RockStarPeach

Title: Happy Campers
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: The boys take a little time out for a camping trip. It doesn't go exactly like Dean remembers it going in the past. Sam seems to be having a pretty good time, though.
Rating: R
Word count: 2300
A/N: Written for and originally posted over at spnspringfling, for queerly_it_is.


***

“What the hell is this?” Dean asks, looking down at the picnic table in front of him where Sam has tossed an old Styrofoam container he fished out of the trunk. Jagged, green leaves are spilling out over the edges and there’s a meagre collection of reddish-grey berries plopped on top. His nose crinkles as he reaches out to cautiously poke at the container with one finger.

“Food,” Sam says, dropping down onto the bench across from Dean with his own supper. Sam’s is in an empty margarine tub and Dean’s not even sure where he got that from. The last time he remembers buying margarine was about fifteen years ago. “And you’re welcome, jerk.”

“This isn’t food, Sam,” Dean counters, his mouth dropping open slightly in disgust as Sam grabs up some leaves in his fingers and shovels them into his mouth. “This is the stuff that food eats. This is… weeds. Seriously, is that dandelion?”

“You’re just jealous because I actually found something,” Sam says, doesn’t care that his mouth is full and the words sound muffled. Dean managed to step in some poison ivy on his own foraging expedition and his leg itches like a motherfucker, now. Plus, he lost the few raspberries he managed to scrounge off a bush nearby to the local forest life.

“That rabbit was huge!” Dean says, because in his own defense, it was. Dean had jumped back and tripped, dropped the berries onto the ground when it sprang out from behind a tree. Not like he was running away or anything, but the thing practically went for his face! Wasn’t Dean’s fault the fucker just hopped on over and helped himself after that. “With teeth and claws and shit. Came out of nowhere.”

“It was a bunny, Dean,” Sam grins. “I’m pretty sure it just wanted to snuggle.”

“Screw you.”

“Eat.”

Dean does, carefully curls his fingers around one leaf and uses it to pick up a couple of the berries. He sticks the whole thing into his mouth and his face contorts as he chews, tongue pushing the rubbery mess around before he forces himself to swallow against the bitterness. It’s disgusting. He should have picked up a package of hot dogs from the Gas ‘N’ Sip in town, but Sam had distracted him by bending over to grab something off the bottom shelf and they ended up leaving with only marshmallows and beer.

“Dude, camping sucks.”

***

“Fuck. Did you get one of those trick tents?” Dean curses, works one of the poles through a series of flaps that might be – but probably aren’t – the right ones. He hammers a peg into the ground and squints at the way the tent leans to one side, like he can somehow magically right it if he wishes hard enough.

“Did I what?” Sam laughs and the fucker doesn’t bother getting up from where he’s sitting on his big fat lazy ass in one of their folding chairs, wrapped in his own coat, plus Dean’s. “Dean, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a ‘trick tent’. You just suck at this.”

“Whatever, man. The sun’s in my eyes. Can’t see what I’m doing.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and cocks his head toward the treeline. The treeline that’s about six feet away and seventy degrees up and even if it wasn’t pushing seven o’clock in the evening, the sun would have a hard time being a problem.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, grabs at what he thinks is the front of the tent and yanks on it, trying to at least straighten out the floor. He has to start all over again when he realises that the tent door is facing down and he grunts and kicks at it with the steel toe of his boot. “And you could help, you know.”

“Nuh uh, man,” Sam says, grinning as he pops another one of those weird-ass berries in his mouth. “Can’t pass up dinner and a show.”

“You’re an asshole,” Dean says, scowling as he rips the pole out of the ground and the tent collapses. “And camping sucks.”

***

Thing is, Dean used to like camping.

