The beach vacation we were robbed of. Takes place in a universe in which Dean survives that barn. May turn into a series of one-shots and intended as a continuation of Do Not Go Gentle... Happy Reading :D


"He's gone, Sammy. Get your butt in gear."

For three days now, they've been at the Sunset Lodge Suites in Los Lunas and for three days, the weather's stayed at a sweltering 98 degrees. Also for three days, the motel pool's been hogged by a gross guy with a pot-belly whose smile trips a bunch of sensors in Dean's security system. He's been around enough shifty characters in his life to know a creep when he sees one. But, at long last, the dumbass packed up his blue pickup and drove off, which means the pool is finally theirs. Of course, Sammy decided now is the perfect time for one of his extended bathroom stays. What's a six-year-old gotta do in there anyway?

Dean paces in front of the feebly groaning window unit, itching to get out of the muggy motel room, before remembering the float he swiped in Kmart yesterday (stuffed down his jeans). He retrieves the colorful package from under his mattress and starts blowing up the shark-shaped tube.


"Shame we don't have one of those floaty things," Dean rambles, arranging his beach lounger and his myriad accoutrements (cooler, sunglasses, umbrella from the patio, phone, a couple of books stashed in a bag, two boonie hats, the back half of his breakfast, assorted snacks, towels…). After six days of non-stop travel, they've staked a week-long claim at a private beach house in the middle of nowhere. They got in so late last night, he barely looked around before crashing. Today, he's doing nothing. "…You know, one of those giant flamingos that can fit a crowd. Bet Miracle would love that. Maybe they got a shop in town."

Sam, already baking in the sun for a while, barely twitches, his eyes shielded by his old Aviators as he continues reading. Dean bends over, ignoring his protesting back because aging's not something he's ready to tackle yet, to get a look at the cover. The Bone Collector. Ah, of course. Sun, sand, and serial killers… He's never understood the obsession, especially in a cerebral guy like Sam, though, given the plethora of media on the subject, he knows it's a fairly common one. There's just something very strange about his earnest, bleeding-heart brother being fascinated by the most depraved, twisted minds on the planet. It'll never stop weirding him out. He shakes his head and turns to settle when a bottle of spray sunscreen hits the small of his back.

"Put that on. You'll burn."


"No, c'mon Sammy, you gotta rub it in. You'll get all burned."

"I rubbed it in, it's not working," Sammy pouts, his thin chest mottled with white streaks. "And I can't reach my back." He clutches the inflated tube to his right side and stares expectantly at Dean. Dean obliges and slathers and rubs until Sammy's good to go. It's not often they make use of their old tub of sunscreen. For some reason, the vast majority of their time is spent in cold-weather cities, and pools are an even rarer find. Dean wades in, smiling at the cooling relief.

"What about you?"

"What?" He turns back to find Sammy standing in the same place, looking suspicious.

"Ain't you gonna burn?"

"Nah, only pale little shrimps get burned."

"I'm not a shrimp! A shrimp is a giant ocean bug."

"Maybe you should quit bugging me, then," Dean grins, proud of his pun. Sammy doesn't seem to appreciate his ingeniousness.

"If I'm a shrimp, then you are too, only bigger."

"Just get in the water, Sammy, I'll teach you how to swim."

"No."

Dean sighs at the word (one of Sammy's definite favorites) and decides it's easier and quicker to give in than to do battle. He sloshes out of the pool and hastily applies a few globs of the smelly cream under Sammy's beady-eyed supervision. But of course it's not enough. "What about your back?"

"I can't reach my back either," Dean admits grumpily. "You ready to come in now?"

But Sammy's not listening anymore, having taken up the discarded tube. He squeezes out a giant dollop and Dean has to endure those clammy, little hands running all over his back, no doubt leaving greasy, white smudges in their wake.


Dean works the proffered sunscreen into the clammy skin of his neck, the smell making him slightly nauseous. It's hot. Real, mind-melting, ocean-boiling hot. Luckily, he's always had a high heat tolerance and, other than a few beads of sweat on his brow, Sam, and his perpetually bronzed hide, appears cool as a cucumber, indifferent to the 90+ degree weather. Dean retrieves an icy beer from the cooler as well as a freshly blended smoothie which he brandishes in Sam's face. He accepts with a micro-smirk, wasting no time in getting the slurping started.

