s sprawled on his back, Sam bending to unlace his ice-slicked boots.
Dean groans, all pins and needles. “Man, it’s n-n-nice to have a w-w-wife.”
“Asshole,” Sam says. He wrestles Dean out of damp jeans and soaking wet socks and rolls him into the glorious warm spot left by Sam's body heat. “Keep it up and I’ll start withholding marital privileges.”
Dean wants to respond with a joke about “keeping it up,” but despite the cocoon of flannel sheets and blankets, he’s still shuddering like a over-balanced washing machine and he’s not sure much more will come out than a pitiful “k-k-kkkee” sound. He’ll just save it for later. It’ll still be funny later.
Sam climbs in the other side of the bed and scoots over until he can wrap himself around Dean, engulfing him, voluntarily pulling icy hands up under his shirt and pressing them against his sides. Martyr. Sam’s still got his typical eight or ten annoying underlayers on, but for once they’re coming in handy; his skin is dry and soft like fresh-baked bread straight from the oven, almost too hot to touch. Probably tastes like it, too.
Dean mouth starts to water.
He pokes the cold tip of his nose into the tuck of Sam’s neck just to feel him jerk back and squawk, then chases along Sam’s jaw with little nips, the light bristle of Sam’s invisible, two-day scruff making his lips burn and tingle as feeling returns.
“Guess you’re coming back to life then, Frosty?” Dean can feel Sam’s smile against his hair.
Dean just hums absently and slides his hands around, skimming down past Sam’s too-loose belt, past the elastic of his boxers to cup his ass and pull Sam’s hips flush against him, his cock not hard yet or anything, just a promise.
Sam reaches up and pulls the covers over their heads, burrowing them down into the dark, Sam’s mouth wide and wet on his, kissing slow and thorough. Huge hands massage heat back into shoulders and arms and flanks and thighs. Between the stuffy close-confines under the blankets and Sam annexing his mouth, Dean’s head swims. He lolls back on the pillow, Sam automatically shifting to lick down his neck, collarbone, chest, and he feels like a popsicle left in the summer sun, joints thawing, his whole body slowly melting into the mattress.
He’s got enough feeling back into his fingers to fumble at Sam’s buttons, but it’s a half-hearted effort, his eyelids heavy and sliding like liquid silver. Time stretches out and he floats, comfortable, snug, right at the edge of unconsciousness. He hears Sam chuckle and feels a nibble at his shoulder, then there’s a burst of fresh, frigid air and the hazy recognition of Sam inching back up toward the headboard, arranging bedding and pillows, gathering Dean in under his chin.
The last thing Dean hears as he drifts off is Sam’s whispered, “Sleep. I’ll keep the fire going.”
Title: Pour Down Your Warmth
Author: deirdre_c
Rating: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1000 words
Author's Notes: Heartfelt thanks to missyjack for the extra quick beta while on the road; any remaining errors are entirely my own. Title from Walt Whitman's wonderful “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”.
Summary: Winter: a good excuse for snuggling.
***
Dean surrenders once he can no longer feel his fingers or toes or either set of cheeks. He’s bundled up pretty well, but a pair of knit gloves and one layer of socks aren’t much proof against a Michigan midwinter blizzard in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.
He’s spent the last thirty minutes on his back in the salty, hard-crusted ice on the shoulder of the road, distracted from the weather with sussing out the pinhole leak in the Impala’s brake line after an awful, sick moment of mashing on the pedal to stop and meeting nothing but the floor. Luckily, there’d been no one in front of them-no one out here for miles- so all he’d had to survive was Sam’s so-called wit when Dean had done that involuntary, dad-sticks-an-arm-out-to-keep-you-from-flying-through-the-windshield thing. Stupid Sam. Shoulda let him eat dashboard.
Dean shoves out from under the car. Now he’s so damn cold he can’t even feel his teeth chattering as he trudges up the ridge, following Sam’s near-obscured trail through the mounded snow to a (hopefully) unoccupied cabin they’d spotted not too far back. They’re both banged up and looking dangerous enough to get run off the property by any occupant with sense, even with Sam’s orphan-puppy eyes on their side.
