Supernatural fic: Conditioned Air (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: Conditioned Air
Author: Krisomniac
Rating, Warning, Pairing: R, slash, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just a little ice-play on a very hot morning. Intended for mature audiences only.
Wordcount: ~800
Author's Note: For Deirdre_C on the occasion of her birthday and for helping me to see the light. Many thanks to ignipes for the lightning beta and the postponement of my Death-by-Misspelling-of-Lose. No yaks were harmed in the making of this story, but several ice cubes melted before it was done. Stay cool, dears!
Summary: Summer in Alabama is better with brothers and conveniently located ice.
Conditioned Air
Sam lies limp and shirtless on the bed nearest the door, face buried in the saddest excuse for a pillow he's seen since they left west Philly. Waves of heat roll off the blacktop outside, off the shingles on the roof of the generic motel and the cars in the lot, off his back. Summer in Alabama shouldn't be allowed. It's too hot to move, to breathe, to think. It's definitely too hot to be hunting the spirits of a few confederate soldiers who'd never been told that the North had won.
The ghosts'll wait, Dean had said, as he dropped their bags unceremoniously on the floor. It's been over a hundred years. A few more hours won't kill them.
No, Sam thought We will. He didn't add, even to himself, that the ghosts would fight back. That even a victory would leave them sore and drained with new scars to find and more legends to hunt, and they'd do it all over again in the next haunted town tomorrow.
Sweat glistens on their skin, a damp sheen in the dimly lit room. Dean got a special rate for taking the room with no A/C, and Sam wonders whether it's really worth the money they saved. He licks his lips and tastes the faint saltiness that coats them.
Dean is propped up on one elbow, absently tracing circles down Sam's back with his thumb. Gentle pressure works out the kinks and knots that always settle there after a night on the road. He presses just hard enough to loosen the muscles, never hard enough to hurt. Sam is always surprised that hands so accustomed to firing weapons and sharpening knives, to killing all manner of things in all possible ways, can also be so soft and knowing.
He doesn't speak; he doesn't have to. He knows that Dean is busy thinking, his hands working methodically while his mind prepares for the hunt. Sometimes he spins his pencils while he plots and plans, other times he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. But these are the times Sam likes best, when it's just him and Dean, whiling away the hours. Together.
The first time Dean kissed him, the streetlights flickered overhead.
The first time they fucked, Sam sent a wooden chair flying across the room.
He can control it better now, and right now, he's thinking about cold. Letting his mind slip away, his thoughts wander like silent shadows out the open window and onto the sidewalk outside their room, turning at the staircase they passed on the way in, to the churning ice-maker beside the dusty red Coke machine that's out of change.
He feels the heat pour through him: from the relentless sun, from the heavy, humid air, from the fingers that play over the skin of his back. But he thinks things would be more interesting if--
Suddenly, Dean hisses into the stillness of the room and springs up straight, reaching for something at the back of his neck. His hand is tense along Sam's spine.
Sam grins into the pillow.
"You're cheating," Dean says, voice low and vaguely predatory. He reaches across and rolls Sam over onto his back, pinning his shoulder to the bed. In his other hand, something small and clear is dripping over Sam's chest.
Dean lowers the ice cube. "Close your eyes," he says.
Sam does and, unable to see, he becomes hyper-aware of each sound and movement around him. He knows what's coming, but he's writhing in anticipation nonetheless. Goosebumps spread down the length of his arms.
And then it hits.
Dean touches the ice to the hollow between his collar bones, and Sam can't stop the gasp that escapes his lips. He arches off the bed, but Dean swings a leg over him, straddling his hips, running a line of--God, please don't stop--cold down the center of his chest. He moves with glacial slowness, as Sam squirms and stretches, toes curling in ecstasy.
Dean slides his hand from Sam's shoulder and leans forward, his tongue following the damp trail of cool water to the waist band of Sam's shorts. Then he pauses, his body hovering just above Sam's, and the thinnest whisper of air passes between them.
Sam's breath hitches in his throat. He feels something cold against his mouth. It's the last sliver of ice melting on Dean's smile.
When they kiss, it's frost-chilled lips and hot tongues running together until Sam loses the distinctions, blurs around the edges and begins to forget where he ends and Dean begins. Dean lifts away, stealing air and heat and cold, and Sam's tongue darts out to him. Sam reaches up and wraps his arm around Dean's back, pulls him close, finds his breath in Dean's.
And, opening his eyes to Dean's sun-freckled face, he decides he never wants air conditioning again.