Dean leans back and surveys their surroundings, alternating between his breakfast sandwich and a beer; the clean, ivory sand, the foaming waves, the brilliant, turquoise water glinting on the horizon, the jungly vegetation enveloping their little slice of heaven…

It takes some getting used to, all this beauty and indulgence and repose. Dean's not entirely there yet. After a lifetime of shabby motels, backroad diners, harsh Midwestern winters, and ceaseless, debilitating stress, his mind is a few steps behind his body, still insisting that this isn't who he is, that he doesn't belong here, that resting is futile, that there's another fight just around the corner, that he'll wake up tomorrow, back in the bunker, with the old, familiar millstone around his neck. But it ain't too difficult to shut that part of his brain off while lounging on a sweltering beach in a tropical paradise. It'll return at night, no doubt, it's always worse at night, but that's a problem for the evening.

Miracle bounds over from wherever he's been amusing himself so Dean sets up his water bowl and offers him a peanut butter biscuit. The little mutt's a sandy, mangy mess, kinda reminiscent of Sammy when he was a pipsqueak… Dean musses the matted fur of his head while he laps.

"You're spoiling him again," Sam drawls, watching Miracle nibble on a biscuit.

"No, I'm not," Dean protests, stubbornly offering the lab yet another treat. Sam stares at him pointedly. "He's a good dog, he deserves it."

"Really? Why, exactly?"

"Shut up, Sam. Just look at him."

Sam takes a moment to look, smiles, shakes his head, and simply goes back to his book. Dean has no idea how he's immune to Miracle's canine wiles. All it takes is one glance at his twitching ears, his wagging tail, his shaggy everything, and Dean's putty in his paws.


"I'm tired."

"You gotta know how to swim, Sammy, it's important."

"But I can float now. That's good, right?"

Dean weighs telling him that floating's a whole lot easier than swimming but Sammy's wide, expectant eyes are too powerful. "Yeah, that's real good. We'll continue tomorrow."

Sammy grins the way only a kid can and paddles over to the tube, slipping it over his head and arms. Dean swims a few laps, avoiding Sammy's flailing feet as he splashes aimlessly around. When he surfaces for a break, chest heaving, Sammy is squinting in the sunlight (gotta get him a cap), his hair curling up as it dries. "You think we'll stay here?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugs, reaching for the water bottles he stashed in their towels. They're still cool-ish. He gulps down half of one and offers Sammy the other half.

"I like it here, even though it's so hot. There's still a long time till school, right? We could swim every day, and we could find more turtles."

"Yeah," Dean says evenly. "I like it here too. We'll see, I guess." Sammy's always looking to him for answers. Dean tries. He tries to fake it, tries to muster the authority he doesn't want, the certainty he doesn't feel, the answers he doesn't have. Sometimes it's easier than others. He'd love to stay here too, spend the whole summer swimming and exploring the surrounding desert and rambling up the road for burgers, but he's learned not to be optimistic. Dean tries not to lie to Sammy, tries not to give him false hope, but he also hates being honest, hates crushing all his innocent notions with the grim realities of life. That's letting him down in a different way. The result is a lot of neutrality and a lot of distraction. "Hey, you wanna ride?"

Sammy perks up, stilling. "Yeah…"

"Hop on, then, c'mon…"

Sammy's grip around his neck is too tight and he's heavier than Dean figured he'd be, but he can feel him laughing as they forge into the deep end.


Six days in Mexico and Dean's only swam once, that afternoon in Holbox three days ago. He's been itching to get back in the water ever since but he's not one for swimming on a bustling beach. Having avoided crowds all his life, stripping down to a pair of trunks in broad daylight doesn't come natural to him. But now, it's just the two of them and he plans on catching up. Hell, he ditched his jeans and layers altogether this morning, finally putting that ridiculous, tropical wardrobe he bought to use.

"You gonna swim at all, or you're just gonna sit there reading about lunatics all day?" Dean asks, peeling off the florid shirt sticking to his back. Sam finally puts his book aside and even flips up his sunglasses.

"We got a week, Dean."

