Disclaimer : Sam and Dean Winchester and all of Supernatural aren't mine. I'm only borrowing them temporarily. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended.
A/N: The fun in Florida continues. I hope you enjoy
Still 10 Miles Out
"Damn. I have pine sap on my hands."
Sam lay in a world of hurt. In that eon-long, two seconds it took to hit the ground, Sam's weird brain somehow managed to simultaneously register that his feet were hopelessly tangled in the tree roots, minutely change his downward plunge to shield his brother's bad leg from impact, and visually identify three hard pine cones, a clump of nettles and one really mossy stick all directly in his trajectory. Of course, his big body hit everything. Hard. With his 185 pound brother riding him like a frickin' pony.
"I hate pine sap. It never comes off."
Sam tried to remember how to breathe while slowly turning his head to look at his brother. Somehow, Dean managed to navigate the fall without a hair out of place. He was kneeling mostly upright on his good leg, while his bad leg was carefully cradled in Sam's arms. Preoccupied with stickiness, Dean kept touching his palms together in a demented version of patty-cake. Noticing Sam staring at him, Dean reached over and instead starting patting his sticky hands on either side of Sam's face. The feeling was disgusting.
"Breathe, Sammy. Breathe," Dean urged with a crooked grin. Each tacky pat was harder than the last. He was having way too much fun. On the fourth slap, Sam took in a diminutive, gasping breath and tossed Dean to one side. Dean laughed, as he rolled free.
"Jerk," Sam kinda wheezed out, as he attempted to roll onto his back. His big feet were still mired by the roots, preventing him from doing more than rolling back and forth across the prickly pine cones. Sam could feel them embed painfully in his flesh, making his chest tighten further.
"Seriously, Sam. Breathe! You are starting to turn purple."
Sam snarled breathlessly as he tried to thrash his feet free, ignoring the goring of the pine cones. He felt his brother brace his back and help him sit up.
"Are you choking, or something?" Dean asked worriedly.
Before Sam could answer, Dean started pounding on his back. It really stung, but seemed to do the trick. Sam started breathing again in loud, whooping coughs. Eyes watering and lungs burning, Sam waved his brother off and attempted to get control of his air.
"Stop," he rasped. "Just got the wind knocked outta me." He took one more loud hack and settled down. "You ok?"
Dean shrugged and gestured with his hands. "Got pine sap."
"Yeah, I got that. Keep your hands to yourself. I think there's some turpentine in the Impala."
Sam sighed leaning forward to inspect his ankles. His struggle with the roots had rubbed the skin raw above his boot top. Sam squashed a wayward fire ant climbing through his leg hair. He hoped he wasn't sitting on a mound. Feeling Dean try to wipe his sticky hands on the back of Sam's shirt, Sam ungraciously hoped that Dean was.
"Dude. You growing pine cones, or what?" Dean asked inspecting his brother's side. He lifted Sam's dirty shirt and fingered the long scrapes, picking out bits still stuck. Sam hissed and slapped at his hands. Undeterred, Dean kept picking until the area was clear. "Quit being such a baby."
"Easy for you to say, you weren't on the bottom." Sam grumbled and started untying his boots.
"You did not just say that. Gross," Dean huffed, picking wood bits out of the shirt itself.
"Say what?" Sam gave his left foot a huge tug and pulled his foot free of the boot. Swampy, foot odor wafted out. Grimacing at the smell, he turned his attention to his right foot.
"You know what." Dean rooted around inside Sam's shirt for more debris.
"No, I don't. What's gross?" Sam managed to get his right foot out with a squelch. The friction of the pull left his sock behind. With a sigh, Sam unwedged his now empty boots, pulling out the sweat-soaked sock.
"You're gross, that's what." Dean gave an 'aha' sound and produced a wad of Spanish moss tangled in a few mossy twigs from up near Sam's neckline. "How the heck did you manage to ram that up your shirt?"
"Saving your ass, that's how. Now, what did you mean?" Freed, Sam shifted his weight around and sat cross-legged facing his brother. He absently scratched at the mosquitoes bites on his face, a curious look on his face.
Dean tossed the moss aside and gingerly moved his bad leg to a more comfortable position. It looked like the bleeding had stopped for now. No fresh blood decorated the outside of the makeshift bandages.
"You said you were on the bottom," Dean said, peeking under the edges seeing raw, angry flesh. Not good.
"So?" It was Sam's turn to slap away Dean's hands. "Quit. You'll get it infected."
"Like there's any way in hell it's not already infected," Dean groused. "Bottom, Sam. Bottom."
Sam just stared.
"You know, bottom?" Dean asked, making rude gestures with hands. This time, the sap stickiness came in handy for illustrations.
"That's just gross," Sam said, leaning away. "You have a dirty mind."
"You have a dirty mind!"
"Says the man who just copped a feel up my shirt!"
"I did not 'cop a feel'! You're gross!"
"I guess you're right." With that, Sam leaned over and stuffed his dirty sock right in Dean's face. It made a wet noise as it landed. Dean gave a muffled scream and scrambled backward as best he could, dislodging the sock. He scooted back a couple of feet rubbing furiously at his mouth and nose. Sam barked out a laugh.
"Dammit, Sam. That was a low blow. Could you be anymore disgusting?"
"What?" Dean pulled up the bottom of his shirt to rub at his face. Sam's stink seemed to be everywhere. Unbelievably, his eyes were burning from it.
"You're sitting in poison ivy."
Dean looked down, and sure enough, he was surrounded by shiny, three leafed plants. He was doomed. He'd be covered in itchy rash by morning. "This is your fault," he said, pointing one accusing finger.
"Suppose it is," Sam chuckled, putting on his boots. Lacing the quickly, Sam dug around in his backpack and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. "Here. Maybe you can try not to spread it around."
