Work Text:
“No.”
It’s hot. Not just, “Oh, I’ll leave my jacket at home,” weather; it’s hot. Hot as if the air is made of fire and every inch of skin is slick from head to toe trying to fight spontaneous combustion; it’s crack an egg on the sidewalk and watch it cook hot. It’s make a whole damn breakfast on the sidewalk hot. Hotter than hell hot. And it shows no signs of stopping.
The hunt’s a bust. Three missing kids turned out to be nothing but three eerily similar custody disputes involving three equally asshole-ish parents. But the hotel room’s already paid through Friday and the Impala weeps every time Dean starts her up; so the car is getting spoiled, hiding from the weather in pre-paid covered parking a block down while Sam and his brother hide in their room. The A/C’s on full blast despite desperate pleas from the governor to mind your energy use but Sam fears it won’t last. Like the Impala, it too whines with every chug. And despite its (and Dean’s) moaning, it still can’t quite keep the heat from sinking in through the door.
They’re both down to their boxers, on top of the comforters, of course. An hour ago, Dean tried raiding the ice machine down the hall for additional relief. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one with the idea and there wasn’t nearly enough to fill the tub like Dean planned. So instead they’re stuck dozing at high noon, trying to move as little as possible less they overheat... at least, they were until a few moments ago.
Sam cracks an eye open. Dean remains crouched over him, fingertips dancing along the waistband of his boxers. Sam would kick him away, but—
“Too damn hot,” Sam grumbles, shutting his eyes. Though Dean disappears, his teasing fingers do not. “Said no.”
“Sammy,” Dean entreats, all honey and melted sugar. Burnt sugar, Sam thinks sourly. “Nothin’ better to do.”
“Sure there is,” Sam counters, “sleep.” He rolls to his side and that’s already more energy than he wanted to expend. He can feel Dean’s pout scorching along his back.
“For another two days?” Dean asks. And, yeah, lying around is pretty much all they did yesterday, too, and it’s getting old fast. But Sam’s brain is like a sidewalk egg, fried. He’s not sure he cares. “C’mon.”
“Dean—”
“Knock you right out,” Dean offers. “Please?” Then, his tongue slides along his neck and Sam shudders a bit because Dean’s tasting his sweat and it’s. Kind of hot.
Even in the privacy of his own mind, he cringes.
Sam rolls back over, squinting hard at his brother. Dean’s the picture of innocence but his mouth is bubblegum pink and he keeps rubbing circles into Sam’s hipbone. His chest is slick. Everything about him is slick.
Dean’s eyes light up. He knows he’s found a foothold. “C’mon, Sam,” he murmurs. “Gonna let me get at that dick?”
The aforementioned dick twitches.
Sam sighs and Dean’s face splits into a grin. “I’m not doing any work,” Sam warns. “Don’t have the energy.”
Dean shrugs. “Fine by me,” he says, wriggling out of his underwear. “I’ll just get what I need, no sweat.”
Sam snorts. No sweat indeed. They’re nothing but sweat. It shines along his brother’s neck and pecs, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Sam swallows and tries to look bored.
Dean, despite his insistence, doesn’t go straight for the kill. He slides down the end of the mattress, kneeling over Sam’s calves. Then he lifts one foot off the bed and presses a soft kiss to the inside of his ankle. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Wha—”
“No complaints,” Dean mumbles into his skin. “You’re not doing any work, remember?”
He has a point. Sam remains silent as Dean nuzzles the delicate bones of his foot, brushing more kisses along the top. His tongue flicks between his toes and Sam gasps and twitches.
“That’s gross,” he breathes. Rationally, it’s not too bad. He’s showered recently—they both have. It’s one of the only ways to keep cool. But the idea of it...
Dean’s gaze drifts up to his non-uninterested cock. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Whatever you say, Tarantino.”
“You’re Tarantino,” Sam mutters petulantly as he fights the redness rising to his face. It’s just the damn heat.
“Mhmm,” Dean agrees with a chuckle, nipping at the ball of his foot; Sam twitches. Then he gently sets that foot down and picks up the other one, pressing his nose to the underside and tickling it briefly with a flick of his tongue. Sam’s fingers dig into the mattress and he stares up at the popcorn ceiling, the only safe place to look.
Dean works his way up Sam’s legs in a similarly methodical faction, taking time to lap behind his knees and bite at the meat of his thighs. By the time he reaches Sam’s groin, there’s no hiding Sam’s reaction. His boxers are soaked, and not just from sweat. Dean glides the shorts down an inch at a time; Sam breaks his own rule a little by lifting his hips. When Dean tosses them aside Sam swears he can hear them splat as they hit the ground. Sam’s... everything is on fire.
“Dean—” he protests but cuts himself off with a strangled groan when Dean sticks his face right between the V of his legs, against his balls, and inhales. Sam has to stop himself from grabbing Dean’s head right then and there and really grinding him in there because that’s disgusting; he knows how much sweat’s been pooling down there, fucking swamp crotch, realizes how much he must reek—
“Cunt smells so good, Sammy,” Dean growls. “Gonna let me get in there? Gonna let me taste?”
