This is just for fun and silliness, because I wanted to write something today, and I asked a friend for a prompt. This is what she gave me: Sam and Dean, the drink sex on the beach, Latin, and the word "floccinaucinihilipilification." So, you know, I did what I could. Hope this gives ya a laugh!

Communication Breakdown

Through the loud, smoky room, Dean catches the bartender glancing his way and gives her a wink. It's a small, coastal town, and she's the best-looking thing he's seen in the two days they've been here. Now it's job well done, time for a celebratory drink, and he's feeling pretty confident he'll be seeing her when she gets off later. Ahem.

Sam comes into frame like the big 'ol buzzkill he is, weaving his way through the maze of bar-height tables, but has only one beer with him. What gives, little brother?

Said little brother arrives at the table, cheesin' hard, and in his other hand Dean sees a tall, narrow glass filled with pink-stained liquid what-the-fuck and an orange slice perched on the rim. Some kind of chick drink. Dean tilts his head as he reaches across the tabletop for the frosty bottle of sweet, delicious nectar. "You know me, I don't judge. To each his own, man."

Sam pulls the beer back with a snort. "Uh, no." He holds out the other glass, lips pulled around a grin. "This is the, uh, sex on the beach you ordered?"

Dean sits back, runs his hand over his chin and looks back at the busty, smokin' hot bartender behind his brother. The one who's now giving him fuck you eyes instead of the fuck me eyes he SHOULD be getting. "Yeeeaaah. I think she misunderstood what I was sayin.'"

Sam glances over his shoulder and smirks. "Oh, I think she understood you fine. She just wasn't interested."

"Whatever." Dean curls his lip at the froufy drink Sam is still offering, and he debates his chances of getting anything else from the bar. They aren't great, which means he's going to have to fall back on sticky fingers.

Sam lets the glass drop to the table and pulls a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, displaying it proudly, puffing out his chest. "Besides, I'm the one who got her number."

"What?" Dean forgets about the drinks, jumps off of his stool to snatch the paper. When he reads the number he has to smirk, himself. "Ya know what? You earned this one, Sammy. You go right ahead and call her." He settles the slip between two fingers and returns it to his brother as he returns his ass to his seat.

"Yeah?" Sam nods as he takes the paper, then his face falls. "Wait, why would you…Oh, God, you already banged her, didn't you?"

Dean rolls his eyes and taps his fingers on the tabletop. "No, she fake-numbered you, jackass. Any number that starts "555"? It ain't real."

"Huh."

"Don't you ever watch TV?"

"No, Dean, I read books."

"And also don't have sex."

"Shut up, jerk." Sam studies the number a moment, chewing his lip. "Huh. So, I guess we both struck out."

Dean takes advantage of Sam's little pity party to snag the beer from where his brother's set it down. "Yeah, what were the odds of that?" He winces, holds up a hand. "No, wait. Do NOT tell me the odds of that."

Sam slides onto his stool, regarding the pinkish drink he's inherited with a bit less distain than Dean would like.

"Oh, don't act like you don't want it." They both know he's not only going to drink it, but he's going to LOVE it.

"Shut up," Sam says again. He shoves the drink away and sighs dramatically, looking out over the smoky din of the small barroom.

Dean takes a long pull, squinting at his brother. "Okay, Sammy. The fish are bitin.' What's with the frown-y face?"

"Just…this ghost."

"The one we just roasted and toasted?" A poltergeist at the local community college, some asshole taunting underachieving students from dark corners to the point one of them jumped from the roof of his dormitory over the weekend. It was a routine salt and burn, if ever there was. Even if he was lobbing some pretty big words their way, Dean returned the favor with some pretty big shots of rock salt to the face. "What about him?"

"Just…the crap he was saying. Saturnine? Effulgent? Floccinaucinihilipilification? Really?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which one don't you…Floccinaucinihilipilification?" Eyebrows pulled together, like Dean is supposed to know what the fuck he's saying.

Dean's not even sure SAM knows what the fuck he's saying. "Dude, for all I know, you're trying to exorcise me right now. Or just plain makin' shit up."

Whatever it is Sam's saying, it's really getting to him. "They're real words, Dean. SAT words. All the ones that I…the guy's DEAD and he knew more than me, Dean."

"You're upset because the ghost said some words you don't know?"

"I know them."

Dean chuckles. "NOW you do."

Sam's considering the girly drink with a truly pathetic look on his face.

Dean climbs up onto his big brother saddle, tries to make the kid feel better. "He was a word professor, Sammy. That's kind of his thing. Or, was."

"Linguistics professor."

Or, you know, words. Dean salutes Sam with his bottle. "Whatever, man. Don't let him get to you. We lit that mother up but good."

"Still," Sam continues, not even phased, like he corrected Dean without being consciously aware he was doing it. Wouldn't be the first time. "It doesn't bother you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Now, if he had a nicer CAR than me…"

Sam slumps, chin in hand, and he pulls the girly drink towards him, plays with the straw. Men aren't meant to drink from STRAWS. "I mean, I guess I get why it doesn't bug YOU…"

Dean puts another dent in his bottle. "Ouch."

"But I almost got a perfect score on the SAT – "

Dean leans back and rolls his eyes. "Did you? I think I've only heard this story about seven, eight…thousand times."

Sam shakes his head. "An ALMOST perfect score."

"Yeah, well, almost only counts in – "

"DON'T say it. Seriously. Of all things. Floccinaucinihilipilification."

Dean points with the hand holding his bottle. "Okay. You get one more time, and then I hit you."

Sam takes a sip of the fruity drink – from the glass, thank God, instead of the straw – and raises his eyebrows appreciatively. He brings the glass back up for another gulp.

"Really?"

"It's not bad. You want another round?"

Dean looks down at the empty bottle in his hand, then peers around Sam. "Nah. I'll meet you at the car. I'm gonna hit the head, then I'm gonna take another run at the bartender."

"Really, man? You're telling me you didn't learn your lesson about cute bartenders?"

Dean lifts a shoulder. "Eh. I'll float a couple words of Latin by her, see if she gets twitchy."

Sam smiles, bringing his drink up to his lips. "Don't forget, it's Christo."

"Dude."

When Dean emerges from the bar, frustrated and stomping across the asphalt, Sam's leaning against the car, arms crossed and blowing puffs of warm breath into the cool night air.

Dean whistles sharply and jerks his head. "Off the goods, Sasquatch."

A grin breaks out as Sam straightens. "She still didn't go for it, huh?"

Dean shrugs. "Doesn't mean anything." He pulls the key ring from his pocket and moves casually to the driver's side. A little TOO casually. "In fact, I'd say this is a perfect example of floccinaucinihilipilification."

Sam gapes, just a moment, then shakes his head. "You looked it up in the john."

Dean smirks, yanking open the door. "Like you didn't look it up when you were getting the drinks. I nailed it."

"You BUTCHERED it. I think you just ordered a pizza in, like, some archaic language." He could say more, but Sam leaves it there, and just opens his own door. He would like very much NOT to have to walk back to the motel, so he doesn't point out that's pretty obviously the only thing Dean has a chance of nailing tonight.

Floccinaucinihilipilification: The action or habit of estimating something as worthless. Thanks, Novacakes, for broadening my vocabulary, just a little.