It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K
A/N: Sorry for the delay but shower scenes require a lot of research. And that research leads to injunctions and life long bans from all gyms in a 30 mile radius. Maybe other writers can manage without the court orders, but I'd say they just aren't as thorough as me.
Chapter 7Still Day 3: The Gratuitous Shower ScenesThe brothers trudged into the motel, trailing mud and foliage like a pair of swamp monsters with mange, Dean still sniffing and wheezing. Despite his earlier threats, Dean hadn't forced them to strip before getting in the Impala, choosing instead to cover her upholstery with some old towels and blankets from the trunk. So now, stopping at their respective beds they each took stock of their general stinky, crustiness and simultaneously eyed the bathroom door.
Gradually their gazes swung around until jade locked with hazel. For a brief moment all was calm and still as "The First Shower Debate: The Intrinsic Rights of The Oldest vs. The Extenuating Hair Care Needs of The Youngest" was silently waged through eye contact and brow movement.
Suddenly, everything was a blur of motion as both men leapt towards the swamp-odor-free sanctuary of the bathroom. Shoulders slammed, legs entwined and both men tripped and staggered in their graceless struggle to be first to clean off. Dean managed to break free of the wrestling match and made a lunge for the door, only to be caught by the elbow and hauled back, courtesy of his brother's Inspector Gadget-like, extending arms. The pair fell backwards in an uncoordinated jumble of mud flaked limbs and, hitting the nearest bed, they bounced onto the floor. Dean landed solidly on top of Sam who emitted a startled "oof" of air and loosened his grip slightly. Ever the opportunist, Dean rolled to the side and managed to flip over and get off Sam before he'd caught his breath, finally breaking the younger man's hold completely. Powered by the same kind of freak adrenaline rush that allows soccer moms to lift SUV's off their trapped kids, Dean pounced through the bathroom door, pausing long enough to throw his brother a triumphant smirk, before he slammed the door behind him and punched the lock. He called through the thin plywood.
"Better luck next time, bitch!"
Sam's frustrated yell of, "Jerk!" was nearly drowned out by Dean's gloating laughter. That only increased with the sound of something heavy, most likely a boot, hitting the other side of the door at the same height as his face.
Still grinning, Dean switched on the light and opened the hot tap fully, inhaling gratefully as the steam filled the bathroom and helped to clear his traitorous sinuses. His smile dipped slightly as he caught sight of his reflection in the rapidly misting mirror; his face was pale beneath the streaks of grime and the bags under his eyes were testament to his disturbed sleep patterns. His usually neatly styled and perfectly gelled hair was sticking out in 10 different directions and contained bits of leaf and twig as well as the ubiquitous swamp muck. And the less said about his clothes the better!
He sighed heavily as he began to remove the layers of ooze infused material while wondering how many washes it would take before they would finally be totally Dismal-free.
Shrugging he thought, Ahh, screw it! Let it all dry out and then salt and burn the whole freakin' lot of it! Never know what might be living in the stuff!
By the time he was down to his boxers, his equilibrium had returned and he found himself cheerfully humming "Ramble On," as he turned the cold water tap the barest fraction to take the temperature down from 'boiling lava' to merely 'scalding.' Satisfied that the water would only turn his flesh a bright lobster pink and not actually melt it from his bones, he slipped his underwear off his hips and down his legs, kicking it off to join the pile of clothes in need of imminent combustion. Taking in another large lungful of steamy air and holding it, he stepped into the shower and immediately tilted his face up into the hot spray. Relishing the feel of the burning pinpricks of water, he slowly released his breath and allowed all of his muscles to relax under the soothing rhythm, groaning happily at the immediate ease in tension.
Opening his eyes to search for the shampoo, the bathroom had a kaleidoscopic look to it when the water droplets caught on his long lashes. Blinking rapidly, he attempted to dislodge the clinging moisture and return his vision to normal. Locating the shampoo, he squeezed a generous amount into his callused palm and began to rub it into his scalp and hair, adding just enough water to gain a generous lather, which trailed down his neck and gathered over his broad shoulders. A roll and flex of his muscles sent it on it's way again, and it cascaded down over his wide, strong back before dividing into separate rivulets that ran down each firm buttock.
