"You're such a fucking girl," Dean mutters, and Sam snorts, dragging his slick palm back over Dean's shoulders.
"You're the one with the sensitive skin."
"It's not sensitive. Just… I burn easy. Shut up." Dean feels his face go red, not from the sun, and he can feel the grin on Sam's face behind. "Anyway, you were the one who wanted to go on a goddamn vacation."
"Yeah, you're right. Time off is totally girly. Hold still, Dean, you're not done."
"I'm fine. Get off." He can feel other people watching—from a distance, along the shore, non-threatening, but… still watching. It makes him twitchy.
He tries to get up, and Sam shoves him back down by the hands on his shoulders, presses his mouth to the back of Dean's neck. Softly, he says, "We've barely been here two hours and you've already got freckles."
"I always have freckles," Dean mutters. "They just don't always show up."
Sam's done with the suntan lotion, has to be by now, but his hands are still there, strong thumbs digging into Dean's shoulders, drawing firm, oily lines. Dean grunts, drops his head, and Sam kisses the back of his neck again.
"We're in public," Dean argues.
"Yeah, and you need to relax. Calm down, okay? We've got nowhere to be, and nobody here gives a damn who we are. Relax."
Carefully, Dean forces out a breath, brushes sand off his palms. Sam's fingers tickle down his side, coming to rest above his hipbone.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, pulse tripping up a notch. "I'll relax. No problem."
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Sam/Dean - suntan lotion on sun-warmed skin, Dean's freckles, Sam's HANDS.
Date: 2009-07-29 10:35 pm (UTC)"You're the one with the sensitive skin."
"It's not sensitive. Just… I burn easy. Shut up." Dean feels his face go red, not from the sun, and he can feel the grin on Sam's face behind. "Anyway, you were the one who wanted to go on a goddamn vacation."
"Yeah, you're right. Time off is totally girly. Hold still, Dean, you're not done."
"I'm fine. Get off." He can feel other people watching—from a distance, along the shore, non-threatening, but… still watching. It makes him twitchy.
He tries to get up, and Sam shoves him back down by the hands on his shoulders, presses his mouth to the back of Dean's neck. Softly, he says, "We've barely been here two hours and you've already got freckles."
"I always have freckles," Dean mutters. "They just don't always show up."
Sam's done with the suntan lotion, has to be by now, but his hands are still there, strong thumbs digging into Dean's shoulders, drawing firm, oily lines. Dean grunts, drops his head, and Sam kisses the back of his neck again.
"We're in public," Dean argues.
"Yeah, and you need to relax. Calm down, okay? We've got nowhere to be, and nobody here gives a damn who we are. Relax."
Carefully, Dean forces out a breath, brushes sand off his palms. Sam's fingers tickle down his side, coming to rest above his hipbone.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, pulse tripping up a notch. "I'll relax. No problem."