Warmer Climate (Sam/Dean, nc-17, 1600 words)
Be afraid, be very afraid: this is schmoop. It also counts as a 'see you later' thing because I'm disappearing for a while. Try to keep fandom from wanking itself sore in my absence, hmm?
Warmer Climate
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 1600 words)
Among the anonymous prompts, someone suggested weather-porn. So here is some schmoop in a storm. Not beta'd, not crossposted (why do I never crosspost anymore?), and not at all angsty/dysfunctional/horrific. Set sometime post-S3.
It's the stinging, sleety kind of rain, coupled with a sharp wet wind so bitterly chill it hurts. Dean shakes his head and slams the Impala hood down. He hurries round and swings the door open, all but throwing himself back into the car.
"Shut the door already!" Sam snaps. He'd feel bad about it, considering he's in what passes for the safe and dry under a blanket while Dean's been out working on the engine, but it's Dean's fault they're not gonna make it to a motel tonight and Sam's been too damn tall to sleep in a car since he was sixteen.
"Yeah yeah, quit bitching."
Dean's hair is wild, spiky with rain, and his cheeks are flushed and wet. He shuffles closer on the bench seat and Sam throws the blanket up to allow him to slide under it. There's some wriggling as Dean squirms out of his sodden leather jacket, and Sam grits his teeth and keeps the blanket clutched close to his chin. He gets sprayed with rainwater as Dean tosses his jacket into the back, but nobly keeps his mouth shut about it.
It's kind of comfortable in the dark silence. Rain batters the windows, washing away whatever landscape is out there in the night. The Impala shivers as the winds crash into it. But Sam's gradually warming up and he's always had a thing for looking at wild weather from within a safe space.
Then Dean makes a soft sound, tongue swiping over his lips, and says, "You wanna…?"
He can't even say it. He's all uncertain wickedness, shooting Sam a speculative, sidelong look from under long, lowered lashes, eyes just a glint of green in the gloom. Sam takes a moment to consider, but only a moment. It's cold and wet outside, the wind screaming all around them, and Sam nods and says, "Yeah, okay."
"Awesome," Dean says, and scoots closer still.
They tent the blanket up over their hips, like they did when they were kids sharing a bed and Dean's smooth, flat belly and strong thighs were still mysterious, forbidden territory for Sam to explore. Sam sinks lower down in the seat, legs sprawling apart as soon as Dean's hand settles on his fly. And because Dean's face is so close, Sam kisses him, slow and open-mouthed, and Dean's fingers flutter and go still. It'd be frustrating but Sam's cock just goes on hardening under the weight of Dean's hand.
Licking enthusiastically at Sam's mouth, Dean twists up off the seat towards him, his other hand steadying his weight against Sam's shoulder. Sam groans into the kiss and tugs him closer. He can't exactly get his hand to settle on a grip; there's Dean's hipbone right there and there's the curve of Dean's throat too, but the kiss is sloppy and hot and Sam's happy just to let his hand wander.
In the end, he settles for cupping Dean's cheek, enabling them to kiss and kiss and kiss, because Dean's hand closes around the shape of Sam's dick and makes it pretty clear that Dean's got his own ideas.
There's an awkward little fumble as Sam tries to reach for Dean's fly, because Dean tends to get snarky if Sam doesn't return the favour in a timely manner, but Dean just tightens his grip on him and Sam's jaw goes slack at the sudden blast of arousal. Even with his lips aching and hot, Sam feels the curve of Dean's mouth as he smirks.
Sam squirms and wriggles his fingertips up under the layers of flannel and cotton until he can touch Dean's skin. He finds a tiny little patch of it just above Dean's hipbone and the angle means Dean's belt is digging into Sam's wrist, but it's worth it for the surprised noise Dean makes, the tiny shiver that goes through him as the pad of Sam's thumb rubs backwards and forwards.
Mouths just touching, breathing warm and shallow, Sam looks at Dean and sees Dean looking right back at him. Sam grins and kisses Dean again, and the second Sam's lips are on his, Dean's eyes close, lashes fanning dark over his cheeks.
It's weirdly romantic.
Or at least it is until Dean finally gets Sam's fly down, reaches in and Sam makes an undignified shrieking noise and almost goes through the ceiling.
"Jesus! Your hand is like fucking ice! Get it the hell off me!"
Dean pulls back, his disgruntled expression at odds with his obscene dishevelment.
