Sweatbox

DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to Kripke and the CW. Sadly, I own nothing but the mistakes.

Takes place at some point after AHBL2. Not part of the DARK ROADS 'verse...yet. Mostly just an excuse to write some Sam/Dean porn...

My thanks to my army of betas on this one: , , , and . If there are any errors, it's my fault and not theirs!

~~~~ SWEATBOX ~~~~


“Please, baby, please, don‘t do this to me!”

The ancient Coldspot air conditioner rattles two more times before emitting a short squeal and falling silent; the tattered strips of yellow cloth tied to its grille quit fluttering and go limp.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters, jiggling the thing, wildly optimistic that maybe he can coax it back to life.

Again.

"C'mon, don't die on me now." He thumps the cabinet sharply with his fist.

No response.

Dean jiggles the power switch. "C'mon..."

Nothing.

He checks the plug and smacks the machine one last time.

No dice.

"Piece of shit!"

The Coldspot remains silent, apparently resigned to its fate as a future addition to the local landfill.

"Whole fuckin' place is ready for the dump," Dean says to no one, using the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow.

He glares at the little shitbox radio on the dresser as it scratches out some more god awful country crap. It’s the only station that comes in clearly, and as much as he dislikes the music, it's better than silence.

Sort of.

Since the motel room's television is in the mood to only display what looks like the current weather patterns on Jupiter, he doesn't really have much of a choice.

He briefly considers cleaning their guns again, but he's done that twice already and now it's too frickin' hot for that.

The last time the numb nuts DJ had stumbled through the weather forecast, he'd said it was ninety-something degrees. Whatever. After the temp hits the big nine zero, the little details don’t really matter.

It was hot.

Really hot.

And he's sweating in places he'd forgotten about.

He must've blotted out how miserable Kansas could be in the middle of July, because he sure as hell didn't remember it ever getting this hot up in Lawrence.

Maybe there was something to that global warming mumbo jumbo Al Gore was always preaching about.

He wonders if it's really hot in Hell, or if it's just a hype. If it is, it would be a lot like this. Worse, probably. And there'd be muzak or something, too. Whatever. If things went wrong, he'd find out for sure soon enough.

He stares up at the dusty ceiling fan, wobbling away at full speed, which really isn't very speedy at all. The thing hums and buzzes like crazy but doesn't do much to create a breeze. What the fan does do is to spread around the room's stale, mildewy aroma, which was either coming from the puke green carpet or the hideous orange armchair by the bed.

While he and Sam had stayed in some pretty nasty dives before, this place easily blew away the last record holder, which they'd classified as a one on the Winchester scale. The scale had a ten being the best, a rating they hadn‘t used yet.

To Dean's mind, the Oasis Motor Lodge didn't even deserve half a point. Or a quarter, or even an eighth. Hell, scoring it as a zero wouldn't be fair either, as a nothing would be better than the Oasis.

Yeah, it appeared that they'd have to take the Winchester scale into the realm of negative numbers.

"Like a negative fifty," Dean growls. He drags his sweaty t-shirt over his head, tossing it on the saggy bed. "Damn, what's taking so long, Sam?" He paces the room, rolling his eyes at the hideous green and turquoise wallpaper. It's in some sort of bizarre psychedelic pattern that looks like someone threw paint on the wall with their eyes closed. Sam had called it quirky. Dean calls it fugly. He completes his circuit and returns to the open window next to the dead air conditioner. He leans on the sill and hunkers down, hoping to catch what precious little breeze there is.

It’s their third day in Hutchinson.

He and Sam had been heading for San Antonio to check out some probable chupacabra sightings when the Impala threw a tie rod just south of Sterling on state route 14. They'd tried to call Bobby, and when he hadn't answered, they'd called Ellen. Seemed Bobby was off on a hunt of his own, and Ellen hadn't a clue where he was or when he'd be back.

Hutchinson was the nearest burg, so that's where they'd had the Impala towed.

Things went downhill quickly from there, as they hadn't had much of a choice as to where to get the Impala repaired. They'd asked the tow-truck driver, Ennis, for advice on where to go, and he'd dropped them at a joint called Dusty & Steve's, which looked promising but turned out to be exactly the opposite.

Old Dusty had apparently gone on to his just rewards, leaving Steve behind to make everyone else miserable. Or perhaps Dusty simply offed himself to get away from Steve, who turned out to be a Mopar loving psycho that took an instant dislike to not only Dean but to the Impala as well.

