The Most Dangerous Game - in Technicolor
Title: The Most Dangerous Game - in Technicolor
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (bad language)
Genre: TeenWinchesters/gen/pre-series
Characters: TeenSam and TeenDean
Summary: Dean takes Sam for a little training session.
Author's Note: Thank you to
tigriswolf for her beta-ing skills. Kripke owns The Boys, even at this age. It's fluff, people. No monsters, no evil John, just brothers having fun.
The Most Dangerous Game - in Technicolor
Condensation had gathered along the edges of the windows from the endlessly humming air conditioner fighting vainly to push back the heat pressing in on all sides. Sam drew an abstract pattern in the dampness - something that could have been a ritualistic sigil, an algebraic equation, or even a naked lady from where Dean was standing - before the droplets of water ran down the pane, leaving streaks of clear glass through Sam’s artistic endeavors.
“I don’t wanna go,” Sam whined, his voice cracking slightly at the end. “It’s too hot. Why do we have to anyway?”
“Because you shoot like a girl, Sammy,” Dean explained with a laugh. “And Dad told me you need the practice.”
Sam pressed his face against the window, a hand on either side to support him as he tried to see if he could leave an image of himself behind. He pulled back, watching the steam from his breath fading as the oily prints from his nose, forehead and palms left a wide-eyed Sam shape staring accusingly back at him, clawing its way through the window.
Sam muttered loudly, “If I recall correctly, Francie could outshoot you with one hand tied behind her back.”
“Annie Oakley incarnate doesn’t count. She even shot better than Dad.” Dean snickered, arching an eyebrow at his petulant little brother. “You’re no Francie, even if your hair does make you look like her little sister.”
Dean cast an eye over at Sam, who had slumped into the ratty armchair by the window with a grimace creasing his young face, his glowering eyes nearly obscured by the tangled curtain of his bangs. Dean took a breath before wandering over to smack Sam on the arm. “C’mon. You’ve been beggin’ to get out of this motel for a week now. Don’t be such a pussy.”
The grimace lightened just a little, and Dean knew he was winning Sam over. “C’mon, Sam. This is gonna be fun.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“All right, Sammy,” Dean said as they walked their way through the woods, leaving the Impala sheltered in the high brush lining the road behind them. “You know the rules.”
Dean passed his brother a pair of goggles, watching as he slipped them over his eyes before doing the same. “Headshots allowed - winning point has to be a lethal hit. None of that pansy-ass shoulder or leg wound crap you try to pull on me.”
Sam nodded solemnly, his hazel eyes looking larger and more vulnerable behind the wide plastic lenses. “You’ve got extra ammo in your pack and you’ve got your gun, so you’re all set, right?” Dean asked, mentally checking off the list of necessary equipment needed in the field.
Sam nodded once more, sweat dampening the hair at his temples as he stumbled over a rock hidden in the grass. Sam’s recent growth spurt had left him all gawky angles and coltish length of limb, with none of the grace he’d had just a couple of months before. Dean reached out hand and placed it on Sam’s lower back to steady him. “When I say, ‘Go’, it’s time for the hunt to begin.”
“I know, Dean,” Sam snorted with impatience. “I’m not an idiot. I remember the rules.”
“Oh?” Dean asked with a small grin. The hand at Sam’s spine that had been gently guiding him along suddenly grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over Sam’s head, leaving him tangled in the sweaty darkness of his own t-shirt as Dean’s voice called out gleefully, “Go!” Running feet disappeared into the thickness of the forest, the soft moss deafening Dean’s footfalls in a matter of seconds.
Sam struggled to put his t-shirt to rights, his breath coming faster at the odd silence of the wooded glade. He glanced around, eyes skirting the shadows before his jaw tightened and he loped off in the direction he had last heard his brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a training exercise that Dad had taught them, trying to take their competitive natures and use them to their advantage - making a game out of hunting and of hunting each other. It had worked, though as they’d grown some of the early fun had evolved into an insatiable desire to prove who was better, who could win first and fastest and most often.
