New SPN story: Kokomo (Sam/Dean)
Happy belated, astolat! Your story is finally ready. *g*
Kokomo
Sam/Dean, adult/explicit, established relationship, 6,207 words
Takes place between 2x20 and 2x21; spoilers for 2x20.
Summary: Dean needs a vacation, a beer, and a hug from Sam. Whether he likes it or not.
Notes: This story has no angst. Or maybe it has subliminal wistful porny comfort angst. Hard to tell. Thanks to killabeez for being a wonderful friend and wise beta who knows when to save me from myself. Thanks also to sevenfists for her speedy opinion.
Kokomo
by Destina
Dean handed over the keys to Sam at the Atlanta city limits, with the Impala pointed toward Kingsville, Kentucky. They'd been to Kentucky four times in two years, and he never wanted to see it again, but it was easy to hide there, and inexpensive. Plus, there was a hunt waiting for them in Kingsville, one Sammy had found on the internet during those long, long hours of doing nothing in the motel.
What Dean really wanted was to sleep for a month - with short breaks for eating and beer - but no way was he telling Sam that, since Sam had surreptitiously been giving him worried looks from the moment he killed that djinn. Dean twitched under the attention; it made him feel like beating all that emo concern out of Sam with a rolled up newspaper. Trouble was, Dean was getting punchy, which meant he was close to spilling his guts even more than he already had, so he needed to take drastic measures: a nap.
"Could be to Kingsville by morning," he mumbled, gas station coffee balanced on his knee and the window rolled down far enough to smell the humid night air.
"Shut up and go to sleep," Sam said, sliding in behind the wheel. Dean cracked one eye open and looked at Sam, who appeared to be as perky as he had been when he'd rolled out of bed that morning before even the roosters were able to shake themselves awake.
"Don't fall asleep and wreck my car," Dean said, sitting up for emphasis, but the seat was so comfortable and the door was right...there. He mashed up his jacket and stuffed it under his head.
"Dean, seriously, shut up," Sam said again. He started the car and eased out on the road, casting a glance at Dean that was like the love child of a worried frown and tolerant amusement, and it made his face look all twisty in the flashing streetlights.
Dean snickered and closed his eyes.
That was his mistake.
When he opened them again, the car wasn't moving, and a seagull was doing loop-de-loops in the grey dawn over the top of the pinkly-lit Coral Beach Inn.
"Sam, you little shit," he said under his breath as he shoved the car door open. Right on cue, Sam came out of the door marked OFFICE with a bunch of brochures in his left hand and a donut in his right. Dean advanced on Sam until he was close enough to murder without attracting too much attention. "Sam! Where the fuck are we?"
"Florida," Sam said, looking way too smug for Dean's comfort. He handed the donut to Dean, who took it without thinking, and waggled the brochures in Dean's face. "We're on vacation."
"The hell we are," Dean hissed. "We just had a vacation. We've got work to do."
"That wasn't a vacation." Sam popped the trunk and started unloading bags. "That was you being weirdly involved in inappropriately normal work, while I actually did the hunting for a change. We're supposed to be hiding out, remember? Off the radar." He dropped the lid of the trunk and turned on his heel, headed for room 18. "This place is off the radar."
"This is not hiding out," Dean said, following helplessly, a trail of brochures slipping from his hands like glossy breadcrumbs. "This is..."
"Vacation," Sam said. He turned to Dean, eyes narrowed. "I got the room for a week. Suck it up."
Dean opened his mouth to protest, looked into Sam's eyes where all that earnest concern was lurking, and said, "Fine."
"Good," Sam said for emphasis. The little bastard never did realize when he'd actually won.
"Okay," Dean said, just to see Sam pull that 'you always have to have the last word' face.
The inside of the room was retro 60's, a throwback to green and pink beach décor, with a seashell comforter on the gigantic bed and starfish lamps on the end tables. Dean half-expected several girls in bikinis to pop out of the closet and start singing. The best part, though, was the deck, which attached to the room and dropped off right into a long expanse of white sandy beach.
Dean pushed open the sliding glass door and stood there a moment, breathing in the clammy salt air, his shirt stuck to his chest. Sam stepped out beside him, reached to the collar of his own shirt and slipped it over his head. "Some nice beach," he said.
"All beaches look alike," Dean muttered, "beaches smeaches." A string of additional B words unfurled in his mind: bikinis, beer, babes, bare-chested Sam.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
He turned on his heel and went back inside, headed straight for the TV and flipped it on. Turned out it got exactly six local channels, but all he needed was one.
Boots off, socks off, jeans off, shirt on; he burrowed down into the lumpy bed and fell asleep to the twined sounds of waves on the beach and a preacher offering salvation for whatever donation Dean could afford.
**
When he woke, it was still obnoxiously sunny outside despite his valiant attempt to sleep until it was gone, and the curtains were wide open. Even worse, Sam wasn't there. "Nice job of hiding out," Dean muttered, wiping some dried drool from his face. He swapped out the pillow he'd been sleeping on with a fresh one from Sam's side of the bed and struggled out of bed. Joints popped all over his body to remind him of how their payment was coming due as he got older.
He whisked the curtains closed, staying back from the window and away from the prying eyes of people on the beach - not as many as he'd expected, but enough to make going outside a risky proposition. So when Sam banged open the door with his arms loaded full of crap, Dean breathed a sigh of relief - until he saw what Sam had on: a yellow Hawaiian shirt, festering with brown and green palm trees.
"This is your idea of under the radar?" Dean said, taking bags and boxes from Sam. "A radioactive shirt?"
"Local color," Sam said, fishing around in one of the bags. "Don't knock it til you've tried it." The shirt he presented to Dean was electric blue and covered with simpering hula girls. It was so loud it left an afterimage on Dean's retinas.
"Perfect," he said. He tossed it on the bed. "What else did you bring me?"
"Bring you?" Sam said, eyebrows raised to the ceiling. "What am I, the hired help?"
"Like I'd pay you to do what is clearly your job." Dean ignored Sam's indignant huff and poked through the bags. "What the hell is this?" he said, yanking out a plastic package of salad greens.
"What does it look like?" Sam set a bottle of salad dressing down next to it, and Dean crinkled his nose.
"You said this was vacation!"
"Well, it's my vacation, too. And that means a vacation from candy for breakfast and grease for lunch."
"Salt for dinner?" Dean said hopefully, pulling out a couple bags of potato chips.
Sam rolled his eyes and started putting the food away in the kitchenette.
Dean tried to man up when he saw the chicken going into the tiny fridge; it just wasn't right, but Sam was entitled to the occasional lapse of healthy eating. It was the granola that made him turn away in disgust.
"I'm going to shower," he announced, and found himself stopped by a casual arm over his shoulder and Sam's nose in his hair.
"Use the good shampoo," Sam said, shoving a bottle in his hand. "I got some on sale."
Dean ducked his chin down and frowned at the bottle, then tilted his head up to squint at Sam, whose arms seemed to be encircling his shoulders in a suspicious way. "Dude, are you hugging me?"
Sam snorted and untangled from him. "Like I would," he said, which totally wasn't a denial. Dean's eyes narrowed.
The shampoo smelled like flowers. The bottle said 'summer rain', but clearly shampoo makers knew fuck-all about what rain smelled like in the summer, seeing as how they were probably holed up in their little factory making their little bottles. It did make his scalp tingle, though, and he stood under the hot water and let it rinse and rinse and rinse away, until his skin tingled too.
When he pulled on the Hawaiian shirt, his skin burned a little from the sheer blueness of it.