"It doesn't tempt you?"

"It does, but so does sitting right here."

With Sam staring at him, Dean's suddenly shy. They've grown increasingly private in recent years, since the bunker, since before that, if he's being honest. There's the odd glimpse of each other after a shower, towel slung over a shoulder, but even those are rare. He's not sure where it stems from, only that it's not one-sided, and, if anything, he's the bigger culprit. Might've started with the hand-print on his arm and continued with each new, ugly reminder of what he'd done, what he'd become; the infinite, abysmal ways he'd screwed the pooch. Even once the scars, or marks, were gone, he still felt them in his skin, hated anyone looking too closely, looking at all.

But, Dean reminds himself, this is Sam, Sam who, once upon a time, ran around in nothing but a diaper. Sam, who he'd force into a bath. Sam, with whom he'd swim, whenever the chance arose. Sam, who'd brushed his teeth on the opposite side of a shower curtain most of their lives. Sam, to whom he'd given haircuts and shaving lessons. Sam, who until things went to shit, he didn't think twice about being shirtless around. It's a bizarre inhibition, makes no damn sense. This is Sam, for chrissakes, his little brother, and he's seen and been through all of it and worse.

Dean chuckles to himself, at himself, and sheds his undershirt.

"What?" Sam asks, gaze predictably lingering on his recently healed surgery scar.

"Nothing."

He slathers on too much sunscreen, waits the prescribed ten minutes or whatever and then wades into the ocean. The water's almost warm after a moment, but not unpleasantly so. Dean dips below the surface where it's blessedly still. He'd once compared being possessed to being under water, but there's a massive, unbridgeable chasm between moving freely through the tranquil, muted ocean and being held under, spluttering and drowning and losing your sanity. Might as well compare apples to rotten fish.

He surfaces for air, sweeps his dripping mane back, checks on Sam, and dives back in. Contrary to popular belief, Dean is not averse to peace and quiet; quite the opposite, really. Most of his good dreams over the years involve just that, hell, even solitude has its time and place. That little pocket of calm found just beneath the surface of every pool, river, and lake has always appealed to him.

He swims, savoring the mobility the water affords his worn out limbs.


The pool's cloudy, likely not all that sanitary, but Dean doesn't care. It's not like the joints they hang their hat in maintain any standard of cleanliness. At least the water's cool, and it won't give you bed bugs, no matter how murky. He squints, propelling lower and lower until his chest skims the floor of the pool. 52… 53… 54… 55… He got to 71 seconds on his last try, trying to beat that record now... But just past the minute mark, the steady, underwater hum is broken by an unmistakable, muffled cry. Dean surfaces in a flash, panting in the fresh air, out of both deprivation and panic. "What is it?"

Sammy's unbothered, scratching his nose and glancing off to the right. "I'm hungry."

"Jeez, Sammy, don't do that!"

"Don't do what?"

"Don't yell like a banshee when all you need's a sandwich."

"We got sandwiches?" Is what Sammy takes out of that.

"Yeah, we got stuff for sandwiches," Dean admits, scraping a hand over his forehead. He takes an extra minute to compose himself, just because, and then wades over to the pool steps. "C'mon."

He wraps Sam up in the big blue towel, throws the skimpy brown one around his own shoulders, grabs the shark tube for good measure (you never know what kinda thieves are staying three doors down), and makes for their room. It would be a whole lot quicker to dash in, assemble a couple of sandwiches, and hurry his ass back to the pool, but leaving Sammy alone out in the open is a risk Dean's not willing to take. He knows better than that now. Just dipping underwater is dicey; he makes sure to always keep a part of Sammy in his vision. He's surprised Dad even okayed the swimming and hiking and everything. Maybe he's just in a good mood. Whatever the reason, Dean's gonna shut his trap and enjoy it while it lasts.

"You want turkey or ham and cheese? Oh, or peanut butter?" Dean asks once they gain their room and warm up, enjoying the rare opportunity to offer Sammy options. Dad's working a job, not that kinda job, a regular one, so they've been stocked of late.

"Ham and cheese," Sammy predictably decides. "A big one."