Dad had put an end to it when they’d nearly killed each other a couple years ago, keeping the hunt going when a flurry of snow had hit, refusing to give in until one of them came out the victor. He’d grabbed them both by the backs of their necks when he’d finally tracked them down, not an easy feat with an eleven and fifteen year old, and shook them sharply, pulling his hands away when he realized his terror over nearly losing them both was being taken out on his boys. He’d reminded them it was supposed to be a game, just a training exercise, and had forbidden them from ever doing it again.
Apparently, Dean had felt it was time to start up once more.
Sam molded himself against a nearby tree, pausing to take a breath, trying to remember what it was like to live in Dean’s head.
Dean was strong, had more muscle than he did, knew how to use the body he’d grown into. Sam was still learning, unsure of his reach, his balance, his own strength.
Dean was impatient, liked to jump in, take ‘em by surprise, get it over with using a quick punch or even quicker shot. Sam preferred to wait, looking for weaknesses, trying to outwait their own eagerness, weighing all options before making his final move.
Dean was pure instinct, trusting the twist of his gut over common sense. Sam weighed the odds, taking chances that had a high probability of success behind them.
Dean was a cobra, striking fast and deep - Sam was a boa, patiently constricting until there was no way out.
As Sam released his breath he fell quickly to his knees, a sharp *zing* *zing* whistling by his ear and splattering into a colored explosion of yellow paint against the bark of the tree where he’d just been leaning. Sam crawled over to a barrier of brush, his eyes tracing the path of the paintball pellets to see his brother’s back fading into the trees.
Damn. Dean was trying to end this quickly, force him out of hiding while he was still adjusting to the game.
Dean forgot whom he was dealing with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam was exactly where Dean knew he’d be, hugging a tree and going all zen in the wilderness. Dean snorted. Sammy was so predictable.
Sam had grown, but he was clumsy. Farther reach, but uncoordinated, no muscle to balance it out. His growth spurt made his aim shaky as he tried to learn how to adjust his sights.
Sam didn’t take risks - would spend all day strategizing rather than getting down to it. Dean didn’t see the point in waiting if you had a good chance of winning. Waiting gave your opponent time to come up with a plan of attack.
Sam was smart - couldn’t risk giving him that time to plan. Take him out fast, when he was still unsettled and trying to figure things out.
This was hunting and hunting was action. Sure, planning was useful, but the opportunity didn’t come up very often. You had to think fast, think on your feet, learn to adapt to rapidly changing situations, or you could die.
That was something Sam never seemed to understand.
Sometimes, Dean hoped he never would.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam rolled his feet as he walked, a trick his father had taught them, careful not to carelessly crush the leaves and twigs that would give his position away. Movement was a calculated risk in a situation like this - motion drew the eye, the subtle noise of branches sliding around something that didn’t belong catching the ear. It was safest to time advances through the brush as the wind blew, but it obscured the hearing, allowing someone to sneak up if ears weren’t kept open and ready.
Sam squatted low behind a fallen tree, closing his eyes for a second to remember what Dean had been wearing, what he’d done to get ready that morning.
Was he wearing those clunky boots he loved so much? The ones with the buckles that made that soft *tink* *tink* *tink* noise when he walked? Had he put on that watch Dad had got him? The one that had the wide face that reflected the light of the sun when he hung his arm out the window of the Impala as he drove? Had he filled the car before he drove out here, leaving him with the subtle scent of gasoline seeping from his pores?
Without even thinking about it, Sam sniffed delicately, scenting for his brother who always smelled of cheap soap, gasoline and, all too often, Cheetoes. When he opened his eyes, he caught a sudden flash of light off to his left and turned, firing several rounds at the spot. *zing* *zing* *zing* Sam slunk over, hiding behind a ridge of rock until he could see if he’d gotten a killing shot.
Dean’s watch hung off a broken tree branch, twinkling teasingly in the scattered rays of sunlight trickling through the leaves, bright spots of day-glo orange paint speckling its face.