"Total fucking jerk," Dean sighs, closing his eyes as what he imagines to be a breeze wafts through the screen.

Dean could take a lot of things: demons, wraiths, poltergeists, djinns, shape-shifters...McDonald’s. He could take having his mug shot in every post office across the country. He might even be able to take one more night at the Oasis.

What he can't take is when someone fucks with Sammy.

Or the Impala.

No one messes with his boy or his baby.

Sure, they haven't had the time to really take care of her, and Dean knows this.

With an army of demons on the loose and the end of the world just around the corner, working on the Impala just never seems to happen. She's a hell of a solid car, and runs like a top. But their line of work is pretty rough on her, and it’s been taking a toll.

The absolute last thing Dean needs is for some chew chompin', beer-bellied know-it-all to sit there and tell him what he already knows, ream his ass over it and then treat him like a total moron.

It was a good thing there’d been a counter between him and old Steve...

Sam, ever the peace-maker, had intervened, sparing Dean some split knuckles and Steve some missing teeth...or more than he was already lacking, anyway.

Turns out the Impala's entire front end needed work, along with the universal joint, the fuel line, and a handful of other minor things. Naturally, a few of the parts had to be specially ordered.

And brought in to Hutchinson by pack mule, apparently, as they were still waiting for a part to arrive.

Dean gets up and stretches, and he can feel the drops of sweat rolling down his back. He hops up on the bed to stand directly under the ceiling fan, hoping to catch whatever breeze is going.

Nothing.

"Fuck it." He steps off the bed, popping the buttons of his fly and pushing his jeans down. He wriggles out of them and with a sharp kick, they sail through the air and land right on the orange armchair

"Two points, and the crowd goes wild."

Dean feels a bit better without the denim, but even his boxer briefs feel hot and heavy as they cling to his skin.

He makes a quick trip to the entirely scary bathroom, where he flips on the cold water and leans under the spray from the shower head. The water isn’t very cold, but it feels good on his over-heated skin. He flips off the tap and doesn’t bother to towel off, settling for a vigorous head shake over the tub.

He then flops down on the bed, his arms out and his legs spread wide.

"C'mon, Sam, I'm dyin' here."

Sam had headed out for some provisions, and he'd been gone for nearly two hours. Dean wasn't really surprised that Sam had been out for so long; it made sense. With the heat and close quarters, they'd gotten on each other's nerves in no time flat.

The Oasis didn't have wireless, of course, and Sam hadn't been able to hack a dial-up connection due to the phone wires probably dating back to the time of Edison. Sam had a few videos and a lone porno on the laptop, but how many times could anyone watch "Frat Boys: The Hazing" and still care?

"Oh, it's a scorcher out there," the asshat DJ gushes, no doubt from the comfort of his air-conditioned studio. "No relief from the heat in sight, pardners!"

"I'm not your fuckin' pardner, bitch," Dean grumbles, throwing an arm over his face.

"We're lookin' for a low tonight of seventy-seven, with the high tomorrow...whee, doggies, yessir, a high tomorrow of one-oh-five. Boy, that's hot!"

Dean groans.

"Right now it's a blisterin' ninety-nine degrees outside, but ya kin stay cool with the most kickin' country around!"

"Oh, man," Dean whimpers.

"Here's an oldie from my man, Billy Ray Cyrus..."

"Please, don't..."

"...doin' the "Achy Breaky Heart," right here on K-105.3, The Bull!"

"Bull shit!" Dean roars, launching himself from the bed and grabbing the radio with both hands.

He yanks the plug from the wall, silencing Billy Ray in mid-achy breaky. He hefts the radio over his head, and just as he’s was about to smash it against the wall into as many tiny pieces as possible, he hears the lock on the door click.

A second later the door swings open and Sam walks in, his free hand clutching two plastic mini-mart bags.

Dean freezes, the old radio still held high.

Sam gestures at the radio with his sunglasses. "I see you've had enough of The Bull."

Dean rolls his eyes and sets the radio back on the dresser. "You can say that again. Who ever heard of a town without a classic rock station?" He straightens his boxer briefs, pointing a finger at Sam. "It's not natural, man. I wouldn't be surprised if somethin’ yellow-eyed is behind it."

Sam chuckles as he closes and locks the door. "Right. The demons are gonna win by controlling the media in Hutchinson, Kansas."

"Hey, weirder things have happened. You‘ve seen Fox News, right?" Dean nods to the sacks. "Got something for me? I'm meltin‘ down, here."

