rivers_bend

This? Also not so much a drabble. I'm hoping that because it's nearly twenty times that long, lima_sierra and sylvanwitch will forgive me that their prompts got all muddled up.

Title: Cool is Hot
Genre/Pairing: teenchesters Sam/Dean
Words: ~1900
Rating: Adult (sexual situations and language)
Enticements/Warnings: Sam is 16
Summary: It's 104° in the sun with 98% humidity and Sam and Dean are throwing knives at a bale of hay which they had to wrestle onto a stump before they could start, so they have prickly wisps of it stuck to the sweat on their skin, making torture out of extreme discomfort.


Sam is starting to wonder if John Winchester's ability to find the hottest place in the country during the hottest month of the year is a some kind of curse from an evil god, or if he's just trying to kills his sons. Either way, it's 104° in the sun with 98% humidity and he and Dean are throwing knives at a bale of hay which they had to wrestle onto a stump before they could start, so they have prickly wisps of it stuck to the sweat on their skin, making torture out of extreme discomfort.

Sam's usually good with knives—can hold his own against Dean, or even best him—but today it's all he can do to heave the blades the distance, never mind with any accuracy.

"Dude," Dean says, when Sam throws wide and short for the third time in a row, "what the hell are you aiming for?"

"Too hot," Sam mutters, too enervated to elaborate or infuse his voice with the frustration he's feeling.

"Can't pick the weather when you're hunting."

"We're not hunting," Sam argues. "Besides," he adds when Dean gives him his best stern look, "how often do we hunt in the middle of the day?"

Dean tosses the remaining knife in his hand to thunk into the center of their hand-drawn bulls eye, then jerks his head in the direction of the oak tree at the edge of the yard. "Sit," he says. "I'll get us a drink."

Sam feels immediately better getting out of the sun, but the relief is short-lived as he acclimates to the still-stifling shade. He glares at the house, wishing, not for the first time this week, that they were staying in a motel, somewhere with air-conditioning, and maybe even a pool. That's typical Dad, too. Washington State in September, 72 degrees for a week, they're in a motel with weather stripping and a working thermostat, but January in South Dakota, they're in a cabin with a broken window and nothing but a fireplace. And now they're in Louisiana in the middle of August without so much as a creek within walking distance.

When Dean comes out the back door, he looks like a waiter at some tropical beach resort in the movies. He's taken off his shirt and exchanged his safety-conscious jeans and boots for the too-small board shorts they found in a drawer two motels back. The pair they argue over because they're cooler than cut off jeans, even though they are covered in bright blue hibiscus print, and both boys agree they're hideous. In one hand he has a large bottle of iced tea, and balanced in the other, two glasses filled with ice.

If Dean were a waiter, Sam would so totally tip him with his room key. Not if it were as hot as it is here, though. Except his room would probably have air-conditioning… Sam stops himself before he gets too carried away. He's stuck here; nothing he can do about it.

Except he doesn't have to be wearing so many clothes. He strips off his own shirt and moves on to unlacing his boots. By the time Dean crosses the yard with his burdens, Sam's down to his boxers.

"Dad's due back any time," Dean says, as he's sitting down. Like he's just mentioning it, not like he's warning Sam not to start anything, though Sam is pretty sure that's what Dean's getting at.

Sam relieves him of the glasses so Dean can sit and, more importantly, pour the tea, and they both down their first round in almost a single gulp. When he's done, Sam presses the cold glass to his forehead and the back of his neck and then pours a second glass. He's not paying much attention to his brother, focusing on rehydrating and not dying of sunstroke, so the ice cube on the back of his neck comes as a shock.

Dean chuckles as Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, but doesn't remove it; he runs it slowly across Sam's shoulders, and then, when Sam leans into it, down his spine.

"Feel good?" Dean asks, voice low and rough, words and tone the same as when he rocks his knuckles up behind Sam's balls, teasing and maddening, and perfect.

The sound Sam makes would best be described as a whimper, which some days Dean might tease him about, but at the moment he's too busy running the quickly melting ice up Sam's back and around to the hollow of his throat, then following the ice with his tongue.

"Dean," Sam says, all too aware that they're sitting in full view of the house's parking spot and that Dad is going to be back sometime this afternoon.

But Dean doesn't stop, despite the fact that three minutes ago he was the one warning Sam they couldn't do this. Instead, he scoops another cube from his glass and starts running it down Sam's chest. The ice is melting quickly on Sam's over-heated skin, sending rivulets of water to tickle their way around his nipples and over his abs. "Dean," he says again, begging now, for Dean to stop, or keep going; he's not even sure.