"What d'you expect? It’s fucking cold out there!"
"Don't touch me again until your body temperature is somewhere above minus 80!" Sam snaps.
He can still feel the nasty coldness on his inner thigh where Dean's knuckles brushed him. Frustrated, he scowls at Dean and wonders if he could successfully ignore his dick into submission. They hold each other's gazes for a long moment in discontented stalemate. Then, with elaborate patience and a lot of eyerolling, Dean huffs on his hands and rubs them together.
"Is that better, princess?"
Sam ignores Dean's mockery and gives a small, prim nod. He reaches for Dean's fly, likes he means to show Dean how to give someone a handjob without accidentally freezing their dick, and Dean's hips surge towards him, abruptly all eagerness. Dean's mouth latches onto the soft skin just above Sam's jaw, tongue tickling over the furled shell of his ear before his teeth tug at the lobe. It makes Sam's breath stick in his throat but it doesn't distract him from getting his hand down the front of Dean's jeans.
There's a practised kind of synchronicity in how Sam's dick ends up in Dean's hand just as Sam's fingers are closing around Dean, a warm satisfaction in fitting together so well. But just for a second, on that first teasing drag of Sam's hand down Dean's cock, light and playful, Dean's mouth at Sam's throat turns a little desperate. There's a scrape of teeth, a flicker of tongue as Dean swallows back a sound, and Sam smiles smugly.
Because he can still get to Dean, just like Dean can get to him.
The ragged sound of their breathing, hitched and wet, grows louder with each frantic slap of skin on skin. Sam's biting down on his lip, trying to keep the jerk of his wrist steady and quick, while all the time pushing up to fuck Dean's hand.
It's still one hell of a storm out there but Sam's not cold, not anymore. There's heat crawling all over him, in his belly, up the back of his neck, a flush burning in his cheeks. He can feel the same heat radiating from Dean, who's pushed up close beside him, and whose arm keeps rubbing against Sam's.
Just watching Dean's hand on his cock is mesmerising to Sam. It's never stopped being weird, doing this with his big brother, but it's never really felt wrong either. Just… natural. Inevitable.
His gaze switches from his own flushed skin slipping wetly through Dean's fingers, to Dean's face. Dean's looking back at him again, a kind of happy intensity in his eyes, and Sam gets the crazy idea that maybe Dean hasn't looked away from him for even a second. Dean's lips part, work mutely, and Sam frowns, half-amused and half-expecting some lame line that no doubt Dean trots out for every diner waitress and bartender he picks up.
But then Dean's ducking down, swooping in to catch Sam's mouth with his and kissing him. Sam opens up and lets Dean's tongue between his lips, teases at it with his own, hot and messy. The rhythm of the hand on his cock falters but right at that moment, with Dean's lips crushed soft and swollen to his and his stubble rough against Sam's chin, Sam'd find it hard to tell you whether he was touching Dean's dick or his own and who was touching his.
There's precome on his thumb, in his palm, and his wrist aches with the snap and jerk of it. His boxers are an uncomfortable ridge of material along his thighs. Dean's too far gone to be gentle, and his grip tightens, like he's giving Sam an order. It's all too fucking much for Sam.
His hips shudder as he comes. He comes in hard, white spurts, all over Dean's hand and his bunched up jeans, and Dean's whispering into his cheek, Yeah, Sammy, there you go… and Sam can't even breathe for a second. A few moments later and he's aware of Dean's whole body snapping towards him, the sudden hot wetness of Dean's come on his skin.
There's a sudden stillness afterwards, filled with the sound of their breathing, the squeak of the seats as Dean sinks back, and the unending noise of the storm. Then Dean reaches forwards, fumbles around in the glovebox, before he tosses a wad of tissues at Sam.
"Here y'go," he says, while he sets about tidying himself up, grimacing ever so slightly as he does.
Quick but efficient, Sam mops up what he can, even if there's still a lingering sense of sweat and sex on his skin. It's not completely unpleasant, he supposes. He screws up the tissues and shoves them under the seat for to Dean to find and complain about later.
Then, comfortable and contented, Sam curls up as he best he can, puts his head on Dean's shoulder, and closes his eyes.
"Dude, no," says Dean. "No, you are not going to sleep on me."
"I got you out of Hell, didn't I?" Sam says without heat. "Be grateful I'm not expecting a lullaby too."
Dean doesn't move for a moment, then he sighs and adjusts his shoulders to better pillow Sam's shoulder.
