SPN FIC - To Keep Me Warm
A wee bit of holiday fic for y'all guys: Sam and Dean, Christmas "Now." Hope you enjoy.
"I figure I'm frozen," Sam replies as he huddles deeper into the parka he bought at Goodwill five minutes after they opened this morning.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
TO KEEP ME WARM
By Carol Davis
"You figure it's frozen?"
"I figure I'm frozen," Sam replies as he huddles deeper into the parka he bought at Goodwill five minutes after they opened this morning. None of his jackets (even layered with a couple of hoodies) was a decent defense against this kind of cold, the kind that saws down to your bone marrow and makes your eyes feel like they're gonna freeze solid and fall out of the sockets to go bouncing merrily across the ice. How the hell Dean can stand there wearing a Henley and his leather jacket like this is nothing more than a crisp fall day is a mystery.
Maybe he's got his pockets stuffed with hand warmers.
"Dude," Sam persists. "Seriously."
There's a lake out there, in the direction Dean's looking. More of an oversized pond, really, but the map calls it a lake. It's pretty, Sam thought when Dean pulled the Impala into the overlook and cut the engine, postcard-pretty, surrounded by evergreens and snowy hills, the whole Rockwell setup. From inside the car, with the heater running, it was definitely pretty.
From out here? Not worth this kind of attention.
"Can't be that deep," Dean muses. "Gotta be frozen pretty solid."
He shuffles, like he's going to take a step, and Sam flings out a hand to seize him by the arm. "If you walk out onto that ice," he informs his brother, and there's more heat in his words than there is anywhere in this whole godforsaken state, "I'm going to kick your ass. And if you think I'm going to come rescue you when you break through the ice and end up drowning in water that's eleven thousand degrees below zero, you are sadly mistaken. You got that? Sadly. Mistaken."
Dean lets his sunglasses slide down his nose and peers at Sam over the frames. "Michigan? When you were twelve? Seem to remember rescuing your sorry ass."
"That was an accident."
"Huh."
"Dean, man," Sam groans. "I'm never gonna get my nuts thawed out. Let's go back to the motel. Please? I'll -"
"What?"
"Dude. Come on."
"No. You'll what?"
"Anything."
Dean's cheek twitches. "Oughta be careful, makin' that kind of an offer."
There really isn't much he could ask for. It's not like when they were kids, when Dean could blend Dad into the mix. Threaten to rat on Sam for transgressions past, present and future. These past few months he hasn't asked for anything at all - other than the truth.
Maybe that's what he wants. Truth.
"Look, man," Sam says. "I know -"
"Nah. I don't think you do."
Don't do this out here, Sam thinks, first weary, then annoyed, then desperate. It's bad enough that they keep covering the same old ground indoors, where it's warm - but the wind's picking up. He stopped being able to feel his feet ten minutes ago, and he's taking in air in little sips, nose prickling in protest. His nose might have started running, but his face is so numb he's not sure until he sees Dean's eyebrow hike up over the rims of the glasses he's pushed back into place.
Then, as if he's entirely dismissed Sam's concerns, Dean shakes his arm free and returns to looking out over the frozen lake. Sam remains where he is, for no other reason than that his feet are so numb, if he tries to take a step he's going to faceplant in the snow.
A bird soars overhead, dark against the vivid blue of the sky.
Dean says quietly, "Wasn't hot down there, you know."
"What?"
"Downstairs. It wasn't hot. Figured it would be, 'cause they kept telling me about burning. But… you know when things are so cold, they burn?"
Like now, Sam thinks. "Yeah," he shrugs.
"This is nothin', compared to that."
Sam stands looking at his brother, mouth open a little, hands stuffed into his armpits. Dean's face is flushed, both above and below the sunglasses, but he still shows no sign that he's uncomfortable. He isn't shivering, isn't fidgeting. He's just standing there, admiring a frozen Norman Rockwell lake.
"I'm sorry," Sam says.
Dean shrugs that off. "Found a way, though. To make it a little better. Like when you stamp your feet to get the blood moving." Not quite looking at Sam, he takes a couple of steps toward the lake, though that still leaves a good fifty feet between him and the frozen shore. Walking on water no longer seems to be his intention, but the damn thing's holding him in thrall. "Thought about when we were kids," he says after a minute. "About playing in the snow. It was fun, you know? Never really felt the cold. We'd spend the whole day out there. Then go in, and deal with that pins-and-needles stuff. And it was good. You know that, Sammy? It was good."
"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "It was."
"We gonna do that thing again? With the gifts?"
His expression hasn't changed, nor has the tone in his voice. Dean's good at that: holding what he really feels down deep, buried under layers as thick and solid as permafrost. But there's a giveaway, a tell so small that Sam might have missed seeing it if he hadn't looked for it.
This isn't Dean's last Christmas. But maybe it is. Maybe it's Sam's, as well.
"Don't know," Sam replies. "Kinda broke the bank that time. Might need to watch the budget. There's a recession going on, you know."
"Screw that."
And with that, Dean turns on his heel and trots back to the car. He waits alongside for Sam to come hobbling up, then smiles at his brother across the black gleam of the Impala's roof. "It was good, Sammy," he says with a catch in his voice.
"It's still good, Dean."
Dean considers that for a long moment. Then he thumps the roof of the car with his palm and crows, "Damn straight."
"Eggnog?"