When Dean leans even closer, blowing a stream of air over Sam's collar bones, Sam tries to kiss him, but Dean dodges his lips and licks a drip of water off Sam's biceps instead. Sam can feel his skin twitching under the cold of the ice, the heat of Dean's tongue, and the press of the thick summer air. There's a tent in his boxers that would make him fit right in with the cast of the Hot College Boys porn he watched last time Dad took Dean on a hunt and left him behind, and a glance reveals Dean shifting uncomfortably in his own clinging shorts.

"You need some cooling off there yourself?" Sam asks, aiming for teasing, but sounding more breathlessly hopeful than anything.

Dean nods, and Sam dips two ice cubes out of his glass, running one up the side of Dean's neck and the other clumsily down Dean's chest and stomach towards the waistband of his shorts. The thrill that shivers though his brother makes Sam smile, and getting payback, Sam licks along the shining cool path the ice left behind Dean's ear.

"Jesus," Dean says, and his shiver is less subtle this time. When Sam follows the lick with a nip and then a sucking kiss to the salty skin, Dean gives up the pretense that they're not really doing this and grabs at Sam's shoulders with cold fingers and hot palms, shoving Sam away only far enough so that he can pull him in and kiss his mouth.

Sam falls on his brother, pushing him onto the grass under the tree and rolling them so Dean's on top, hot and heavy like a steam blanket, but Sam doesn't care anymore about the weather or the lack of air conditioning, because Dean is kissing him, making soft, hungry noises into his mouth, pinning one wrist above Sam's head, and tipping sideways so he can wedge his other hand between them, in through the fly of Sam's boxers, wrapping that hand—fingers still chilled from the ice—around Sam's dick, pulling, stopping, moving down to cup Sam's balls, press up behind them, then back again to jerk him, rock against Sam's hip, the whole time moaning into Sam's mouth.

Sam is close—so close—about to come all over Dean's hand, when Dean practically leaps off him, swearing like he got shot, or stung by a bee.

"Dean?" Sam's pissed and frustrated, but mostly worried.

"Dad," Dean hisses, just as Sam hears the Impala's engine, the sound of the tires on the gravel drive that curls around the side of the house to the parking area at the back. The one they're sitting twenty feet from.

Sam manages to get upright and pull his t-shirt over to cover where his dick is poking out of his fly just in time before Dad pulls up. Dean has his back to the driveway, between Sam and the car, and he's trying to adjust himself in the restrictive and revealing shorts, muttering something Sam can't hear.

"Boys!" Dad calls across the yard. "Come help me get this stuff in the house."

Fortunately, Dad doesn't wait for them to answer, just heads inside with a box he hefted from the back seat, so Sam can carefully tuck himself away and gingerly pull his jeans on, only wondering a little bit if it would help to press a glass of half-melted ice to his crotch.

"I knew we shouldn't start anything," Dean mutters, looking woefully at Sam and adjusting himself one more time before heading towards the car.

"You blaming me?" This is so very much not Sam's fault that it isn't even funny.

"You started it, being all hot and sweaty." Dean's serious tone is belied by the substance of his complaint, so Sam doesn't bother arguing further. Just as well. Too hot to argue. Curse Dad's timing.

They lug the other three boxes and two bags into the house. As they're settling the second load in the corner behind the easy chair where Dad had started a pile, Dad calls from the back of the house, "Need a shower. You boys decide what you want for dinner."

"Okay," Dean answers, the dutiful son, but he's already got Sam by the wrist, dragging him back into the yard and around to the other side of the oak—the side that can't be seen from the house.

"Quick," he says to Sam, who doesn't need to be told twice; he's already ripping open the buttons on his jeans as Dean drops to his knees, undoing his own fly and sighing as he frees his cock.

One hand on Sam's waist, the other on his own dick, Dean kisses, then licks, then sucks Sam's, coughing when Sam jerks at the sensation, but then finding a rhythm that works for them both. When Dean comes, a gob lands on Sam's foot, and Sam would laugh, but he's too busy coming himself, forearm stuffed in his mouth so he doesn't shout. Dean starts to stand, but Sam folds, pushing him back down, and then farther, so they're both lying in the grass again.

"We're in a hurry," Dean whispers, but he doesn't protest further when Sam kisses him.

"Just want a kiss," Sam says once he's gotten what he wanted.

They kiss for another minute, maybe two, and then reluctantly get up, dress, and gather the glasses, tea, and throwing knives—more because it will give them an excuse for being outside if Dad catches them than anything else.

"He'll be gone again in three days," Dean promises in a whisper as they bend down to pick up the last of the knives. "Two whole days to ourselves."

Sam looks at the way Dean's muscles move—and the way his lips pout and his hipbones jut over the top of the shorts Dean's wearing—and just hopes he can wait that long.