Fuck. It was a trap.
Sam ducked as a paint pellet *zing*ed by his ear, spatters of yellow flecking his cheek as the pellet burst against the rock by his head. As Sam rolled, he shot blindly in the direction the pellets had come, hoping to distract Dean as he tried to regain his footing.
Once on his feet, Sam darted down the hill, twining recklessly through the trees as Dean crashed after him, the sound of pellets whizzing by his head a musical accompaniment to Sam’s panting breaths as splashes of yellow appeared randomly around him. He felt a sharp sting in his shoulder, but kept running, leaping over a fallen trunk disguised by the brush.
Sam ducked to the right, rolling around the back of a tree and stilling as the sound of Dean’s pursuit suddenly paused, his big brother hidden from sight by the angle of the hill. Sam heard a hesitant rustle as Dean considered following him down the incline, but then the soft shuffling melted back into the trees. Dean had lost him.
Sam reached over his shoulder, rubbing vainly at the sting. His fingers came away swathed in yellow. He’d gotten hit. If this were real, his shooting arm would be useless.
Fuck. He’d gotten sloppy. It had been too long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Damn, that kid could run like a deer.
Dean rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that threatened to trickle into his eyes as his t-shirt clung damply to his back. He had expected Sam to trip over his own feet, as he had been doing lately even when just crossing the room. Sam was adjusting to his freakishly mal-proportioned limbs at a quicker rate than Dean had thought.
Dean casually swiped at his thigh, smearing the orange paint over his pant leg. Sam had gotten a lucky hit while he was running.
What was that saying? God smiled on idiots and children?
Dean smirked, snorting a laugh. Sam had both those avenues covered. Now to find where the little bitch was hiding - god-damned kid stained his favorite pair of jeans.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean heard something unexpected as he crept silently through the woods - girls. Girls laughing, as a matter of fact. Girls laughing and music playing and water splashing.
He peeked through the scrub brush and saw the sandy shore of a small water-filled quarry, the steep gray rock cliffs reflecting in the black expanse of water. A group of high school kids was spread out along what passed for the beach, bikini-clad girls lying out on beach towels as the boys played roughly in the water.
Hot damn - Christmas came early this year. This was a pleasant surprise.
Dean plastered on his most charming smile, pulling off his goggles and tucking his paint gun into the back of his pants, hiding it under his shirt as he sauntered out to greet the lovely ladies in obvious need of Dean Winchester’s company.
“Why, hello, ladies,” Dean crooned charismatically, eyes taking in the scenario so enticingly laid out before him. “Is this a party?”
The girls glanced at each other with subdued giggles. One of the braver ones piped up, “What’s your name? You’re that new guy in town, aren’t you? Drive that cool black car?” She coyly tilted her head, allowing a blonde curl to drape artfully over her shoulder as she leaned back on her hands, chest arched forward provocatively.
Dean nodded, appreciating the pose, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “I love a lady who can recognize a fine automobile.”
Dean reached out, brushing his fingers along the glistening skin of her bare arm for just a second as he tucked the stray curl of hair back over her shoulder, making her flush a little from the attention. “My name’s Dean.”
“Dean, can you rub some of this lotion on my back?” another girl asked, her eyes flashing triumphantly at the first girl as he turned away. “The boys are too busy to help us out when we need it.”
“No problem at all,” Dean agreed smoothly, squatting beside her as she lay out on her belly.
The girl skillfully unsnapped the back of her bikini with an off-hand, “I don’t want tan lines.”
Dean smirked, his eyes growing heated in a way that had nothing to do with the stultifying temperatures, “I dunno about that. Tan lines can be intriguing.”
Spreading the cream over the girl’s skin, Dean allowed his fingers to sculpt the lines of the girl’s soft muscles, kneading gently at the skin along her lower back, the tips of his fingers barely brushing under the edge of the bikini still covering her hips. “Tan lines can let a guy know where the borders are, where it’s OK - or not OK - to explore….” He felt the girl quiver under his hand, biting back a grin of victory.