As Sam dozes off, just above the clamouring of the storm, he can hear Dean humming Led Zeppelin.
~end
Warmer Climate
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 1600 words)
Among the anonymous prompts, someone suggested weather-porn. So here is some schmoop in a storm. Not beta'd, not crossposted (why do I never crosspost anymore?), and not at all angsty/dysfunctional/horrific. Set sometime post-S3.
It's the stinging, sleety kind of rain, coupled with a sharp wet wind so bitterly chill it hurts. Dean shakes his head and slams the Impala hood down. He hurries round and swings the door open, all but throwing himself back into the car.
"Shut the door already!" Sam snaps. He'd feel bad about it, considering he's in what passes for the safe and dry under a blanket while Dean's been out working on the engine, but it's Dean's fault they're not gonna make it to a motel tonight and Sam's been too damn tall to sleep in a car since he was sixteen.
"Yeah yeah, quit bitching."
Dean's hair is wild, spiky with rain, and his cheeks are flushed and wet. He shuffles closer on the bench seat and Sam throws the blanket up to allow him to slide under it. There's some wriggling as Dean squirms out of his sodden leather jacket, and Sam grits his teeth and keeps the blanket clutched close to his chin. He gets sprayed with rainwater as Dean tosses his jacket into the back, but nobly keeps his mouth shut about it.
It's kind of comfortable in the dark silence. Rain batters the windows, washing away whatever landscape is out there in the night. The Impala shivers as the winds crash into it. But Sam's gradually warming up and he's always had a thing for looking at wild weather from within a safe space.
Then Dean makes a soft sound, tongue swiping over his lips, and says, "You wanna…?"
He can't even say it. He's all uncertain wickedness, shooting Sam a speculative, sidelong look from under long, lowered lashes, eyes just a glint of green in the gloom. Sam takes a moment to consider, but only a moment. It's cold and wet outside, the wind screaming all around them, and Sam nods and says, "Yeah, okay."
"Awesome," Dean says, and scoots closer still.
They tent the blanket up over their hips, like they did when they were kids sharing a bed and Dean's smooth, flat belly and strong thighs were still mysterious, forbidden territory for Sam to explore. Sam sinks lower down in the seat, legs sprawling apart as soon as Dean's hand settles on his fly. And because Dean's face is so close, Sam kisses him, slow and open-mouthed, and Dean's fingers flutter and go still. It'd be frustrating but Sam's cock just goes on hardening under the weight of Dean's hand.
Licking enthusiastically at Sam's mouth, Dean twists up off the seat towards him, his other hand steadying his weight against Sam's shoulder. Sam groans into the kiss and tugs him closer. He can't exactly get his hand to settle on a grip; there's Dean's hipbone right there and there's the curve of Dean's throat too, but the kiss is sloppy and hot and Sam's happy just to let his hand wander.
In the end, he settles for cupping Dean's cheek, enabling them to kiss and kiss and kiss, because Dean's hand closes around the shape of Sam's dick and makes it pretty clear that Dean's got his own ideas.
There's an awkward little fumble as Sam tries to reach for Dean's fly, because Dean tends to get snarky if Sam doesn't return the favour in a timely manner, but Dean just tightens his grip on him and Sam's jaw goes slack at the sudden blast of arousal. Even with his lips aching and hot, Sam feels the curve of Dean's mouth as he smirks.
Sam squirms and wriggles his fingertips up under the layers of flannel and cotton until he can touch Dean's skin. He finds a tiny little patch of it just above Dean's hipbone and the angle means Dean's belt is digging into Sam's wrist, but it's worth it for the surprised noise Dean makes, the tiny shiver that goes through him as the pad of Sam's thumb rubs backwards and forwards.
Mouths just touching, breathing warm and shallow, Sam looks at Dean and sees Dean looking right back at him. Sam grins and kisses Dean again, and the second Sam's lips are on his, Dean's eyes close, lashes fanning dark over his cheeks.
It's weirdly romantic.
Or at least it is until Dean finally gets Sam's fly down, reaches in and Sam makes an undignified shrieking noise and almost goes through the ceiling.
"Jesus! Your hand is like fucking ice! Get it the hell off me!"
Dean pulls back, his disgruntled expression at odds with his obscene dishevelment.
"What d'you expect? It’s fucking cold out there!"
"Don't touch me again until your body temperature is somewhere above minus 80!" Sam snaps.
