Boys of Summer, for kribban
Title: Boys of Summer
Recipient: kribban
Rating: T for language
Word Count or Media: ~1600
Warnings: Language, brief mentions of past head injury
Author's Notes: Thank you for the prompts, giftee! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Summary: Written for the prompt: Write a story that takes place during the summer, where summer is so important to the story that it's almost a character in itself. Bonus points for swimming, heat waves, and BBQ.
It’s fucking disgusting outside.
Dean likes a sunny day as much as the next person, but as he stations himself in front of the motel’s rickety old grill, he finds himself cursing the wet, sticky Florida summer heat. They’ve been outside for all of ten minutes, and Dean’s shirt is already plastered to his back with sweat, and he wants nothing more than to crank the Impala’s windows down and speed along winding side roads, letting the natural wind cool him off.
He’s in the middle of fantasizing about this scenario when he suddenly realizes how hot Baby’s leather seats would be, and decides he’d settle for a cold beer and some decent air conditioning instead.
It’s one of those rare days where there isn’t a case to be found (or Sam is just bullshitting him and wants a day off, which Dean figures is much more likely), and Sam suggests that they take advantage of the motel’s pool and grill.
It’s a pretty sad attempt at a summer paradise--the place is deserted, and judging by the rust that coats the palm of Dean’s hand when he grabs the handle to open the grill, nobody’s taken advantage of the Kissimmee Motel’s amenities in a long, long time.
“You know you can go swimming, too, Dean,” Sam says as he pulls his shirt off and drapes it over the chainlink fence next to their towels. “We don’t need to eat right away.”
Dean waves him off before dropping a pack of hamburgers and buns onto one of the lounge chairs next to him. “Go,” he says, hesitantly using two fingers to open up the rusted grill and peering inside. “This thing’s gonna need some goddamn sanitation before we can start cooking anything on it, anyway.”
Dean rummages around the grill until he finds a scrub brush, and starts applying some elbow grease to clean the thing off. He can hear Sam doing laps in the pool behind him and sighs before digging into the green cooler and grabbing a beer. He presses it against his forehead and neck for a few seconds to cool his body down before cracking it open and taking a long swig.
“Am I gonna need booze to be able to stomach your food, Dean?” Sam shouts from the pool; Dean flips him off without turning around.
“Anything I make will be better than those goddamn salads you keep shoving down your throat.” Dean can hear Sam bark out a laugh at that, but otherwise, he doesn’t reply.
Once the grill is at least semi-presentable--it’s cleaner than some of the diners they’d eaten at recently, which is good enough for him--Dean reaches for the burgers and tears open the packaging before flipping a few onto the grate. He listens to them sizzle over the flames and quickly finishes his beer in an attempt to dull the grumbling pangs of hunger in his stomach.
He can hear Sam climb out of the pool and plod over to the diving board, which just looks like a giant slab of tetanus waiting to happen, but Sam’s a big boy; he can make his own decisions. And if he does end up cutting himself and getting fucking tetanus, of course Dean’ll help him clean the cut and keep it sanitized, but he’ll also laugh his ass off and make sure Sam never fucking forgets it.
The diving board bounces as Sam launches his massive frame off of it, and Dean almost doesn’t hear the grunt Sam makes against the splashing wave of his body hitting the water. Dean pauses and looks up, but then focuses his attention back on their food with a smirk.
“You better not have gotten water on my towel with that goddamn dive of yours, Sammy,” Dean calls over his shoulder. Sam doesn’t answer him, and that’s when Dean turns around. “Sammy?”
His back stiffens when he looks into the pool and sees Sam’s dark mop of hair deep under the water, with no sign of surfacing. His first instinct is protective; he’s got to get in there and save Sam, but no matter how hard he tries, he stays frozen in place, his feet rooted to the spot, his mind flashing back to almost twenty years ago.
Sam had been so excited to get the invitation from Jack to his pool party. He’d gotten it on the last day of school before summer vacation, and it had been all he could talk about for weeks.
Dean still remembers the heartbreak in Sam’s eyes when their dad had told him he couldn’t go.