She was his. Now was the time to get her number…or maybe just ask her to take a walk with him in the shade of the trees behind them.
Dean felt a sudden frisson of unease at the reminder of the wall of foliage curtaining the quarry, remembering vaguely that there was something he should be worried about.
*zing**zing**zing**zing*
A series of sharp stings made its way up his spine, followed by what felt like a slap to the back of his head. The girls around him squealed as orange paint spattered over their bare skin.
A loud burst of familiar giggles came from a nearby tree, the voice breaking in the midst of the merriment. Dean slowly glanced up, noting Sam’s scrawny long legs dangling from a tree branch.
Thirteen year olds have no sense of dignity. It’s my duty as big brother to kill him to save him the embarrassment.
“Like a buck to a salt-lick, Dean!” Sam crowed jubilantly. “I knew there was no way in hell you wouldn’t sniff this out!” Sam continued giggling, nearly falling out of the tree as it became harder to catch his breath. “Prime bait to catch a Dean Winchester!”
Sam’s giggles grew higher pitched between snorts of enjoyment.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Dean said off-handedly. “I have to go kill my little brother.”
Dean gracefully leapt to his feet, running over to the tree and scrambling up the rough bark to grab a low hanging branch. Sam eeped in surprise when the tree shook, opening his teary eyes to see a very peeved Dean grabbing for his ankle. With a girlish shriek, Sam tried to yank his leg out of reach, but Dean clamped down on his brother’s bony ankle and tugged, pulling him forcefully out of the tree before they both fell to the ground with muffled thuds.
Sam yelped like a squashed puppy as he took the full weight of Dean on top of him, his brother pausing in mid-flattening to punch him on the shoulder with more force than necessary. “You win, squirt. Now you get to walk home.”
“Dean!” Sam squealed, giggling even harder as his brother started tickling him mercilessly. “That’s not fair!”
“When am I ever fair?” Dean asked him with a teasing grin. “Maybe I’ll let you ride home in the trunk.”
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (bad language)
Genre: TeenWinchesters/gen/pre-series
Characters: TeenSam and TeenDean
Summary: Dean takes Sam for a little training session.
Author's Note: Thank you to
tigriswolf for her beta-ing skills. Kripke owns The Boys, even at this age. It's fluff, people. No monsters, no evil John, just brothers having fun.
The Most Dangerous Game - in Technicolor
Condensation had gathered along the edges of the windows from the endlessly humming air conditioner fighting vainly to push back the heat pressing in on all sides. Sam drew an abstract pattern in the dampness - something that could have been a ritualistic sigil, an algebraic equation, or even a naked lady from where Dean was standing - before the droplets of water ran down the pane, leaving streaks of clear glass through Sam’s artistic endeavors.
“I don’t wanna go,” Sam whined, his voice cracking slightly at the end. “It’s too hot. Why do we have to anyway?”
“Because you shoot like a girl, Sammy,” Dean explained with a laugh. “And Dad told me you need the practice.”
Sam pressed his face against the window, a hand on either side to support him as he tried to see if he could leave an image of himself behind. He pulled back, watching the steam from his breath fading as the oily prints from his nose, forehead and palms left a wide-eyed Sam shape staring accusingly back at him, clawing its way through the window.
Sam muttered loudly, “If I recall correctly, Francie could outshoot you with one hand tied behind her back.”
“Annie Oakley incarnate doesn’t count. She even shot better than Dad.” Dean snickered, arching an eyebrow at his petulant little brother. “You’re no Francie, even if your hair does make you look like her little sister.”
Dean cast an eye over at Sam, who had slumped into the ratty armchair by the window with a grimace creasing his young face, his glowering eyes nearly obscured by the tangled curtain of his bangs. Dean took a breath before wandering over to smack Sam on the arm. “C’mon. You’ve been beggin’ to get out of this motel for a week now. Don’t be such a pussy.”