By the time he made it out of the bathroom, there were two cracked plates on the table, courtesy of Coral Beach Inn. A heap of chili fries was centered in each, and a beer stood beside the plate that was clearly meant for Dean.
The bag of chips sat propped up against the wall.
Dean grinned at Sam, who gave him the long-suffering expression and said, "Chicken tomorrow, all right?"
"Sure," Dean said, tucking into the chili fries with his hands.
"Jesus, Dean, a fork?" Sam said, tossing plastic-wrapped-plastic at him.
Dean batted it away and said, "Oh, yeah, 'cause we're using the good china tonight, honey." He broke off a piece of the cracked plate and waved it at Sam like a battle flag.
Sam winced and took a drink of his beer, eyeballing Dean over the bottle like manners actually mattered. Since forks were for people who had time to make leisurely dinners and buy silverware with flowers on them, and who never had to pick up and fucking leave in the middle of their meal with a cheeseburger in one hand and a packet of ketchup in their pocket - Dean wasn't all that worried about it.
By the time Sam finished picking at his fries, Dean had downed all his and broken out the chips for an after-dinner snack. It took a pile of napkins to remove the grease coating his face and hands, but he sat back with a satisfied sigh.
"Come on," Sam said.
Dean sighed. He was pleasantly full and a little buzzed, and he didn't want to go anywhere, but Sam was pushing open the sliding glass door again. "There are people," Dean said, lifting a heavy hand to point in the direction of the threat.
"Yeah, so?" Sam slid some shades on. "We won't go far." He turned so Dean couldn't see his smile, but he heard it anyway when Sam added, "Not like anybody will recognize you in that shirt."
Under protest, which came in the form of sighs and swagger, Dean joined Sam on the tiny deck. That wasn't enough for Sam, though; he stepped out on the beach and headed toward the ocean. He turned back to Dean and said, "Take off your boots."
"What?" Dean looked down at his feet, which were happily protected by several inches of leather and rubber. "Why?"
"You won't want to get them wet."
"Dude, I am so not going in the ocean."
Sam just stood there and looked at him, and Dean sighed.
Sand squished pleasantly between his toes, but the sticks and rocks and other debris on the beach had him hissing and cursing before they made it to the waterline. He realized with a start that the sun was setting before them, sky and water on fire with pink and red and orange, which meant they were on the opposite side of the state from where he'd thought they were. He was really off his game.
Water moved up the beach, wetting his toes, and receded back into the ocean. He lifted his feet out of the pit that had formed where he was standing and glanced at Sam, who was grinning at him. "What is your problem?" Dean asked.
"Nothing. Wait here." Sam jogged off down the beach, and Dean watched him go, watched his frizzed-up hair bobbing as he loped away. Water lapped at his feet again, and this time Dean wiggled his toes as the sand was sucked away from them. The colors over the horizon were broadening now, deeper hues. He jammed his hands in his pockets and forced himself not to stare at Sam, track his movements.
When the Frisbee hit him in the head, he jumped sideways and toppled over, since he had apparently become cemented into his spot by water and sinking sand. Sam loomed over him, then reached down to pick up the lime green disc he'd brained Dean with. "I paid some kid twenty bucks for this," Sam said. "The least you could do is get off your ass and help me use it."
"You've got some weird ideas of vacation," Dean said, as Sam gave him a hand up. He snatched the Frisbee out of Sam's hands, and they were running, creating distance between themselves as Dean slung the Frisbee his direction.
They played until the sun was down, until twilight gave way to dusk and then darkness, while the beach emptied out around them and the lights from the pier and the motel were their points of reference, until they could barely see the Frisbee or each other, still laughing and out of breath. Dean raised the Frisbee for one last throw just as six foot five of brother slammed into him, tackling him to the soft, scuffed-up sand.
"I guess we're done?" Dean said, grinning when Sam buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck.
Sam shifted, his arms still around Dean, and his tongue curled quick against Dean's skin. "You're salty," he said, the words a vibration through Dean's body. He arched against Sam, who tightened his arms. When he turned his head, Sam met him halfway, his lips salty when Dean kissed them, when he tugged them between his teeth and soothed them with tiny licks.
They pushed and shoved each other as they wrestled their way up from the ground, and with a last burst of fading energy, Dean broke away and sprinted for the deck. Sam was on his heels, panting the way he did at the end of a long run. Dean vaulted up onto the deck, Sam just a millisecond behind; momentum carried Dean against the wall and Sam against Dean, and Sam's hands came to rest on either side of Dean's body, pinning him there. He kissed the nape of Dean's neck, and when Dean bucked against him, he flattened Dean's body to the wall and bit him, very gently, where he'd just laid his kiss.
"Sam," he said, low, and Sam reached to push the door open, let Dean slip inside and followed him. Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook loose sand from it.
"Sand gets everywhere," Sam said, stripping off clothes at a record pace. "Don't want to get it in the bed."
"Right," Dean said, peeling off shirt and jeans as fast as he could, because he was perfectly happy to match up to Sam's agenda. Two minutes later they were in the shower, Dean crowding Sam up against the beige tile, Sam's hands on Dean's ass, cocks hard, and Dean's hips were moving against Sam's, slow presses that made Sam gasp into Dean's kisses. Sam tilted his head and deepened those kisses, not urgent but slow, the same rhythm as Dean's steady thrusts.
Sam picked up the complimentary soap and washed himself, lather and bar tiny in his big hand, while Dean leaned against the wall and watched. He stroked his cock slowly and let Sam put on a show, hands all over himself, places Dean was going to touch and bite and kiss as soon as Sam finished the Mr. Clean routine. Sam put his soapy hands on Dean, on his back, his chest, and then he forgot to move them when Dean pulled his head down for a rough kiss.
They toweled off in a rush and left the wet towels in a pile on the floor. Sam pulled the bedspread off with one hand and pushed Dean onto the bed with the other. Dean let out a noise of protest that mutated into a groan when Sam's mouth slid over his cock, slow suction with a twist of tongue at the head. "Aw, Sam, come on," he said, reaching for him, as if he had a better plan, but Sam pushed his hands away.
Sam lifted off for a second and said, "A whole week," and then licked the tender ridge below the head of Dean's cock.
"Yeah," Dean managed to agree, and Sam took him in again, slid a finger into his ass unexpectedly. Dean closed his eyes and came so hard he was shaking when it was over. Sam bit gently at his stomach and raised up to shoot all over Dean's freshly washed skin.
"Couldn't have done that in the shower, I guess," Dean muttered into Sam's filthy, talented mouth. Sam just smiled and smeared his come all over Dean's stomach. Dean wrinkled his nose and tugged free a corner of the sheet to undo all Sam's fingerpainting.
Sam kicked the covers and untucked the sheets and generally messed up the entire bed as if it had never been made in the first place before he burrowed down into it. Dean shoved Sam over until he had three-fourths of the bed to himself, ignoring Sam's protests. He flopped down just as Sam whisked the pillow out from under his head. "I'm not sleepin' on your drool, man," he said, throwing the drool-stained pillow on top of Dean's face.
"Whatever," Dean said, flipping the pillow and himself over at the same time so he was on his stomach. He'd slept on worse.
Sometime in the night, he woke with Sam's warmth pressed up against his back and one of Sam's arms curled over his stomach. He shifted around until Sam's head popped up off the pillow.
"Quit hugging," Dean said, in a barely audible drawl.
"'m not," Sam said. He looped his other arm around Dean and yanked him closer.
"Totally counts," Dean grumbled, and fell back asleep.
**
They hit the miniature boardwalk the next day, shades and shirts intact, and Dean felt invisible, or as close to it as he was ever likely to - one more garish tourist in a random sea of people. Dean looked for anything resembling a bar, but found nothing.