No amount of pleading or bargaining on Dean’s part could convince their dad to let Sam go, and he was left to deal with the poorly masked sadness and disappointment of his little brother.
Which is why he had been thrilled to wake up the morning of the pool party to a note from Dad saying that he’d be out on a hunt for a few days, and to do the usual--keep the door locked, don’t talk to anyone, and watch out for Sammy.
So Dean had promptly shaken Sam awake, filled him in on the latest developments, and the two of them rushed down to the city pool.
The place had been swarming with kids, and almost immediately upon arriving, Dean had felt his gut clench up with anxiety. Small groups he could handle, sure, but a shit-ton of little six-year-olds and their parents? Yeah, not so much.
But Sam had been happy, happier than Dean had seen him in a while, so he had sucked it up, grabbed himself a vacant chair, and made himself comfortable with a few comics he had managed to grab from the convenience store earlier that week.
Every so often, he’d hear the moms whispering about him, about what a good big brother he was for bringing Sam to the party. Those comments had made his heart swell with pride; that had been praise Dad never gave him--come to think of it, Dad gave him hardly any praise at all--and Dean had smiled to himself, hiding it by holding his comics closer to his face. But then the even more hushed comments had started, the “Where are the parents?” and “How old is Sam’s brother; why are they unsupervised?” and Dean had suddenly found himself hiding his face for different reasons.
Fuck them, he’d thought. We’re fine.
He’d tuned out the rest of the party after that, keeping his mind on his comics. These people had no freakin’ idea what his dad did for them; they should be grateful. He had been able to keep to himself for about twenty minutes or so, until he heard a high-pitched voice cry out, “Sam!”
His head had shot up at that, and he’d looked up just in time to see another kid’s dad carrying Sam’s limp body out of the pool.
“Someone get me a towel!” the dad had shouted, waiting for the towel to be spread before setting Sam down on it.
“Sam!” Dean had yelled, making a beeline for him, shoving past the crowd of partygoers until he had a clear view of his little brother, lying motionless on the ground.
“I’m sorry!” another boy had wailed, running up towards Dean before getting pulled back by a parent. “We, we were playing, and I think he hit his head, and I didn’t mean to, I didn’t!”
Dean had dropped to his knees and cupped Sam’s cheeks in his hands, his eyes taking in the thin trickle of blood at his hairline and the rapidly forming bruise under his right eye. They could fix that; they could make something up. They’d just been roughhousing, and things got out of hand. Dad would believe it. He’d been able to see Sam’s chest slowly rising and falling; he just needed him to wake up.
“Someone call 911!” a parent had shouted.
“No!” Dean had shouted in response, even louder. The last thing they needed was Dad finding out about this. “C’mon, Sam,” he’d whispered. “Sammy, wake up, I know you can hear me. You can do this, Sam.”
Thirty more seconds had passed in what felt like thirty minutes, but Sam had finally stirred awake, his eyes wide and panic-stricken. “Dean,” he’d whispered shakily. “Dean, it hurts.”
“Sammy,” Dean had breathed, hugging Sam up close against his chest. He’d hugged him tighter when he felt his little brother shaking in his arms. “It’s okay, Sam, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, Sammy.”
“Dean? Hey, are you okay? Deeeeean. What's up?”
Dean’s eyes are focused on the water before they snap over to Sam, startled. Sam continues treading water, trying to act casual, but Dean can feel his little brother analyzing him, searching for signs of dehydration or sunstroke, something to explain Dean zoning out. While being scrutinized, though, Dean is doing an analysis of his own. Sam looks fine--no blood at his hairline, no wide, terrified eyes staring up at him and pleading for help. He's swimming in the pool under his own power, tilting his head to the side and shaking excess water out of his ridiculous mane of hair.
Nothing had happened; Sam’s fine. He's not six anymore; he's twenty-six, and he can swim just fine. He’s seen Sam kill werewolves, vampires, djinn--there’s no way he’s going to be stopped by some water, not if he can help it.
Finally, Dean shakes his head quickly to rid himself of the memory, and grins down at the concrete, secretly relieved at Sam’s safety. “Nothin’. Nothin’, Sammy. Whaddaya want on your burger?”