The grimace lightened just a little, and Dean knew he was winning Sam over. “C’mon, Sam. This is gonna be fun.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“All right, Sammy,” Dean said as they walked their way through the woods, leaving the Impala sheltered in the high brush lining the road behind them. “You know the rules.”
Dean passed his brother a pair of goggles, watching as he slipped them over his eyes before doing the same. “Headshots allowed - winning point has to be a lethal hit. None of that pansy-ass shoulder or leg wound crap you try to pull on me.”
Sam nodded solemnly, his hazel eyes looking larger and more vulnerable behind the wide plastic lenses. “You’ve got extra ammo in your pack and you’ve got your gun, so you’re all set, right?” Dean asked, mentally checking off the list of necessary equipment needed in the field.
Sam nodded once more, sweat dampening the hair at his temples as he stumbled over a rock hidden in the grass. Sam’s recent growth spurt had left him all gawky angles and coltish length of limb, with none of the grace he’d had just a couple of months before. Dean reached out hand and placed it on Sam’s lower back to steady him. “When I say, ‘Go’, it’s time for the hunt to begin.”
“I know, Dean,” Sam snorted with impatience. “I’m not an idiot. I remember the rules.”
“Oh?” Dean asked with a small grin. The hand at Sam’s spine that had been gently guiding him along suddenly grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over Sam’s head, leaving him tangled in the sweaty darkness of his own t-shirt as Dean’s voice called out gleefully, “Go!” Running feet disappeared into the thickness of the forest, the soft moss deafening Dean’s footfalls in a matter of seconds.
Sam struggled to put his t-shirt to rights, his breath coming faster at the odd silence of the wooded glade. He glanced around, eyes skirting the shadows before his jaw tightened and he loped off in the direction he had last heard his brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a training exercise that Dad had taught them, trying to take their competitive natures and use them to their advantage - making a game out of hunting and of hunting each other. It had worked, though as they’d grown some of the early fun had evolved into an insatiable desire to prove who was better, who could win first and fastest and most often.
Dad had put an end to it when they’d nearly killed each other a couple years ago, keeping the hunt going when a flurry of snow had hit, refusing to give in until one of them came out the victor. He’d grabbed them both by the backs of their necks when he’d finally tracked them down, not an easy feat with an eleven and fifteen year old, and shook them sharply, pulling his hands away when he realized his terror over nearly losing them both was being taken out on his boys. He’d reminded them it was supposed to be a game, just a training exercise, and had forbidden them from ever doing it again.
Apparently, Dean had felt it was time to start up once more.
Sam molded himself against a nearby tree, pausing to take a breath, trying to remember what it was like to live in Dean’s head.
Dean was strong, had more muscle than he did, knew how to use the body he’d grown into. Sam was still learning, unsure of his reach, his balance, his own strength.
Dean was impatient, liked to jump in, take ‘em by surprise, get it over with using a quick punch or even quicker shot. Sam preferred to wait, looking for weaknesses, trying to outwait their own eagerness, weighing all options before making his final move.
Dean was pure instinct, trusting the twist of his gut over common sense. Sam weighed the odds, taking chances that had a high probability of success behind them.
Dean was a cobra, striking fast and deep - Sam was a boa, patiently constricting until there was no way out.
As Sam released his breath he fell quickly to his knees, a sharp *zing* *zing* whistling by his ear and splattering into a colored explosion of yellow paint against the bark of the tree where he’d just been leaning. Sam crawled over to a barrier of brush, his eyes tracing the path of the paintball pellets to see his brother’s back fading into the trees.
Damn. Dean was trying to end this quickly, force him out of hiding while he was still adjusting to the game.
Dean forgot whom he was dealing with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam was exactly where Dean knew he’d be, hugging a tree and going all zen in the wilderness. Dean snorted. Sammy was so predictable.
Sam had grown, but he was clumsy. Farther reach, but uncoordinated, no muscle to balance it out. His growth spurt made his aim shaky as he tried to learn how to adjust his sights.
