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The stand was set just off to the side of the road, but to describe it as a stand was being overly generous. It was little more than an eight-foot-long folding table that had been draped with an overly large piece of black fabric. Some cheap something or other piece of poly-cotton blend that came out of the heavily discounted bargain bin area of Amazon, with the very specific intention of covering one of those abused all to hell and back folding tables that had been new back when prominent mutton chop sideburns had still graced the faces of the most important occupant of the White House, with that standard brown faux wood grain finish, that clearly should have been drug out back and shot several years prior, but hey, with a bit of luck and a whole bunch of fervent prayers, some truly talented people could still get it to stand, so it continued on in it’s pursuit of being able to collapse and injure some unsuspecting and innocent victim someday soon.
Today was indeed one of those special days, when there was a lull in the hunts, and there weren’t any injuries to recover from, assuming the table doesn’t put forth its best efforts and take them both out in some truly spectacular fashion. But right now, Dean was leaning back in the metal folding chair, the black fabric draped over his lap, all the way up to his waist, as he waited for anyone to pull over and partake of some of the tasty lemonade that he was offering for sale.
Not that that was incredibly likely to happen, but it could. It was definitely in the range of hopefully potential outcomes. It was a hot day after all, a little over 92 degrees according to the old, and severely weathered, tractor themed thermometer that was pounded into the trunk of the oak tree that was offering the only shade to be found. Dean looked over the table once more, saw the red Solo cups, the glass pitcher of lemonade, glanced down at their trusty green cooler that was holding the ice that would be added to the cup just prior to the conclusion of the sale.
Dean watched as yet another old beat-up pick-up truck rambled down the road. The driver giving him the familiar two finger wave that seemed to go hand in hand with being this deep into the countryside of Iowa. “You doin’ ok there, Sammy?” Dean called out as he watched the table shake, clearly having been rattled by something large. There was no response, but then Dean hadn’t actually been expecting one, what with Sam’s mouth being occupied and all.
Just then an old Dodge Ram pick-up truck pulled up and parked on the grass shoulder, right next to the Impala. An older farmer whose worn-out belt had long since given up any attempts at keeping his pants in their proper place, got out and walked over to the passenger window of the truck as he hitched up his pants, and then he seemed to confer with his wife for a moment. He then ambled over to the table, adjusting his straw hat as he went.
“What’re you sellin’?” The man asked as he gave Dean a good once over. Taking in the faded Led Zepplin t-shirt, the splotchy application of sunscreen that was leading to the sunburn that seemed to be trying its hardest to enhance all of the freckles to be found on that pale skin.
“Cold lemonade.” Dean motioned to the sign that had been written up with a black sharpie, and then the white canvas board had been taped onto the front of the table.
“Is it any good?” The man asks as he glances around, almost like he suspects something else is going on, but can’t quite put his finger on what it might be. Dean’s small grunt seems to go entirely unnoticed.
“Best in the county!” Dean lets a huge smile play across his plush lips, but it owes nothing to the conversation, rather, it owes absolutely everything to the activity that Sam is currently engaged in.
“Well, can I get two cups then?” Dean smiles and nods. Leaning over to flip the lid to the cooler open, grabbing the little clear plastic scoop so that he can fill the red Solo cups with ice, before he pours the lemonade. As Dean shifts back, once he has closed the cooler, the man gets a look on his face at the grunt that seems to have emanated from under the table.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I just hit my knee on one of the braces.” The farmer smiles hesitantly, then watches as Dean pours out the lemonade.
“Um, how much?” He asks in that tone of voice that lets you know that he realizes he should probably have asked earlier, but now that you’ve poured the drink, he hopes you won’t name a price that will be too outrageous.
“That will be two dollars.” The old man smiles brightly as he pulls out his wallet and fishes out the appropriate amount of money. Dean takes it, and hands over the glasses. Watches as the man walks back to his truck, hands both glasses to his wife, before he walks around and climbs in. Dean waves as they pull back onto the highway, making it appear that they are leaving him all by himself once more.
“Fuck, Sammy! Killin’ me here!” Dean moans out just as he shoots his entire load deep down Sam’s entirely too pliable throat. The table rattles again, then the black fabric is pushed aside, and Dean looks down into the sweaty face of his little brother, as he is framed between Dean’s spread thighs, cock still hanging out of his unfastened pants.
“Well, now it’s my turn.” Dean smiles, knowing that he will get Sam to crack, have him sputtering all over whomever pulls up next. Unable to remain cool, calm, and collected as Dean uses his plush lips to the absolute best of their abilities. As he sucks Sam so damn hard, the boy will lose the ability to communicate in any of the multitude of languages that he can speak.
“Same as last time? Winner gets to pick the position?”
“Yeah, sure.” Sam glances up at him while he tucks Dean back into his pants. “But what if it’s a tie?”
Dean grins, “Then I guess we’ll have to keep doin’ this until we have a winner.”
“Oh, hell yeah!”