Chapter Twenty-Six
Sam was still on the lookout for their next job, and the aircon in their cheap and crappy room had suddenly started to function efficiently – whether this was the last gasp of Sam's good luck charm, or Dean brandishing a wrench and threatening to give it a 'reconditioning' that it would never forget, was not clear, but they were not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The weather was fine, the beach was calling, so they decided to stay for a few days until their next Hunt turned up.
"We gotta be somewhere," Dean reasoned with a smile, "Plus, the bikini migration is in full swing!"
"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes, "So, how is the research coming along, Professor Bikini?"
"Awesome, Sam, just awesome," Dean smiled happily. "I find that I'm kinda liking it here. So is Jimi." At the mention of his name, the dog wagged his tail.
"He does love the beach." Sam tapped at his laptop, and opened another window. "You know, taking him out, you've really been getting a sensible amount of exercise while we've been here," he told Dean, "This daily cardio, it's a really good habit, bro."
"Well, it seems to make you so happy," Dean shrugged, "And the J-Man does love him a whiskey-alpha-lima-kilo, and a flip of the plastic manual-launch miniature UFO. Speaking of which," he glanced out the window, "Why don't we head out right now, huh? You wanna go for a walk, Jimi? Impress the migrating bikinis with your mad frisbee skills?"
At the mention of the w-word and the f-word out loud, Jimi leaped to his feet and began to whuff excitedly.
"We'll be back," Dean grinned as he picked up Jimi's lead, "In time for lunch. Proper lunch. With proper pieces of proper dead animal. And proper coffee."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam flapped a hand at his brother – he knew when he was on a hiding to nothing. He did worry about his big brother's health; but if daily exercise was all he could get, it was better than nothing, so he'd take what he could get.
He turned back to the laptop. Dean would probably want to sell the expensive tracker now, he thought, but the download for the last twenty-four hours had provided some decidedly weird data, so he might have to look up a factory reset for it.
After another possible lead on a job hit a contradiction, Sam sat back, rolled his shoulders, and decided to go out for a run himself. He found it a useful way to let his mind mull over a problem, and when the weather was this nice, he kind of enjoyed it. He changed, and headed out.
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While considering the fragmented intel he had to work with so far, Sam let his feet take him towards the beach. It was busy – a lot of people were keen to take advantage of sun and surf – but there was a wide pedestrian footpath, and he didn't have to slow down to dodge cyclists, dawdlers or errant children.
He turned a corner, and was just running past an ice-cream stand when he heard a familiar if somewhat muffled woof. Looking up, he saw Jimi, damp from swimming, running towards him, tail wagging and frisbee in his mouth.
Grinning, Sam left the path and strode onto the sand. "Hey, Jimi! You having fun?" By way of confirmation of fun, Jimi dropped the frisbee and stooped into a play bow, eager for another throw. "Where's Dean, then? Come on, I'll throw it, and see if you can get to it before..."
Something caught his eye.
Sam's grin turned to a scowl.
Looking along the waterline, he recognised the shape of his brother, engaged in some up close and personal research with a woman who was definitely taking part in the bikini migration; it looked as though she was putting a number into his phone.
Throwing the frisbee for the dog, he made his way towards his brother.
"Dean!" he called, following Jimi, who nabbed the frisbee out of the air and continued trotting back towards Dean. "Dean! What the hell?"
"Sammy!" Dean's smile was as bright as the sunshine as he waved goodbye to the departing young lady. "How's the running? I was just discussing the benefits of invigorating activity with Tania, who I might just meet later tonight for some beautiful natural invigorating activity after dark..."
"Don't you talk to me about activity," Sam glowered with a full power Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean).
"I don't," Dean pointed out, "You're the one who keeps goin' on about it. The benefits of cardio, givin' the ol' heart and lungs a workout, all that stuff."
"You were supposed to be exercising for your own health!" Sam snapped.
"I am!" Dean protested, "Look at me, I'm outside, I'm walkin' the dog, I'm playin' frisbee with the dog..." he paused to flip the toy away again for Jimi to set off once more in gleeful pursuit, "Doin' what you're saying I should be doing."
"You are supposed to be aiming for a certain number of steps per day," Sam growled.
"Well, obviously, I had to take steps to get here," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "I didn't just, you know, levitate here. A man is not a hovercraft, Sam. I had to walk."
"I thought you agreed to use the tracker to monitor your progress!"
"I did!" Dean said, "And I've been using it whenever I take Jimi out."
"Dean, putting the activity tracker on the dog does not constitute 'using it'!"
"Yeah it does," Dean countered as Jimi returned, "And he don't mind."
"I don't believe this," Sam muttered, bending to pat Jimi as he returned with his frisbee before removing the device and brandishing it at his brother like a teacher finding a packet of forbidden gum in class, "What the hell was it supposed to achieve? Did you think that you could somehow derive benefit from Jimi's activity, by, by, what, some sort of cardiopulmonary osmosis?"
