“Can you even see what you’re doing?” Sam asks, dismayed by the clouds of silt Dean’s activity has kicked up—huge swirls of sand and rotting vegetable matter that obscure pretty much everything.
“Nope,” Dean grunts; Sam can’t tell whether he’s moving something or merely wedging a pebble in to even something out. “We’ll just have to do this slow and careful, is all.” He grunts again, the muscles in his arms and shoulders suddenly on display—trying to move something, then. “Give me a hand with this, would you?”
By the end of it, they’re sporting six smashed or scraped fingers between them, and Dean’s definitely gone pink from sun. Sam, who’s merely browned evenly and (dare he say it) attractively, knows from past experience to simply dig out their nearly-depleted bottle of aloe and silently leaves it by the bathroom sink, making a mental note to buy more pronto.
He still finds himself exiled across the yard to flag down the pizza delivery guy, but that just gives him a chance to download Charlie Chaplin and a Three Stooges he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen yet.
Dean falls asleep on him four and a half slices in, smearing sauce on Sam’s shirt and heedless of the still-raw skin on his own shoulders and face. Sam rests his chin on a top of Dean’s head and considers the logistics of disentangling himself for a good ten minutes before deciding everything already hurts too much to bother.
When he wakes in the morning his back has locked completely solid and Dean’s gone—splashing in the lake from the sound of it—but there’s pillows under his cheek and a blanket draped over his shoulders, and a cup of shitty coffee steaming on the floor beside him.