"Oh, there are none by the beach," the nice lady in the Information booth said, when Dean stopped to ask her. "Bars attract undesirable elements."
"Isn't that the point?" Dean asked.
"Could you be any more obnoxious?" Sam asked, brandishing his cotton candy at Dean's head.
"Could I be any more thirsty?"
Sam bought him a Coke, and Dean spiked it with whiskey from his flask. Sam's handwave was like music to Dean's eyes. He sipped contentedly as they went from shop to shop, browsing knick knacks and souvenirs.
It's not like Dean could just disconnect, so he chatted up all the clerks. "See anything weird around here?" he asked the girl in the sunglasses store.
"Just that shirt," she replied, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"It was a gift," he said. He picked at a stand full of aqua paperweights while she snickered.
Inside the novelty glass store, Dean was fully absorbed in the clerk's animated description of a phantom surfer when Sam came up and put a one-inch green glass frog on the counter. "What the hell is that for?" Dean asked.
"I'm going to kiss it until it turns into a prince." Sam slid his shades down and looked at Dean over the top of them. "Unless you can think of a better candidate."
The clerk blushed a fiery shade of crimson and juggled the frog into a bag while Dean lounged against the counter and stared at Sam. "Keep it up," he said to Sam, plucking idly at his shirt. "Just keeeep it up."
From the guy in the surf shop, he wrangled a story about a man in grey who walked the beach before storms. Dean held up a hand and said, "Stop me if you've heard this one before," and proceeded to tell the story as it was originally: a grey man warning of disaster on the beaches of Pawleys Island. He had a story within a story to tell about that ghost, but Sam was holding up two pairs of surf shorts like he was actually interested in them - one lime green, one emergency orange - and Dean had to stage an intervention.
He heard stories about phantom boats, phantom lighthouses, phantom everything, until finally at the popcorn stand, Sam said, "Would you please stop trying to round up a case? Can't we just have a week off?"
"Oh, you're singing a different tune than you were during our last vacation, aren't you?"
Sam sighed and scarfed up a handful of popcorn. "That was different. It sort of...presented itself. I didn't go looking for it."
"Whatever, Sammy." Dean plunged his hand into the popcorn box, competing with Sam for the spoils. Their fingers tangled briefly, sliding against each other in the buttery mess, and Dean snatched his fingers out to lick them clean. Sam paused in the middle of lifting another handful of popcorn to his mouth and stared. Dean smirked. "Butter makes everything better," he said. Sam choked and walked away from him down the boardwalk.
They had dinner at a surf and turf place just off the beach and far enough out of town to be able to get some booze. Sam ordered steak; Dean had everything fried or seared he could find, from calamari to scallops, and ate it all in such a way that Sam's half-nibbled steak reflected his total lack of attention to his food.
"You going to eat that?" Dean said, pointing at the steak.
Sam threw his napkin on the table. "I'm getting a box," he said, "and then we are leaving."
Dean sat back in his chair and licked his lips.
Sam drove them back, since Dean was full of cheap rum and beer and they couldn't risk some random cop pulling them over. Dean watched the lights of the tiny pier draw closer, green and blue twinkling in water below, and wondered what it'd be like to live here, to get up every day to blue sky and go to bed with the moon shining like silver in the water.
There had been a few places over the years, a few pleas to Dad to stay put - places that would have been perfect, if they weren't Winchesters. We don't stay put, Dad told him. That's not what we do. The memory of his father's gruff voice made the daydream turn sour and pulled the words from his lips before he was dumb enough to say them. They rattled around in his head, thwarted.
Let's stay here, Sam. It's not so bad.
Perfect places were overrated anyway.
Sam parked in front of the room and got out in a hurry, waiting for Dean. Dean took his sweet time sliding out and cracking his neck, and Sam came around the front of the car to lean against it. "You 'bout finished?" he said, a small smile on his face.
Dean opened his mouth to make a smart remark, but Sam reached out, grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt, and pulled him toward the door. He stopped once on the way to yank Dean forward and press their mouths together, warm rum-flavored kisses that made Dean run his hands up through Sam's mess of hair.
They broke apart, and Sam pulled Dean again, fumbled with the key until he had the door open.
Dean made quick work of his clothes, and then Sam's, pushing Sam's hands aside long enough to strip him down. "Tell me, Sam," he said, fingers circling Sam's hard cock. "What you want."
Sam's fingers ghosted across Dean's mouth, then slipped inside, sliding wet across Dean's flicking tongue. He bit down gently.
"Fuuuck," Sam moaned, and Dean maneuvered him back until he had Sam sprawled out on the bed, head on the pillow.
Sam's body had changed slowly over the last year, or at least since Dean had started cataloging the differences up close. More muscle to flex beneath his hands, impatient strength held in check because Sam wanted it that way, wanted Dean's touch on him. More faint white scars from minor wounds delivered on basic hunts - the kind of stories Sam could exaggerate if he were more like Dean. Deeper pink scars, still healing, from the scary things, the stories neither of them wanted to tell or remember.
The Sam he'd known in that evil dream was probably perfect all over, soft; the price of happiness, maybe.
He pushed Sam's thighs apart and settled between them, hands on Sam's hips; he met Sam's eyes when he closed his lips around the head of his cock, watched Sam watching him, an endless loop of need. He licked down the shaft, slow, teasing licks, concentrating on the soft sounds Sam made, the low broken way he said Dean's name every time Dean lifted off. He wrapped his lips around the head, then took Sam in, lips sliding down the length of him, back up, perfect friction, slow and even.
A hint of teeth at the base; Sam's legs splayed open even farther and he bucked up into Dean's mouth, and Dean moved faster, made his lips tight around Sam's cock and let Sam drive a while, fucking into his mouth as hard and fast as he wanted. "Yeah, aw, Dean," Sam said, and then no more words, just the sounds telling Dean Sam was close.
Dean took control again, pressing Sam down into the bed so he could use his tongue and the hard motion of his hand to make Sam come. Sam thrashed against his restraint, one hand gripping the headboard, the fingers of the other touching Dean's face. He seemed not to notice when Dean let him go.
Dean fucked Sam later, or maybe Sam fucked him, riding him slow and easy at first with Dean's hips snapping up to meet him, but it didn't last long. Sam rolled his hips the way Dean loved, twisting and shoving down on Dean's cock until Dean couldn't hold back anymore, a battle of control already lost.
They slept tangled up in the humid heat, Sam's fingers curled gently around the back of Dean's neck.
**
Three days in, Dean had had enough actual sightseeing and had graduated to armchair tourist. He and Sam set up green and white lawn chairs - only a few slats missing; he was fairly confident they wouldn't fall through and break their asses - on the deck and put two buckets of ice between them, stuffed full of beers. Sam pulled a book out of nowhere and put his feet up on the deck railing, book open in his lap. Dean looked at him and had a flashback to Sam in high school, pissy when anyone bothered him in the middle of his homework.
For old time's sake, Dean reached over and flipped the book closed.
Sam sat up and flicked ice at him. "Just for that, you can get your own beer refills."
"Now there's a punishment," Dean said. "Go inside, where there's air conditioning and TV and beer? Yeah, horrifying."
"Shut up," Sam said, the last resort of the truly quip-impaired. He opened his book and paged through it, head tilted toward Dean like he was just waiting for the follow-up attack.
Dean, however, was busy watching the passers-by and wolf-whistling at the ones in bikinis.
He could have stayed busy that way all day, were it not for the miniature architect who hauled her bucket and shovel over to the patch of beach directly in front of the deck and decamped there.
