zeegoeshere

Title: In What Furnace

By Zee

Summary: Sam and Dean never get lost. Ever. Gen, R.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Notes: Written for spn_50states; my state was Utah. It's two days late because I suck. Alas. Thanks to petronelle for looking it over.



"No, seriously. Why does it have to be a fire demon in southern Utah in July? *Why?*"

In the bed a few feet away, he heard Sam make a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. There's a rustling of sheets; Sam turning over again. "If you don't shut up, 'm gonna light *you* on fire," Sam slurs.

Dean turns over, too, flopping onto his stomach. "You wouldn't. Lighting someone on fire in this kind of heat, it's... it's... well--you'd get hot, too." It's three in the morning, and it's still 105 degrees, so Dean doesn't bother trying for coherency.

The noise Sam makes this time is definitely a groan of frustration. "Stop talking. God. Why can't you stop talking?"

Dean shifts, trying to find a spot on his hotel bed that isn't damp with his own sweat. "It's too hot to sleep. You know it, I know it. I'm just making conversation."

Tourist season combined with their own lack of funds meant that they couldn't find an affordable room with air conditioning. Which would have been bad enough, even without one of the unpleasant side effects of the local demon being an unnatural heat wave.

"It's supposed to be the younger brother annoying the older one, you know. Not the other one." Sam's voice sounds almost zen. Dean wonders if he's gotten so annoyed he's come out on the other side.

"Yeah, well." Dean presses the side of his face against his pillow, appreciating the coolness of the fabric in the few seconds before his body heat warms it up. "Our family always has to be different."

He hears a grunt and sees Sam's silhouette stand. "Fuck this. I'm taking another cold shower."

"If you use up all the cold water, I'm feeding you to the demon," Dean mutters into his pillow. He hears Sam snort, and then the door clicks shut and water starts running.

Dean grabs the box of tissues on the nightstand and rolls onto his back, taking his dick in his hand. If he has to be hot and sweaty and gross anyway, he might as well enjoy himself.

***

Neither of them get any sleep; the next morning is only made bearable by the low-cut halter top the barista wears when she serves them coffee at six am. She has to lean over the table to refill Dean's cup, and he finds out that her bra is pink and floral-patterned; she tucks her number under his plate of scrambled eggs.

Dean smirks and tucks the slip of paper into his pocket for later, and Sam predictably rolls his eyes. "You know, the sooner we finish this case, the sooner we can drive somewhere else. Like oh, say, Alaska. Or Antarctica..."

Which means no time for dates or hook-ups. Damn. "Yeah, I guess. Besides, she's probably the seventh wife of the local bishop or something."

Sam makes that annoyed groan-sigh sound again. "Dean, come on. That's totally inaccurate: only off-shoot cults practice polygamy--the LDS church doesn't support it."

Dean shrugs and drinks his coffee. "Yeah, but the jokes are still funny. You gonna finish your sausage?"

Sam rolls his eyes again (one day some demon or witch is gonna make his face stick in that expression, and Dean will laugh his ass off) and pushes his plate over to Dean. "Go ahead."

Sam's barely eaten any of the eggs, sausage and toast Dean ordered for him; instead he's just nursed his frappamocha faux cappucino thing and focused on his laptop as if it will reveal all the secrets of the fire demon if he just glares at it hard enough. Dean wants to ask if anorexia is a nasty side effect of the psychic gig, but he doesn't actually want to annoy Sam enough to piss him off at the moment, so he doesn't push it. The sausage is cold by now, but Dean is hungry.

***

"I can't fucking believe this. Did we seriously get outsmarted by a big ball of fire?"

"It's a sentient ball of fire, possessed by the soul of a mountain man," Sam says grimly. He's still trying to get reception on his cell, despite the fact that they're at the corner of Buttfuck and Nowhere.

"I can't believe we're lost in a fucking canyon. In fucking Utah." Dean sits down on a red rock that feels hot enough to burn his ass through his jeans. "This is kind of a record for us."

Sam glares at him. "We're not *lost.* We're in the Maze District of Canyonlands National Park. We're just--"

"Miles away from civilization with no way to get back and no water, and have I mentioned that it's really creepy how much you remember from that park guidebook?"

"Why? Because I actually took the time to find out something about where we were going, unlike some people?"

Dean ignores the dig. "This is what happened to the Donner Party, isn't it? Sam, if you eat me I'll never forgive you."

