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Home Alone-ish

And so it begins! Just setting up the scenario, but looks to be “Quarantine Weight” meets “Summer Fling”. I’m sure it’ll get meatier as it goes on. J2, SPN RPF, PG (so far). Hope I can keep this rolling! I have so much cute in mind.  (Also crossposting to Dreamwidth, and if I actually finish, I’ll put it all on AO3.)

This is just goddamned unfair.

It's a glorious, early summer day. A cloudlessly blue sky is hanging over Jensen's backyard, the hummingbirds are dodging around the feeder by the window, and he's stuck in his home office, working on the designs for some cattle baron's third vacation home. He knows he's lucky to have a job at all, honestly, but there are a few extenuating circumstances that are making it distinctly unfun to be slumped at his desk, chewing on a pen and staring balefully out the window.

Of course there's the coronavirus, so he can't do much of anything else. Shopping on-line has lost its dazzle. He hasn't been able to get to the gym and he hates his treadmill with every beat of his heart, so he's managed to put on the COVID-19 nineteen, most of which has settled around his now-pudgy midway.

And then there's Jared.

A year and a half ago, Jensen had purchased this old farmhouse for a song, and has steadfastly been renovating the interior ever since. It was a hot mess and slow going, but it's finally starting to look like a home instead of a musty-smelling Jenga of amateur additions—none of which were up to code—tacked on to the solid central bones of a 1909 Craftsman bungalow. Once the house proper was well underway, he had turned his attentions to the ten acres of rolling prairie he'd bought with it. Jensen isn't a landscape architect, not by a long shot, and he wanted his property to be as special as the house. He pawed through his company's virtual Rolodex until landing on Padalecki Landscaping. More importantly, on a picture of the owner's son, Jared.

Ragamuffin hair, Hollywood smile, shoulders wide enough to block out the sun. All things being equal, why not hire someone easy on the eyes? And, as it turned out, someone with the gravitational pull of a planet full of charisma. From the jump, Jensen felt the tingle of chemistry between them in all the right places. He'd already decided to ask Jared out, just as soon as their working relationship was wrapped up, when the pandemic hit. Goddamned social distancing. So entirely unfair.

Despite Zoom meetings and video calls and on-line game nights with his best friends, Jensen is lonely.

He sighs and pushes away from his desk, wandering to the kitchen to glare inside the 'fridge for a solid minute before grabbing a Coke. He shouldn't snack, he really shouldn't, but he snags a bag of chips anyways. He's feeling pitiful and self-indulgent.

Even though it's after noon, he hasn't changed out of his sleep pants. He's not altogether sure his jeans would fit right now anyways, so why bother. He's scratching his belly and absently considering the merits of adding butcherblock countertops when Jared's pickup rumbles across the horizon, the bed of the truck full of apple trees for the orchard. He watches as Jared parks, clambers out of the cab—all endless legs and sweaty shirt sticking to his back—and begins hauling the saplings to the ground. Even from this distance, Jensen can see the muscles working in Jared's arms, a slice of tanned skin when he bends over. Jensen is halfway through the bag of chips when he realizes he's not just lonely, but a fair amount of horny too...

Cabin Feeder

(Ha ha, see what I did there? So, I’m going to try to do a couple fills for @get-beached! this year. Already missed the first one, but snuck in, just in time, for an Original S’more. ~600 words, setting up the scenario. Sam, Dean, and an occasional cameo from Cas, so far, but we’ll see how it goes. Dean will be the one getting his chunk on. Prompt: too much of a good thing)

Also on AO3

PART ONE...

They'd been at the cabin all of a week, and Dean was already getting antsy.

“It's too quiet.”

“There are bugs, Sam. BUGS.”

“All this fresh air. It can't be good for a man. Please.”

“Does this look like poison ivy? I swear it's poison ivy ...”

Sam savored the quiet and the bugs and the relaxation, seeing deer when he went for his morning runs and watching the hawks drift on lazy currents overhead, but Dean seemed to need to be actively entertained. The only thing that shut him up was food, which, fortunately, was at least marginally rewarding to round up.  They could be actual, boring, civilian hunters for five hot minutes. And Dean, to Sam's surprise, was a damned good fisherman. Especially with a cooler full of beer.

