Hot
Dean is used to sweltering heat. The Impala's AC has been on the fritz since he was nine. And the motels they bunker down in are usually less than swanky. Even if they offer air conditioning, it's more than likely going to be a case of Sam crouched over the unit for an hour with a screwdriver trying to work his magic.
He's spent summer days in Texas, New Mexico, and Louisiana. And it gets damn hot. But Dean is mostly used to it.
What he is not yet used to, and he doesn't think he ever will be, is the heat that prickles his skin when Cas has got ahold of him. There's a kind of fiery flaring-up that happens, when he's been on the edge for too long, and his chest is flushed, his throat and face going red.
The room is a steambox, the mirrors and windows fogging, their skin is hot to the touch and sticky, Castiel's scalp is wet and Dean loves the way his hair will stand up when he runs his hand through it. Dean's hands slip against Castiel's skin, his hips, his thighs, and their skin slides together wherever it meets - the soft insides of Castiel's thighs against Dean's waist; the tops of Dean's thighs and the press of his hips against Castiel's backside.
He likes when he can feel sweat drip down the valley of his back, because he knows he's working hard. And as Castiel's porcelain face flushes pink, he knows his work is paying off.
There was only one time when Dean ever said that it was literally too hot to fuck. But Castiel would have none of it. And frankly Dean is glad. Because going at it when it feels hot enough to pass out from minimal exertion, is like a challenge. It leaves them molten and heavy and totally drained. And they lay there and let the sweat dry, if it can in that humidity. They let the meager ceiling fan try to cool their burning skin.
Dean gives a lazy, utterly pleased Whew, as his eyes close and a crooked smile rests on his face. Because, Damn, it's hot.