Back when him and Sam were kids and they’d fuck off to the woods for a few days while dad was on a hunt, they used to have a blast. Hell, even as recently as a few years ago it was a guaranteed good time. Getting away from it all, living off the land (and the cooler full of junk food) and just chilling the fuck out. There aren’t actually as many monsters in the woods as there are in cities and towns and Dean used to like the time off. He used to like sleeping under the stars and swimming naked in lakes and roasting hotdogs over a fire.

Now though, he’s considering taking back every nice thing he ever said about camping.

He flicks his lighter for probably the fifth time and hums some Metallica under his breath as encouragement as he uses the map from the glove box to fan the small flame. The pile of twigs catches fire briefly but goes out just as fast, smothered by the larger branches on top of them.

It’s not his fault; the wood is damp from the rain this afternoon and it’s too windy out and Sam is still fucking laughing at him. Only now he’s doing it with beer.

“Dude, you can’t even start a fire with a lighter? How is that possible?”

Dean narrows his eyes and grits his teeth, tries a sixth time, then a seventh and he’s about two seconds away from grabbing the lighter fluid from the trunk. Thankfully the bed of singed twigs is hot enough, though and some bark on one of the larger branches manages to catch a flame. Dean backs away slowly and he breathes a sigh of relief as he holds his hands out over the growing fire to warm them up.

It’s fucking cold out, but the fire is hot. He lets the hard line of his mouth crack into the beginnings of a smile. The fire will be big enough to keep away the chills soon and he’s got a case of beer at his arm and his brother folded into a chair next to him with his lips glistening and parted around the mouth of a bottle. That sight always helps his mood.

And the tent’s up now, sturdy (Dean hopes) and it’ll shield them from the wind and dew and Dean’s belly is full because he found some old Twinkies in the back of the trunk and it’s a clear night. Peaceful. Maybe camping’s not so bad.

“Hey?” Dean says, looking over to Sam and gesturing with his elbow at the fire. “How you like me now?”

Sam rolls his eyes but they’re still crinkled at the corners and those damn dimples of his are deep as ever. Christ, that shit should be illegal.

“Yes, Dean,” Sam answers. “Very manly. I’m all aflutter.”

“Damn right you are,” Dean says. When he gets up to grab the bag of marshmallows out of the back of the Impala, the fire collapses. Thick black smoke billows up, smothering the flames and he coughs, waves a hand in front of his face when it clouds his lungs.

Dean stands there for a full minute, staring in slack-jawed awe at the failed fire while Sam laughs, a deep belly laugh like Dean hasn’t heard in a long time and that makes it almost worth it.

Almost.

“Camping sucks,” he mumbles, kicking at the ring of heavy stone around the pit before he steals the bottle of beer straight out of Sam’s hand. “So much ass.”

***

They’re down at the beach, lying flat on a rickety picnic table with their legs bent at the knees and their feet hanging down, dragging squiggly patterns through the sand. Sam is pressed up against his side with Dean’s hand on Sam’s thigh, fingers playing over the inside seam of his jeans. Sam still hasn’t given him back his jacket, but that’s okay. The body heat they’re generating is more than enough and they pass a bottle of beer back and forth while they look up at the sky.

It’s Dean’s thing, the stargazing. Sam enjoys it well enough, Dean figures, but mostly he does it to make Dean happy. Because okay, Dean probably won’t ever admit it out loud, but Sam can be pretty awesome sometimes. Sometimes.

They don’t say anything for a long time, just breathe together, slide closer, tighter and eventually Sam shuffles down, fits himself between Dean’s thighs with his mouth over Dean’s hardening cock and Dean closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, opens his legs a little wider to encourage Sam when he starts to work his zipper down, pull him out. He’ll return the favour later, maybe do that thing with Sam’s nipples he’s always asking for because a blow job under the stars? Just about the best thing ever and Sam deserves a serious reward for this. “Fuck yeah.”

“Mmmm,” Sam moans as his head lowers, hot breath over Dean’s tip and Dean savours the moment, the anticipation stretching it out and he’s about two seconds away from sheer bliss.