Dean doesn’t wait for an answer and Sam can’t give one. He shoves his palm in his mouth so he doesn’t scream as Dean holds his thighs up and apart so he can suck at his balls and dips behind them to stab his tongue viciously at his perineum. Not just there, but at the crease where his legs meet his hips and even dipping down to lick at his asshole. Nothing is spared, save for his dick, which weeps and drips like a broken faucet as Dean mouths provocatively around the base. All Sam can do is arch his back and pant as his veins ignite.
Sweat runs into his eyes and he licks it off his upper lip. Sam doesn’t realize he’s trembling, every muscle tensed like he’s coming until Dean eases him back down on the bed and rubs his legs until he relaxes. He looks up, letting Sam’s dripping cock rest on his face; Dean’s mouth and cheeks and forehead are covered with shining streaks of sweat and come; his lips are candy apple red and glistening. He looks filthy.
“Get up here,” Sam croaks. Dean obeys straddling and leaning down until Sam can capture him in a kiss. And, God, Dean stinks like whorehouse, like an old gym mat, but the earthy musk just makes Sam salivate. He eagerly dives into the offered mouth, tasting his own musk on Dean’s tongue. He licks himself off his brother and loves it.
Dean shoves him back down. “Ain’t done,” he points out and shimmies down until the tip of Sam’s dick teases his ass. “So fucking wet, you’re gonna slide right in there, aren’t you?” Dean taunts, spreading himself wide and letting the head brush his hole.
“Please,” Sam moans. When he grabs for him, Dean lifts up, out of reach. “Please, c’mon—”
“Thought you didn’t have the energy?” Dean reminds him.
“Fuck that,” Sam spits and Dean lets out a surprised chuckle. “Thought you wanted my dick, thought you wanted to take what you want.”
“True ’nuff,” Dean laughs. He reaches back, grabbing Sam’s shaft and guiding it toward his hole.
There’s almost no pause between the head of Sam’s cock breaching the rim and the rest of his dick following; he slides in real easy, just like Dean says. And Sam just has to groan because Dean’s wet, almost girl-wet, and the reason why is fucking nasty; but he sure as hell ain’t complaining when lifts up and drops down again. And again. And again. His own ready-to-use Fleshlight.
He can’t take it anymore. Sam grabs at Dean’s hips (and almost loses him, fingers slipping right off the skin) and pistons up into that smoldering hot, wet heat. Dean retaliates immediately by pinning his hands to the mattress. And Sam lets him because now they’re chest-to-chest, sticking together like they’re becoming one creature as Dean works his ass on Sam’s cock, smooth as any pussy.
“Dirty little brother,” Dean huffs into his face, too close and hot and perfect. “Knew you liked nasty like this, everything smelling like a cum sock, dripping everywhere—”
“I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” Sam gasps as Dean’s ass works his cock. “Gonna—”
“You didn’t even wanna,” Dean teases. Infuriatingly, he stills. “Thought you were just gonna lie there.”
“Please,” Sam groans. He struggles against the hands holding him down, but not very hard. He doesn’t have the energy. “Please—”
“Since you asked nicely,” Dean says magnanimously. He lets go.
Sam’s hands scramble along Dean’s backside, though he never quite manages a good grip. It’s good enough that he can keep Dean where he wants him as he pounds his hole; good enough that Dean finally shuts up, only letting out the gasps that Sam’s dick punches out of him. Everything’s almost too hot, too slick; it’s a frictionless glide keeping him just out of reach of completion, until—
The A/C sputters and dies. That, for whatever reason, is all it takes. Sam pumps once, twice, and then comes, fingertips sliding along Dean’s hips and ass as creams up Dean’s insides.
Sam shudders and drops. Dean works himself on the still-hard shaft, hand flying over his dick.
“Do it,” Sam slurs. “Do it. Make me dirty. C’mon, please, cum on me—”
Dean’s cum splatters all over his chest, all the up to his neck. Sam drags his hands through the mess with a shudder; Dean brings the hand to his mouth and licks the white off his palm and the web of skin between his fingers. Dean grinds on Sam’s over-taxed dick with a churning motion they can both hear; they separate with a squelch. Dean is dripping.
It takes a good long time for Sam’s brain to come back online enough to string anything more complicated together than Guh— and even that takes a lot more effort than he’d like to admit. Dean watches him the whole while, stroking his side until he finally stops shaking, which he didn’t even realize he was doing until he stopped. He’s exhausted. His eyes slide shut.
“Tolja,” Dean hums as he lightly rakes his nails over Sam’s nipples. “Enjoy the wet spot, bitch. I’m gonna shower again.”
Sam’s too tired to protest, even as he realizes that the comforter is indeed soaked and the dead air conditioner is going to make what was already a dire situation even worse. In a couple of minutes, everything in here is going to truly, utterly, irredeemably reek. But that’s a problem for a Sam with a brain that’s not a fried egg.