"Laura, stay where I can see you," her mother called from the deck of the room next door. When Sam and Dean turned heads in unison to look at her, she smiled, and they waved. Dean didn't think she was the type who watched America's Most Wanted, but it was hard to tell.
Laura occupied herself with digging holes for about twenty minutes, and then she started mounding up sand like gigantic anthills. Dean snickered, and her head whipped around like a woman three times her age who'd had practice. Yep. She already had the look down pat. She scowled down at the sand and dug furiously, spraying grains up every time she stabbed at the ground.
"Um. What're you doing?" Dean said.
"Building a sand castle," she said.
"Need some help with that?" he asked, but her scowl only got deeper.
"What do you know about sand castles?"
Sam snickered. Dean ignored him. He set down his beer and hopped down off the deck, hot sand against his bare feet. "I know a lot," he told her. "For one thing, castles have to look like castles."
"You're stifling her creativity," Sam called. Dean raised his hand to flip Sam off and caught himself just in time.
"Hey, Mom," he said, casting his most charming smile in the direction of the next-door deck, "you mind if I help with the building?"
"Be my guest," she called, flashing him another smile. She was hot - pink halter top, denim shorts, perky little -
Sam slammed his book shut.
Dean scratched the back of his head and glanced up at Sam, who was twisting open another beer. "Okay," he said to Laura, whose tunneling toward China had given way to sifting sand into her pail. "Here's the plan. You're the boss. You tell me how a castle should look, and I'll help you make it look that way. Deal?"
"Deal," she said, smacking her tiny palm against his.
They moved down the beach a ways, to where Dean could get water without running back and forth. Then he dug down for her to a nice patch of dark moist sand and showed her how to make little pancake bricks and sandballs to build her base. By the time they finished, Laura was giggling and they were best friends, and Dean had used her shovel to carve a pretty awesome tower where a princess was hiding until her prince came to rescue her from the big scary monster with the blue eyes and the lightning in his hand.
Once, Dean looked up to see Sam watching him, book open in his lap, forgotten. Their eyes met, and Dean shrugged, grinning.
Laura's hot mom took a bunch of pictures of her castle, and Laura hugged Dean's knee, and then hot mom hugged Dean, and everybody was happy. Dean went back to the deck and took the beer Sam handed him. He sat on the deck steps and looked out at the sunset. "I've got sand in my pants, man," he said, taking a long swig of the lukewarm beer.
"So where did you learn to build a sand castle?" Sam said softly.
Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam. "Who showed you how to build a mud fortress, huh?" Another swig of beer. "Wasn't Dad, that's for sure."
"No," Sam said. "It wasn't." He got up from his chair and sat down behind Dean on the top stair, his legs on either side of Dean's body, and leaned back so they weren't touching anywhere but their legs. He squeezed his legs until their knees banged together, and then let go.
**
The last day of their week off, Dean stole Sam's book and lay down on a towel in the sand, where he read it cover to cover with only two naps in between. He dreamed wild sun-soaked dreams of bright painted boats and weird 3-D trees.
"All I've done is sleep," Dean said later, after some lunch and some TV and a blowjob that had caused his eyes to roll back in his head while Sam sat there and looked pleased with himself. He rolled over on the bed and watched Sam fold their undershirts and briefs, which looked remarkably white and fresh and did not have even the smallest whiff of leftover old gym sock.
"Wasn't that the point?" Sam threw a flurry of socks at Dean's face.
Dean sighed and sat up to roll them into packable balls. "I don't know what the point was," he said. "It was your idea."
"And a damned awesome idea it was, too," Sam said. He carefully folded up his Hawaiian shirt, and Dean's, and set them aside to stuff into packs in the morning.
Dean fell asleep right there in the middle of the conversation. He woke up briefly for chicken and salad, ate them without complaint, bestowed an open-mouthed kiss on Sam when Sam gave him a bag of Hershey's Miniatures for dessert, and crawled into bed to eat them.
He might have cracked an eye open when Sam brushed the foil detritus off the bed, but maybe he dreamed that.
When Sam clicked off the lights and snuggled up behind him, Dean woke and sighed like it was some big hardship, only to have Sam smack his ass. "Too tired for that," Dean said, snickering.
Sam the Octopus wrapped an arm around him, but didn't do anything more. Dean was starting to get used to it, this arm-wrapping thing. They'd go back to two beds when they hit the road. It was easier that way. A little distance. Business as usual.
He knew what was coming before Sam even opened his mouth, because Sam's arms tightened and his body tensed, and Dean knew those signals, could read them even if they weren't touching. "Dean."
If he answered, he'd be agreeing to this conversation he didn't want to have, the one he'd been avoiding since he first blurted out the details of his wish, what the djinn had shown him, what Sam was like, and he'd almost been able to forget. No point in bringing it back to this reality.
"Dean," Sam said again. He nuzzled Dean's neck, warm face against Dean's skin.
"Can't we just -" Dean began, and then he sighed, because there wasn't any point. "What."
Sam asked his question softly, muffled into Dean's hair. "What was I like in that wish-world?"
"You were a punk," Dean said. "A well-educated punk, who hated me."
"I would never hate you," Sam said.
"Whose fantasy was this, yours or mine?"
"Your fantasy is for me to hate you?"
"What? No!" Dean tried to twist around in the bed, but Sam held him still. Dean fidgeted until Sam laid his palm flat against Dean's chest, and then he quieted. Maybe it was easier if they didn't have to look at each other. "What I mean is, I was there. I should know."
"I didn't hate you."
"Whatever. You just didn't like me. Or trust me."
Sam's nose was cold against Dean's shoulder. "Whatever you saw there, it's a reflection of how you see me here."
"Oh, you mean how your taste in clothes is a little on the girly side?"
"What?"
"Seriously, Sam. Girly blue. Come on."
"Dean!"
Dean pushed his face into the pillow and said, "Not gonna dissect this for you, Sam."
"Well, whatever you saw in yourself, it's a reflection of how you feel about yourself now. Or think you would be. Or something."
"Or something." Dean prayed Sam would catch his sleeping sickness and conk out.
Sam was quiet long enough that Dean thought maybe he'd get his wish, and then Sam spoke, lips against Dean's shoulderblade. "I trust you," he said. "You aren't that guy."
"I kind of am."
"No, you're not." Sam slid closer, pulled Dean in tighter. "I'm not that guy, either."
"Except for your taste in clothes."
Sam snorted, a huff of air that raised the hair on the back of Dean's neck, but he didn't answer.
Later, when Dean woke to find Sam's head on his stomach, and his hand in Sam's hair, the whisper of Sam's even breaths over his belly lulled him back to sleep.
**
Bags packed, leftovers thrown away, cheap shades in place: time to go. Dean put everything in the trunk and thought about the weapons array beneath the packs. He hadn't cleaned them once since they'd been there. Vacationitis. He'd have to get back with the program now.
Sam came up behind him and enveloped him in a huge hug, lifting him off the ground before he dropped him again.
"Dude, what the hell?" Dean said, batting at Sam's arms.
"I'm on vacation from your expectations," Sam said, red Twizzler dangling from his lips. He slammed the lid of the trunk shut.
"Vacation over now?" Dean said as he shoved Sam away.
"Yeah," Sam said. He looked almost wistful as he opened the passenger door and ducked down to climb in.
Dean took a deep breath and saved up a lungful of salt air and sunshine. Hard to tell when he might get another vacation. Sometimes a memory was as good as the real thing.
end
May 2007
PS - For anyone who might want to be earwormed by the Beach Boys song from whence I stole the title - it's here. It's .wma format. Hopefully it will play for people? Such things confuse me.
