Work Header

We Are Cold

Work Text:

The motel room is too hot, and it's a sticky southern heat that clings to the skin; leaves you useless and thirsty no matter what time of day or night.

Sam doesn't have to open his eyes to know he's not alone.

He waits for Lucifer to speak, because the stifling airless room is too hot and he's unwilling to talk himself, unwilling to start a fight he doesn’t have the energy for.

Fingers touch his shoulder, strangely chilled on the skin. Sam's not expecting it, not expecting Lucifer to be cold.

He does open his eyes then, finds Lucifer sat on the edge of the cheap bed, close and still and looking like he's not bothered by the heat at all. Strangely focused on him, one hand held over his skin.

Sam's not entirely sure why he doesn't pull away, why he doesn't demand that he stop.

"Isn't your skin supposed to burn?" Sam asks curiously, without really thinking that he's maybe just encouraging him, with his questions and his interest. Still too new to the devil and his curious, almost reverent attention.

"Angels are made of light and space," Lucifer says softly. "Angels are cold."

Sam can't help the sigh when Lucifer's fingers trail a path down his neck, when they skim the hard jut of his collarbone, the warmth of his chest. It's easy in a way that digs through the heat and leaves his skin prickling. In a way he shouldn't want as much as he does.

Sam breathes out, breathes out and says nothing when Lucifer's hand slides lower, eases the burn and makes his skin tingle.

The sensation is more than soothing, sliding over into quick, sharp digs of arousal, no rhythm to it, and Sam hardens in his jeans, hardens and bites his lip and says nothing.

He doesn't say stop.

The fingers spread and the chill of Lucifer's palm lays flat against his stomach.

There's a moment of weight, of intent and then Lucifer is closer, so much closer. His fingertips dig in, one quick greedy touch that isn't designed to sooth.

"Sam." It's not just his name, it's a question, breathed into the edge of his jaw. Because Lucifer never takes without asking, never demands. Sam would be more curious, more worried about that if he could think.

He swallows, swallows again and tilts his hips up, just a little.

Lucifer makes a noise, something soft and surprised, something approving. His thumb slides down and unsnaps the button of Sam's jeans, pushes the zipper down, the side of his hand brush-sliding against the weight of Sam's cock. Just hard enough to make him want it.

This is wrong, this is so fucking wrong, and there are no excuses, none, for what he's giving the devil permission to do.

Lucifer's hand slides into his boxers, cool fingers where he's damp with sweat and hard against his own stomach and it's good, it's so good he gasps and pushes up into it without ever meaning to. That gets him a tight wrap of fingers, which drags a shiver out of him, smooth and sure and almost too much. The bed creaks and Sam knows if he turns his head Lucifer will be close enough to kiss.

He refuses, swallows and refuses, but there's a shaky little groan that says everything he doesn't.

Lucifer's hand moves, slow and steady and tight like he knows what Sam wants, thumb pressing in and drifting over the head in one slick side that has Sam's hips shuddering and rolling, just a little.

Lucifer murmurs his name, slow and needy into the skin of his cheek, like Sam is the one breaking him. It makes him push, makes him slide up through Lucifer's fingers and beg, a wordless demand for more, and everything he wants, everything he wants the devil just gives him.

Sam turns his head and Lucifer's mouth is there, right there, hard and open and it burns, it burns all the way through. The wet, hard shove of his tongue and the fierce almost violent fury of it. Lucifer’s other hand finds his hair, fists it tight and holds him there. It shoves him over the edge and Sam's groaning into the heat of his mouth, coming over Lucifer's fingers in a wash of shame and delirious pleasure.

Lucifer doesn't let him go and the kiss falls into something slow and messy, every wet shudder broken open and taken from him. Until there's nothing left, nothing, and Lucifer lets him go, releases his hair and his mouth. Though his fingers still trail the slick mess of his skin, touch him like he belongs to him, sending arcs of too bright sensation along his nerves.

Sam inhales, desperately, head falling back into the pillow as his pulse slows and his skin cools as much as it can in the heat.

When he opens his eyes Lucifer is gone.