So tonight, they were feasting on bass. And a batch of southern biscuits, and green beans Sam picked up from a roadside stand. Throw in more beer, as a food group? Dean was happy as a pig in mud.

Cas dropped by—like, literally, dropped in out of thin air—for a casual visit, and they were all gathered around the old table, sharing dinner. Even though Cas didn't have to eat, he said he enjoyed the green beans, however Sam noted Cas was oddly mindful of the fish, almost moony-eyed looking at the creatures in the frying pan. But Dean was chowing down like it was his new-found career.

The dinner was good, no question. And before long, Dean had dropped his fork to recline back in the chair, rubbing his over-full belly. It didn't bother him one bit to unfasten his belt and top button, much to Sam's amusement.

“Man, Sam. That was ...” Dean stifled a burp, “… I didn't know you could cook. Like, I know you do salads and, I dunno, granola and soy garden quinoa pucks or whatever, but man. Those biscuits? I swear, if I had room I'd eat ten more.”

“As you wish,” Cas said casually, and reached over to touch a single finger to Dean's midsection, right were his stomach was starting to press against his t-shirt in a noticeable bump. At first, Dean looked distinctly baffled, and Sam arched a brow himself, but then Dean grinned almost lecherously. At the biscuits. He chuckled and sat up and plopped another three on his plate, and began smothering them in butter and honey.

Sam gawked. “I thought—”

Dean rubbed his hands together and picked up his fork again, with a twirl. “Hey, I just had to let things settle a minute. Move down the ol' chute.”

“TMI, dude.”

“Actually,” Castiel butted in, “I relaxed your stomach and allowed for more … expansion and digestion. Eased the discomfort. You're welcome.”

“No shit? Well that's awesome!” Dean dug in merrily, and Sam had a thought.

If he kept Dean busy, with cooking and eating and napping and all the excellent things they well and truly deserved, maybe, just maybe, they could stay here for more than the summer. They weren't all that far from a decent sized town (it had a small college in it too), they had surprisingly good wifi, and the view of the lake from the back porch was amazing. There was even an unattached garage where they could stash the Impala, between the kayaks and fishing rods.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of their retirement. Sam let himself indulge in the idea, and figured he'd have to see how the summer shaped up. Dean might learn to love it here.

...to be continued...

Cabin Fever, chapter 2

Sam advances his retirement plans, makes a Dutch baby, and spills a few beans...

(Of course I take forever to get to the point. Slow belly burn, I guess?

This is my second installment for Get Beached!, the A Little Extra week, with these two mini-prompts: tubing/rafting and too-fat-for-last-year's-swimsuit, which I took a few liberties with. And didn't really focus on. Because I forgot which prompts I was using and it got to be a hot mess and feelier than I planned, but yeah. Enjoy, anyways? :D) Also on AO3...

June meandered into July. The weather got more sultry, and Sam found himself working in the cabin's kitchen to be an increasingly sweaty challenge. But he was also dedicated to the cause, and frankly, the temporary discomfort made for rewards that were obvious and visible. He knew he was on the right track.

They'd fallen into an easy pattern. Dean was starting to expect being fed three squares a day, navigating around a mid-afternoon siesta and fishing or leisurely canoeing or some other casual hobby, like making fancy lures. (The fastidiousness with which Dean could fashion an artificial fly was a marvel to behold, truly.) He'd putter around the cabin, doing odd jobs or the laundry or the dishes, while Sam planned next week's menu from old cookbooks left laying around the place. They'd met a few guys from the nearby village and had already gotten invited to their monthly poker game, which Sam was actually looking forward to. It was next Friday, in fact.

But for now, Sam was occupied with figuring out how to bake a Dutch baby, which was not, in truth, as grim as the name might've implied. It was some sort of hybrid pancake/crepe/popover thing, and Sam had sent Dean out in search of thimbleberries for the topping. Sam found the perfect, rounded cast iron skillet for the pastry among the eclectic array of pots and pans accumulated by the owners over the years, and he was just putting the experiment in the oven when Dean came in the door, the hem of his t-shirt lifted up to form a handy dandy thimbleberry sack.

