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Dean brings both coffees back to the outdoor table.
It's too bright and happy outside for someone with a hangover. He pulls his shades down and sprawls on the hard chair, stretching his crossed legs over the metal arms of another.
He listens as Sam types ominously behind him for several silent minutes. Great. It's so ominous, he can tell that Sam doesn't even look up when he grabs the cup and takes a big swig through the generic lid... and coughs.
"What the..." Sam sputters and swipes at his shirt, using bitchface number, well, Dean lost count sometime last November.
But Sam's not finished. "It tastes like motor oil. Where's the latte?" He pushes the cup into Dean's cheek and his eyes dart to the one in Dean's hand.
"That's what I gotcha," Dean replies.
The pungent, lingering steam tickles his nose. He takes the cup, settles the latte between his knees, and almost takes the lid off to take a swig. No. There's something else that will take the edge off even better than caffeine. This is going to be fun.
"But you already drank out of this one. It's yours." He holds it out quickly right under Sam's nose, eyes earnest under the sunglasses.
"No. No way."
"Yes, way."
Sam is doing the stone-faced thing again. Dean pivots on the chair and sets both cups on the table.
"Sam, there's no way I'm takin' it back and swappin' spit with you." His face is serious. It's a good thing Sam can't see his eyes right now.
"I used the lid."
"Doesn't count. Backwash."
Sam takes another minute, weighing his options. He goes for victory by gross out. "What, and you're gonna drink that large cinnamon vanilla nut non-fat latte -- with no foam?"
Dean blinks loudly and Sam sees it. He can totally see through those sunglasses. He could since day one, he just likes Dean to think that he can't.
"Yeah," Dean says.
Sam's eyebrows go up as Dean puts the sweet latte to his lips, his forehead creasing like the Grand Canyon and his cheeks, man, his freakin' cheeks are pursing up. Sam can't help but let one side of his mouth rise into a sideways smile and he nods an encouragement.
"Yeah, OK fine." Dean snatches both cups away and stands up, his voice trailing low. "How about I just go get new ones. This one's gotten cold puttin' up with your novel writin' over there, Shakespeare."
Sam nods roundly with a huge, agreeing smile. Dean's expression hardens and he retreats to the counter. Win. Sam lets an unelegant snort turn into a muffled laugh and returns to his research on the disappearance of three fishing boats off of Hilton Head.
Dean reorders Sam's coffee and turns to use the trash can.
It's cold. Really. Honest to God. There was no steam. And spit? Whatever, no biggie.
He looks at each cup and can't remember which one is which. Again. Holding his breath, he glances up to make sure Sam isn't watching. He takes a sip. Wrong one. He contemplates not swallowing but feels even weirder about spitting it out.
He swallows.
Sam is still hunched over the laptop when he comes back with a hot latte. Extra hot.
He plunks it down hard enough to splash foam out of the tiny hole, but not onto the keyboard.
Sam mutters thanks.
Resuming his position in the two chairs, Dean takes another sip and shakes his head with a private smile. This stuff isn't half bad.