Kokomo
Sam/Dean, adult/explicit, established relationship, 6,207 words
Takes place between 2x20 and 2x21; spoilers for 2x20.
Summary: Dean needs a vacation, a beer, and a hug from Sam. Whether he likes it or not.
Notes: This story has no angst. Or maybe it has subliminal wistful porny comfort angst. Hard to tell. Thanks to killabeez for being a wonderful friend and wise beta who knows when to save me from myself. Thanks also to sevenfists for her speedy opinion.
Kokomo
by Destina
Dean handed over the keys to Sam at the Atlanta city limits, with the Impala pointed toward Kingsville, Kentucky. They'd been to Kentucky four times in two years, and he never wanted to see it again, but it was easy to hide there, and inexpensive. Plus, there was a hunt waiting for them in Kingsville, one Sammy had found on the internet during those long, long hours of doing nothing in the motel.
What Dean really wanted was to sleep for a month - with short breaks for eating and beer - but no way was he telling Sam that, since Sam had surreptitiously been giving him worried looks from the moment he killed that djinn. Dean twitched under the attention; it made him feel like beating all that emo concern out of Sam with a rolled up newspaper. Trouble was, Dean was getting punchy, which meant he was close to spilling his guts even more than he already had, so he needed to take drastic measures: a nap.
"Could be to Kingsville by morning," he mumbled, gas station coffee balanced on his knee and the window rolled down far enough to smell the humid night air.
"Shut up and go to sleep," Sam said, sliding in behind the wheel. Dean cracked one eye open and looked at Sam, who appeared to be as perky as he had been when he'd rolled out of bed that morning before even the roosters were able to shake themselves awake.
"Don't fall asleep and wreck my car," Dean said, sitting up for emphasis, but the seat was so comfortable and the door was right...there. He mashed up his jacket and stuffed it under his head.
"Dean, seriously, shut up," Sam said again. He started the car and eased out on the road, casting a glance at Dean that was like the love child of a worried frown and tolerant amusement, and it made his face look all twisty in the flashing streetlights.
Dean snickered and closed his eyes.
That was his mistake.
When he opened them again, the car wasn't moving, and a seagull was doing loop-de-loops in the grey dawn over the top of the pinkly-lit Coral Beach Inn.
"Sam, you little shit," he said under his breath as he shoved the car door open. Right on cue, Sam came out of the door marked OFFICE with a bunch of brochures in his left hand and a donut in his right. Dean advanced on Sam until he was close enough to murder without attracting too much attention. "Sam! Where the fuck are we?"
"Florida," Sam said, looking way too smug for Dean's comfort. He handed the donut to Dean, who took it without thinking, and waggled the brochures in Dean's face. "We're on vacation."
"The hell we are," Dean hissed. "We just had a vacation. We've got work to do."
"That wasn't a vacation." Sam popped the trunk and started unloading bags. "That was you being weirdly involved in inappropriately normal work, while I actually did the hunting for a change. We're supposed to be hiding out, remember? Off the radar." He dropped the lid of the trunk and turned on his heel, headed for room 18. "This place is off the radar."
"This is not hiding out," Dean said, following helplessly, a trail of brochures slipping from his hands like glossy breadcrumbs. "This is..."
"Vacation," Sam said. He turned to Dean, eyes narrowed. "I got the room for a week. Suck it up."
Dean opened his mouth to protest, looked into Sam's eyes where all that earnest concern was lurking, and said, "Fine."
"Good," Sam said for emphasis. The little bastard never did realize when he'd actually won.
"Okay," Dean said, just to see Sam pull that 'you always have to have the last word' face.
The inside of the room was retro 60's, a throwback to green and pink beach décor, with a seashell comforter on the gigantic bed and starfish lamps on the end tables. Dean half-expected several girls in bikinis to pop out of the closet and start singing. The best part, though, was the deck, which attached to the room and dropped off right into a long expanse of white sandy beach.
Dean pushed open the sliding glass door and stood there a moment, breathing in the clammy salt air, his shirt stuck to his chest. Sam stepped out beside him, reached to the collar of his own shirt and slipped it over his head. "Some nice beach," he said.
"All beaches look alike," Dean muttered, "beaches smeaches." A string of additional B words unfurled in his mind: bikinis, beer, babes, bare-chested Sam.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
He turned on his heel and went back inside, headed straight for the TV and flipped it on. Turned out it got exactly six local channels, but all he needed was one.
Boots off, socks off, jeans off, shirt on; he burrowed down into the lumpy bed and fell asleep to the twined sounds of waves on the beach and a preacher offering salvation for whatever donation Dean could afford.
**
When he woke, it was still obnoxiously sunny outside despite his valiant attempt to sleep until it was gone, and the curtains were wide open. Even worse, Sam wasn't there. "Nice job of hiding out," Dean muttered, wiping some dried drool from his face. He swapped out the pillow he'd been sleeping on with a fresh one from Sam's side of the bed and struggled out of bed. Joints popped all over his body to remind him of how their payment was coming due as he got older.
He whisked the curtains closed, staying back from the window and away from the prying eyes of people on the beach - not as many as he'd expected, but enough to make going outside a risky proposition. So when Sam banged open the door with his arms loaded full of crap, Dean breathed a sigh of relief - until he saw what Sam had on: a yellow Hawaiian shirt, festering with brown and green palm trees.
"This is your idea of under the radar?" Dean said, taking bags and boxes from Sam. "A radioactive shirt?"
"Local color," Sam said, fishing around in one of the bags. "Don't knock it til you've tried it." The shirt he presented to Dean was electric blue and covered with simpering hula girls. It was so loud it left an afterimage on Dean's retinas.
"Perfect," he said. He tossed it on the bed. "What else did you bring me?"
"Bring you?" Sam said, eyebrows raised to the ceiling. "What am I, the hired help?"
"Like I'd pay you to do what is clearly your job." Dean ignored Sam's indignant huff and poked through the bags. "What the hell is this?" he said, yanking out a plastic package of salad greens.
"What does it look like?" Sam set a bottle of salad dressing down next to it, and Dean crinkled his nose.
"You said this was vacation!"
"Well, it's my vacation, too. And that means a vacation from candy for breakfast and grease for lunch."
"Salt for dinner?" Dean said hopefully, pulling out a couple bags of potato chips.
Sam rolled his eyes and started putting the food away in the kitchenette.
Dean tried to man up when he saw the chicken going into the tiny fridge; it just wasn't right, but Sam was entitled to the occasional lapse of healthy eating. It was the granola that made him turn away in disgust.
"I'm going to shower," he announced, and found himself stopped by a casual arm over his shoulder and Sam's nose in his hair.
"Use the good shampoo," Sam said, shoving a bottle in his hand. "I got some on sale."
Dean ducked his chin down and frowned at the bottle, then tilted his head up to squint at Sam, whose arms seemed to be encircling his shoulders in a suspicious way. "Dude, are you hugging me?"
Sam snorted and untangled from him. "Like I would," he said, which totally wasn't a denial. Dean's eyes narrowed.
The shampoo smelled like flowers. The bottle said 'summer rain', but clearly shampoo makers knew fuck-all about what rain smelled like in the summer, seeing as how they were probably holed up in their little factory making their little bottles. It did make his scalp tingle, though, and he stood under the hot water and let it rinse and rinse and rinse away, until his skin tingled too.
When he pulled on the Hawaiian shirt, his skin burned a little from the sheer blueness of it.
By the time he made it out of the bathroom, there were two cracked plates on the table, courtesy of Coral Beach Inn. A heap of chili fries was centered in each, and a beer stood beside the plate that was clearly meant for Dean.
