I love Spring. I love the smell of the cherry blossom, the bright colours of the daffodils after the winter gloom and the birdsong. I love the fact that I ache all over after spending hours in the garden after starting that laborious annual transformation from 'surface of the moon' to 'somewhere nice and flowery to have barbecues in'.
Most of all I love Spring because it means Summer is on the way, bringing long hot days, bumblebees, the cricket season, the afore mentioned barbecues and chilled wine on the patio (well, in a glass first, obviously ...)
Another effect of summer is that people wear less clothes. Sometimes this is a good thing. Often it most definitely is NOT.
Herewith the opportunity to make your own minds up; enter Dean, stage left ...
DEEP FRIED EXTRA CRISPY
A one-shot based on a previous drabble of the same name and subject matter.
Word Count: approx 950
Our lovely boy has been very, very irresponsible. Are we in any way surprised?
Disclaimer: I own nothing except for a warped mind!
It was the height of midsummer and the Winchesters had settled into a fair to middling hotel on the edge of a small, dull Midwest town which had all the charm and personality of a growth of lichen.
Right now, however, dull was good; dull was exactly what the boys were looking for.
The previous week had seen the brothers live through three bruising hunts, an impressive variety of minor injuries; "just how did you get those carpet burns on your butt, dude?" and over three thousand miles on the Impala's clock.
Add to that the oppressive midsummer heat which stifled and strangled the life out of each new day, weeks upon weeks of blazing sunshine and a 'bury the needle' level of humidity which had both brothers wound up tight as drumskins and bitching at each other like a pair of menopausal housewives; the one thing they had agreed on was that a few days rest and relaxation were desperately overdue.
Unfortunately the following morning, it rapidly became clear that Sam's idea of rest and relaxation was, in fact, 'instead of hunting fuglies, let's bust our 'nads doing chores instead', whereas Dean's idea was more along the lines of 'let's sleep in until our brain liquefies and then drink beer until our liver catches up with it."
As soon as Sam had mentioned the word 'laundry', Dean had disappeared outside faster than a rat up a drainpipe muttering about a mysterious knocking under the Impala's hood, that needed his immediate attention.
The door slammed leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room, clutching a bundle of rancid shirts to his chest and watching a lonely piece of paper fluttering idly in his brother's slipstream.
"Guess the laundry's up to me then? …" he sighed.
For the best part of the day Dean worked on the Impala, lavishing his devoted attention on her; confident hands dismantling and lubricating her moving parts, strong arms waxing and polishing her paintwork until it gleamed. The hot sun beating down on his bare back; a bottle of cold beer in his hand, a rockin' good station on the radio.
He was in his own personal heaven.
Until, that is, he eventually stood up and stretched, rubbing a hot, grubby palm across the back of his neck.
"Ow, sonofabitch" he gasped, as the hot skin stung under his touch. "Ah crap," he thought with a grimace, "this is gonna be so sore!"
He had been sitting on the bed with the after sun lotion for around ten minutes when Sam struggled through the door, laden down with clean laundry, bags stuffed with groceries and a couple of pizza boxes.
He halted abruptly upon seeing figure on the bed. "Holy crap, dude; what the hell …?"
Dean was crimson from his pain-furrowed forehead to his hips and just about everywhere in between. He was timidly rubbing aftersun lotion onto his raw, inflamed shoulders and chest; barely able to tolerate the hesitant touch of his own fingertips.
Sam stared, admiring his brother's scorched cheeks, "jeez bro', you been sunbathing under the hole in the ozone layer?"
Green eyes flashed angrily, clashing violently with a crimson nose. "Shut your piehole, bitch. I forgot; okay?"
Sam was locked in a violent internal battle between trying to feel sorry for the shrivelled, crispy creature on the bed and trying not to laugh. In the end he settled on distracting himself by trying to help.
"Uh, need a hand, dude?" he asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, stop standin' there smirkin', and come an' do my back; I can't friggin' reach." was the ingracious response.
Sam dutifully strolled over to the bed and knelt behind his brother; He squeezed a generous amount of the lotion into the his hand, rubbing it between his palms to warm it before placing his hands flat either side of Dean's spine, feeling the flinch as he made contact with the burning skin.
He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the intense heat radiating from Dean's back; "I can't believe you worked on the Impala all day in that sun with no shirt or sunscreen," he muttered, "what are you, a moron?"
Dean grunted something unbintelligible and no doubt rude and gasped, flinching as Sam's hands gently, but firmly, worked the cool, soothing cream into his raw skin from the nape of his neck, right down to the low slung waistband of his jeans. He writhed and twitched, back arching as he tried to worm away from the contact.
"Quit squirming dude, stop bein' such a baby!" Sam scolded.
"Freakin' stings," Dean moaned in return, "an' your mutton paws ain't helpin'!"
"Well, it's your own damn fault, you idiot." Sam snapped.
"Stow your bitchin' Cinderella;" Dean snapped, "you're just pissed 'cos even deep fried extra crispy, I'm better looking than you!"
Sam shook his head smiling calmly, and raked a retaliatory nail down the length of his brother's simmering back.
The receptionist looked up from her keyboard with a puzzled frown on hearing a pained howl and a tirade of obscenities from the room all the way down the other end of the car park.