Which, of course, is when a deafening clap of thunder sounds, loud and jarring overhead and the sky starts to spit, heavy and wet fast, down on them. Sam shrieks and pulls away and they both look up again. It’s so dark all they can see is shadows, outlines of where the stars used to be as the storm clouds roll in, fast and furious like something out of a movie.

Sam scrambles up and makes a break for the their campsite, Dean stomping after him with the rain drops landing in a thud thud thud on his head and his shoulders and his boots.

Camping sucks.

Which at this point, goes without saying.

***

“This used to be fun,” Dean says, shifting his weight as he tries to work his hip into a groove of soft dirt, instead of the pointed edge of a rock. They’ve got their sleeping bags zipped together to make one big one and he’s got his arms wrapped around Sam, one hand splayed flat on Sam’s belly and the other playing in his over-long hair. Seriously, when was the last time the guy hit up a barber? “Right? Or is that just my nostalgia talking?”

The ground is jagged and cold and the thin layers of nylon and matted up polyester aren’t doing much to protect his aging bones from the earth’s sharp angles and hard, uncomfortably flat presence.

“Still can be,” Sam tells him, smiling as he rolls over onto his back, curling close to Dean and shifting so his thigh is pressed against Dean’s groin. Dean sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and his cock twitches against Sam’s warm skin. “Maybe it’s not the Ritz, but we’ve done it in worse places. And we’ve always been pretty good at making it fun.”

He fits one gigantic palm around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him down.

Dean goes willingly – how the hell is he supposed to resist when Sam is kissing him like that, wrapping his legs around Dean’s hips and rocking up against him? Jesus Christ, Dean’s never in his whole life been able to turn that down, can’t now either, even with the hard dirt under the tent cutting bruises into his knees and elbows.

He’s still wet and cold from the rain, even though they’re both stripped down to nothing and his stomach is rumbling once again (apparently dandelions and Twinkies don’t cut it) and he’s sore and tired and not nearly drunk enough.

None of that matters, though when Sam slides a hand down Dean’s side and rests it on his hip, digs his heels into the backs of Dean’s calves and pulls Dean tight against him, over and over until they’re both achingly hard.

“Mmm,” Dean agrees. “Yeah, that’s… AH! Pretty… good. Fun. Lots and lots of…”

He trails off, babbling a little and grunting into his brother’s neck as he fucks down against him. It’s not long before they’re working in rhythm, Dean meets Sam’s upward thrusts and they’re pressed flush together, friction and slick and warmth pushing them over into heaven. The good kind.

“Dude,” Dean says, panting and he wriggles his hips a little, settles deeper into the V of Sam’s thighs and he rests his weight over his brother as they both start to soften, the heavy in and out of air to their lungs slowing and deepening. “Did you get better at that since Boise?”

They were in Boise less than a week ago, so chances are no, Sam hasn’t gotten better at sex since then. Plus, Sam`s usually about as good at it as someone can get, so getting better than that is kind of impossible. Still, Dean’s loose and tingly and feeling good for the first time since they pulled into this godforsaken camp site, so he’s gotta ask.

Sam just laughs him off, takes Dean’s head between his hands and kisses him, slow and deep.

“I love camping,” Sam finally says, when they’ve been quiet for a while. His words are low and pulled tight around a smile and he holds Dean tighter. “Being out here in the woods, all nature and fresh air and survival skills… It’s kinda hot, watching you try so hard. And hotter when you suck at it. Makes me frisky.”

Sam’s teasing should piss him off, at least a little. It should, but Sam sounds so happy and they’re both lazy and sated and he’s still snuggled squarely between Sam’s legs – which incidentally is his favourite place to be, ever – and so long as this is the reaction he gets, Sam can laugh at him all he likes.

“Yeah, you know what?” Dean asks, finally shifting off Sam and rolling to the side, one arm slung up over his head and completely unconcerned for his naked, sticky state. “I changed my mind. Camping is awesome.”

END