Title: 'Watchin' The Sun Bake' (Thank you, J. Buffett)
Summary: Quote prompt from wynefred o'er at spnquotefic (whole shebang found here.)
Prompt: 2.03 'Bloodlust'--DEAN: "So much f-d up crap happens in Florida."
Characters: Sam, Dean, Elvis
Disclaimer: 'Supernatural' is not my creation. Would that it were. All characters used with great appreciation to Kripke and Company. Amen.
Warnings: Pfft, nuthin'. I said this was fluffle!
Comments are love... :D
The Impala stretched like a big black shark under the baking sun. Its wheels were half-sunk in sand, buffets of salty air throwing a dull coat on the flanks of the car. The windows were down. Swaying from the rearview mirror by a pink ribbon was a plastic gewgaw of Minnie Mouse in a polka-dot bikini; she drifted lazily back and forth to the shushing of the surf. The boys had picked her up just outside of Celebration because Dean thought they needed some memento, some token of commercial Disneyfication to commemorate their brush with The Happiest Place on Earth. Sam had every intention of throwing Minnie from the moving car as soon as Dean turned his head. Music was playing…one of Dean’s old cassettes. Wasn’t the best quality, but then who needed high fidelity when you had Nazareth wailing a whisky-soaked lament of how much “love hurts” and “love scars”. Sounded better with wear and tear anyway.
Smugging to himself, Dean cracked open the cooler and reached a hand inside. Whoever decided parking on the beach was a good idea should be given the Nobel Peace Prize. God damned genius.
He and Sam deserved this sabbatical, after all the witches, the wendigos, the whacked-out poltergeists. They earned a week off to dig their toes in the hot sand and bake like Idaho spuds, well-salted and buttered. As opposed to their standard solution for most things-that-went-bump-in-the-night, well salted and burned. Dean, however, was fairly certain he was getting a sunburn out of the deal. He always freckled and fried in the sun, unlike Sammy who even now, stretched out beside him in jeans and bare feet, shirt waddled up behind his head, was turning a sweaty shade of tan.
“Beer?” Dean pulled his hand from the cooler, green bottles threaded through his fingers. Yeah, sure you weren’t supposed to have hooch on the beach but it didn’t faze the locals so it didn’t faze the Winchesters. Sam responded by flopping a long arm back, palm up, fingers twitching in an unspoken “gimme”. Huffing an inconvenienced sigh, Dean hauled forward from his cheap lawn chair to plant a beer in his brother’s hand.
“There ya go, your highness.”
The boys settled into a sleepy, alcohol-fuzzed lull, broken only by the occasional passing of footfalls, a family dog barking, tunes from someone else’s radio. Dean had a sixth sense when it came to passers-by; he could suss out a pretty girl’s step with pinpoint accuracy. He would tap Sam on the top of his shaggy head with one toe and chuff appreciatively. Sure enough, a blonde babe, a smokin’ red-head…Dean’s radar was deadly. And behind the mirrored highway-patrol aviators, no one could tell he was merrily leering.
But when Dean grunted out his brother’s name, all low and uncomfortable-like, Sam exerted the effort to come up on one elbow. A brunette bombshell with perky nipples this time? Not so much. Dean’s jaw went slack. His head slowly pivoted as he tracked the path of a particular beach-goer.
The man that lumbered by was easily as wide as he was tall, a ponderous belly swelling over what little could be seen of a yellow Speedo, making the garment a well and true ‘banana hammock’. His skin was the color of raw steak except under the man-boobs and arm pits. There, it was a jaundiced off-white that made the sunburn look doubly brutal. And all over, it glistened, oily as a marinated olive. Dean scratched at his own shirtless chest in almost-sympathy.
A sweeping jet-black pompadour with powerful sideburns…more impressive than Sam’s, even…gomped onto the man’s corpulent head. Not even the coastal wind could dislodge more than a few errant strands.
Sam’s eyes pinched into slits, a vertical gouge digging between the brows. “Dude, Elvis…has not left the building…”
As Dean’s beer nearly slipped through his fingers, he issued a strangled sound from his throat that was evidently a chortle trying to make a break for it. Either that or heat stroke.
The boys watched, in tandem, as not-Elvis strolled off down the strand, proud of his pompadour, his marigold Speedo, his bad self. They watched the man’s broad cheeks twitch until he was too far away to make out detail. A lonely gull cried. The surf murmured its soft tattoo. And Dean settled back onto his lawn chair, crossing legs at ankles and taking a pull off his beer.
“Sammy, So much f-d up crap happens in Florida..”
“Yes, yes it does, Dean.”
The boys resumed their sweltering, sand-sticky silence and cat-napped their way through another six beers.