"Whatever," Dean says. "Whatever. It's all good now."
* * * * *
"I figure I'm frozen," Sam replies as he huddles deeper into the parka he bought at Goodwill five minutes after they opened this morning.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
TO KEEP ME WARM
By Carol Davis
"You figure it's frozen?"
"I figure I'm frozen," Sam replies as he huddles deeper into the parka he bought at Goodwill five minutes after they opened this morning. None of his jackets (even layered with a couple of hoodies) was a decent defense against this kind of cold, the kind that saws down to your bone marrow and makes your eyes feel like they're gonna freeze solid and fall out of the sockets to go bouncing merrily across the ice. How the hell Dean can stand there wearing a Henley and his leather jacket like this is nothing more than a crisp fall day is a mystery.
Maybe he's got his pockets stuffed with hand warmers.
"Dude," Sam persists. "Seriously."
There's a lake out there, in the direction Dean's looking. More of an oversized pond, really, but the map calls it a lake. It's pretty, Sam thought when Dean pulled the Impala into the overlook and cut the engine, postcard-pretty, surrounded by evergreens and snowy hills, the whole Rockwell setup. From inside the car, with the heater running, it was definitely pretty.
From out here? Not worth this kind of attention.
"Can't be that deep," Dean muses. "Gotta be frozen pretty solid."
He shuffles, like he's going to take a step, and Sam flings out a hand to seize him by the arm. "If you walk out onto that ice," he informs his brother, and there's more heat in his words than there is anywhere in this whole godforsaken state, "I'm going to kick your ass. And if you think I'm going to come rescue you when you break through the ice and end up drowning in water that's eleven thousand degrees below zero, you are sadly mistaken. You got that? Sadly. Mistaken."
Dean lets his sunglasses slide down his nose and peers at Sam over the frames. "Michigan? When you were twelve? Seem to remember rescuing your sorry ass."
"That was an accident."
"Huh."
"Dean, man," Sam groans. "I'm never gonna get my nuts thawed out. Let's go back to the motel. Please? I'll -"
"What?"
"Dude. Come on."
"No. You'll what?"
"Anything."
Dean's cheek twitches. "Oughta be careful, makin' that kind of an offer."
There really isn't much he could ask for. It's not like when they were kids, when Dean could blend Dad into the mix. Threaten to rat on Sam for transgressions past, present and future. These past few months he hasn't asked for anything at all - other than the truth.
Maybe that's what he wants. Truth.
"Look, man," Sam says. "I know -"
"Nah. I don't think you do."
Don't do this out here, Sam thinks, first weary, then annoyed, then desperate. It's bad enough that they keep covering the same old ground indoors, where it's warm - but the wind's picking up. He stopped being able to feel his feet ten minutes ago, and he's taking in air in little sips, nose prickling in protest. His nose might have started running, but his face is so numb he's not sure until he sees Dean's eyebrow hike up over the rims of the glasses he's pushed back into place.
Then, as if he's entirely dismissed Sam's concerns, Dean shakes his arm free and returns to looking out over the frozen lake. Sam remains where he is, for no other reason than that his feet are so numb, if he tries to take a step he's going to faceplant in the snow.
A bird soars overhead, dark against the vivid blue of the sky.
Dean says quietly, "Wasn't hot down there, you know."
"What?"
"Downstairs. It wasn't hot. Figured it would be, 'cause they kept telling me about burning. But… you know when things are so cold, they burn?"
Like now, Sam thinks. "Yeah," he shrugs.
"This is nothin', compared to that."
Sam stands looking at his brother, mouth open a little, hands stuffed into his armpits. Dean's face is flushed, both above and below the sunglasses, but he still shows no sign that he's uncomfortable. He isn't shivering, isn't fidgeting. He's just standing there, admiring a frozen Norman Rockwell lake.
"I'm sorry," Sam says.
Dean shrugs that off. "Found a way, though. To make it a little better. Like when you stamp your feet to get the blood moving." Not quite looking at Sam, he takes a couple of steps toward the lake, though that still leaves a good fifty feet between him and the frozen shore. Walking on water no longer seems to be his intention, but the damn thing's holding him in thrall. "Thought about when we were kids," he says after a minute. "About playing in the snow. It was fun, you know? Never really felt the cold. We'd spend the whole day out there. Then go in, and deal with that pins-and-needles stuff. And it was good. You know that, Sammy? It was good."
"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "It was."
"We gonna do that thing again? With the gifts?"
His expression hasn't changed, nor has the tone in his voice. Dean's good at that: holding what he really feels down deep, buried under layers as thick and solid as permafrost. But there's a giveaway, a tell so small that Sam might have missed seeing it if he hadn't looked for it.
This isn't Dean's last Christmas. But maybe it is. Maybe it's Sam's, as well.
"Don't know," Sam replies. "Kinda broke the bank that time. Might need to watch the budget. There's a recession going on, you know."
"Screw that."
And with that, Dean turns on his heel and trots back to the car. He waits alongside for Sam to come hobbling up, then smiles at his brother across the black gleam of the Impala's roof. "It was good, Sammy," he says with a catch in his voice.
"It's still good, Dean."
Dean considers that for a long moment. Then he thumps the roof of the car with his palm and crows, "Damn straight."
"Eggnog?"
"Whatever," Dean says. "Whatever. It's all good now."
* * * * *