Recipient: kribban
Rating: T for language
Word Count or Media: ~1600
Warnings: Language, brief mentions of past head injury
Author's Notes: Thank you for the prompts, giftee! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Summary: Written for the prompt: Write a story that takes place during the summer, where summer is so important to the story that it's almost a character in itself. Bonus points for swimming, heat waves, and BBQ.
It’s fucking disgusting outside.
Dean likes a sunny day as much as the next person, but as he stations himself in front of the motel’s rickety old grill, he finds himself cursing the wet, sticky Florida summer heat. They’ve been outside for all of ten minutes, and Dean’s shirt is already plastered to his back with sweat, and he wants nothing more than to crank the Impala’s windows down and speed along winding side roads, letting the natural wind cool him off.
He’s in the middle of fantasizing about this scenario when he suddenly realizes how hot Baby’s leather seats would be, and decides he’d settle for a cold beer and some decent air conditioning instead.
It’s one of those rare days where there isn’t a case to be found (or Sam is just bullshitting him and wants a day off, which Dean figures is much more likely), and Sam suggests that they take advantage of the motel’s pool and grill.
It’s a pretty sad attempt at a summer paradise--the place is deserted, and judging by the rust that coats the palm of Dean’s hand when he grabs the handle to open the grill, nobody’s taken advantage of the Kissimmee Motel’s amenities in a long, long time.
“You know you can go swimming, too, Dean,” Sam says as he pulls his shirt off and drapes it over the chainlink fence next to their towels. “We don’t need to eat right away.”
Dean waves him off before dropping a pack of hamburgers and buns onto one of the lounge chairs next to him. “Go,” he says, hesitantly using two fingers to open up the rusted grill and peering inside. “This thing’s gonna need some goddamn sanitation before we can start cooking anything on it, anyway.”
Dean rummages around the grill until he finds a scrub brush, and starts applying some elbow grease to clean the thing off. He can hear Sam doing laps in the pool behind him and sighs before digging into the green cooler and grabbing a beer. He presses it against his forehead and neck for a few seconds to cool his body down before cracking it open and taking a long swig.
“Am I gonna need booze to be able to stomach your food, Dean?” Sam shouts from the pool; Dean flips him off without turning around.
“Anything I make will be better than those goddamn salads you keep shoving down your throat.” Dean can hear Sam bark out a laugh at that, but otherwise, he doesn’t reply.
Once the grill is at least semi-presentable--it’s cleaner than some of the diners they’d eaten at recently, which is good enough for him--Dean reaches for the burgers and tears open the packaging before flipping a few onto the grate. He listens to them sizzle over the flames and quickly finishes his beer in an attempt to dull the grumbling pangs of hunger in his stomach.
He can hear Sam climb out of the pool and plod over to the diving board, which just looks like a giant slab of tetanus waiting to happen, but Sam’s a big boy; he can make his own decisions. And if he does end up cutting himself and getting fucking tetanus, of course Dean’ll help him clean the cut and keep it sanitized, but he’ll also laugh his ass off and make sure Sam never fucking forgets it.
The diving board bounces as Sam launches his massive frame off of it, and Dean almost doesn’t hear the grunt Sam makes against the splashing wave of his body hitting the water. Dean pauses and looks up, but then focuses his attention back on their food with a smirk.
“You better not have gotten water on my towel with that goddamn dive of yours, Sammy,” Dean calls over his shoulder. Sam doesn’t answer him, and that’s when Dean turns around. “Sammy?”
His back stiffens when he looks into the pool and sees Sam’s dark mop of hair deep under the water, with no sign of surfacing. His first instinct is protective; he’s got to get in there and save Sam, but no matter how hard he tries, he stays frozen in place, his feet rooted to the spot, his mind flashing back to almost twenty years ago.
Sam had been so excited to get the invitation from Jack to his pool party. He’d gotten it on the last day of school before summer vacation, and it had been all he could talk about for weeks.
Dean still remembers the heartbreak in Sam’s eyes when their dad had told him he couldn’t go.