The bag of chips sat propped up against the wall.
Dean grinned at Sam, who gave him the long-suffering expression and said, "Chicken tomorrow, all right?"
"Sure," Dean said, tucking into the chili fries with his hands.
"Jesus, Dean, a fork?" Sam said, tossing plastic-wrapped-plastic at him.
Dean batted it away and said, "Oh, yeah, 'cause we're using the good china tonight, honey." He broke off a piece of the cracked plate and waved it at Sam like a battle flag.
Sam winced and took a drink of his beer, eyeballing Dean over the bottle like manners actually mattered. Since forks were for people who had time to make leisurely dinners and buy silverware with flowers on them, and who never had to pick up and fucking leave in the middle of their meal with a cheeseburger in one hand and a packet of ketchup in their pocket - Dean wasn't all that worried about it.
By the time Sam finished picking at his fries, Dean had downed all his and broken out the chips for an after-dinner snack. It took a pile of napkins to remove the grease coating his face and hands, but he sat back with a satisfied sigh.
"Come on," Sam said.
Dean sighed. He was pleasantly full and a little buzzed, and he didn't want to go anywhere, but Sam was pushing open the sliding glass door again. "There are people," Dean said, lifting a heavy hand to point in the direction of the threat.
"Yeah, so?" Sam slid some shades on. "We won't go far." He turned so Dean couldn't see his smile, but he heard it anyway when Sam added, "Not like anybody will recognize you in that shirt."
Under protest, which came in the form of sighs and swagger, Dean joined Sam on the tiny deck. That wasn't enough for Sam, though; he stepped out on the beach and headed toward the ocean. He turned back to Dean and said, "Take off your boots."
"What?" Dean looked down at his feet, which were happily protected by several inches of leather and rubber. "Why?"
"You won't want to get them wet."
"Dude, I am so not going in the ocean."
Sam just stood there and looked at him, and Dean sighed.
Sand squished pleasantly between his toes, but the sticks and rocks and other debris on the beach had him hissing and cursing before they made it to the waterline. He realized with a start that the sun was setting before them, sky and water on fire with pink and red and orange, which meant they were on the opposite side of the state from where he'd thought they were. He was really off his game.
Water moved up the beach, wetting his toes, and receded back into the ocean. He lifted his feet out of the pit that had formed where he was standing and glanced at Sam, who was grinning at him. "What is your problem?" Dean asked.
"Nothing. Wait here." Sam jogged off down the beach, and Dean watched him go, watched his frizzed-up hair bobbing as he loped away. Water lapped at his feet again, and this time Dean wiggled his toes as the sand was sucked away from them. The colors over the horizon were broadening now, deeper hues. He jammed his hands in his pockets and forced himself not to stare at Sam, track his movements.
When the Frisbee hit him in the head, he jumped sideways and toppled over, since he had apparently become cemented into his spot by water and sinking sand. Sam loomed over him, then reached down to pick up the lime green disc he'd brained Dean with. "I paid some kid twenty bucks for this," Sam said. "The least you could do is get off your ass and help me use it."
"You've got some weird ideas of vacation," Dean said, as Sam gave him a hand up. He snatched the Frisbee out of Sam's hands, and they were running, creating distance between themselves as Dean slung the Frisbee his direction.
They played until the sun was down, until twilight gave way to dusk and then darkness, while the beach emptied out around them and the lights from the pier and the motel were their points of reference, until they could barely see the Frisbee or each other, still laughing and out of breath. Dean raised the Frisbee for one last throw just as six foot five of brother slammed into him, tackling him to the soft, scuffed-up sand.
"I guess we're done?" Dean said, grinning when Sam buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck.
Sam shifted, his arms still around Dean, and his tongue curled quick against Dean's skin. "You're salty," he said, the words a vibration through Dean's body. He arched against Sam, who tightened his arms. When he turned his head, Sam met him halfway, his lips salty when Dean kissed them, when he tugged them between his teeth and soothed them with tiny licks.
They pushed and shoved each other as they wrestled their way up from the ground, and with a last burst of fading energy, Dean broke away and sprinted for the deck. Sam was on his heels, panting the way he did at the end of a long run. Dean vaulted up onto the deck, Sam just a millisecond behind; momentum carried Dean against the wall and Sam against Dean, and Sam's hands came to rest on either side of Dean's body, pinning him there. He kissed the nape of Dean's neck, and when Dean bucked against him, he flattened Dean's body to the wall and bit him, very gently, where he'd just laid his kiss.
"Sam," he said, low, and Sam reached to push the door open, let Dean slip inside and followed him. Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook loose sand from it.
"Sand gets everywhere," Sam said, stripping off clothes at a record pace. "Don't want to get it in the bed."
"Right," Dean said, peeling off shirt and jeans as fast as he could, because he was perfectly happy to match up to Sam's agenda. Two minutes later they were in the shower, Dean crowding Sam up against the beige tile, Sam's hands on Dean's ass, cocks hard, and Dean's hips were moving against Sam's, slow presses that made Sam gasp into Dean's kisses. Sam tilted his head and deepened those kisses, not urgent but slow, the same rhythm as Dean's steady thrusts.
Sam picked up the complimentary soap and washed himself, lather and bar tiny in his big hand, while Dean leaned against the wall and watched. He stroked his cock slowly and let Sam put on a show, hands all over himself, places Dean was going to touch and bite and kiss as soon as Sam finished the Mr. Clean routine. Sam put his soapy hands on Dean, on his back, his chest, and then he forgot to move them when Dean pulled his head down for a rough kiss.
They toweled off in a rush and left the wet towels in a pile on the floor. Sam pulled the bedspread off with one hand and pushed Dean onto the bed with the other. Dean let out a noise of protest that mutated into a groan when Sam's mouth slid over his cock, slow suction with a twist of tongue at the head. "Aw, Sam, come on," he said, reaching for him, as if he had a better plan, but Sam pushed his hands away.
Sam lifted off for a second and said, "A whole week," and then licked the tender ridge below the head of Dean's cock.
"Yeah," Dean managed to agree, and Sam took him in again, slid a finger into his ass unexpectedly. Dean closed his eyes and came so hard he was shaking when it was over. Sam bit gently at his stomach and raised up to shoot all over Dean's freshly washed skin.
"Couldn't have done that in the shower, I guess," Dean muttered into Sam's filthy, talented mouth. Sam just smiled and smeared his come all over Dean's stomach. Dean wrinkled his nose and tugged free a corner of the sheet to undo all Sam's fingerpainting.
Sam kicked the covers and untucked the sheets and generally messed up the entire bed as if it had never been made in the first place before he burrowed down into it. Dean shoved Sam over until he had three-fourths of the bed to himself, ignoring Sam's protests. He flopped down just as Sam whisked the pillow out from under his head. "I'm not sleepin' on your drool, man," he said, throwing the drool-stained pillow on top of Dean's face.
"Whatever," Dean said, flipping the pillow and himself over at the same time so he was on his stomach. He'd slept on worse.
Sometime in the night, he woke with Sam's warmth pressed up against his back and one of Sam's arms curled over his stomach. He shifted around until Sam's head popped up off the pillow.
"Quit hugging," Dean said, in a barely audible drawl.
"'m not," Sam said. He looped his other arm around Dean and yanked him closer.
"Totally counts," Dean grumbled, and fell back asleep.
**
They hit the miniature boardwalk the next day, shades and shirts intact, and Dean felt invisible, or as close to it as he was ever likely to - one more garish tourist in a random sea of people. Dean looked for anything resembling a bar, but found nothing.