"Coming right up." Dean laughs, messing with Sammy's wet mop as he opens the fridge. He doesn't mind doing meals when he actually has stuff to work with. Omelets, pancakes, pasta… He might even secretly love it. But that's not something anyone needs to know. For himself, he's gonna splurge and make one of all three sandwich types, and eat them as fast or as slow as he wants, sitting pool-side.

Shut your trap and enjoy it while it lasts…


The unforgiving, afternoon sun prickles Dean's skin as he plods out of the ocean. Probably a good idea to apply another coat. The water dripping from his hair tickles his back as he picks his way through the sand. It's not an altogether unpleasant sensation He lost track of time while swimming and the sun's now directly overhead, affording little shade from its relentless rays.

Dean moseys on over to their outpost only to find Sam, after a brief second of panic (Out cold!? Dead!?), fast asleep, book face-down on his chest. It's a very strange sight; he can't remember the last time Sam dozed spontaneously anywhere outside the Impala, probably when he was eight. Or when he… But this is different, this isn't bone-deep exhaustion running the show, this is a frickin' siesta, just because he can. Dean carefully removes the book, drags the umbrella over, and drapes one of their jumbo beach towels across Sam's lower half. The fact that he doesn't wake up is a small miracle in and of itself.

With Sam asleep, it's a good time to sneak in a read, but Dean, pulling his v-neck on, indulges for a moment and examines his brother. Sam's forehead isn't lined like it gets mid-nightmare and his breathing is deep and relaxed, always a good sign. Dean grins at the sight of his shirt, one of those lightweight ones he swears by, open to mid-sternum. Old Sammy is in vacation mode. He hasn't learned much about letting loose, but he has been more… chipper, the last few days, probably because they've spent that period visiting a slew of ancient ruins, catnip to his innate geekiness. And that creepy, rickety bookshop, full of Latin titles, and the countless, weird little eateries, full of things like chilaquiles and ceviche and horchatas, certainly hasn't hurt his mood.

Dean's content to tag along while Sam goes wild. It's real, real nice, seeing him happy, been too long. Besides, those ruins were cool, even though the Mayans were some sick puppies. Truth is, Dean's glad to just be, to just not fight, to just sit at the beach and feel the sun on his face and dip his feet in the ocean. That's more than enough. For the first time in their lives, they have that luxury; no weight, no dread, no fate bearing down, threatening to crush them. Sometimes the relief is so immense, Dean can barely breath. He hopes Sam feels it too, thinks he does, probably more acutely. Because Sammy always believed there was an end, an after, always had things he wanted to do. And now that those things are possible… well, Dean's gonna do what he can to ensure he gets a chance. Just two days ago, he let slip that he's always wanted to travel – damn near a revelation from his tight-lipped brother – so if that means visiting a hundred, a thousand, ruins, then Dean'll be there, grumbling all the way.

He keeps gawking, though he prefers to think of it as observing, waving off a giant butterfly that comes sniffing around.

Sam never learned how to carve out some fun, some relaxation, amidst the chaos, so him snoozing, exposed, in broad daylight, means everything. In an odd way, Dean feels like he's getting to know him all over again, maybe in a way he never did, a version that's not tense and burdened and grieving and actually smiles more than once a month. Been so damn long, he forgot Sam used to crack jokes. It's gratifying, seeing him all sunny and animated, but, at times, also extremely painful.

Dean's aware he's terrible at dealing with crap. All the losses and hurts and guilt and failures eat at him, long after he thinks he's come to terms with them. He still misses Mom, still feels sick at Dad's death, still berates himself daily for Jo and Ellen and a dozen others, still thinks about Sam bleeding out in his arms, still dreams about the worst of it regularly, still wishes he had a million do-overs... Day after day, month after month, year after year, it never changes. And now, seeing Sam this way, Dean finds the 'what could have beens' plaguing him once again. Not that the relief and freaking euphoria aren't real, they're constant and very, very real, but the regrets have gotten stronger too. For years, one of his happiest memories, one he occasionally dreamed of, was the fake world the djinn had concocted. Or he had. Whatever. The minor issue of it being pure bs didn't negate the fact that he's never seen Sam look as happy as he did then, nor has he ever experienced the comfort he felt for a few brief hours. He'd spent half that first night looking through old family albums and the pictures have never left his mind. Eventually, he'd managed to bury that particular pie in the sky but it's recently cropped back up, along with a host of other long-forgotten aches.