Sam didn’t take risks - would spend all day strategizing rather than getting down to it. Dean didn’t see the point in waiting if you had a good chance of winning. Waiting gave your opponent time to come up with a plan of attack.
Sam was smart - couldn’t risk giving him that time to plan. Take him out fast, when he was still unsettled and trying to figure things out.
This was hunting and hunting was action. Sure, planning was useful, but the opportunity didn’t come up very often. You had to think fast, think on your feet, learn to adapt to rapidly changing situations, or you could die.
That was something Sam never seemed to understand.
Sometimes, Dean hoped he never would.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam rolled his feet as he walked, a trick his father had taught them, careful not to carelessly crush the leaves and twigs that would give his position away. Movement was a calculated risk in a situation like this - motion drew the eye, the subtle noise of branches sliding around something that didn’t belong catching the ear. It was safest to time advances through the brush as the wind blew, but it obscured the hearing, allowing someone to sneak up if ears weren’t kept open and ready.
Sam squatted low behind a fallen tree, closing his eyes for a second to remember what Dean had been wearing, what he’d done to get ready that morning.
Was he wearing those clunky boots he loved so much? The ones with the buckles that made that soft *tink* *tink* *tink* noise when he walked? Had he put on that watch Dad had got him? The one that had the wide face that reflected the light of the sun when he hung his arm out the window of the Impala as he drove? Had he filled the car before he drove out here, leaving him with the subtle scent of gasoline seeping from his pores?
Without even thinking about it, Sam sniffed delicately, scenting for his brother who always smelled of cheap soap, gasoline and, all too often, Cheetoes. When he opened his eyes, he caught a sudden flash of light off to his left and turned, firing several rounds at the spot. *zing* *zing* *zing* Sam slunk over, hiding behind a ridge of rock until he could see if he’d gotten a killing shot.
Dean’s watch hung off a broken tree branch, twinkling teasingly in the scattered rays of sunlight trickling through the leaves, bright spots of day-glo orange paint speckling its face.
Fuck. It was a trap.
Sam ducked as a paint pellet *zing*ed by his ear, spatters of yellow flecking his cheek as the pellet burst against the rock by his head. As Sam rolled, he shot blindly in the direction the pellets had come, hoping to distract Dean as he tried to regain his footing.
Once on his feet, Sam darted down the hill, twining recklessly through the trees as Dean crashed after him, the sound of pellets whizzing by his head a musical accompaniment to Sam’s panting breaths as splashes of yellow appeared randomly around him. He felt a sharp sting in his shoulder, but kept running, leaping over a fallen trunk disguised by the brush.
Sam ducked to the right, rolling around the back of a tree and stilling as the sound of Dean’s pursuit suddenly paused, his big brother hidden from sight by the angle of the hill. Sam heard a hesitant rustle as Dean considered following him down the incline, but then the soft shuffling melted back into the trees. Dean had lost him.
Sam reached over his shoulder, rubbing vainly at the sting. His fingers came away swathed in yellow. He’d gotten hit. If this were real, his shooting arm would be useless.
Fuck. He’d gotten sloppy. It had been too long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Damn, that kid could run like a deer.
Dean rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that threatened to trickle into his eyes as his t-shirt clung damply to his back. He had expected Sam to trip over his own feet, as he had been doing lately even when just crossing the room. Sam was adjusting to his freakishly mal-proportioned limbs at a quicker rate than Dean had thought.
Dean casually swiped at his thigh, smearing the orange paint over his pant leg. Sam had gotten a lucky hit while he was running.
What was that saying? God smiled on idiots and children?
Dean smirked, snorting a laugh. Sam had both those avenues covered. Now to find where the little bitch was hiding - god-damned kid stained his favorite pair of jeans.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean heard something unexpected as he crept silently through the woods - girls. Girls laughing, as a matter of fact. Girls laughing and music playing and water splashing.