No amount of pleading or bargaining on Dean’s part could convince their dad to let Sam go, and he was left to deal with the poorly masked sadness and disappointment of his little brother.
Which is why he had been thrilled to wake up the morning of the pool party to a note from Dad saying that he’d be out on a hunt for a few days, and to do the usual--keep the door locked, don’t talk to anyone, and watch out for Sammy.
So Dean had promptly shaken Sam awake, filled him in on the latest developments, and the two of them rushed down to the city pool.
The place had been swarming with kids, and almost immediately upon arriving, Dean had felt his gut clench up with anxiety. Small groups he could handle, sure, but a shit-ton of little six-year-olds and their parents? Yeah, not so much.
But Sam had been happy, happier than Dean had seen him in a while, so he had sucked it up, grabbed himself a vacant chair, and made himself comfortable with a few comics he had managed to grab from the convenience store earlier that week.
Every so often, he’d hear the moms whispering about him, about what a good big brother he was for bringing Sam to the party. Those comments had made his heart swell with pride; that had been praise Dad never gave him--come to think of it, Dad gave him hardly any praise at all--and Dean had smiled to himself, hiding it by holding his comics closer to his face. But then the even more hushed comments had started, the “Where are the parents?” and “How old is Sam’s brother; why are they unsupervised?” and Dean had suddenly found himself hiding his face for different reasons.
Fuck them, he’d thought. We’re fine.
He’d tuned out the rest of the party after that, keeping his mind on his comics. These people had no freakin’ idea what his dad did for them; they should be grateful. He had been able to keep to himself for about twenty minutes or so, until he heard a high-pitched voice cry out, “Sam!”
His head had shot up at that, and he’d looked up just in time to see another kid’s dad carrying Sam’s limp body out of the pool.
“Someone get me a towel!” the dad had shouted, waiting for the towel to be spread before setting Sam down on it.
“Sam!” Dean had yelled, making a beeline for him, shoving past the crowd of partygoers until he had a clear view of his little brother, lying motionless on the ground.
“I’m sorry!” another boy had wailed, running up towards Dean before getting pulled back by a parent. “We, we were playing, and I think he hit his head, and I didn’t mean to, I didn’t!”
Dean had dropped to his knees and cupped Sam’s cheeks in his hands, his eyes taking in the thin trickle of blood at his hairline and the rapidly forming bruise under his right eye. They could fix that; they could make something up. They’d just been roughhousing, and things got out of hand. Dad would believe it. He’d been able to see Sam’s chest slowly rising and falling; he just needed him to wake up.
“Someone call 911!” a parent had shouted.
“No!” Dean had shouted in response, even louder. The last thing they needed was Dad finding out about this. “C’mon, Sam,” he’d whispered. “Sammy, wake up, I know you can hear me. You can do this, Sam.”
Thirty more seconds had passed in what felt like thirty minutes, but Sam had finally stirred awake, his eyes wide and panic-stricken. “Dean,” he’d whispered shakily. “Dean, it hurts.”
“Sammy,” Dean had breathed, hugging Sam up close against his chest. He’d hugged him tighter when he felt his little brother shaking in his arms. “It’s okay, Sam, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, Sammy.”
“Dean? Hey, are you okay? Deeeeean. What's up?”
Dean’s eyes are focused on the water before they snap over to Sam, startled. Sam continues treading water, trying to act casual, but Dean can feel his little brother analyzing him, searching for signs of dehydration or sunstroke, something to explain Dean zoning out. While being scrutinized, though, Dean is doing an analysis of his own. Sam looks fine--no blood at his hairline, no wide, terrified eyes staring up at him and pleading for help. He's swimming in the pool under his own power, tilting his head to the side and shaking excess water out of his ridiculous mane of hair.
Nothing had happened; Sam’s fine. He's not six anymore; he's twenty-six, and he can swim just fine. He’s seen Sam kill werewolves, vampires, djinn--there’s no way he’s going to be stopped by some water, not if he can help it.
Finally, Dean shakes his head quickly to rid himself of the memory, and grins down at the concrete, secretly relieved at Sam’s safety. “Nothin’. Nothin’, Sammy. Whaddaya want on your burger?”