He lathered up again, determined to be fully free of any residual swamp crud, and chuckled as he used the shampoo to raise is hair into a foamy Mohawk. He leaned out of the shower, the cheap curtain clinging to his soapy backside, as he wiped the steam from the surface of the mirror over the sink. He grinned widely and winked at his reflection.
"Such a badass!"
He shook his head, still grinning at his own foolishness, before returning to the task at hand.
Grabbing the soap, his attention turned to the front of his body. Rolling the small bar steadily between his hands, Dean achieved a rich foam which he then worked into his grimy skin and aching muscles with firm, circular motions.
Turning his back to the spray he allowed his head to fall back once more, as the water rinsed the lather from his hair to trickle along the planes and valleys of his sculpted chest and tight abdomen. The heat was soothing and the steady rhythm of the water was lulling him into a blissful state of relaxation. Sighing contentedly, his eyes drifted closed as one soap slicked hand ran across his firm stomach and dipped lower, teasing at curls as a wicked smirk lifted the corners of his full lips. Only one thing could make this shower even more enjoyable...
A loud banging on the bathroom door interrupted his pleasantly hazy musings and he heard his brother bellow from the other side.
"At least leave some hot water for the guy who got wet saving your freakin' life! Asshole!"
Dean jumped, his eyes flew open and all thoughts of shower shenanigans were squashed at the sound of his brother's voice. He yelled back.
"Alright, alright! Jeez, I woulda thought you'd be in your Sasquatch element, getting back to nature, and all that crap!"
Dean continued, this time muttering under his breath.
"Ya'd think a guy could clean up in peace after reuniting Romero and Ghouliet."
He smirked at his wordplay and half-wished Sam would have heard. Not that he would have appreciated it. Dean could picture the eye roll now, condescending bastard, and was tempted to prolong his shower just for the hell of it.
Still, he supposed Sam had helped him out. A little bit. Frowning in irritation Dean quickly rinsed off the remaining bubbles and killed the water, throwing a last wistful look at the soap. The mess of twigs and leaves that had been rinsed from his hair and body had gathered in the drain of the shower, partially blocking it, which had resulted in a sludgy build up. As Dean moved to clear it out, an evil grin spread across his face and he stood up. Stepping from the shower, he grabbed a towel to quickly dry himself off. Once done, the damp towel was flung into the corner with the dirty clothes. Looking around, Dean realized that, in the kerfuffle to be the first to get clean, he hadn't brought his duffle bag or a change of clothes in with him. Shrugging, he picked a second clean towel from the towel rack and slung it low around his waist. Pausing for only a second to think it through, he picked up one of the two clean towels that were left, and threw that one around his shoulders, to soak up the water still coming from his damp hair, as it made a tickling trail down his chest.
Finally deciding he was ready, he marched to the door and flung it open with a flourish, almost dislodging Sam from his perch on the other side of the frame.
His lanky sibling gave a startled yelp, arms wind-milling out to help regain his balance.
Dean eyed him suspiciously.
"Dude, where you listening to me shower?"
Flustered, Sam automatically reddened before stuttering,
"What? No...no, 'course I wasn't…I was just waiting for you to finish."
Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow, as he surveyed the rest of the room pointedly.
"And what? There was no other place for you to wait for me?"
Sam gave a sheepish shrug.
"Didn't wanna get anywhere else dirty."
As if to emphasize his point, flakes of dried swamp muck broke loose and fluttered to the floor with his movement. Dean stepped back, his nose wrinkling in disgust as a foul odor was released along with the flurry of detritus.
"Okay, stinkbug, you've made your point. Shower's all yours."
So saying, he moved further into the bedroom, gesturing toward the rapidly cooling bathroom with a dismissive wave as he picked his way through the trail of sloughed vegetation and dirty footprints, towards his duffle and blessedly swamp-free clothes.
Regaining his composure, Sam huffed,
"About time. Better be some hot water left, Dude."
"Don't worry, I left you some, Princess. Not like I wanna be smelling you now I'm all nice and clean."
Sam just grunted and stepped into the small bathroom, slamming the door behind him for effect. Turning around his eyes instantly fell on the pile of filthy clothing topped by a wet towel sitting in the corner and a muscle in his jaw jumped. He briefly considered throwing open the door to launch a few choice phrases at his slovenly brother over acceptable shared amenities etiquette. But he was too eager to strip out of his own dirty clothes and hop into the shower to start an argument, so he clenched his jaw tighter and swallowed his anger down.