"Yeah, I can see that." Sam smirks as he fishes around in one of the bags, tossing Dean a green bottle. "Drink up, bro."

"Rolling Rock? Shit, Sammy, couldn't do any better?" He twists off the cap and flicks it behind the fugly orange chair.

Sam shrugs as he dumps the bags on the dresser. "Next time, you can hike ten blocks one way to a store with a cooler that actually works." He opens his own beer and swallows the cool liquid with relish. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean watches as Sam's Adam's apple moves as he drinks, tiny beads of sweat making tracks from his sideburns and across his jawline. His shaggy hair is pasted flat with perspiration and stuck to his forehead and neck. Sam’s cheap wife-beater clings to every curve, every muscle and flat plane of Sam's upper body.

His little brother looks damn good, impossibly so, and it always amazes Dean how buff Sam's become, especially in light of their diet of fast food and greasy spoon specials. Sure, they have their daily exercise routines, which amounts to little more than some push-ups, sit-ups, plus a little running here and there.

Well, more than a little running, maybe. Usually from the creepy crawlies.

But Sammy...damn.

Little brother looks good.

Maybe having some Demon blood in ya wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Dean swigs some more Rolling Rock as an inordinate amount of his own blood shifts to his groin.

“I circled around and hit the library,” Sam’s saying, holding the cool beer bottle to the back of his neck. “I managed to get on-line for a few minutes. Still no word from Bobby.” He rustles around in the second bag and extracts a stack of magazines.

Dean steps closer, staring at how obscenely low Sam’s jeans hang on his hips, exposing a narrow swatch of lightly tanned skin and a bit of Sam’s happy trail. “Uh, yeah, well I'm sure he's fine. He knows what he's doing." He gestures to the magazines. “What’d you get?” he says absently, never taking his eyes off of Sam’s sizable bulge.

“Nothing exciting,” Sam replies, tossing the magazines on the bed. “National Geographic and Omni for me, and some muscle car mags for you.” He shoves his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet and tossing it and their room key onto the dresser.

Dean licks his lips, noticing how Sam has pushed the jeans even further down, revealing the waistband of his fancy Abercrombie underwear. He takes another swallow of beer, tugging at the crotch of his tightening boxer briefs. "Uh, thanks."

“I also printed a few web pages from a site that had some stuff on chupacabras that I hadn’t seen.”

"Chupa...oh, yeah, right. Good work, Poindexter."

"You okay?"

Dean pulls a face. "Yeah. Perfect."

“Well, it's your turn to go out next time,” Sam answers, eyeing Dean strangely and running a big hand through his hair. "Made a quick stop by the garage, and Steve says the Impala will be ready first thing in the morning."

Dean watches Sam raptly. He guzzles down some more beer, his hand moving down to adjust his hardening cock.

Sam looks up, taking note of Dean's appraising stare. "Yo, earth to Dean."

"What?"

"What's with you?"

“Nothin'," Dean shoots back. "Just...hot.” He steps closer and smiles as Sam’s eyes dart down to his rather obvious erection.

Sam’s eyes go wide and he cracks a crooked grin. “Yeah, I know it’s hot outside--”

“Pretty damn hot in here, too.” Dean leans in and reaches up, clamping a hand behind Sam’s neck and pulling his brother’s head down. He crashes their lips together, his tongue sliding into Sam’s mouth. He kisses Sam hard, a bit surprised at the depth of his need.

Sam tries to say something, but Dean’s hungry mouth reduces whatever it is to a series of grunts, which only makes Dean's cock harder. He loves it when Sam's voice gets all low and rumbly.

Dean’s other hand grabs Sam’s ass, and he firmly thrusts his erection into Sam’s upper thigh.

Sam loses his balance and stumbles against the dresser. He breaks their kiss, gasping for air. “Damn, man, someone’s horny.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Dean replies, sliding his hands under Sam’s tank top and lifting it up. “Too hot to be wearing so much stuff.”

“I’m not complaining." Sam lifts his arms and grins. “Thought it was too hot for you.”

Dean slowly lifts the shirt up, revealing Sam's incredibly toned upper body inch by delicious inch. "Never too hot for this."

Sam reaches behind his back, yanking the tank top the rest of the way off and dropping it to the floor. "Never."

"Sam?"

"You talk too much." Dean leans up and suckles the side of Sam's neck, languidly licking and nibbling his way upward

"Jesus, Dean."

"What?" Dean mumbles around his sucking.

"It's just...just...your mouth...feels so damn good."

