Work Header

Up On The Roof

Work Text:

Sam had been wondering where his brother had got to for a while by the time the text came through.

'Hey Sammy. Grab a beer and come and join me.'

Sam frowned; 'where r u?' he responded.

"'Up on the roof," came the cryptic response.

Working on the assumption that Dean wasn't text-singing his way through the Drifters' back-catalogue, he grabbed a beer - as instructed - and made his way up toward his brother.

He remembered how they had discovered the bunker's roof not long after they found the bunker itself. Accessible through a hatch, which was, in turn, only accessible via a narrow metal ladder mounted on the wall of a cramped top-level storeroom, it was a flat, dusty concrete square, edged by a low brick wall. Leading from the roof on the northern side there were a series of metal rungs set into the mortar of the bunker's wall which formed a basic ladder arrangement down to ground level in the event that an emergency escape via the roof should be necessary.

Dean had gushed with all sorts of ideas of adorning the bare space with pot plants and a picnic table when they had first found it, but to the best of Sam's knowledge, it was still a desolate square of concrete without so much as a weed to call its own.

Bringing himself back to the here and now, however, he climbed the narrow ladder and lifted the hatch cover to peer up, prairie-dog like through the hole. He blinked in the bright sunlight; "Dean, are you …"

The words died on his lips.


There in the centre of the roof lay possibly the most revolting sight Sam had ever seen – and in the Winchesters' line of work, that was an achievement in and of itself.

Sprawled full-length on a lounger lay Dean, flat on his back and resplendent in a pair of shades together with the briefest pair of Speedos Sam had ever had the misfortune to see.

Dean, what the hell…?

Glancing up, Dean pulled his shades down to the tip of his nose; "hey Sammy," he beamed, gesturing to another still-folded lounger on the ground beside him; "pull up a lounger, come and join me!"

Sam's nose wrinkled involuntarily; "Dean – what on earth are you doing?"

Dean hesitated for a moment as if it were a difficult question; "well, I'm playin' the trombone – what's it friggin' look like Einstein?"

"It's a beautiful day," Dean sighed; "I'm catchin' a few rays. You should join me, sunlight's good for you. It's full of vitamin A – or D – or some crap from the alphabet, I dunno, but it's good for you."

Still trying to reconcile himself to the image that would be forever branded on his retinas, Sam gestured up and down the length of Dean's body, his waaaaaay too exposed body. "But what's with the, you know, the …" he fished for the right word; "the freakin' budgie smugglers? You must have better shorts than those?"

Clearly totally unconcerned by Sam's discomfort, Dean sat up, scratched his head and yawned.

"Firstly, Sam, I don't do shorts – like, at all," Dean explained with painful slowness as if he was talking to a cretin. "Secondly, it's just us here; you and me, up here on the roof. We're hardly going to get a peeping Tom all the way up here, 'less he's on a friggin' trampoline," Dean snorted;" and thirdly these trunks were on clearance down at the Goodwill – two for the price of one."

"So I got you a pair too," he added with a flourish.

Sam felt all the blood drain from his face.

"Anyway," Dean grinned smugly, waggling his eyebrows as he took a sip from his beer bottle; "I'm sorry if my 'picnic hamper' is making you feel inadequate, little bro'."

"Never mind inadequate;" snorted Sam; "it's making me feel sick."

Dean's smug grin morphed into a glare at Sam, who was still not fully emerged from the hatch.

"Are you joining me or not?" he snorted; "cause if you're not, then shut the freakin' hatch – you're castin' a shadow."

Sam sighed. The sad fact of the matter was that Dean was right. It was a perfect late spring day, and with the brothers going through a relatively quiet time, hunt-wise, a bit of rest and relaxation with large amounts of fresh air and sunshine thrown in for good measure, sounded like a highly therapeutic way to spend an afternoon. Although, Sam mused, he wasn't sure where Dean's sweaty, near naked body fitted into that equation. Still, he guessed; he could always keep his eyes closed.

"Okay, you win," Sam climbed the rest of the way out of the hatch and, closing it behind him, shucked his shirt. He headed toward the empty sun lounger which Dean was busy unfolding for him.

"That's my boy," Dean grinned; "I knew you couldn't resist."

"I'll stay in my jeans," Sam replied firmly, taking a sip from the beer bottle he'd brought up with him, as instructed;" I'm happy to live with white legs."

"Suit yourself," grunted Dean with a shrug. He laid himself back on his lounger, pushing his shades back up his nose and folding his arms across his chest.


They had lain there in a companionable silence for around thirty minutes when Sam spoke up again.

"Hey Dean, you should cover up."

Dean's head turned slowly toward him. Sam couldn't see his eyes behind his shades, but he just knew Dean was rolling them.

"You're not still moaning about my trunks," Dean snorted; "you need to learn to lighten …"

"No," Sam snapped; "your face, your chest. You've got sensitive skin, and you're starting to go pink."

"I'm a freakin' badass monster hunter," Dean grunted dismissively; "I ain't got sensitive anything."

"You've got freckles," Sam replied matter-of-factly. "That means, whether you like it or not, you've got sensitive skin, Mister Badass." He pointed to the bottle of sun lotion on the ground next to Dean's lounger. "You must have brought this up with you, so freakin' use it."

Dean let out an exasperated sigh and proceeded to sit up, hastily slatering the oily cream all over himself before handing the bottle over to Sam; "you too, Mr Permatan ," he muttered; "just 'cause you haven't got freckles don't mean you can't burn."


It was early evening, and the thing that woke Sam up was a splash of cold water on the tip of his nose, followed seconds later by another on his shoulder. Opening his sleep-addled eyes, he looked up to see soupy grey stormclouds, and more raindrops tumbling down on top of him.

He was on his feet in seconds and tugging frantically at the hatch.

There was a commotion as behind him as Dean inelegantly tumbled out of his lounger, yelping out colourful oaths and trying to shield himself from the now-torrential rain.

It won't freakin' open, Sam yelled, rattling the hatch in furious frustration. He cringed as a rumble of thunder tore across the ever-darkening sky.

"It looks like it can't be opened from the outside," Dean gasped over the deafening roar of the teeming rain; "we'll have to remember to prop it open if we do this again."

Sam spared a moment to glare at his drenched brother and his shivering, goosebump-ridden body. As if there was going to be a goddamn next time!

"Shit!" They both jumped violently as a flash of lightning sliced through the downpour, right above them.

"We'll need to go down the outside of the building," Dean spluttered through the deluge; gesturing Sam toward the wall-ladder.

"Please tell me you've got the key for the main door," Sam ground out through gritted teeth as he followed Dean toward the north wall.

Dean nodded; "yeah, I brought it up; I thought I better had – just in case."

Both bedraggled brothers paused, standing with the cold, unrelenting rain hammering down on them and looked down at Dean's tight-fitting briefs, which seemed to be growing more and more disturbingly clingy and transparent in the rain. Dean gave an apologetic shrug.

"Well, where else could I keep it?"

"Oh God," Sam groaned, as they both clambered over the edge of the roof and began to make their way down the ladder.

"You're unlocking the door then," he groaned, "and once we're in, I'm gonna take that key and boil it."