"Oh, there are none by the beach," the nice lady in the Information booth said, when Dean stopped to ask her. "Bars attract undesirable elements."
"Isn't that the point?" Dean asked.
"Could you be any more obnoxious?" Sam asked, brandishing his cotton candy at Dean's head.
"Could I be any more thirsty?"
Sam bought him a Coke, and Dean spiked it with whiskey from his flask. Sam's handwave was like music to Dean's eyes. He sipped contentedly as they went from shop to shop, browsing knick knacks and souvenirs.
It's not like Dean could just disconnect, so he chatted up all the clerks. "See anything weird around here?" he asked the girl in the sunglasses store.
"Just that shirt," she replied, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"It was a gift," he said. He picked at a stand full of aqua paperweights while she snickered.
Inside the novelty glass store, Dean was fully absorbed in the clerk's animated description of a phantom surfer when Sam came up and put a one-inch green glass frog on the counter. "What the hell is that for?" Dean asked.
"I'm going to kiss it until it turns into a prince." Sam slid his shades down and looked at Dean over the top of them. "Unless you can think of a better candidate."
The clerk blushed a fiery shade of crimson and juggled the frog into a bag while Dean lounged against the counter and stared at Sam. "Keep it up," he said to Sam, plucking idly at his shirt. "Just keeeep it up."
From the guy in the surf shop, he wrangled a story about a man in grey who walked the beach before storms. Dean held up a hand and said, "Stop me if you've heard this one before," and proceeded to tell the story as it was originally: a grey man warning of disaster on the beaches of Pawleys Island. He had a story within a story to tell about that ghost, but Sam was holding up two pairs of surf shorts like he was actually interested in them - one lime green, one emergency orange - and Dean had to stage an intervention.
He heard stories about phantom boats, phantom lighthouses, phantom everything, until finally at the popcorn stand, Sam said, "Would you please stop trying to round up a case? Can't we just have a week off?"
"Oh, you're singing a different tune than you were during our last vacation, aren't you?"
Sam sighed and scarfed up a handful of popcorn. "That was different. It sort of...presented itself. I didn't go looking for it."
"Whatever, Sammy." Dean plunged his hand into the popcorn box, competing with Sam for the spoils. Their fingers tangled briefly, sliding against each other in the buttery mess, and Dean snatched his fingers out to lick them clean. Sam paused in the middle of lifting another handful of popcorn to his mouth and stared. Dean smirked. "Butter makes everything better," he said. Sam choked and walked away from him down the boardwalk.
They had dinner at a surf and turf place just off the beach and far enough out of town to be able to get some booze. Sam ordered steak; Dean had everything fried or seared he could find, from calamari to scallops, and ate it all in such a way that Sam's half-nibbled steak reflected his total lack of attention to his food.
"You going to eat that?" Dean said, pointing at the steak.
Sam threw his napkin on the table. "I'm getting a box," he said, "and then we are leaving."
Dean sat back in his chair and licked his lips.
Sam drove them back, since Dean was full of cheap rum and beer and they couldn't risk some random cop pulling them over. Dean watched the lights of the tiny pier draw closer, green and blue twinkling in water below, and wondered what it'd be like to live here, to get up every day to blue sky and go to bed with the moon shining like silver in the water.
There had been a few places over the years, a few pleas to Dad to stay put - places that would have been perfect, if they weren't Winchesters. We don't stay put, Dad told him. That's not what we do. The memory of his father's gruff voice made the daydream turn sour and pulled the words from his lips before he was dumb enough to say them. They rattled around in his head, thwarted.
Let's stay here, Sam. It's not so bad.
Perfect places were overrated anyway.
Sam parked in front of the room and got out in a hurry, waiting for Dean. Dean took his sweet time sliding out and cracking his neck, and Sam came around the front of the car to lean against it. "You 'bout finished?" he said, a small smile on his face.
Dean opened his mouth to make a smart remark, but Sam reached out, grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt, and pulled him toward the door. He stopped once on the way to yank Dean forward and press their mouths together, warm rum-flavored kisses that made Dean run his hands up through Sam's mess of hair.
They broke apart, and Sam pulled Dean again, fumbled with the key until he had the door open.
Dean made quick work of his clothes, and then Sam's, pushing Sam's hands aside long enough to strip him down. "Tell me, Sam," he said, fingers circling Sam's hard cock. "What you want."
Sam's fingers ghosted across Dean's mouth, then slipped inside, sliding wet across Dean's flicking tongue. He bit down gently.
"Fuuuck," Sam moaned, and Dean maneuvered him back until he had Sam sprawled out on the bed, head on the pillow.
Sam's body had changed slowly over the last year, or at least since Dean had started cataloging the differences up close. More muscle to flex beneath his hands, impatient strength held in check because Sam wanted it that way, wanted Dean's touch on him. More faint white scars from minor wounds delivered on basic hunts - the kind of stories Sam could exaggerate if he were more like Dean. Deeper pink scars, still healing, from the scary things, the stories neither of them wanted to tell or remember.
The Sam he'd known in that evil dream was probably perfect all over, soft; the price of happiness, maybe.
He pushed Sam's thighs apart and settled between them, hands on Sam's hips; he met Sam's eyes when he closed his lips around the head of his cock, watched Sam watching him, an endless loop of need. He licked down the shaft, slow, teasing licks, concentrating on the soft sounds Sam made, the low broken way he said Dean's name every time Dean lifted off. He wrapped his lips around the head, then took Sam in, lips sliding down the length of him, back up, perfect friction, slow and even.
A hint of teeth at the base; Sam's legs splayed open even farther and he bucked up into Dean's mouth, and Dean moved faster, made his lips tight around Sam's cock and let Sam drive a while, fucking into his mouth as hard and fast as he wanted. "Yeah, aw, Dean," Sam said, and then no more words, just the sounds telling Dean Sam was close.
Dean took control again, pressing Sam down into the bed so he could use his tongue and the hard motion of his hand to make Sam come. Sam thrashed against his restraint, one hand gripping the headboard, the fingers of the other touching Dean's face. He seemed not to notice when Dean let him go.
Dean fucked Sam later, or maybe Sam fucked him, riding him slow and easy at first with Dean's hips snapping up to meet him, but it didn't last long. Sam rolled his hips the way Dean loved, twisting and shoving down on Dean's cock until Dean couldn't hold back anymore, a battle of control already lost.
They slept tangled up in the humid heat, Sam's fingers curled gently around the back of Dean's neck.
**
Three days in, Dean had had enough actual sightseeing and had graduated to armchair tourist. He and Sam set up green and white lawn chairs - only a few slats missing; he was fairly confident they wouldn't fall through and break their asses - on the deck and put two buckets of ice between them, stuffed full of beers. Sam pulled a book out of nowhere and put his feet up on the deck railing, book open in his lap. Dean looked at him and had a flashback to Sam in high school, pissy when anyone bothered him in the middle of his homework.
For old time's sake, Dean reached over and flipped the book closed.
Sam sat up and flicked ice at him. "Just for that, you can get your own beer refills."
"Now there's a punishment," Dean said. "Go inside, where there's air conditioning and TV and beer? Yeah, horrifying."
"Shut up," Sam said, the last resort of the truly quip-impaired. He opened his book and paged through it, head tilted toward Dean like he was just waiting for the follow-up attack.
Dean, however, was busy watching the passers-by and wolf-whistling at the ones in bikinis.
He could have stayed busy that way all day, were it not for the miniature architect who hauled her bucket and shovel over to the patch of beach directly in front of the deck and decamped there.