It was when he bent to turn on the taps that he caught sight of the sludge blocking the drain and a low growl managed to crawl its way up his throat, to escape through his grinding teeth.
Casting around the tiny room for something to clear up the mess, he finally decided on Dean's already disgusting t-shirt. He picked it up cautiously, trying hard not to touch any of the crustiest parts, and then, wrapping it around his hand, he scooped up the pile of sludge and twigs caught around the drain. Closing the edges of the material around the revolting content, he secured it with a twist and flung it back into the nasty clothes pile again.
After one final check for any other vile gifts his brother may have left him, Sam finally relaxed enough to lean over and crank up the hot tap to max followed by the cold one to half. Rising, he tore off his swamp-stiffened clothes and dropped them on top of his brother's discarded things, before he checked the temperature and then stepped gratefully into the spray. Even lifting the showerhead onto its highest position, Sam could not fit his entire 6'4" frame underneath the pounding water and he was forced to lean forward, bracing his hands on the wet tiles in order to wet his hair. Still, he allowed a contented sigh to escape as he felt the water hit his shoulders and the back of his head, running over his face and hair and down over his lanky frame taking all of the surface grime with it.
He ran long fingers through his bangs, lifting them from his face and pushing them back with the rest of his hair and then reached for the shampoo. He deposited an ample dollop into his large palm before massaging it into his unruly mop. Sensitive digits worked the lather through the hair and onto the scalp with a light, circular motion and another happy sigh escaped him as he tilted his head forward to rinse off, feeling the tension wash away with the dirt.
Once satisfied with the state of his hair, Sam moved on to the rest of his fatigued and grimy body. Employing his extensive reach, he managed to open the bathroom cabinet and removed his shaving kit. Hidden at the bottom was a small bottle of fruity body wash he'd acquired as a free sample some months back. He had been saving it for a special occasion or when he needed a quick pick-me-up. Thinking back over the past couple of snot-fuelled, swamp filled days, he decided tonight was the night, and he broke open the surprisingly sturdy seal before depositing the entire contents onto his right palm. The exotic scents of pineapple and mandarin and...was that coconut?...were instantly released and he inhaled blissfully as he rubbed his long fingered hands together before applying the sweetly smelling, and gently foaming, liquid to his deserving body.
The shower gel had moisturising ingredients, but the addition of natural citrus, made it slightly acidic and it tingled pleasantly where it touched his bronzed skin. He rubbed smooth circles over his broad shoulders and firm pecs, then moved down over his well-defined six-pack, before he swept around to his back at his hips, and down over his buttocks. Bending forward his hands continued their downward glide over muscular thighs, pausing to rub more firmly into his aching calf muscles. Finally he stood again, and moved the showerhead from its fixed position, so he could, reluctantly, rinse the rich lather from his body. He finished just in time, as an icy stream suddenly replaced the previously warm water. He bit back a gasp of shock as he fumbled for the taps.
It was only as he went to climb from the shower that he noticed the towel situation. Or rather, the lack of them.
Sitting innocuously, all by its lonesome self, was one, teeny, tiny hand towel, where he knew there'd been a pile of at least 3 good sized towels earlier this morning. Where had all the others disappeared to?
Dean!
Sam's eyes narrowed and the one remaining towel was subjected to a wholly undeserved death glare, which would have seen it running off in terror to join its missing comrades, if it had not been an inanimate object and thus incapable of sentient thought, let alone action.
Even with the door closed, the heat from the room was rapidly dissipating and Sam shivered where he stood, naked and dripping and trying to will a big, fluffy bath towel into existence using the power of his mind. He had yet to discover the extent of his psychic gifts but after a few minutes of intense concentration bought him nothing but a twitching muscle under his right eye and the beginnings of a headache, he concluded towel materialisation wasn't one of them. Defeated, he reached for the hand towel and began the slow process of drying his large frame with such a tiny cloth. In an effort to keep his mind from despondency, or the possible risk of hypothermia, he occupied it. First, he listed all the ways in which he could exact his revenge on Dean, and second, he thought of all the names he would call his brother as he did so.
