Supernatural Fic: Mississippi 2AM
Written for comment_fic
Posted to sn_slash
Title: Mississippi 2AM
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None
Summary: It's 83 degrees at 2AM when the motel air conditioning fails
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
Other comments are housed at comment_fic.
It's 2AM when the motel loses power: the neon sign blaring through the threadbare drapes just cuts out and the whiny sputtering motor of the 1970s era window air conditioner gives up its last gasp and falls silent with a depressing wheeze of rapidly warming air.
In no time at all it's 83 degrees indoors as well.
Mississippi's so humid it feels like the shower Sam took when they checked in just after midnight, filthy and sooty from a graveyard salt and burn, was as good as three days back - although three days back was West Virginia where that little swimming hole behind the abandoned farm was cool and clear and felt so damn good after sunset he almost didn't want to get back in the Impala and hit the road again.
He hears Dean curse in the darkness and sees the outline of him moving in the room despite the lack of light. His night vision is excellent, but it's more that he knows how Dean moves from memory: he's putting on his jeans. A slap of a hand on the dresser and a jingle means he's taking keys with him, then the door's thrown open - no acknowledgment that Sam's buck naked on the far bed in clear view of the open door. But then, it's not like Sam was shy about skinny dipping in West Virginia.
No throaty purr follows, just the sound of the trunk being opened and shut, so Dean's not going anywhere. Silence follows for a moment and Sam's left to follow the first bead of sweat forming on his forehead down his cheekbone to his jaw, dropping with a splash on his chest. He carelessly wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, but it's useless. It's just too damn hot to stop the inevitable flood as his body responds to the stifling oppressive heat pushing down on it from the dank thick Southern summer air. It clogs his lungs, wet and heavy, and leaves his mouth parched, lips drying within seconds of being licked.
The door opens again and it's a Dean shaped form that enters so Sam's guard goes back down. He's carrying something - something heavy by the sound of it. He plunks it down beside Sam's bed and goes to open the bathroom window. Sam's hand gravitates down to feel. A bucket? Opening the bathroom door lets a hint of moonlight paint the room in faint shadows. The tiniest ghost of a warm breeze brings promises of cooler air to come in the dawn hours. At least that's what Sam tells himself: think cool thoughts.
Dean shoves Sam over as he peels his jeans back off and Sam automatically makes room for him on the bed the same way they always did sharing a bed as kids. Older brother picks his side, younger brother shuts his cakehole. Dean leans over and shoves his hand in the bucket and the sound... Oh, it's a beautiful sound: the hard crunching clatter of ice.
Dean runs a handful over his own chest, letting out a delicious sigh of relief that Sam envies, almost salivating. He doesn't have to wait long; Dean's good about that. A hand brings a frigid cube to his mouth and Sam takes it, sucking on it avidly, letting the icy rivulets run down his chin and neck to the sweat-soaked sheets below.
Dean runs an ice cube down the center of Sam's chest: slowly, so slowly, melting it as he goes, playful shivers so wonderfully welcome. Cool water droplets race down his sides stealing heat as they go, as Dean's hand descends. The cube circles his navel, skates over his abs, goes further down.
And then Dean pops the ice cube in his mouth.
82 degrees outside, but it just got way hotter inside.
~
Posted to sn_slash
Title: Mississippi 2AM
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None
Summary: It's 83 degrees at 2AM when the motel air conditioning fails
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
Other comments are housed at comment_fic.
It's 2AM when the motel loses power: the neon sign blaring through the threadbare drapes just cuts out and the whiny sputtering motor of the 1970s era window air conditioner gives up its last gasp and falls silent with a depressing wheeze of rapidly warming air.
In no time at all it's 83 degrees indoors as well.
Mississippi's so humid it feels like the shower Sam took when they checked in just after midnight, filthy and sooty from a graveyard salt and burn, was as good as three days back - although three days back was West Virginia where that little swimming hole behind the abandoned farm was cool and clear and felt so damn good after sunset he almost didn't want to get back in the Impala and hit the road again.
He hears Dean curse in the darkness and sees the outline of him moving in the room despite the lack of light. His night vision is excellent, but it's more that he knows how Dean moves from memory: he's putting on his jeans. A slap of a hand on the dresser and a jingle means he's taking keys with him, then the door's thrown open - no acknowledgment that Sam's buck naked on the far bed in clear view of the open door. But then, it's not like Sam was shy about skinny dipping in West Virginia.
No throaty purr follows, just the sound of the trunk being opened and shut, so Dean's not going anywhere. Silence follows for a moment and Sam's left to follow the first bead of sweat forming on his forehead down his cheekbone to his jaw, dropping with a splash on his chest. He carelessly wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, but it's useless. It's just too damn hot to stop the inevitable flood as his body responds to the stifling oppressive heat pushing down on it from the dank thick Southern summer air. It clogs his lungs, wet and heavy, and leaves his mouth parched, lips drying within seconds of being licked.
The door opens again and it's a Dean shaped form that enters so Sam's guard goes back down. He's carrying something - something heavy by the sound of it. He plunks it down beside Sam's bed and goes to open the bathroom window. Sam's hand gravitates down to feel. A bucket? Opening the bathroom door lets a hint of moonlight paint the room in faint shadows. The tiniest ghost of a warm breeze brings promises of cooler air to come in the dawn hours. At least that's what Sam tells himself: think cool thoughts.
Dean shoves Sam over as he peels his jeans back off and Sam automatically makes room for him on the bed the same way they always did sharing a bed as kids. Older brother picks his side, younger brother shuts his cakehole. Dean leans over and shoves his hand in the bucket and the sound... Oh, it's a beautiful sound: the hard crunching clatter of ice.
Dean runs a handful over his own chest, letting out a delicious sigh of relief that Sam envies, almost salivating. He doesn't have to wait long; Dean's good about that. A hand brings a frigid cube to his mouth and Sam takes it, sucking on it avidly, letting the icy rivulets run down his chin and neck to the sweat-soaked sheets below.
Dean runs an ice cube down the center of Sam's chest: slowly, so slowly, melting it as he goes, playful shivers so wonderfully welcome. Cool water droplets race down his sides stealing heat as they go, as Dean's hand descends. The cube circles his navel, skates over his abs, goes further down.
And then Dean pops the ice cube in his mouth.
82 degrees outside, but it just got way hotter inside.
~