He grinned a little sheepishly when Sam looked up. “Forgot a bag. So much for the shirt.” Which was true on more than one front: yes, the berries were staining the gray fabric purple, but also, the shirt was getting small … as witnessed by the distinct paunch Dean displayed over the tight pinch of his jeans. It was probably time to retire those, too, given the way his flanks squeezed over the top of the waistband. No need for a belt anymore.

He'd probably put on a good ten-fifteen pounds, if Sam had to guess. But it looked fitting on Dean. It smoothed his hard edges. He'd never seen Dean so laid-back, except that one time when he'd eaten the Leviathan-tainted turducken, and that sure as hell didn't count. This was genuine mellow. His cheeks were pink and his belly was soft and all was right with the world.

“There's a bowl on the table.” Sam pointed. “Brunch is in twenty. I hope.”

“What is this again? A <i>baby</i>?”

“That's what the book says.”

“Made with real babies?”

“Funny. Go change your shirt.”

Dean had just dumped the berries when his phone buzzed. Sam hoisted brows and Dean shrugged.

“Donna,” he said, after checking the caller ID. “Hey, D-light, gonna put you on speaker. Sam's here.” He hit a button and set the phone on the table.

“Heya, boys,” came her bright voice. “Got a question fer ya. Skunk apes. Whadya know?”

“Aren't they in Florida?” Dean noted, licking berry juice off his fingers.

“You don't think one could wander this far up north? From sightings, it's big and it's hairy and smells bad.”

“That there's a sasquatch spin-off. Sam's department.”

To which Sam gave Dean a look and wandered towards the table, wiping his hands on a towel. “Bipedal?”

“Yep.” “Sure it's not just some stoned hippie?”

Dean snorted and punched Sam in the shoulder.

“Yeah, smartypants,” Donna chuckled. “Terrified a whole 4-H camp last week. The parents are in a tizzy.”

“Okay, okay, serious business,” Sam continued, “well, the good part is, if it really is a skunk ape, they're easy to take out. Nothing special. Shotgun'll do the trick. They're scavengers, like to eat roadkill and carcasses and that sort of thing, so leave out some expired meat and … wait?”

“From a distance,” Dean volunteered.

“Ha ha, thanks, Captain Obvious,” Donna said.

“Why don't you tell Claire to tackle the fucker? Leave it to the noobs.”

“Y'know what? That's a great idea.”

Dean preened and Sam rolled his eyes. “Good luck, Donna.”

“Yeah, call us, let us know how it goes,” Dean added.

“You betcha. How you boys doing anyway? Enjoying your summer off?” Sam tried to be surreptitious, glancing sidelong at Dean. The proof was going to be in the pudding, as they say, and he left space for Dean to field the question. To Sam's relief, Dean didn't seem the wiser, and answered Donna with hardly a pause.

“It's pretty damned amazing. Hate to admit it, but I could get used to this. You should come over and visit some weekend.” And then he flashed a smile at Sam.

Sam wasn't sure how to read that. Did Dean … know? Or was this an earnest realization? Did it matter, either way? Sam returned the gesture on the bite of a lip. “Yeah, we've got an empty loft and enough beer to serve a small army. We'd love to have you.”

“Maybe I will! Be good, you guys.”

After Donna hung up, Dean lingered at the table, picking at the berries.

“You should maybe wash them? Could have bear pee—”

Dean immediately abandoned snacking and went to the sink with the bowl.

“So, Dean … ”

“Hmm?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. Sam plunged forward. “Did you mean that? You could get used to this? Because …”

Dean threw a glimpse to Sam, over his shoulder. “Yeah, dude. We should make this an annual thing!”

“Oh. Um, yeah.” “Like the Vegas trip, right?” “Right.”

Dean shook the berries into a colander and continued nibbling, offering Sam a handful.

“Thanks.” But really, what Sam meant was, 'Hey, we could move here and leave the biz and this could be our forever thing.' Guess he still had a little more coercing to do.