"It stopped you whining," Dean answered with brutal frankness and a beaming smile, "And that right there was a win, as far as I was concerned."
Sam gave his brother a searing Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "If you're not going to use it properly, we might as well sell it," he pronounced. "Of course we'll have to clean it up, after it's been used on a dog, for fuck's sake – this might explain the weird readout from last night, it was never meant to be used by a dog chasing a frisbee at the beach..."
"Weird readout?" queried Dean.
"Yeah," Sam went on, "In the middle of the night. I'll have to do a reset on it, but that shouldn't be... what?"
His brother's grin went from annoying to shit-eating at the speed of Dean.
"Well, you know that last night the Living Sex God went out with a frisky lady who'd be up for some beautiful natural acts..."
"Yeah, wasn't that a surprise," Sam noted.
"Well, it turned out, she was a fitness instructor, does personal training," Dean's eyebrows were clearly warming to their theme, "And she encourages her clients to use a tracker, if they can."
"Well, yeah, a lot of people find 'em useful," Sam commented.
"So, she'd noticed mine, and told me to bring it along," Dean continued.
Sam looked confused. "What for? You ditch it as soon as you can when you come back from your walk – there's absolutely no other activity in your data, except for when you're walking the dog, you never wear it at night, and..." realisation dawned. "Oh, God, you're kidding..."
"Anyway, she was a frisky lady all right," Dean pressed on gleefully, "And as to tracking performance, well, it doesn't know what sort of 'performance' it's tracking."
"So you..." Sam's face became a mask of distaste. "Was this a thing for her? This woman had a thing about trackers?"
"Ohhhh, it was a thing, Sammy," Dean's eyebrows confirmed gymnastically, "It was definitely a thing."
"Okaaaaay, well," Sam paused, "Informed consenting adults, some people like to play adult dress-ups, so I don't suppose it's so strange that somewhere out there was a woman who has a thing for a man wearing nothing but a tracker around one wrist..."
His voice stuttered to a halt as Dean paused for maximum effect while his grin went all the way up to Gotcha Sammy!
"Not wrist, Sammy, not wrist..."
Sam's eyes bugged.
"...Definitely a thing," Dean finished.
Sam shrieked and dropped the tracker like it had just bitten him.
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A woman who was walking her dog called the job in: two men, in their thirties, on the beach were having what looked like a wrestling match. The taller one was shouting angrily and threatening to strangle the other, while the other one was laughing hysterically, and a really adorable dog woofing encouragement to both parties and trying to drop a frisbee into the middle of the contest.
She wasn't sure why they were fighting, but from what she could hear she believed that it was an argument over an activity tracker.
Whatever it was, by the time a cruiser swung by, they'd dusted themselves down and walked off along the beach together, taking turns to flip the frisbee for the dog.
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"I'm sorry, Sam."
"No you're not."
"I am!"
"No you're not. You enjoyed doing... that, and then you enjoyed freaking me out."
"Well, yeah, but I'm apologising for enjoying it."
"You're disgusting."
"Look, you can have the money from the tracker, okay? As soon as we sell it."
"After we disinfect it. God, I don't believe you'd put a tracker around your..."
"Don't knock it until you've tried it, bro."
"Shut up, jerk! You're gross!"
"Sticks and stones, Sammy, sticks and stones. Anyway, where are we headed?"
"Some place I want to go to have a good time."
"Oh, God, it's not a library, is it?"
"No."
"Museum? Some fascinating collection of seventeenth century lint?"
"No."
"A gallery? Paintings that have been done by a one-armed cross-eyed disabled autistic gay black orangutan, or something? 'This one is called Profit From People Who Have Too Much Money, and Twinkles is hoping to sell it for enough to buy a whole bunch of bananas and maybe a less embarrassing name'..."
"No!"
"Where, then?"
"Somewhere outdoors. And don't worry, there will be bikinis for you to monitor."
"That's my boy."
When Dean saw where they were headed, he laughed out loud. "I had no idea, dude!"
"For fuck's sake, I spent four years in California," Sam shot back as he pulled his shirt off over his head. "So, are you in?"
"Absolutely," Dean grinned, pulling off his sweats to reveal board shorts, "Somebody's gotta keep an eye on you out there. Show you how it's done.
"Ha! Big brother, prepare to have your ass handed to you on a plate."
Trash talking each other all the way to the beach, they headed for the rental shack.
Sam was right, though. It was a hell of a lot of fun.
And if he was honest, yeah, Dean had to concede; Sam was definitely the better surfer.
THE END – ALMOST...
We'll just pause here for a moment for the more depraved beldames amongst the Denizens to think about watching the brothers Winchester surfing.
...
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