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Everything hurts. Everything. And Dean’s not about to admit that to Sam or anyone else after all they’ve accomplished in such a short amount of time.
He wanted this. Dreamed of going to a beach like this for years, and now Cas’ got him opening up in more ways than one, on top of it, which, awesome. Two birds, one stone. Only, he somehow has to navigate his sorry sunburnt ass back to the house and into the safety of his room without Sammy catching on to what he’s doing.
There’s peeling and chafing from sand in places he didn’t know existed, and what a great start to their weekend? Dean dying of pain because he didn’t heed his little brother’s advice and put some sunblock on.
He stands. Stretches and—bad move. Soooo fucking bad.
He looks to Cas through his whimper, but somehow feigns a grin. “You ready?” he says through it.
The angel nods.
They just have to make it back to the room because there’s a shower there. A bathroom full of smelly crap the condo’s owner keeps in the ensuite, and something in that stash has to heal burns, right?
He takes a step, and fuck - the heat. The fire. He’d much rather Alistair rip his skin off inch by inch with a pair of rusty garden sheers than this. It’d hurt less than this. Anything will hurt less than this.
“Are you okay, Dean?” Cas asks. His brilliant blue eyes tilted, scrutinising. His face, the usual complexion, albeit less stoic, like the time he was Meg’s Clarence and discovered bees.
Dean shields the agony through a simple hum. “You kidding? After that?” He grabs Cas’ hand and tugs. Tears him away from the shore. Each step a new rip in the bandaid, holding his soul together, but he doesn’t stop. He’s gotta get back and find something for the burns.
Across the sand, across the road, and to the door at the top of the stairs—he pauses. Eyes the lock and threatens the steel handle not to make a sound.
“Why are you—”
Dean holds his hand out, pulling the flambeed skin there, too. “Just,” he says with a hiss, fingers moving to grip the handle. Thank Chuck something’s cold.
But the door yanks open from the other side, and not only is his arm pulled from its socket, but the sting? Oh, the mother fucking sting. He’s like a teenager caught out on curfew, stoner friend to his right.
He lets out a sound he’s not proud of and shuts it back in the second he sees Sam’s face, staring at him with a judgmental brow.
“Dude—”
“Don’t,” Dean says with finality. At least they made use of the beach. The house they’re squatting in is nice, but the whole point is the sun, the surf, the sand between their toes, and that beach is beautiful.
Of course, Sam insists on being right. “I told you—”
“And I said don’t.” Dean’s mouth follows with a huff that would’ve made a smoke signal had they been somewhere less humid when he sliced his beet-red arm through the air again. The colour, far more obvious now they’re standing in some artificial light.
He barges in, Cas hot on his heels, as he beelines to the kitchen. No point hiding it now. Sammy’s on the trail, not wincing because he doesn’t have “mineral particles from seashells” burrowing into the creases of his sack.
At least the ceramic tiles are cool. The air conditioning, cool. The fridge, heaven with beer and colder things, and he stands there with his back to it. Hand bringing a bottle of the sweet amber liquid tentatively to his mouth until Cas pops in and saves the damn day.
“You’re dehydrated,” he says, and really? Now he steps in with a medical diagnosis?
Couldn’t have insisted on sunblock back down on the sand? Told him to scooch under the shade more? He could’ve done without the melanoma on his shoulders. A hunter dying of skin cancer is, well, it’s tragic, and, “I’m thirsty,” he spits as Cas pries the bottle out of his hands with a stern pout. Who does he think he is?
“I thought you two took the umbrella?” Sam asks, but Dean is too busy glaring at the angel to answer.
“We did.” He sets the beer down next to Sam and takes a glass tumbler from the dish rack, filling it with water.
“So how come he’s looking more and more like Patrick?”
On that, Cas turns around. “The saint?” he says as Dean perks up with “Swayze?” and okay, odd comparison, but he’ll take it.
Only Sam’s looking him up and down, and he’s soon doing the same when his brother’s brows raise at his stomach. “No, Star,” he says, and Dean’s seeing a whole new shade of red.
Alright, so he’s a little pink? The shorts? Yeah, okay, he sees it, but though there’s pudge where there used to be taut muscle, it’s nothing like the starfish.
He’s rocking these shorts, and even Cas approves. He taps his palm on his shoulder, giving him the glass and a slight curve to his pursed lips. His monotonous tone never faltering, even when he says, “The sun moves in the sky,” like he’s channelling National Geographic.
Of course, Sam crosses his arms. Shakes his legs and stands taller. “Right? So why didn’t you?”
And there’s the kicker. Dean’s big moment. His payback. Sam wants to know what they were doing? Then he’ll tell him. No skin off his nose, only Cas throws him a sideways glance first. Gives his own up and down over Dean’s body, throwing a wink to rival any of his.
“The sun wasn’t the only thing moving,” he deadpans, and while both Winchester’s drop their jaws, Sam’s is looking mighty red.
”You asked.” Dean smacks his shoulder, unable to mask either burn.
“I shouldn’t have.” Sam shakes his head and walks away.