The timer on the oven buzzed and Dean perked up. When Sam took the pancake out of the oven, it was perhaps the most glorious thing he'd ever seen, short of the living, swirling iridescence of the human soul.

“Holy crap, Sam, that's … quite a baby.”

And it was. Once covered in berries and a sprinkle of powdered sugar per the recipe, Sam had every right to brag. It was rich as sin too, and while he managed to stuff down a goodly slice, Dean easily polished off the rest. And a big glass of milk. And the last of the berries. One Dutch baby: success.

Meanwhile, the sun had reached its apex, heating up the cabin to a fair swelter.

“You know what I want?” Sam said lazily, hands behind his head at the table.

“A poster of Vince Vincente for over your bed?”

“Well, apart from that. A swim.”

Dean looked vaguely surprised, rubbing the soft swell of his middle. “Aren't we supposed to wait an hour?”

“Not if we're just tubing.”

The surprise turned to appreciation. “I like the way you think, Sammy!”

Sam owned swim trunks, because of course he did, but Dean defiantly rebuked anything that resembled shorts. Until today.

At first he made noises about cutting off jeans, but Sam asserted the wise observation that they just didn't look comfortable, especially sopping wet. Dean couldn't argue.

“Try a pair of my trunks.” And he tossed his spare pair at Dean's head. “No one's gonna care if they've got flowers on 'em.”

“Gimme the striped ones.”

“Nope. I'm already wearing them. Too late. They've got my germs.”

Again, Dean couldn't argue. So he huffed a sigh and went off to the bedroom to change, mumbling something like, “Yeah, you're (something something) germs (something) …”

When he returned, he looked none too pleased, a beach towel wrapped around his waist and tucked under his belly.

“What?” Sam demanded, at Dean's stinkface.

“You gave me the small ones.”

“I did not! Why would I do that? They're the same size.”

“Liar.”

“DEAN.”

Dean sighed and flipped off the towel. The trunks pinched tautly around his waist and just barely covered his ass.

For the most part, they used to wear a similar size pants because of Sam's stupidly long torso, but there was no denying that Dean had gotten a good couple sizes stouter. He palmed his robust belly grimly, giving it a jiggle that rippled all the way to the doughy lovehandles on his sides. There were even a few tiny stretchmarks growing around his navel.

“Dean.” Sam softened. “Dude, who cares?”

“What if I care,” Dean said with a touch of petulance.

“Do you?”

“I dunno—”

“Look. Okay. Hear me out. You're happy, right? You're enjoying yourself. You're … on vacation. We're supposed to indulge and not worry about all the crap that fucks us up, on the regular,” Sam said, feeling his heart leak out of his mouth in the form of pleading. “We don't have to run away from some weird cryptid. Squeeze through sewer drains, climb fences. Do any of that shit anymore if we don't wanna. Just … let's grab some beers and a couple inner tubes and hit the lake and … drift. If only for today.”

Dean blinked, his towel curled in one hand. He might've even seemed a bit alarmed at the degree of Sam's sincerity. Hell, Sam was alarmed by it, for that matter. He might've gone and jumped the gun with this whole revelation that he didn't so much as ask Dean about. Sam just started cooking and sneakily appealing to Dean's hedonistic side and chose a direction <i>for them</i>. It wasn't exactly fair. But they could always turn it around again, and if Dean decided as much? Sam would follow.

For a few clumsy moments, they stared at each other. Sam pressed his lips tightly, probably wasn't even breathing.

Finally, Dean let himself consider the here-and-now, and shrugged. Slinging his towel across his shoulders, he shot Sam a crooked, thoroughly rakish grin.

“Alrighty then. Let's float these sonofabitches.” (to be continued!)

Cabin Feeder: chapter 3

Dean makes a big decision for the both of them, regarding retirement. And there were pies. A couple days late a dollar short, here’s the final chapter for my @get-beached lake vacation! I did half-assedly try to “Cram It in”, so I touched on these prompts in this chapter: sitting by the campfire, s’mores or weenie roast, soaking up the sun, too much of a good thing (again, lol) and finally, an eating contest. 5744 words, posted on AO3

Bottoms up!