But he's gotta banish these thoughts.

Everything that happened, happened, there's no going back. They're wildly different people than they were in their twenties. No matter how much it hurts, Dean's gotta let go of the ships that have sailed or he's liable to drown. Sam's alright, napping in the sun like a damn cat. That's what matters, it's always been enough. He looks good, too, less lines, more color. Sam always did tan well; he used to turn damn near brown as a kid, while Dean nursed a burnt nose and tried to hide the billions of freckles he hated. To think he once worried about freckles… The good old days…

Sam could still use some fattening up, though and Dean is more than happy to assist; he's got steaks in the fridge and he even brought along his homemade spice rub in case they ran into a grill, which they have. Add in some chicken and a vegetable or two, just to placate his brother's troubling sensibilities, and they're all set.


22.95. That can't be right. He was sure he still had twenty-five left. Dean starts over, slowing down considerably at sixteen dollars which is when he has to switch to coins. $22.95 again.

"We going yet?" Sammy crows, hovering at his shoulder.

"Hang on. You see any money around?"

Sammy shakes his head and Dean's inclined to believe him. He's annoying and sneaky and stubborn and whiny, but he ain't a liar. Dean combs the room, checking all the usual spots he hides his cash; Under the TV, the mattress, behind the mirror, the headboards, the vents, the toilet tank, top of the cabinets... Nothing. Then he remembers his old jeans, now crumpled in the laundry bag. He digs through the pockets and sure enough comes up with another two and a half bucks. Hehe! He's practically rich. A few months ago, he stayed with Uncle Bobby for three days and got paid for helping out with the cars. Not that he did much. Bobby just likes giving him money and also likes finding plausible excuses for doing so. At first Dean was wary of accepting, but now he doesn't mind, and he immediately deposited half of it, 10 bucks, into his emergency stash, whose whereabouts he ain't telling a soul about. What he's got in hand now is part the remains of Bobby's 'payment' and part what Dad gave him yesterday. Because he's Mr. Moneybags now, Dean decided they're gonna treat themselves to dinner after spending three more hours in the pool working up an appetite.

"Alright, let's go, Sammy."

Sammy pops up from the bed, where he was lying on his stomach and groaning, and dashes to the door.

"I'm gonna get a banana split. No, or maybe, maybe a malted. Or maybe…" Sammy starts jabbering the second they're out the door and doesn't stop until eight minutes later when he yawns mightily and sort of sags. They're not even halfway there, by Dean's estimation, and It's real hot out, even with the sun on its way down.

"Wanna turn back? I can make mac n' cheese. We could go tomorrow."

"Nope," Sammy pops the 'p', stifles another yawn, looks at the sky for a moment, and trudges on with renewed vigor. The passing cars blast them with hot air as they zip by.

"Wait, Sammy, we're gonna cross over." The other side of the highway is shadier, but till now Dean didn't see the point in traversing the road when their destination is on the same side. They have to wait nearly a minute for a break in the traffic and then he's gotta hustle Sammy across because the kid runs on his own time and his own time alone, but it's worth the trouble. It's a good ten degrees cooler out of the sun and the dry grass is short enough to walk on, giving them a reprieve from the dust and car exhaust. Thirteen minutes later, the Dairy Queen comes into view, colorful and welcoming.

Since Dad's not here, and since they're sweaty and red-faced and a tad woozy, Dean makes the executive decision to allow dessert before the food. And since he's flush with cash, they order a banana split and a strawberry shortcake and a blizzard to share between them.

"Shut your trap and enjoy it while it lasts," Dean mutters, chant-like, digging into the shortcake (his favorite) with a grin.

"What?" Sammy slurs from across the little table, his mouth overflowing with whipped cream.

"Nothing," Dean shakes his head. And since he's the responsible adult, he adds; "Save some room for dinner, alright?"

