Walking In a Winter Wonderland
Title: Walking In a Winter Wonderland
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean almost dies on his first hunt, but then the nice man in the trench-coat shows up and everything doesn't seem so bad.
So, remember when I said I wrote And May All Your Christmases Be White to counter-fluff the angstyness of some other Christmas fic I was writing? This is that fic.
Written for the Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on hoodie_time. Fill for 'Wings', 'Combat', 'Burns', 'Cuddling For Warmth' and 'Group Support' on my hc_bingo card.
Now with super awesome art by annartism
click and tell her how awesome it is!
Dean's dreams are confusing.
Castiel has learned to be careful which ones he chooses to appear in and still he gets it wrong more often than he gets it right. Sometimes he thinks he's found a safe one, but then it speeds up and twists around and Castiel realizes belatedly that it was only calm on the surface before it could flow into something darker.
There is hellfire in all of them, burning and real inside Dean's soul, no matter how many times Cas tries to banish it, it returns with a fierce strength, searing every part of the angel's soul until he doesn't quite dare touch those dreams at all anymore.
Some of them Castiel thought were torture at first, but are what he now recognizes as forms of fornication he prefers not to think about. Dean laughed when he asked about them, made a reference to something he called Dogma that had nothing to do with the Nicene Creed which confused Castiel even more. Either way, Dean doesn't seem to find these dreams unpleasant, so Castiel leaves him to them.
Then there are the dreams that confuse him the most. The ones where Dean grows quiet and small and sometimes Castiel wonders if the John Winchester he sees in those dreams has anything at all to do with the man Dean talks about when he's awake.
:: :: ::
Dad says he's ready.
Dean's been practicing a lot; with the shotguns, with the knives. He was scared that one time they were staying at Uncle Bobby's and he wasn't allowed to, but he's gotten good anyway. Dad claps him on the shoulder sometimes and says Good job, Ace and Dean almost explodes with the brighthotgood feeling that thrums through him at the words.
Dad says he's ready and that means he can finally help find the thing that took his mom.
Thing is, Dean remembers the fire and how the air grew so hot it burned his skin and he isn't sure how they're ever going to find Mom's killer in a forest in Minnesota on Christmas Eve with snow that comes up all the way to Dean's knees. Dean almost asked about that, but then Dad looked at him and said "you got somethin' to say to me, kid?" and Dean shook his head and shifted his grip on the double barrel that's still a little to heavy for him to carry in one hand.
Dean tries to walk in Dad's tracks where walking isn't all that hard. His feet are already freezing cold where the snow trickled over his boots. He thinks about telling Dad, but he doesn't want Dad to send him back to Pastor Jim's place, so he keeps stumbling forward, listening for the laughter of little kids, which is what this ghost does, lure children into the forest so it can kill them.
He listens so intently that he almost jumps out of his skin when Dad suddenly says, "stay right here for a second."
Dean's heart is in his throat, beating so hard he can hear it in his ears, but that's okay. Dad says fear is something you can use, just make sure you never let it in the driver's seat.
He wants to say yes, sir, but his teeth are clattering so bad they've circled back to screwing his jaw shut again, so he gives a sharp nod that messes up his scarf, so the biting wind can blow down the back of his jacket.
"Your fingers warm?" Dad asks and when Dean looks at him he sees tiny pieces of ice stuck in his hair.
Dean nods quickly, shifts his grip again and suddenly Dad is kneeling in front of him, hot puffs of air tickling Dean's nose. Dad picks the gun out of his hands and it scares Dean how easy it is, how his fingers can't remember how to hold on to things. Dad pulls off his knitted gloves that are left over from last winter and a bit too small for him, but they're keeping them until they fit Sam. He rubs Dean's fingers between his own warm palms, breathes on them, massages cold skin until the blood starts flowing again, hot and prickling and it almost hurts, but not quite.
"Don't lie about that," he says, all soft and low, but that doesn't make it any less of an order, so Dean tries to stand up straighter. "Not to me. All your training's worth nothing if you can't pull a trigger. There, better?"
Dad lets go of his hands and Dean flexes his fingers a little before Dad slips his gloves back over his hands.
"Stay here," he orders again before he walks off into the white darkness. "Shoot first, got it?"
"Yesss-ssir," Dean forces out and quickly clamps his mouth back shut to keep the cold from getting in.
Dad is gone for a long time. So long Dean's hands grow cold again and he'd take off his gloves and blow on them, but he can't let go of his gun, can't disappoint Dad again, like he did last year when he dropped his guard and Sammy almost died. He's almost eleven now, which means he's almost a man and men don't mess up a simple clean shot just because their hands are a little cold.
"Dad-d?" he whisper-shouts and his voice sounds small and tiny and the snow falls down on it before anyone can hear him.
Dean slowly turns where he's standing, booted feet crunching on fresh snow. He can't remember which direction Dad disappeared in, the tracks he left already filled up again with snow that never stops falling. Trees and white, that's all Dean can see and sometimes a bit of dark sky, when the clouds move apart.
It's Christmas, John. That's what Pastor Jim said when Dad told Dean to get in the car. He should be huddled in front of the fireplace. At least give him that.
