The challenge word is Toothbrush and there are some references to season eight here so turn back ye who are unspoiled! It's a triple drabble this week so 300 words on the nose.
The fierce sun is high in the cloudless sky and it beats down with a merciless intensity on the man kneeling, bent over on the arid desert floor.
He straightens up, groaning softly as his spine pops audibly, the dust-covered toothbrush gripped in his dirty hand.
The relic is half uncovered now, the fine earth that protects it swept loose with minute and infinite care by the diligent legacy.
His shabby grey t-shirt sticks to him, sweat bonding it to his ripped muscles and he pulls it irritably over his tousled head, flinging it at his brother where he sits at there makeshift table, cataloging the shards they have already unearthed.
"Be careful!"
Sam chides, squinting into the heat haze as his nervous fingers guard the centuries old clay.
"Taking a break."
Dean mutters petulantly as he drops his impromptu excavation tool and pressing his hand into the soft dust climbs stiffly to his booted feet. He is tired and sore from hours of methodical, minuscule digging and he pushes his hands through his sweat soaked hair as he crosses to the cooler that sits shadowed by his brother's massive form.
He pulls a bottle from it's mostly-water, yet still cold haven and cracks the top with his aching hands. The beer is brutally cold on his parched throat but he welcomes the crisp head-rush it brings. He lifts the bottle to his cheek, letting the condensed droplets wash tiny rivers of clean through the dirt on his sun-bronzed face as he stares into the distant shimmer.
He longs for the bunker. For it's cool serenity and the sense of peace it brings to him. He looks at his brother.
Soon it will be over.
He sighs softly.
Please God, they will both survive.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.