Eventually he was dry but, having brought no clothes into the bathroom with him, he was forced to attempt to wrap the small, damp and by now thoroughly hated, towel around his waist. Of course, it didn't quite reach, so Sam used his hand to hold the edges firmly in place at his hip. He strode to the door, flung it open, and stalked into the room in a cloud of steam and self-righteousness. Only to find his brother sitting nonchalantly at the rickety table, newspaper spread out in front of him but concentration seemingly centred on the food he was practically inhaling.
Finally becoming aware of the evil eye directed at him from across the room, Dean's attention shifted. Glancing up from his sausage sandwich, he did a double take.
"Dude, put it away! I'm tryin' to eat here!"
Sam stood, his jaw twitching and his muscles trembling with suppressed anger. He eventually managed to grind out his accusation from between clenched teeth.
"You used all the towels."
"Oh? Did I?" Dean's tone was vague and nowhere near the vicinity of apologetic.
Somehow more words made it past his tightly held jaw as Sam stared pointedly at his bed.
"Yes. You did."
Dean followed Sam's gaze to the pile of wet towels dropped carelessly onto the younger man's bedding before sliding back up to look at his simmering sibling.
He raised an innocent brow.
"Ooops."
Sam let out a low growl, which wouldn't have sounded out of place coming from a particularly territorial black dog.
Finally recognising the signs of an imminent explosion, Dean attempted to make peace.
"Sorry bro. Guess I got kinda carried away. It's just it felt so good to get clean and warm after the whole, y'know, near drowning thing."
He gazed up at his ridiculously tall, incredibly angry brother through lowered lashes, trying to gauge how well the sympathy card was going down.
Sam's jaw remained set, his eyes steely. He looked about 3 seconds away from crossing his arms over his chest to complete the look of "I'm not buying this." Probably the only reason he hadn't already was the fact he would have to let go of the towel.
And, dear God, Dean had to stop that from happening!
Deciding he might need a little more by way of a peace offering, he indicated the second brown paper bag next to his own half eaten sandwich.
"Got you some food. Of course it's probably cold by now. Guess I did leave you enough hot water, huh, Sammy?"
His brother's eyes narrowed slightly at that, and Dean paused briefly to consult with his internal "Sam Twitch Reader" to translate the possible meanings. The results were inconclusive.
"Coffee?"
He offered, hopefully, and watched nervously for a reaction.
A muscle in the surely-that-must-be-painful-by-now clenched jaw jumped and his right pectoral muscle flexed slightly.
And, hang on a second, why the hell was his brother still standing there wrapped in nothing but a hand towel, anyway?
"Sammy, dude, seriously, I'm sorry about the towels man but..."
"And what about the pile of filthy clothes?"
"What? Oh. Well where was I gonna leave 'em? Didn't want 'em contaminating the bedroom."
His brothers continued stony silence had him amending slightly.
"But yeah, I guess I could have bagged them up or something. Still, don't you think..."
"And the disgusting mess I had to clean from the drain?"
Dean fought hard to control the smirk that attempted to emerge.
"Well, I didn't want to use up anymore of the hot water rinsing round the shower and I figured you'd just get it dirty again anyway, so..."
He shrugged in a "what's a guy to do" kind of way.
"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry about the towels and the clothes and the dirty shower, man. And I'll understand if you wanna carry on trying to freak me out with the whole psycho stare thing. But, Dude, please, could you at least put on some freakin' clothes first?"
Sam finally moved, jolted from his state of self-righteous anger by the sudden realisation he was standing in a none-too-warm room, glaring daggers at his brother, whilst wearing nothing but a teeny, tiny towel.
He huffed a noise of indignant embarrassment as he swept haughtily past his still seated brother and started rummaging around in his duffle for some clothes. Dean gave an exaggerated sniff as Sam wafted past and wrinkled his nose in distaste.
"Dude, why'd you smell like a Pina Colada?"