"Laura, stay where I can see you," her mother called from the deck of the room next door. When Sam and Dean turned heads in unison to look at her, she smiled, and they waved. Dean didn't think she was the type who watched America's Most Wanted, but it was hard to tell.
Laura occupied herself with digging holes for about twenty minutes, and then she started mounding up sand like gigantic anthills. Dean snickered, and her head whipped around like a woman three times her age who'd had practice. Yep. She already had the look down pat. She scowled down at the sand and dug furiously, spraying grains up every time she stabbed at the ground.
"Um. What're you doing?" Dean said.
"Building a sand castle," she said.
"Need some help with that?" he asked, but her scowl only got deeper.
"What do you know about sand castles?"
Sam snickered. Dean ignored him. He set down his beer and hopped down off the deck, hot sand against his bare feet. "I know a lot," he told her. "For one thing, castles have to look like castles."
"You're stifling her creativity," Sam called. Dean raised his hand to flip Sam off and caught himself just in time.
"Hey, Mom," he said, casting his most charming smile in the direction of the next-door deck, "you mind if I help with the building?"
"Be my guest," she called, flashing him another smile. She was hot - pink halter top, denim shorts, perky little -
Sam slammed his book shut.
Dean scratched the back of his head and glanced up at Sam, who was twisting open another beer. "Okay," he said to Laura, whose tunneling toward China had given way to sifting sand into her pail. "Here's the plan. You're the boss. You tell me how a castle should look, and I'll help you make it look that way. Deal?"
"Deal," she said, smacking her tiny palm against his.
They moved down the beach a ways, to where Dean could get water without running back and forth. Then he dug down for her to a nice patch of dark moist sand and showed her how to make little pancake bricks and sandballs to build her base. By the time they finished, Laura was giggling and they were best friends, and Dean had used her shovel to carve a pretty awesome tower where a princess was hiding until her prince came to rescue her from the big scary monster with the blue eyes and the lightning in his hand.
Once, Dean looked up to see Sam watching him, book open in his lap, forgotten. Their eyes met, and Dean shrugged, grinning.
Laura's hot mom took a bunch of pictures of her castle, and Laura hugged Dean's knee, and then hot mom hugged Dean, and everybody was happy. Dean went back to the deck and took the beer Sam handed him. He sat on the deck steps and looked out at the sunset. "I've got sand in my pants, man," he said, taking a long swig of the lukewarm beer.
"So where did you learn to build a sand castle?" Sam said softly.
Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam. "Who showed you how to build a mud fortress, huh?" Another swig of beer. "Wasn't Dad, that's for sure."
"No," Sam said. "It wasn't." He got up from his chair and sat down behind Dean on the top stair, his legs on either side of Dean's body, and leaned back so they weren't touching anywhere but their legs. He squeezed his legs until their knees banged together, and then let go.
**
The last day of their week off, Dean stole Sam's book and lay down on a towel in the sand, where he read it cover to cover with only two naps in between. He dreamed wild sun-soaked dreams of bright painted boats and weird 3-D trees.
"All I've done is sleep," Dean said later, after some lunch and some TV and a blowjob that had caused his eyes to roll back in his head while Sam sat there and looked pleased with himself. He rolled over on the bed and watched Sam fold their undershirts and briefs, which looked remarkably white and fresh and did not have even the smallest whiff of leftover old gym sock.
"Wasn't that the point?" Sam threw a flurry of socks at Dean's face.
Dean sighed and sat up to roll them into packable balls. "I don't know what the point was," he said. "It was your idea."
"And a damned awesome idea it was, too," Sam said. He carefully folded up his Hawaiian shirt, and Dean's, and set them aside to stuff into packs in the morning.
Dean fell asleep right there in the middle of the conversation. He woke up briefly for chicken and salad, ate them without complaint, bestowed an open-mouthed kiss on Sam when Sam gave him a bag of Hershey's Miniatures for dessert, and crawled into bed to eat them.
He might have cracked an eye open when Sam brushed the foil detritus off the bed, but maybe he dreamed that.
When Sam clicked off the lights and snuggled up behind him, Dean woke and sighed like it was some big hardship, only to have Sam smack his ass. "Too tired for that," Dean said, snickering.
Sam the Octopus wrapped an arm around him, but didn't do anything more. Dean was starting to get used to it, this arm-wrapping thing. They'd go back to two beds when they hit the road. It was easier that way. A little distance. Business as usual.
He knew what was coming before Sam even opened his mouth, because Sam's arms tightened and his body tensed, and Dean knew those signals, could read them even if they weren't touching. "Dean."
If he answered, he'd be agreeing to this conversation he didn't want to have, the one he'd been avoiding since he first blurted out the details of his wish, what the djinn had shown him, what Sam was like, and he'd almost been able to forget. No point in bringing it back to this reality.
"Dean," Sam said again. He nuzzled Dean's neck, warm face against Dean's skin.
"Can't we just -" Dean began, and then he sighed, because there wasn't any point. "What."
Sam asked his question softly, muffled into Dean's hair. "What was I like in that wish-world?"
"You were a punk," Dean said. "A well-educated punk, who hated me."
"I would never hate you," Sam said.
"Whose fantasy was this, yours or mine?"
"Your fantasy is for me to hate you?"
"What? No!" Dean tried to twist around in the bed, but Sam held him still. Dean fidgeted until Sam laid his palm flat against Dean's chest, and then he quieted. Maybe it was easier if they didn't have to look at each other. "What I mean is, I was there. I should know."
"I didn't hate you."
"Whatever. You just didn't like me. Or trust me."
Sam's nose was cold against Dean's shoulder. "Whatever you saw there, it's a reflection of how you see me here."
"Oh, you mean how your taste in clothes is a little on the girly side?"
"What?"
"Seriously, Sam. Girly blue. Come on."
"Dean!"
Dean pushed his face into the pillow and said, "Not gonna dissect this for you, Sam."
"Well, whatever you saw in yourself, it's a reflection of how you feel about yourself now. Or think you would be. Or something."
"Or something." Dean prayed Sam would catch his sleeping sickness and conk out.
Sam was quiet long enough that Dean thought maybe he'd get his wish, and then Sam spoke, lips against Dean's shoulderblade. "I trust you," he said. "You aren't that guy."
"I kind of am."
"No, you're not." Sam slid closer, pulled Dean in tighter. "I'm not that guy, either."
"Except for your taste in clothes."
Sam snorted, a huff of air that raised the hair on the back of Dean's neck, but he didn't answer.
Later, when Dean woke to find Sam's head on his stomach, and his hand in Sam's hair, the whisper of Sam's even breaths over his belly lulled him back to sleep.
**
Bags packed, leftovers thrown away, cheap shades in place: time to go. Dean put everything in the trunk and thought about the weapons array beneath the packs. He hadn't cleaned them once since they'd been there. Vacationitis. He'd have to get back with the program now.
Sam came up behind him and enveloped him in a huge hug, lifting him off the ground before he dropped him again.
"Dude, what the hell?" Dean said, batting at Sam's arms.
"I'm on vacation from your expectations," Sam said, red Twizzler dangling from his lips. He slammed the lid of the trunk shut.
"Vacation over now?" Dean said as he shoved Sam away.
"Yeah," Sam said. He looked almost wistful as he opened the passenger door and ducked down to climb in.
Dean took a deep breath and saved up a lungful of salt air and sunshine. Hard to tell when he might get another vacation. Sometimes a memory was as good as the real thing.
end
May 2007
PS - For anyone who might want to be earwormed by the Beach Boys song from whence I stole the title - it's here. It's .wma format. Hopefully it will play for people? Such things confuse me.