Sam heaved his bulk up to his feet and Dean scrubbed his sticky hands with the liquid. If this didn't work, he had every intention on 'coping another feel' on every exposed surface on Sam's skin. Let him laugh if he broke out in a rash, too. Ha ha, hardy ha ha.
Pulling out the second to last water bottle, Sam took a drink and handed the bottle to Dean. "You need to stay hydrated." Dean had nothing snide to say to that one. He was really thirsty. Dean gulped the rest down.
"It's getting late, we need to get back and get you to a doctor." Sam took the empty back and zipped up the pack, handing the pack to Dean. "I don't want to be wandering around here in the dark."
"No arguments here. Got any bright ideas?"
With that, Sam dropped to the ground and got on all fours. "Climb on up, Hop-a-long."
"I always liked Roy Rogers better." Dean slung the backpack across his shoulders and painfully climbed to his feet. "That would make you Trigger." Gripping Sam's shoulder, Dean carefully slung his bad leg over Sam's back and slid into place. "Yippee-ki-yay." Dean gave Sam a friendly thump. "Giddy up."
Sam took a deep breath, and started to stand. He lurched to his feet, one leg at a time. He also managed to grip Dean's legs and hold him in place. Sam's back cracked and his knees popped as he straightened. Dean clung on as best he could. Breathing hard, Sam eventually got completely upright. Lacing his fingers together behind his back, he made a place for Dean to sit on, taking his brother's weight.
"If you make one more 'bottom' comment, I'm gonna drop you on your ass," Sam grunted.
"Never crossed my mind," Dead lied, biting back just that comment. It felt really strange sitting on Sam's hands. Dean wondered if he could conjure up a little gas on demand. Considering the distance it was to the ground, Dean decided that was probably a bad idea.
Sam gave a nod and started forward in the general direction back to the car. It took all of his concentration to pick his footing carefully and keep his brother on his back. After a few minutes of settling positions, Sam strode strongly forward, carrying his brother with confidence.
It didn't take very long for Dean to get bored from his piggy back position. Once you've seen one pine tree, you've seen them all. He started counting them, but gave up after hitting fifty. It wasn't much fun. Sam's stride was way too bouncy for him to take a nap, not that was a good idea anyway. He really only had one option.
"Are we there yet?"
"How about now?"
No answer. The biggest, brown grasshopper that Dean had ever seen landed in Sam's hair. Dean, of course, flicked it off, purposely thumping the top of Sam's ear.
"Ow! Quit it!"
"Sorry, bro. It was a hornet. Didn't want you to get stung," Dean said with a smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?" Dean flavored the line with a nasal sound.
"No." Sam mimicked the nasal sound.
"Are we there yet?" This time it was a New York accent.
"Naw. 'Course not." Bronx this time.
"Are we there yet?" Overdone, Texan twang.
"Heck no, Billy-Bob."
"Are we, like, there yet?" Falsetto, Valley-girl.
"Dude, that sounded practiced. You use that voice for phone sex?"
"Wouldn't you like to know? If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
Sam just snorted a laugh and strode on. Around them, the Florida sunshine baked the very air into a living furnace. Sam was sweating so much that Dean was having trouble hanging onto his shoulders. His arms were screaming with the effort to take some of his weight off Sam's hands.
"How are you doing there, Sammy?"
"I'll live. Could you stop squirming around?"
"Can't help it. It's hot, my leg is on fire, you smell epically bad and your fingers are way too close to the family jewels."
Sam growled unintelligibly and came to an abrupt stop. Dean held his breath while Sam repositioned his fingers deftly, while giving him a couple lurching bounces in the air. Secretly, Dean was impressed that Sam managed that without tossing his complaining self onto the ground. His brother was the strongest person he knew. Literally.
"Thanks, Sam. That's better."
Sam gave a nod and strode on. On and on and on through the pine trees, palmettos, blackberry briars, kudzu and tall, brown grass. It was all monotonously the same. Dean sighed.
"What's the matter," Sam grunted, carefully stepping over a thin, fallen pine.
"Must be nice," Sam grouched, plowing through a patch of briars.
"It's not like I'm having a relaxing ride up here."
"Bitch bitch bitch."
'Hey! That's my line!"
"Sorry. Jerk jerk jerk." Sam's nose itched something terrible. He stopped a moment to rub it on his arm. "Can't reach the itch," he mumbled.
"Doesn't have the same ring to it, huh?" Dean peeling one arm free and obligingly scratched the side of Sam's nose. Grimacing, Dean wiped his fingers on Sam's shirt. The pair continued.
"And I'm gonna dump you in the next sinkhole!" Sam threatened.
"What exactly is a sinkhole? Is it a sink, or is it a hole?"
"Shut up, Dean."
"Argh! Could you just shut the hell up! This is hard enough without your whining."
"Well, play a game, or something."
"Fine. I spy, with my own little eye, something… brown."
"Right you are. Here's another one. I spy, with my own little eye, something….. brown."
"Wrong. Pine tree, 'cause that's all I see." Dean sighed.
Sam gave a snort, blowing off droplets of sweat. "How about a song? You like to sing."
Dean thought about it for a moment, then broke into a wide grin before launching. On the second line, Sam joined in.
"Flintstones, meet the Flintstones. They're a modern, stone-age family.
From the, town of Bedrock. They're a page right outta of history.
Let's ride, with the family down the street.
Through the, courtesy of Fred's two feet.
When you're, with the Flintstones
Have a yabba, dabba, doo time
A dabba, doo time
We'll have a gay, ole time!"
"Wilma! I'm home!"
AN: I'll probably finish this up in the next chapter, unless Sam can find that sinkhole. Ha! Thanks for reading (and reviewing!) Surplus