Dean licks his way up to Sam's jaw and pulls back slightly. "Like that, huh, Sasquatch?"

"Fuck yeah." Sam nods, swallowing hard.

"Thought so." Dean teases, running his hands over Sam's broad, sweat-slicked chest. “Fuck, Sammy...” He flicks his tongue over one of Sam’s peaked nipples before covering it with his lips and nibbling with increasing intensity.

Sam moans in appreciation, firmly grasping Dean’s hips with both hands. "Oh, god..."

Dean tortures his brother's sensitive flesh as Sam grinds his own arousal into him; Dean slips his fingers down into the back of Sam’s jeans. He pulls back, admiring his handiwork. “That’ll leave a mark,” he growls around a smile.

Sam turns them around, pushing Dean against the wall. “You like marking me, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.” Dean chuckles at the array of small bruises dotting Sam’s chest and shoulders. “Got a problem with that?"

Sam shakes his head.

“Good, 'cause you're mine, Einstein," Dean murmurs, kneading Sam's ass and swiping his tongue across Sam's bruised lips.

Sam responds by leaning down for another kiss, but Dean snickers and drops to his knees, his hands caressing Sam's stomach. He deftly pops open Sam's button flys, carefully sliding them down over Sam's hips.

"Fuck, Sammy...fuck..." Dean nuzzles the long, thick shape of Sam's hard cock; whatever his fancy underwear's made of, it's smooth and slick and Sam's huge and his dick feels fucking amazing behind the thin fabric. He slides one hand up a leg of the boxer briefs to tease Sam's balls while he works his mouth up the length of Sam's cock.

Sam's muttering something and struggling to kick off his shoes, his hips grinding into Dean's face.

Dean pauses in his assault on Sam's cock to help remove Sam's jeans. He's hard as a rock, and kneeling there, with Sam towering over him, all sweat and muscle and god, those long, strong legs that go on for miles and miles...the pit opens and he falls willingly into the depths one more time. "Christ, Sammy...Sammy."

Sam's hands are on the back of his head, firmly pulling him in again, and Dean's on auto pilot now, not even aware of the litany of curses and prayers streaming from his mouth. He yanks down Sam's Abercronmbies, shoving them past Sam's knees. He licks the entire length of Sam's fully hard cock, swirling his tongue around the head, which elicits an appreciative groan from his brother.

"God, Dean," Sam pants, twisting his fingers in Dean's shaggy hair as he steps out of his underwear.

Dean grabs Sam's dick at the base, pulling it downward and swallowing as much of it as he can. He wraps both hands around Sam's ass and sucks for all he's worth.

Sam grunts and thrusts his hips in, then out, slowly at first, but steadily gaining speed.

Dean struggles to breathe as Sam fucks his mouth, gagging every time the head of Sam's thick cock smashes into the back of his throat. He tries to relax and concentrate, but his mind's a red hot blur of Sam, everything Sam, and he just can't get enough, ever. He digs his fingers into the skin of Sam's ass as his brother pounds into him, and after a few more thrusts he can't take it any more. He wrenches away, Sam's cock sliding across his teeth and lips to thwack against Sam's taut, sweaty abdomen.

"Get the fuck up here," Sam growls, reaching down and yanking Dean to his feet. Sam shoves down Dean's boxer briefs, immediately wrapping the fingers of one hand around Dean's erection.

Dean shimmies out of his underwear and throws himself at Sam, threading his arms under Sam's and locking them around his brother's lower back. He wants to say something, anything, everything, to say it all, all over again, but the need for Sam's mouth on his is too great. He stands on his toes and mashes their lips together, closing his eyes and pressing against Sam as tightly as possible.

They bang into the wall again and one of the framed pictures crashes to the floor.

Sam's fisting both of their cocks in one big hand, the other trailing down the crack of Dean's ass.

Dean nibbles and bites Sam's bottom lip, and the sensation of their sweaty bodies sliding together is almost too much for him. He'd meld into and merge with Sammy if he could, once and for all, and he never feels more whole and secure as he does in Sam's arms.

Sam hunkers down so that their hard dicks are at the same level, breaking their kiss to leave some marks of his own on Dean's shoulder. Sam sucks and bites with increasing intensity, and the brightsharp of it shoots through Dean's body like a bolt of electricity. It builds and builds, and just when he thinks he can't take another second of it, Sam bears down a bit harder, and Dean sees stars.

He goes limp for an instant, but Sam's got him.

Sam always got him...

"Gonna go," Dean says breathlessly.

