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This newest squat makes some of the past squats look like the Trump Hotel, but there aren't any holes in the roof (that they can see) and the windows all seem to be intact. Short version: it'll keep out the winter wind and the snow currently falling, which is what's important. There's even a fireplace – hopefully not currently home to assorted rodents or birds – and there's some falling-apart furniture in some of the upstairs rooms they can break up for firewood.
Sam helps Dean drag in most of the contents of the trunk. By the time they have it all in the snow that was drifting down lazily is starting to come down in heavy, wet clumps. They still need to find a store and get some emergency foodstuffs. Stupid unexpected snowstorm, with its forecasted high winds and expected one-to-two feet of snow.
Dean's eye-balling the sky and frowning, so Sam gives him a gentle shove toward the door. "You go, I'll get a fire started and bring a mattress down."
Dean nods. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Make sure you get extra matches and water, too."
"I know, Sam."
Right. Dean's no more a novice at the survival thing than Sam is. He nods, managing to swallow down the 'drive carefully', and wishes his head didn't feel so scrambled all the time, even if he has gotten the hang of navigating it. More-or-less. Dean gives him a crooked smile, and heads out without another word.
It's a lot quieter once Dean goes, and Sam listens to the wind howling for a minute before shaking himself. It's getting colder outside – and inside – by the minute, and standing around doing nothing isn't going to get a fire started.
Tearing apart the furniture actually warms him up, and by the time the fire's going and he's wrestled the cleaner of the two mattresses (which isn't all that clean, really) down the stairs, Sam's worked up a sweat. He strips off his outer shirt and sets to opening up their sleeping bags. Zipped together, with their extra blankets folded up to use as pillows, it'll be a reasonably cozy bed.
Next he drags what probably used to be a decent looking armchair away from the window and over closer to the fireplace. Their plastic tarp gets nailed up over the pair of windows; it'll help keep wind from sneaking in around the frame. That, plus the fact that this was clearly once a den or an office and has a door they can close to further hold the heat in, means it's not too bad in here.
Sam's starting to get antsy – Dean's been gone awhile now – and that's usually when Lucifer starts talking again, so Sam heads back upstairs to see if he can ferret out anything else that can be burned or otherwise used.
There really isn't much left in the house beyond what Sam's already seen. While it's in pretty good shape overall, it's pretty obvious it's been abandoned for awhile, and whoever abandoned it took most everything with them. Probably loaded up a moving van, box after box of stuff, collected over the years and most with some kind of memory or meaning attached to it. Sam tries to remember what it felt like to accumulate stuff, but that time in Stanford when he was living with Jess, it seems so far in the past now that it's shrouded in dust and cobwebs. Like most of what's left in this house.
The back of a shelf high in a closet yields a pile of old linen – sheets, probably – that's yellowed and musty with age. Sam sneezes a couple of times but sets the pile aside to take downstairs with him; worst case scenario, they end piling the sheets up over their sleeping bags to add another layer. There's something else up there, too, shoved all the way to the back. Sam's fingers close around it, and then he's pulling out an old album of some sort.
Photo albums were also things Sam never had until he moved in with Jess, and then he lost them all a couple of years later when he lost her. He leans against the wall and flips this one open, curious. The pages are thick, heavy gilt-edged vellum, and the pictures on those pages are black-and-white, with scalloped edges, obviously old. Based on the hair and clothing styles, if Sam were to make a guess, he thinks the pictures probably date back into the 1930's; possibly earlier than that. There are several that look like they're wedding pictures, with a man and woman dressed up fancy – including a top hat for the man.
He leafs idly through the pages, trying to discern the story the pictures tell. Wedding, some baby pictures, something that might be a vacation? There's a picture of the man in a military uniform, and some more of several children, and then the pictures stop abruptly. Nothing more, no further hints on how the story continued. Sam frowns at the album and tries to imagine what happened, why the album – not to mention the house – were abandoned.
"Sammy? Sam! Where the hell are you?" Dean sounds aggravated, and Sam wonders with a start how long his brother's been back, yelling for him.
"I’m up here! Be down in a minute." He's cold, chilled down to the bone, and little wonder since it's probably below freezing up here. When he breathes out his breath hangs in the air, and a glance out the window shows the snow coming down fast and thick, blowing nearly sideways from the force of the wind howling outside.
He shoves the photo album back up on the closet shelf, then grabs the pile of sheets and heads downstairs. It's noticeably warmer as he clears the bottom step, with the temperature notching upward the closer he gets to the room with the fireplace.