He peeked through the scrub brush and saw the sandy shore of a small water-filled quarry, the steep gray rock cliffs reflecting in the black expanse of water. A group of high school kids was spread out along what passed for the beach, bikini-clad girls lying out on beach towels as the boys played roughly in the water.
Hot damn - Christmas came early this year. This was a pleasant surprise.
Dean plastered on his most charming smile, pulling off his goggles and tucking his paint gun into the back of his pants, hiding it under his shirt as he sauntered out to greet the lovely ladies in obvious need of Dean Winchester’s company.
“Why, hello, ladies,” Dean crooned charismatically, eyes taking in the scenario so enticingly laid out before him. “Is this a party?”
The girls glanced at each other with subdued giggles. One of the braver ones piped up, “What’s your name? You’re that new guy in town, aren’t you? Drive that cool black car?” She coyly tilted her head, allowing a blonde curl to drape artfully over her shoulder as she leaned back on her hands, chest arched forward provocatively.
Dean nodded, appreciating the pose, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “I love a lady who can recognize a fine automobile.”
Dean reached out, brushing his fingers along the glistening skin of her bare arm for just a second as he tucked the stray curl of hair back over her shoulder, making her flush a little from the attention. “My name’s Dean.”
“Dean, can you rub some of this lotion on my back?” another girl asked, her eyes flashing triumphantly at the first girl as he turned away. “The boys are too busy to help us out when we need it.”
“No problem at all,” Dean agreed smoothly, squatting beside her as she lay out on her belly.
The girl skillfully unsnapped the back of her bikini with an off-hand, “I don’t want tan lines.”
Dean smirked, his eyes growing heated in a way that had nothing to do with the stultifying temperatures, “I dunno about that. Tan lines can be intriguing.”
Spreading the cream over the girl’s skin, Dean allowed his fingers to sculpt the lines of the girl’s soft muscles, kneading gently at the skin along her lower back, the tips of his fingers barely brushing under the edge of the bikini still covering her hips. “Tan lines can let a guy know where the borders are, where it’s OK - or not OK - to explore….” He felt the girl quiver under his hand, biting back a grin of victory.
She was his. Now was the time to get her number…or maybe just ask her to take a walk with him in the shade of the trees behind them.
Dean felt a sudden frisson of unease at the reminder of the wall of foliage curtaining the quarry, remembering vaguely that there was something he should be worried about.
*zing**zing**zing**zing*
A series of sharp stings made its way up his spine, followed by what felt like a slap to the back of his head. The girls around him squealed as orange paint spattered over their bare skin.
A loud burst of familiar giggles came from a nearby tree, the voice breaking in the midst of the merriment. Dean slowly glanced up, noting Sam’s scrawny long legs dangling from a tree branch.
Thirteen year olds have no sense of dignity. It’s my duty as big brother to kill him to save him the embarrassment.
“Like a buck to a salt-lick, Dean!” Sam crowed jubilantly. “I knew there was no way in hell you wouldn’t sniff this out!” Sam continued giggling, nearly falling out of the tree as it became harder to catch his breath. “Prime bait to catch a Dean Winchester!”
Sam’s giggles grew higher pitched between snorts of enjoyment.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Dean said off-handedly. “I have to go kill my little brother.”
Dean gracefully leapt to his feet, running over to the tree and scrambling up the rough bark to grab a low hanging branch. Sam eeped in surprise when the tree shook, opening his teary eyes to see a very peeved Dean grabbing for his ankle. With a girlish shriek, Sam tried to yank his leg out of reach, but Dean clamped down on his brother’s bony ankle and tugged, pulling him forcefully out of the tree before they both fell to the ground with muffled thuds.
Sam yelped like a squashed puppy as he took the full weight of Dean on top of him, his brother pausing in mid-flattening to punch him on the shoulder with more force than necessary. “You win, squirt. Now you get to walk home.”
“Dean!” Sam squealed, giggling even harder as his brother started tickling him mercilessly. “That’s not fair!”
“When am I ever fair?” Dean asked him with a teasing grin. “Maybe I’ll let you ride home in the trunk.”