Sam pulls away, smiling, his lips swollen and red and fucking beautiful. "Not yet," he replies, his voice low and throaty. He hooks his arms around Dean's waist and lifts him up, walking them both over to the bed.

Dean wraps his legs around Sam, burying his head under Sam's neck and licking and nibbling and kissing all at once.

Sam touches the end of the bed with his knees and leans forward.

Dean lets go and flops to the mattress, scooting up to the head of the bed.

Sam climbs on and crawls to Dean, his thick cock bobbing heavily.

"Sammy..."

"Shhh..."

Sam leans down to run his tongue along the underside of Dean's dick, continuing his advance by licking a trail up Dean's abdomen and stomach.

Dean half rolls over and fumbles for the tube of lube on the nightstand.

Sam's completely over him now, tangles of his long sweaty hair hanging over his face. Sam lowers himself down, slowly thrusting his hips into Dean's.

Dean knows he's not gonna last much longer...he never does. He can't help it. Sometimes he can come just thinking about Sam. He struggles with the cap of the lube, squirting a huge dollop of the goo onto his right palm and fingers. Making a fist, he slides his hand between them, finding Sam's cock and coating it from tip to root.

Sam gasps at the sudden coolness of the lube and lifts himself up slightly.

Dean brings his feet up and spreads his legs, wiping what's left of the lube along the crack of his ass.

The next second, Sam's pressing his hard cock just under Dean's balls, angling down, pushing, probing, until finally finding the spot.

Dean sucks in a breath as Sam enters him, a stream of gibberish again crossing his lips. His mind goes all white hot where the stars are black pinpoints, his universe spiraling down to the room, the bed, to them...to Sam.

He's never ready for the first moment no matter how many times they've done it, but Dean wouldn't trade it for the world. He loves Sam inside him, filling him, completing him. He thrusts his own hips upward as Sam pounds into him, their rhythm totally off but fucking perfect nonetheless.

He's Sam's and Sam's his, and that's the way it's always been.

The way it always will be...

Sam's mumbling something too, and Dean reaches down to grasp Sam's clenching ass and holds on.

Dean feels the heat explode from deep inside, burning up and through him like wildfire.

"Sam!"

Sam drives into him even harder, and Dean lets go, arching his back and yelling Sam's name again as he lets go, his come coating their stomachs.

Sam continues thrusting a few more times before he, too blows, growling in ecstasy as he pumps his release into Dean.

Dean can barely breathe, yet he pulls Sam even closer, even tighter, unwilling to let him go, not wanting to end their union.

Sam flops down, all sweaty and boneless and spent, still buried in Dean and nuzzling the side of Dean's neck.

The outside world once again returns with a vengeance, and they're still in that saggy ass bed in a crap motel in Hutchinson, Kansas. But that's okay, because Sam's there and they've still got eight months to figure out how to get Dean out of his demon's contract.

Too bad they couldn't spend the next eight months doing nothing but fucking...

Dean takes a deep breath and watches the old ceiling fan swirl about, oddly mesmerized by it.

"Damn," Sam murmurs into Dean's neck, his breath hot and tingly against his skin. "I think you chewed my nipple off."

"You love it, bitchface," Dean holds Sam tighter, clenching himself around his brother.

Sam snorts and pulls out of Dean, sliding down a bit and shifting slightly in an attempt to get comfortable. "It's hot."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam says, rolling off of Dean and hoisting himself up. He hops off the bed, pausing a moment before leaning down and kissing Dean full on the lips. He stands up and heads for the very scary bathroom. "Check out that stuff I printed about chupacabras. We can work out a plan for San Antonio when I come out."

Dean stretches, interlacing his fingers behind his head. He watches Sam walk to the bathroom, staring at his brother's incredibly tight, incredibly hot little ass. Sam turns in the doorway, favoring Dean with a crooked grin and a few flexes of his chest muscles before slamming the door.

"Asshole," Dean says, trailing his fingers through the quickly drying spunk covering his belly.

Even though it's as hot as it ever was, the heat doesn't seem as awful as before. "A shower sounds pretty good," he tells the room. His cock twitches, notifying his upstairs brain that it isn't quite finished yet. He laughs and jumps from the bed, pressing his ear against the bathroom door. He hears the water turn on, followed by the clacks of the shower curtain rings sliding across the rod.

It was gonna be his turn now...

Dean turns the knob and pushes the door open.

Screw the plan.

He'd worry about those fucking chupacabras later.


~~~ fin ~~~