He can still feel the nasty coldness on his inner thigh where Dean's knuckles brushed him. Frustrated, he scowls at Dean and wonders if he could successfully ignore his dick into submission. They hold each other's gazes for a long moment in discontented stalemate. Then, with elaborate patience and a lot of eyerolling, Dean huffs on his hands and rubs them together.
"Is that better, princess?"
Sam ignores Dean's mockery and gives a small, prim nod. He reaches for Dean's fly, likes he means to show Dean how to give someone a handjob without accidentally freezing their dick, and Dean's hips surge towards him, abruptly all eagerness. Dean's mouth latches onto the soft skin just above Sam's jaw, tongue tickling over the furled shell of his ear before his teeth tug at the lobe. It makes Sam's breath stick in his throat but it doesn't distract him from getting his hand down the front of Dean's jeans.
There's a practised kind of synchronicity in how Sam's dick ends up in Dean's hand just as Sam's fingers are closing around Dean, a warm satisfaction in fitting together so well. But just for a second, on that first teasing drag of Sam's hand down Dean's cock, light and playful, Dean's mouth at Sam's throat turns a little desperate. There's a scrape of teeth, a flicker of tongue as Dean swallows back a sound, and Sam smiles smugly.
Because he can still get to Dean, just like Dean can get to him.
The ragged sound of their breathing, hitched and wet, grows louder with each frantic slap of skin on skin. Sam's biting down on his lip, trying to keep the jerk of his wrist steady and quick, while all the time pushing up to fuck Dean's hand.
It's still one hell of a storm out there but Sam's not cold, not anymore. There's heat crawling all over him, in his belly, up the back of his neck, a flush burning in his cheeks. He can feel the same heat radiating from Dean, who's pushed up close beside him, and whose arm keeps rubbing against Sam's.
Just watching Dean's hand on his cock is mesmerising to Sam. It's never stopped being weird, doing this with his big brother, but it's never really felt wrong either. Just… natural. Inevitable.
His gaze switches from his own flushed skin slipping wetly through Dean's fingers, to Dean's face. Dean's looking back at him again, a kind of happy intensity in his eyes, and Sam gets the crazy idea that maybe Dean hasn't looked away from him for even a second. Dean's lips part, work mutely, and Sam frowns, half-amused and half-expecting some lame line that no doubt Dean trots out for every diner waitress and bartender he picks up.
But then Dean's ducking down, swooping in to catch Sam's mouth with his and kissing him. Sam opens up and lets Dean's tongue between his lips, teases at it with his own, hot and messy. The rhythm of the hand on his cock falters but right at that moment, with Dean's lips crushed soft and swollen to his and his stubble rough against Sam's chin, Sam'd find it hard to tell you whether he was touching Dean's dick or his own and who was touching his.
There's precome on his thumb, in his palm, and his wrist aches with the snap and jerk of it. His boxers are an uncomfortable ridge of material along his thighs. Dean's too far gone to be gentle, and his grip tightens, like he's giving Sam an order. It's all too fucking much for Sam.
His hips shudder as he comes. He comes in hard, white spurts, all over Dean's hand and his bunched up jeans, and Dean's whispering into his cheek, Yeah, Sammy, there you go… and Sam can't even breathe for a second. A few moments later and he's aware of Dean's whole body snapping towards him, the sudden hot wetness of Dean's come on his skin.
There's a sudden stillness afterwards, filled with the sound of their breathing, the squeak of the seats as Dean sinks back, and the unending noise of the storm. Then Dean reaches forwards, fumbles around in the glovebox, before he tosses a wad of tissues at Sam.
"Here y'go," he says, while he sets about tidying himself up, grimacing ever so slightly as he does.
Quick but efficient, Sam mops up what he can, even if there's still a lingering sense of sweat and sex on his skin. It's not completely unpleasant, he supposes. He screws up the tissues and shoves them under the seat for to Dean to find and complain about later.
Then, comfortable and contented, Sam curls up as he best he can, puts his head on Dean's shoulder, and closes his eyes.
"Dude, no," says Dean. "No, you are not going to sleep on me."
"I got you out of Hell, didn't I?" Sam says without heat. "Be grateful I'm not expecting a lullaby too."
Dean doesn't move for a moment, then he sighs and adjusts his shoulders to better pillow Sam's shoulder.
As Sam dozes off, just above the clamouring of the storm, he can hear Dean humming Led Zeppelin.
~end