Refusing to dignify that with a response, Sam kept his back to the older man who, by the lip smacking sounds of it, had returned his attention to his previously abandoned sandwich. Sam quickly located and pulled on boxers, sweatpants and a t-shirt, before walking over and dropping himself down in the other chair. Grudgingly, he reached a long arm across the table and snagged the remaining bag and warily eyed the contents. He was pleasantly surprised to find a lack of grease and an abundance of green leaves and tomatoes. His stomach grumbled loudly, a reminder that it had been a long time, and an even longer hike, since dinner. He took a large bite of the chicken salad sandwich and stifled a happy moan by pretending to clear his throat.
Dean looked up expectantly from the newspaper spread out in front of him. His own food was now nothing but a happy memory and a small scattering of crumbs. When no further communication seemed forthcoming, he dropped his attention back to the paper, idly scanning the obituaries as he tapped out a beat with the pen in his right hand.
Just as Sam was about to rip the pen from his grasp and snap it in annoyance, Dean let out a triumphant, "Aha!"
"What?"
"Think I've found our next gig, Sammy."
Grinning broadly, Dean flipped the page around for his brother to read, tapping the obit he had just circled.
Sam scanned it briefly. Then frowned and read it again. He looked up at his brother's expectant face.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah!"
"You think this is our kind of thing?"
"Absolutely!"
"An 87 year-old man dying of a heart attack?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Unusual circumstances."
Sam quickly re-checked the text.
"I don't see..."
Dean flicked back a couple of pages in the paper and tapped at a small article, tucked away near the bottom of the page.
What a Way to GoAn 87 year-old businessman, who has yet to be officially identified, died during a private lap dance at the Boom-Chicka-Boom Club in Las Vegas on Saturday night. Witnesses say it appeared to be a heart attack that killed the man. He was not known to be a regular patron. This is the third such death in the past month at this club. No one from the Boom-Chicka-Boom Club was available for comment.
Sam carefully tore around the article and then turned the newspaper's pages back to the obits page, to cross check the facts.
"How do you know this is the same guy?"
"Same date, same age, and this guy 'died while on vacation in Nevada.' What the hell else is there to do in the desert, Dude?"
"Okay, so even if this is the same guy, and I'm not saying it is, I still don't see why this is our kinda thing."
"Are you kidding me? Look, I can be cynical with the best of 'em regarding praises sung for the dead. It's all a load of hypocritical bull. There aren't many obits that read 'Thank God he's dead! Funeral's Thursday. All those wanting to dance on the grave, please wait until this weekend and get in line behind me.' But that particular obit screams, 'pillar of the community,' and even if he wasn't, he's still the third guy to die like that, in the same place, in a month. We've checked out less, Sam."
Sam sighed and sat back in his chair. He finished eating his sandwich as he mulled over the possibilities. Chewing thoughtfully, his gaze flitted around the room before it finally came to rest on the newspaper again. Swallowing the last bite and washing it down with the, by now, lukewarm coffee, he finally met his brother's earnest gaze.
"And this isn't just an excuse to go to Vegas?"
Calling on years of practice, Dean managed to hide his smirk and look offended.
"Dude! Would I?"
At Sam's pointedly raised eyebrow, Dean winced slightly,
"Okay, yeah, maybe I would. But, you gotta admit, Vegas, with your freaky powers and my innate gambling skills, we could clean up."
Suddenly realising that probably wouldn't be the winning argument Dean changed tack.
"And, man, you gotta admit, even a desert is sounding good after all this freakin' swampland. So, whaddya say? Wanna go interview some hot strippers about suspicious deaths? Come on Sammy! Not like the job has to be all stumbling around in marshland playing Cupid to Casper. Let's live a little."
Sam pursed his lips and frowned. He really didn't want to let Dean off after the whole towel incident... but, real hunt or not, he could see definite possibilities in a trip to Vegas. Standing suddenly, he grabbed his duffle in one large hand and started trawling the room, packing his stuff as he went. Looking up, he grinned at his brother's surprised expression.
"Man, what are you waiting for? Those hot strippers aren't gonna interview themselves."
Dean scrambled hastily to his feet and started stuffing clothes randomly into his own duffle, as if he was afraid his little brother might suddenly change his mind. But the younger man just continued to grin as he methodically folded and filed his meagre possessions.
Payback's a bitch, but then, so was Sam. And Dean, distracted by the bright lights and scantily clad women in Las Vegas, would be a sitting duck.
The End
Story End Notes: Hope it was worth the wait. Many thanks for reading!