Author: Remixed by thehighwaywoman
Summary: 100-word drabble remixed as a "decadrabble" (1000 words exactly). A lazy, humid afternoon on the bayou, and nothing to do but each other.
Fandom: Supernatural (Sam/Dean)
Spoilers: (if applicable) None
Title, Author and URL of original story: "Down the Bayou" (available here) by poisontaster.
Air moves languidly and liquid in the bayou. Goes down smooth sometimes, silky as the finest cognac. Sometimes slow and sluggish as dark beer left out in the sun. The murky silt bearing up their pirogue during high water tides looks solid when the oar hasn't moved through the water, when they rest.
Sam's hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead and to his cheeks in wet, wavy squiggles. He moves away from the shore as slow as sweet sorghum, as lazy as the sun, setting now. "Slow world today," he remarks.
"Slow world," Dean agrees.
The silence between them is idle, ripe with whippoorwill calls and crickets' sawing wings, broken only by the thump of their pirogue against the bayou shore.
Raindrops fall slow and fat, spraying Sam's forehead and running down his cheeks, cutting a path to his chin. Sam shakes his head, droplets of rain flying away, and pushes his hair out of his eyes. It's warm rain, ozone-rich with a scent and a flavor like the memory of honey or funeral flowers.
No one's spent time at the shack they've found to wait out the tide in in five years, and it shows. Drifts of mud choke the cracks in the floor, drying in layers every time the bayou gets too high.
Sam comes inside and shuts the door. "Should dry off," he says.
Dean nods. He's already back in the far corner, where mud mostly doesn't reach, his own clothes stripped away and cast aside to air.
He watches Sam's skin come into view one scrap of sodden, stubborn, clinging cloth at a time. A drop of sweat runs down the center of Sam's back, begging to be caught with a tongue.
Dean obliges, on his feet and with Sam before the water runs down the crease of Sam's ass. He licks his way back up, tasting salt, mud and Sam; he bites Sam's shoulder and lingers there.
Fat raindrops fall heavy on the tin roof, a metallic rat-tat-tat drumming a rhythm inside Dean's head and down in his bones. Sam's taste is addictive, demanding another lick, another swipe of the tongue, another still.
Sam hums deep in his throat; Dean knows the corners of Sam's mouth are tugging up in amusement. He slides his hand inside Sam's jeans, under his shorts, and wraps his fingers around Sam's dick, rubbing his thumb over the opening and underneath. Sam shivers, rolling his head from side to side.
"Yeah?" Sam asks, letting Dean crowd him, already knowing the answer.
"Perfect weather for slow fucking," Dean says, tasting Sam's skin between words and breath. "Yeah."
Sam tilts forward. Dean grumbles over losing his prize and follows, wanting more, his skin as sticky as Sam's where they press together. Sam drops fluidly to his knees, then to his hands, fingernails scratching through dried bayou silt.
Dean crouches behind Sam and licks him, slow as he pleases. Sam groans, shudders, hands curling into fists.
"Shh, I got you," Dean promises time and time again, spreading Sam open.
Sam breathes shallowly of the pungent air, headier than bourbon, darker than the grave with all the secrets it keeps. Dean soothes him, stroking his hips, the insides of his thighs, over the scar on his back. Slides his tongue inside Sam's ass, lapping shallow, curling deep. He skims one finger down Sam's dick when Sam begs high and growls low for want of Dean's hand, tracing his initials in slippery fluid.
"Dean." Sam hitches, hiccups, and comes, saltiness and warmth coating Dean's palm, dripping through his fingers.
"Know you've got another one in you," Dean urges, gentling Sam down but keeping him hot, too, hand moving slow, stubborn, slow. "My turn, now."
Sam raises his head and gazes at Dean, rich darkness in his eyes and sex in the turn of his languid smile. "Your turn." He turns around, kneels up, twists them around, and takes over.
Dean bites too hard on the soft inside of his cheek. Sam rises tall on his knees above Dean, fingers in him, relentless, unyielding as oak carved in the shape of a man.
"More." Dean searches for leverage on the warped floor, trying to push up higher, harder. Rainwater leaks through the tin roof trails down his forehead, between his eyes. Sam noses the top of his head, breath hot, slowly drawn, slowly released.
"Only when I want to," Sam replies. He brushes Dean's dick, angry and sore from waiting. "Come when I say you can. Not yet."
"No." Sam pushes Dean languidly, arranging him with Dean's forehead to the floor. "Like this." He kneels behind Dean and fits his hips to Dean's ass, and when he moves, his cock slides slick and full down the crease. "Good?"
"Good." Dean shuts his eyes, drowning in the dizzying scent of their bodies working one against the other.
"More." Sam presses the flat of his hand to the small of Dean's back. "Wait," he whispers in between licks, tasting Dean in his turn. "On your back."
"Yeah." Dean stretches out, elbows to the floor, legs tight before him where Sam pushes them in place. "Like this?"
Dean arches his neck when Sam drapes his weight over him, heavy, sharing his breath.
"Like this," Sam murmurs. He thrusts his dick along the cut of Dean's hipbone, slippery, rough. "Like this."
Dean lets his head hang heavy, fists his cock between Sam's body and his own, riding the edge and the fall over, drinking Sam's swearing from his lips.
Sam groans, deep and low. He lies heavily on Dean, careless of the mess smeared between their bellies. Dean swipes his thumb over Sam's shoulder; sighs.
Thick drops of rain patter off Sam's back, rolling down. Dean puts out his tongue to taste one, savoring the liquid heat of this Louisiana night, lazy in his anticipation. He already knows they're not going anywhere, neither of them, not yet.
The pirogue and the river can wait till they're ready.