Summary: First a freak weather system cranks up the heat and then Dean does. PWP.
Notes: Written to the sound of Drive, by Melissa Ferrick - it's the aural equivalent of sex, people. I wrote this in four hours with it on repeat.
Dedicated to Kyrieane for being a wonderful friend and a world class enabler.
The weather had taken a turn for the weird three days ago - added an extra 10° to the temperature and cranked the humidity up so high just breathing left them limned with a glossy sheen of perspiration.
Opening the windows wasn't an option for any number of reasons, not that it would make any difference if they did. There hadn't been the slightest puff of breeze since the thermometer started creeping upwards and the barometer went insane.
And then the air conditioning died.
Tempers frayed partway through the first day - snide comments slid slowly into a hissed exchange of remembered failures that gathered steam until they were standing, fists clenched, forearms bulging, heads thrust forward between braced shoulders, reduced to the mindless insults of childish name-calling as the air between them shimmered with tension, unvoiced, unacknowledged.
They showered, one after the other, hands braced against too warm tiles as tepid water trickled over scalp and scapula, drizzling with a pointed lack of chill down arched spines and over tense buttocks, feeling as familiar as sweat down the backs of their legs and across their bellies. And neither of them touched the hot water tap.
Clothes were eschewed by silent agreement. Neither wanted to relinquish the slight benefit of room temperature air against bare skin, but the towels stayed in place, knotted securely at one hip, barely covering flesh that hadn't been affected in the slightest by their showers.
Every so often one would rise, swagger or slouch into the bathroom and douse themselves in whatever slightly-below-room-temperature water they could coax from the cold tap. The difference was minimal, but the movement of air over gleaming wet skin as they made their way back to their bed was several seconds of near bliss, beading nipples and raising gooseflesh from the erotically gentle brush of it. Well, that, and the knowledge that the other set of eyes in the room was watching angrily, hungrily, illicitly.
The next time Sam comes out of the bathroom - dripping and moving slightly faster than he did on the way in to maximise air movement - Dean is on his back in the centre of his bed, left hand arched up and over his head, fingertips tucked into the miniscule gap between tacky headboard and 70s flock wallpaper. His other hand is lower, tucked between the folds of his towel, wrist brushing rhythmically back and forth.
And he's moaning.
As Sam watches, Dean's head rolls back, stretching the tendons in his neck, exposing the hollow at the base of his throat and the gleaming gold pendant curled in a nest of damp leather thong.
The moans grow louder as his mouth falls open, tongue slipping out to slick lush plump lips that Sam has no business wanting to bite until they bleed, the ghost of that salt sweet iron-hot taste already on his tongue.
It's barely audible, a stunned whisper trapped inside a shaky exhalation, but Dean hears it, lets his head fall onto his left shoulder and opens eyes that are almost entirely pupil, huge black chasms reflecting back Sam's hunger and need, his knowledge that this is wrong and he doesn't care, can't care, he needs this now.
Dean doesn't speak, doesn't look away, just plants his feet firmly on the mattress and arches his back, pushing his pelvis, his right hand and what it holds, up, several inches off the bed. And then he's letting go, hand sliding out from under the towel, up to tug at the knot, loosen it, drag it out from under to drop off the edge of the bed, forgotten in an instant as his hand reclaims lost territory, fingers curled tight around hot, hard flesh and sweat-slick skin.
And now Sam is moaning.
Each thrust ripples up through Dean's body, serpentine and graceful as he fucks his own fist, eyes holding Sam hostage and demanding an unforgivable ransom in the form of white-hot sin.
Sam can't move, can't blink, can barely breathe. He is sure that yesterday he had never considered this, and yet now he can't imagine not having this image, this need, as a hum in his veins, buzzing in his head and crowding out every other thought and feeling, just fuck and now and Dean.
Then the world stutters and shifts and when Sam opens his eyes he's on the bed, balanced on hands and knees at Dean's feet, head held low, eyes trailing up taut spread thighs dusted with fine gold hairs, nodding in time with the motions of Dean's right hand as it slipslidetwists up and down his cock.
He licks his lips and Dean clamps down hard on the base of his erection as his hips jerk spasmodically and Sam knows, he knows, how close he just came to seeing Dean lose it, right now, right here, because of something Sam does without thinking a hundred times a day. So he does it again.
Dean laughs, soft and low, just rough enough to make the hairs on the back of Sam's neck lift in a primitive reaction. The gleam in Dean's eye has barely registered before he's lunging up and forward, knocking away the towel and dragging Sam down on top of him, tangling their legs together.
Sam freezes, stunned by the unexpected, the speed, the feel of skin on hot damp skin, the dazzling reality of being on top, and then Dean's thigh is sliding between his, snugging up against his balls and cock, and all he can think is yes and now and harderfastermore.
A hand on the back of his neck drags him to down to Dean's open mouth and he barely notices the dig and pinch of roughly trimmed nails on his nape as he falls into heaven, determined to taste, lick, savour every inch of lush flesh, every dark, hidden corner, before it's stolen away from him as everything good always is.
He's braced on his left elbow, fingers tucked just under the curve of Dean's shoulder, his other hand stroking along Dean's flank, trailing from ribs to thigh and back, mapping the curves and plane of Dean's belly, sharp angle of hip and pelvis.
The kiss deepens as Dean pulls him closer, an arm, a band of steel around Sam's waist, crushing him into Dean's own space, trying to merge their two bodies into one writhing, sexual organism.
Dean's hand inches lower as he writhes and bucks beneath Sam's weight, fingers gathering moisture from the sweep of Sam's spine. And then he's pushing down and in and up, just the right amount of pressure where no one has pressed before and Sam is falling to pieces, coming apart at the seams and whimpering into Dean's mouth as his orgasm rolls through him.
Dean continues to move beneath him, faster and faster, riding out the waves of Sam's climax until his back bows and lifts them both for one fragile, trembling second. And then he's coming too, muscles locked and quivering, profanities and curses falling from his lips like benedictions.
When they wake and peel themselves apart with winces and muttered curses and shy, uncertain glances, the weather is back to normal, cool and slightly damp, the curtains rippling slowly in the breeze that's sneaking in around the badly fitted windows.
Sam slips away and into the shower, uncertain, wanting and totally unable to analyse or vocalise that want. Before he's even managed to do more than wet his hair, Dean is shoving his way into the undersized cubicle and stealing the soap.
The elephant that's been sitting on Sam's chest disappears, leaving him gasping for breath between barks of uncontrollable laughter. Dean slaps him on the ass.
"Good thing we always get two beds, Sammy. I hate sleeping in the wet spot."