Sammy doesn't save room for dinner, and neither does he, so instead they sit around, polishing off the melty remains of their ice cream and making up stories about their fellow diners, waiting to get hungry again. Takes a while, but it comes and they get hot dogs and steak fingers and Dean has to work hard at shrugging off his dwindling funds, reminding himself that they're in a time of plenty, that they've got tons of food at the motel, that Dad'll be coming home tonight and that everything'll be fine. He's successful enough to let Sammy get a small cone for the walk home, but not enough to forget that he's down to $17.08.


Dean hasn't finished a book in ten years and hasn't enjoyed one in longer. Since that year with Lisa and Ben, he's read plenty of news, cut his teeth on hundreds of ancient texts, often in foreign languages, pored over a dozen manuals figuring out how to operate the bunker's various systems, perused the vintage cookbooks, illustrated with aproned, smiling women, hidden in the kitchen cabinets, skimmed a rag at dozens of gas stations in as many states, but never an actual book. He's tried. Over the years, he'd pick up a title in an effort to distract himself from the crisis of the day, but he wouldn't get far.

As a kid, he liked to read. It was a cheap, enjoyable way to entertain Sam, a good distraction while waiting up for Dad, and the perfect activity for passing the endless hours on the road. As a teenager, though, he mostly stopped reading, due to his mounting responsibilities and the availability of other, more pleasurable pursuits. But when Sam left, Dean resumed the habit. He often found himself alone, and crappy motel rooms tend to have crappy TV, so, when not in a bar, Dean would read. He wasn't picky; even took up the nightstand bible more than once. He'd pass a bookshop and grab one or two paperbacks from the clearance bin, barely looking at the titles. He'd drive by a yard sale and get a handful of books for a buck. Occasionally, he'd pop into a library and find something that looked interesting. Eventually, he figured out that he enjoyed modern classics and would keep an eye out for those, stashing a few favorites in his duffel.

It stopped when Sam got back. Things were weird, at first, and Dean wasn't about to make them weirder by whipping out a Bradbury with Sam ten feet away. And then… well, everything went to hell, including himself, and even if he wanted to read, he couldn't. Sometimes at Bobby's, he'd dig up a tattered novel when the insomnia got bad, but that too ended in a hellish inferno. In the later years, he found that his head was too much of a damn mess to read. Anytime he tried, he'd end up discarding the book ten pages in, edgier than when he began. Keeping his hands busy seemed the only way to calm down and so reading turned into a throwback to a time he had the luxury of missing someone who was actually alive, a litmus test for how screwed up he was. Dean failed that test time and again, for damn near a decade.

So it's with a degree of reluctance that he takes up Lonesome Dove on a beach in Mexico, wondering if this might be another one of those ships he's gotta let sail. Dean's not desperate to read, he's not Sam after all, but it'd be depressing if his ability to concentrate is kaput. Often, upon catching sight of himself in a mirror, he'd wonder what was left in his noggin, whether it was a big, jumbled mound of mush or if a hint of intelligence still remained. Guess he's about to find out… He glances at Sam and dives in, laughing inwardly; of all the things he's lost in life, this would rank maybe a 7 on a scale of 100. Here goes nothing:


"You gotta take a bath. It's been, like, five days. And you got really gross today."

"I hate baths."

"Fine, take a shower."

"I hate showers."

"Use a freaking hose, then, I don't care."

"I hate hoses."

"Of course you do."

Dad's never home for bedtime, except, sometimes, on weekends, so Dean's gotta run through this routine every night. It's exhausting. Especially after a full day in the pool. Sammy should be worn-out too but he's got more than enough energy left to fight. It's his own fault, he let him have waaaay too much sugar.

"I'm not taking a bath," Sammy repeats, following Dean into the bathroom when he heads in to brush his teeth. Dean ignores him and gets brushing. He feels Sammy's reproachful gaze behind him as he spits into the sink.

"Unless… Unless, maybe if you read," his conniving little brother finally amends. Dean checks the mirror to find Sammy furtively peaking at him.

"You know how to read by yourself now," he says, rinsing his face; normally, he'd relent, but tonight he's just so damn tired. They're working their way through Treasure Island, a recent yard-sale addition, and the thought of trudging through a chapter of that makes Dean ache for sleep. Sammy's tastes have gotten demanding over the past few months; wasn't too long ago, he'd be fine with any kiddie book they happened to encounter.