He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and falls into this zone so that he almost walks smack into one cinderblock wall before realizing he’s there. In the blue beam of his flashlight, he sees the cabin is a tiny box of a thing, shuttered for the season, but at this point any shelter is better than the notion of trying to maneuver a brakeless Impala over these slick back roads. There’s mellow light glinting under the doorframe-candle, fire, something warm-which means Sam.
When he reaches for the doorknob it takes both frozen-block hands to turn it, and when it finally opens he stumbles in and shoves the door closed with a shoulder. The light is coming from a makeshift fire of what appears to be a combination of old logs and broken-up furniture crackling merrily in an undersized hole-in-the-wall hearth. Most of the heat must be getting sucked up the flue, though, because Dean can still see puffs of his breath fogging the chilly air.
But there’s a bed and Sam is in it, huddled under five layers of scavenged army blankets and moth-eaten down.
“I was just about to come out on a rescue mission, you hypothermic idiot.” Sam crawls out from his nest and grabs Dean where he’s standing stock-still in the middle of the room. He meant to warm up by the fire, but his body’s not listening to his commands anymore.
Sam tugs him gently toward the bed, peeling off gloves and hat and coat as they go. Sam’s muttered litany of fucking freezing and should’ve stopped hours ago and less sense than a kindergartner and frostbite flows over Dean like bathwater. Then one light push and he’s sprawled on his back, Sam bending to unlace his ice-slicked boots.
Dean groans, all pins and needles. “Man, it’s n-n-nice to have a w-w-wife.”
“Asshole,” Sam says. He wrestles Dean out of damp jeans and soaking wet socks and rolls him into the glorious warm spot left by Sam's body heat. “Keep it up and I’ll start withholding marital privileges.”
Dean wants to respond with a joke about “keeping it up,” but despite the cocoon of flannel sheets and blankets, he’s still shuddering like a over-balanced washing machine and he’s not sure much more will come out than a pitiful “k-k-kkkee” sound. He’ll just save it for later. It’ll still be funny later.
Sam climbs in the other side of the bed and scoots over until he can wrap himself around Dean, engulfing him, voluntarily pulling icy hands up under his shirt and pressing them against his sides. Martyr. Sam’s still got his typical eight or ten annoying underlayers on, but for once they’re coming in handy; his skin is dry and soft like fresh-baked bread straight from the oven, almost too hot to touch. Probably tastes like it, too.
Dean mouth starts to water.
He pokes the cold tip of his nose into the tuck of Sam’s neck just to feel him jerk back and squawk, then chases along Sam’s jaw with little nips, the light bristle of Sam’s invisible, two-day scruff making his lips burn and tingle as feeling returns.
“Guess you’re coming back to life then, Frosty?” Dean can feel Sam’s smile against his hair.
Dean just hums absently and slides his hands around, skimming down past Sam’s too-loose belt, past the elastic of his boxers to cup his ass and pull Sam’s hips flush against him, his cock not hard yet or anything, just a promise.
Sam reaches up and pulls the covers over their heads, burrowing them down into the dark, Sam’s mouth wide and wet on his, kissing slow and thorough. Huge hands massage heat back into shoulders and arms and flanks and thighs. Between the stuffy close-confines under the blankets and Sam annexing his mouth, Dean’s head swims. He lolls back on the pillow, Sam automatically shifting to lick down his neck, collarbone, chest, and he feels like a popsicle left in the summer sun, joints thawing, his whole body slowly melting into the mattress.
He’s got enough feeling back into his fingers to fumble at Sam’s buttons, but it’s a half-hearted effort, his eyelids heavy and sliding like liquid silver. Time stretches out and he floats, comfortable, snug, right at the edge of unconsciousness. He hears Sam chuckle and feels a nibble at his shoulder, then there’s a burst of fresh, frigid air and the hazy recognition of Sam inching back up toward the headboard, arranging bedding and pillows, gathering Dean in under his chin.
The last thing Dean hears as he drifts off is Sam’s whispered, “Sleep. I’ll keep the fire going.”