"Here, found these." Sam hands the sheets off to Dean and goes to sit down in the chair he dragged over by the fire earlier. Dean stands there staring at him, frowning, until Sam snaps. "What?"
"The hell were you doing up there? Your lips are practically blue."
"I dunno, I was looking for anything else we could use, and I just—I got distracted," he finishes, not willing to say anything about the album that sucked him in. It's not important and Sam's not in the mood to have Dean laugh at him, or poke fun at him, though there's really little enough of that happening lately. "Sorry. Did you get everything?"
"Yep. Snacks, water, matches, cards, beer--" Dean drops the sheets on the floor and settles himself on their makeshift bed. "We're good, even if we're snowed in for a few days."
"Might be more than a few days." Sam stretches his legs out and wonders if his feet would warm up faster if he took his boots off. Probably not. He shivers and decides it's likely warmer on the mattress, under the sleeping bag. Preferably curled up beside his brother. "You up for a nap?"
"You speaking in code now?" Dean raises an eyebrow and gives Sam a once-over, which makes him flush.
"Actually, I really just meant nap," Sam says, smiling. "But if you're up for something else—"
Dean actually groans. "Bad pun. Seriously, Sammy."
"Uh-huh. Because you've never used that line before."
"Never, ever."
"Dude, you said it to me just a couple of days ago." Sam reaches down to unlace his boots, then kicks them off and sets them near enough to the fireplace that they'll be warm if he has to put them on in a hurry, but not so close they'd be in danger of catching fire.
"Oh, whatever." Dean reaches up and grabs Sam by the belt loops, pulling until Sam's sprawling down on top of him. "Oof. I was gonna ask if you wanted to play cards. But…'napping'…sounds like a much better idea."
"Wow. How do you manage to make it sound so dirty?" Sam props himself up so he can stare down at Dean.
"It's a gift."
"Uh-huh." Sam kisses his brother, just a quick brush of lips, then nuzzles at the underside of Dean's jaw, sandpaper rough with a day's worth of whiskers that make his lips feel hot and tender. He alternates kisses with licks and nips until Dean's tugging him closer, mouth open and seeking.
"You're a tease," he breathes against Sam's mouth, groaning when Sam bites again before kissing him deep, tongue delving deep into Dean's mouth, slicking over the softness there.
"'Cos you're fun to tease."
Sam pulls back enough to tug his shirt up over his head. Dean's goes flying next, and then he's raising his hips helpfully so Sam can undo his jeans. By the time Sam has his stripped off as well, he's forgotten he was cold to begin with. Dean's gorgeous, body painted in the hues of the flames crackling in the fireplace, the faintest sheen of sweat glimmering and catching the flickering colors.
He smells good, too, when Sam leans in and breathes in deeply, following the smoky-salty scent first with his nose and then with his tongue, licking down Dean's torso as his brother clutches at Sam's hair, tugging just enough to send little shockwaves of sensation rippling through Sam.
He's missed this, so much. Neither of them has wanted much of the other for too long, too caught up in all the shit life has flung their way. But now that they're here and doing this, Sam's struck by how much they both need it. How much they need each other.
Dean's rocking up against him, his dick a hard, heated length that feels just fucking awesome. Sam shifts just enough so he can feel the sticky-slick kisses trailed across his belly each time Dean rubs; that tiny blurt of pre-come that smears on his skin, on their skins, proof of how much they both enjoy this.
He loves the sounds Dean makes, too, and Sam thinks he's missed those almost as much as the physical sensations. Soft, breathy grunts and whimpers; low, rough growls; breath hissed out between teeth. Sam wants to hear every one of them tonight; wants to see and feel and touch and taste his brother come apart over and over again. But he's going to start with still more kisses because he loves kissing Dean. Loves the way Dean's tongue feels, sliding against his own. Then he's going to kiss all over Dean, working his way downward.
They wrestle and push against each other for control of the kiss – because Dean being Dean, he never just gives in passively – until Sam has Dean pinned facedown under him.
From there he licks his way downward while Dean humps at the mattress, breathing, "Sam, Sammy, God—"
Sam bites at each ass cheek before shifting around so he's kneeling, and then he tugs on Dean until Dean raises himself up onto his knees. He starts to push up onto his hands, but Sam presses him back down.
"Just like this."
He doesn't have to see Dean's face to know he's blushing. Something about this position in particular, it makes his brother feel exposed, vulnerable. Sam likes it because of that, actually. Dean seldom allows himself to show vulnerability, so Sam will take it where he can get it.