"What if it's just Green Eggs?" Sammy relents, sensing his mood. The kid can read him like a book, no pun intended. Dean considers the offer: It's not a bad deal. Used to be Sammy's favorite, and he often still requests it after they're done reading whatever else they got.

"But you can easily read that by yourself."

"Yeah, but… It's better when you read it," Sammy says quietly. Dean feels a not so tiny leap in his chest and knows he's gonna yield

"Alright, fine. Into the shower, quick."

"But you gotta…." Sammy follows him outta the bathroom, making no move to get his stuff. "You gotta read it for real, alright? You can't skip and just, just rush through it."

"I won't rush, I'll do the voices and everything," Dean promises, only half-dreading the dozen Sam-I-Ams ahead of him.. "But only if you're in the shower in one minute."

That gets Sammy moving; he grab his pajamas and makes a beeline for the bathroom.


It takes until Sam stirs for Dean to pause his reading. He's on page 43. After briefly congratulating himself for getting further into a book than he has in a decade, he moves on to the more pressing issue of Sam awakening to find him engaged in said book. Dean's inclined to stash it in a bag, but he resists. The times they are a'changin. If this is gonna be their new normal, he might as well embrace it, get it over with. They're too old and have lived through too much to be hiding hobbies from each other. Besides, he deserves whatever incoming he gets.

Sam rouses and yawns and finds him reading and doesn't say anything until Dean buckles and slaps his book down. "Alright, let's hear it."

"Let's hear what?" Sam manages with a poorly constructed straight face.

"Look who's literate after all… Surprised you know how to hold it right side up… Uh… Those little squiggles are called 'words'… No bifocals, old man?" Bit of a Freudian slip, that last one… Dean's not real interested in acknowledging the squinting.

"You said it, not me," Sam smiles, hands raised. "And when have I ever called you 'old man'? Is that… Do you want me to-"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Not, uh… Shut yer clam, you two-bit, lily-livered scoundrel?" Sam continues. Now he's going after his book choice… Not cool. This, from a guy who reads about serial killers in his spare time…

"I'll have you know, this is a bonafide classic." Dean picks up the book and shoves it in Sam's face. "Freaking Pulitzer winner. Hmmm?! Same can't be said for your little penny dreadful..."

"Thought you don't give a damn about awards and critics and the New York-"

"I don't, but I know you do."

"Fine, I give in. It's an excellent choice. You get to feed your wild west fetish while also claiming to read a high quality book."

"'Claiming'?!… You're the one who trusts the stiff-necks who hand out these awards, not me."

Sam shakes his head and laughs, glancing off, so Dean hands himself the win. "Finally gonna get in the water? It's not cold."

"Yeah, I think I will."

"Barbecue okay?"

"Hmm?" Sam's distracted, spraying himself all over with sunscreen, holding his breath against the fumes.

"Dinner."

"What.. Yeah, sure. Wait, did you ever use a charcoal grill?"

"No," Dean admits, picturing that beautiful, rustic, hunk of stone and metal. "Nor have I ever used a gas one. But I have always wanted to."

"Knock yourself out, Dean. I'm sure it'll be good."

Dean ignores the compliment, because what's he supposed to say to that, in favor of watching Sam apply his fancy-ass face lotion. His brother's got enough toiletries to rival any woman. Not that Dean's complaining, rather partial to a few of those items himself. Nice of Sammy to keep them in stock. He can still remember the day when it was a single can of spray-on deodorant between them, a bottle of three-in-one shampoo, and that god-awful 5-gallon bucket of detergent they seemed to lug around for years. Things have improved since then, but it might be time for a couple of upgrades on his part. He still uses a 2-in-1 shampoo.

By the time Sam gets his act together and gets swimming, it's nearly three. Dean sends Miracle after him and tries to return to his book, but finds himself distracted. Despite the absence of rip currents in these parts, he worries; it'd be a hell of a way to go, after everything… He moves further down the beach, settling in the sand and letting the water wash over his legs. When Sam wades out of the ocean, half an hour later, all hale and hearty and dripping and gigantic, Dean flings a towel at him and relaxes. He sits beside Dean, sprinkling him with water droplets, smiling slightly.

"You, uh… you remember that summer we had a pool?"


End.

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