"The Donner Party got stuck in a snowy mountain pass. And I wouldn't want your diseased carcass, anyway." Sam glares at his phone and then gives up, sitting down next to Dean.

Dean wipes sweat out of his eyes. He can feel Sam's body heat beside him, and it occurs to him that they should try to find some shade. Sam is already sunburned, and though Dean doesn't burn as easily, he'll probably be crackling if they spend much more time in direct sunlight like this.

"At least it's kind of pretty," Dean remarks after a while. Which is true; there are all these bluffs and cool rock formations--it's gorgeous in a bleak, Mars-like way that Dean would probably appreciate more if they weren't fighting a thing with the power to make the pretty pretty rocks fly at them and explode.

Beside him, Sam snorts. "And you call me a girl."

***

"Ow. Ow!" Dean hisses.

"Hold still." Sam's voice is patient and soothing and Dean wants to strangle him. "The burn isn't that bad, but I can't cut the pieces of your shirt away from it if you won't hold still."

Dean grits his teeth. "Do you have any fucking idea how much this hurts?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Of course, dumbass, I've gotten burned before. Now stop being a wuss so I can treat your arm."

"Blow me." But Dean holds still, and the burn seriously fucking *hurts,* enough that Dean almost wishes he hadn't jumped in front of Sam when that fireball was heading towards him. Sam probably could've dodged.

It's a small comfort that they managed to get back to civilization, outwit the beastie and send it back to hell, but that comfort doesn't make the second-degree burn on Dean's shoulder go away.

"Kiss it better?" Dean says when Sam finishes dressing the burn. Sam gets the annoyed look again, but only for a second before it changes to something more mischievous--right before Sam leans quickly forward and plants a sloppy kiss on Dean's cheek.

"Dude!" Dean frantically wipes spit off his cheek while Sam doubles over laughing. "*Gross,* what the *hell?*"

Sam is laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. "Oh my god, your *face*--"

"You totally french-kissed my cheek!" Dean yells.

That just makes Sam laugh more. "Oh man, Dean, you have the maturity of a ten-year-old boy, you know that?"

Dean scowls. "Well, that makes sense because you're apparently a thirteen-year-old *girl*."

Sam smirks at him. "Uh, *huh.* Who's the prank-master now, bitch?"

"That was not--you--that was not a valid prank!" Dean says fiercely, and Sam cracks up again.

"Whatever, bro. Get in the car so we can leave this hot hell-hole behind."

"Ah-ah-ah, no," Sam says when Dean moves to get in the driver's seat. "Not letting you drive with an injured shoulder."

Dean glares at him and gets in the passenger side, slamming the door.

He rubs his cheek and shudders. "Dude, I cannot believe you got your *spit* on my *cheek.*"

Sam pats his good shoulder. "I'm sure you've had worse bodily fluids all over your face."

They go for a few miles before Dean talks again. "That was *not* a real prank, dude."

Sam gives him an earnest, sad look. "Dean. Being a sore loser is such an unattractive quality."

"It totally wasn't! Dude, that was like--that was *weak.* It required no planning, no skill--"

"Yeah, but I totally got you," Sam says, snickering. "Dude, your *face,* I swear to god--"

"Shut up about my face already," Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You don't need to sulk about it."

"I'm not sulking! I'm just--"

"Being a sore loser?"

"I'm protesting your weak-ass prank."

"Uh-huh." Sam whistles and turns on the radio. Dean doesn't know how he does it, but somehow he manages to find a station playing that emo-indie crap he likes so much on a country road in the middle of the desert.

Dean makes a note to blast KISS the next time Sam's trying to nap in the car.

They get back to Moab, and the locals are rowdy; the heat wave broke when the demon died, and rednecks and hippies are both out in force, celebrating. They find a bar that caters to locals, not tourists, and is therefore not morbidly overpriced.

Sam grabs a newspaper, and Dean orders a shot of tequila and flirts with the bartender. She looks about a decade older than him, but she has a great smile and great tits, and she clearly likes him. Plus, it annoys Sam.

"There've been a couple mysterious deaths in Salt Lake City," Sam says, ignoring Dean's offer to get him a drink. "Two boys, one a bishop's son. Could be your standard fundie serial killer, or it could be something else."

"Salt Lake's only three hours away." Four, technically, but they can get there in three, easy. "We can wake up early and get there by morning, or we can start now and nap before starting the case tomorrow."

Sam grins. "Let's go."