Author: Krisomniac
Rating, Warning, Pairing: R, slash, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just a little ice-play on a very hot morning. Intended for mature audiences only.
Wordcount: ~800
Author's Note: For Deirdre_C on the occasion of her birthday and for helping me to see the light. Many thanks to ignipes for the lightning beta and the postponement of my Death-by-Misspelling-of-Lose. No yaks were harmed in the making of this story, but several ice cubes melted before it was done. Stay cool, dears!
Summary: Summer in Alabama is better with brothers and conveniently located ice.
Conditioned Air
Sam lies limp and shirtless on the bed nearest the door, face buried in the saddest excuse for a pillow he's seen since they left west Philly. Waves of heat roll off the blacktop outside, off the shingles on the roof of the generic motel and the cars in the lot, off his back. Summer in Alabama shouldn't be allowed. It's too hot to move, to breathe, to think. It's definitely too hot to be hunting the spirits of a few confederate soldiers who'd never been told that the North had won.
The ghosts'll wait, Dean had said, as he dropped their bags unceremoniously on the floor. It's been over a hundred years. A few more hours won't kill them.
No, Sam thought We will. He didn't add, even to himself, that the ghosts would fight back. That even a victory would leave them sore and drained with new scars to find and more legends to hunt, and they'd do it all over again in the next haunted town tomorrow.
Sweat glistens on their skin, a damp sheen in the dimly lit room. Dean got a special rate for taking the room with no A/C, and Sam wonders whether it's really worth the money they saved. He licks his lips and tastes the faint saltiness that coats them.
Dean is propped up on one elbow, absently tracing circles down Sam's back with his thumb. Gentle pressure works out the kinks and knots that always settle there after a night on the road. He presses just hard enough to loosen the muscles, never hard enough to hurt. Sam is always surprised that hands so accustomed to firing weapons and sharpening knives, to killing all manner of things in all possible ways, can also be so soft and knowing.
He doesn't speak; he doesn't have to. He knows that Dean is busy thinking, his hands working methodically while his mind prepares for the hunt. Sometimes he spins his pencils while he plots and plans, other times he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. But these are the times Sam likes best, when it's just him and Dean, whiling away the hours. Together.
The first time Dean kissed him, the streetlights flickered overhead.
The first time they fucked, Sam sent a wooden chair flying across the room.
He can control it better now, and right now, he's thinking about cold. Letting his mind slip away, his thoughts wander like silent shadows out the open window and onto the sidewalk outside their room, turning at the staircase they passed on the way in, to the churning ice-maker beside the dusty red Coke machine that's out of change.
He feels the heat pour through him: from the relentless sun, from the heavy, humid air, from the fingers that play over the skin of his back. But he thinks things would be more interesting if--
Suddenly, Dean hisses into the stillness of the room and springs up straight, reaching for something at the back of his neck. His hand is tense along Sam's spine.
Sam grins into the pillow.
"You're cheating," Dean says, voice low and vaguely predatory. He reaches across and rolls Sam over onto his back, pinning his shoulder to the bed. In his other hand, something small and clear is dripping over Sam's chest.
Dean lowers the ice cube. "Close your eyes," he says.
Sam does and, unable to see, he becomes hyper-aware of each sound and movement around him. He knows what's coming, but he's writhing in anticipation nonetheless. Goosebumps spread down the length of his arms.
And then it hits.
Dean touches the ice to the hollow between his collar bones, and Sam can't stop the gasp that escapes his lips. He arches off the bed, but Dean swings a leg over him, straddling his hips, running a line of--God, please don't stop--cold down the center of his chest. He moves with glacial slowness, as Sam squirms and stretches, toes curling in ecstasy.
Dean slides his hand from Sam's shoulder and leans forward, his tongue following the damp trail of cool water to the waist band of Sam's shorts. Then he pauses, his body hovering just above Sam's, and the thinnest whisper of air passes between them.
Sam's breath hitches in his throat. He feels something cold against his mouth. It's the last sliver of ice melting on Dean's smile.
When they kiss, it's frost-chilled lips and hot tongues running together until Sam loses the distinctions, blurs around the edges and begins to forget where he ends and Dean begins. Dean lifts away, stealing air and heat and cold, and Sam's tongue darts out to him. Sam reaches up and wraps his arm around Dean's back, pulls him close, finds his breath in Dean's.
And, opening his eyes to Dean's sun-freckled face, he decides he never wants air conditioning again.