"Could look at you like this all day," he says softly, drawing one finger lightly down the crevice of Dean's ass. Not quite dipping inward, just a whisper of a caress. Dean trembles, then hisses something that sounds like, "get on with it," so Sam smacks him once, then twice, then cups Dean's ass and spreads him open.
Sam loves oral sex of any kind. Loves to feel his partner shivering and shifting under him, quivering with anticipation, with pleasure, with need. Rimming is no exception to that; in fact, it's become a fast favorite. Dean will deny it with his dying breath, probably, but Sam knows how much his brother likes it.
He licks and nips at the skin that slopes downward, inward, and runs his tongue lightly, over the tightly furled muscle. Dean shivers, and those shivers intensify when Sam licks harder, pressing the flat of his tongue down hard before switching to use the tip. Dean's whimpering and shuddering, pressing back to meet each touch of Sam's tongue. He makes a low, keening sound when Sam breaches him, the muscle giving way slowly. Sam wets a finger in his mouth and pushes it in, moaning when Dean clamps down tight on it. So tight. So hot.
Two fingers now, and Dean's panting and groaning while Sam licks into the space between them. His cock is heavy between his legs, throbbing with every little sound Dean makes, and Sam can't wait to bury himself inside that tight heat. Can't wait to reconnect.
"Lube?" He asks hoarsely, working his fingers inside Dean, twisting and turning them, body throbbing with anticipation. Dean mumbles something into the mattress, but Sam can't make out the words. "What?"
"Just do it, want it, c'mon," Dean pushes back at Sam, body begging even without the words.
"Need lube." It's been too long since they did anything more than blowjobs or handjobs, quick and dirty, and Sam's not going to fuck Dean practically dry. "Your bag?"
"I think so." Dean grunts unhappily when Sam pulls his fingers out. "Sammy—"
"No. Not this time. Later." Away from the heat of the fire, and Dean's body, it's chilly, so Sam rifles through Dean's bag quickly. By the time he finds the bottle and returns, Dean's rolled onto his back and is working his dick with slow strokes, legs spread open welcomingly.
Sam slicks himself up and kneels between Dean's legs, and then he's sliding deep inside his brother with one long, steady thrust.
Dean flexes around him, making him moan, and much as Sam would like to hold right here, just reveling in the heat and pressure, he has to move. Has to feel Dean's body taking him over and over until he's dizzy with it. Until they both are.
"C'mon, Sam, fuck me." Dean eggs him on by squeezing, wiggling, groaning when Sam shifts. That's the last thing he says that makes any sense at all as Sam drives into him hard and fast. Later, he'll take his time, draw it out until they're both half out of their mind with want. But right now he needs it, needs it like this, pounding into Dean until they're both slick with sweat, the air around them thick with grunts and groans.
Each thrust is good, but Sam wants more, wants it harder. He wants to feel it down to his toes; wants Dean to feel him even after they've stopped. He gathers Dean's legs up and pushes them back until his brother is bent nearly in half, and drives into him. Pleasure is coiling within him, winding its way along all of his nerve endings until Sam's sure he must be giving off sparks. Between them, Dean's got his dick in hand, jacking himself hard and fast in time to Sam's thrusts. His rhythm stutters, and Sam groans out loud when Dean clenches hard around him as he comes, sticky heat spreading between them in short pulses.
A few more strokes is all it takes before Sam's coming, too, grunting through each thrust as he empties himself deep inside Dean.
He feels lit up from the inside out when he collapses, half on top, half beside Dean, his breathing heavy and rough. Dean's is just as bad, harsh pants that slowly quiet and calm. Sam rubs his fingers through the spunk on Dean's belly, smoothing it into his skin.
"Y'know we don't have a shower," Dean says, and he sounds sleepy and sated. It shouldn't make Sam want to puff his chest out in pride, but it kind of does.
"And your point--?"
"You got me all sticky."
"I didn't do it all by myself." Sam brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. "Besides, I can clean you up." His dick actually twitches with interest at the thought—but Sam knows it's going to at least a little longer than three or four minutes before he can go again.
"Oh, god." Dean closes his eyes, but his mouth is crooked with a small smile. "I think I need a nap first. A real nap."
"Got no place we gotta be until the snow stops." They don't cuddle as a rule, but Sam wiggles a little closer, hand sweeping slowly up and down Dean's torso. He ends up sort of spooning Dean, and waits to see if his brother is going to complain about it.
Dean's answer is a soft snore, which makes Sam smile. Maybe…maybe getting snowed in, in bumfuck nowhere isn't going to be as bad as they'd thought. After all, they have all either of them need, right here in this room.
~fin~