Dean made sure to look down at his toes then. He's pretty sure they would have packed up and left right then and there if Sammy didn't need a bed to sleep in while they are out on their hunt. Dad doesn't like it when you tell him he's wrong.
The cold is starting to hurt his chest when he breathes in, sharp stabs of pain, like a million ants on his inside.
Dean tries to scan the darkness again and suddenly he knows what happened. Knows with every piece of his stuttering, freezing-over heart, that Dad is dead, out there in the snow, killed by the ghost they're supposed to be hunting.
Dean stumbles back a step, then two. He needs to get back to his brother, now that he's the only line of defense left between Sammy and the darkness that's trying to kill him.
Dean doesn't know when he fell. There's wet snow, burning his skin where his jacket is too short and the holes in his jeans ripped open again on the low branches.
It's almost not cold anymore and Dean thinks he should probably be worried, but all he can think of is the crackling of Pastor Jim's fireplace and Sammy under the heavy quilt on their bed and how maybe he will be warm again if he manages to dream for a while.
Dean Winchester.
The voice isn't Dad, so Dean knows it's the ghost and it's come to kill him too.
He waits for his heart to jump into his throat again, so he can use his fear as a guide, but it's too cold for that. All he can do is force his eyes to open ever so slightly and let his hand drop on his fallen shotgun.
You don't need to be afraid. I am your friend.
Dean tries to turn his head a little until he sees the man in the trench coat standing over him. Or maybe it's not a coat, it's feathers and wings, but that doesn't make sense, so Dean closes his eyes again.
A hand settles on his shoulder and suddenly the cold was never there in the first place.
"You the thing that killed my dad?" Dean asks and he can't even find the energy to be scared or angry or anything other than finally warm.
Your father isn't dead.
Dean smiles, not sure why he believes the man.
"'m I gonna die?"
No.
"How'd you know?"
This has already happened. It's difficult to explain, but you will not die.
Dean wants to tell the man that he knows he's the spirit killing kids and Dean's not gonna fall for his act and that his dad told him everything about rock salt and consecrated iron rounds, but when he opens his mouth, he says "okay" instead.
Dean hears something that sounds like feathers, fluttering in the wind and then the man is gone and there's children laughing between the trees and Dean can see his own breath, cold and white in front of his face, but on the inside he stays perfectly warm, even when the white lady sits down next to him, puts her cold hands over his nose and lips, even when Dad comes barreling through the trees with screaming guns and even later, when he's back at Pastor Jim's place under a million blankets and doesn't understand why Dad can't even look at him without tearing up.
:: :: ::
Castiel makes sure Dean's whimpers have completely died down before he takes his hand off the angry red burn on Dean's arm, flexes his wings and disappears.
He will be back another night for another nightmare.
Dean will pretend he doesn't know why he's upset by his dreams, Cas will pretend he doesn't understand why humans aren't meant to use their children as bait for monsters.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean almost dies on his first hunt, but then the nice man in the trench-coat shows up and everything doesn't seem so bad.
So, remember when I said I wrote And May All Your Christmases Be White to counter-fluff the angstyness of some other Christmas fic I was writing? This is that fic.
Written for the Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on hoodie_time. Fill for 'Wings', 'Combat', 'Burns', 'Cuddling For Warmth' and 'Group Support' on my hc_bingo card.
Now with super awesome art by annartism
click and tell her how awesome it is!
Dean's dreams are confusing.
Castiel has learned to be careful which ones he chooses to appear in and still he gets it wrong more often than he gets it right. Sometimes he thinks he's found a safe one, but then it speeds up and twists around and Castiel realizes belatedly that it was only calm on the surface before it could flow into something darker.
There is hellfire in all of them, burning and real inside Dean's soul, no matter how many times Cas tries to banish it, it returns with a fierce strength, searing every part of the angel's soul until he doesn't quite dare touch those dreams at all anymore.
Some of them Castiel thought were torture at first, but are what he now recognizes as forms of fornication he prefers not to think about. Dean laughed when he asked about them, made a reference to something he called Dogma that had nothing to do with the Nicene Creed which confused Castiel even more. Either way, Dean doesn't seem to find these dreams unpleasant, so Castiel leaves him to them.
Then there are the dreams that confuse him the most. The ones where Dean grows quiet and small and sometimes Castiel wonders if the John Winchester he sees in those dreams has anything at all to do with the man Dean talks about when he's awake.
:: :: ::
Dad says he's ready.
Dean's been practicing a lot; with the shotguns, with the knives. He was scared that one time they were staying at Uncle Bobby's and he wasn't allowed to, but he's gotten good anyway. Dad claps him on the shoulder sometimes and says Good job, Ace and Dean almost explodes with the brighthotgood feeling that thrums through him at the words.
Dad says he's ready and that means he can finally help find the thing that took his mom.
Thing is, Dean remembers the fire and how the air grew so hot it burned his skin and he isn't sure how they're ever going to find Mom's killer in a forest in Minnesota on Christmas Eve with snow that comes up all the way to Dean's knees. Dean almost asked about that, but then Dad looked at him and said "you got somethin' to say to me, kid?" and Dean shook his head and shifted his grip on the double barrel that's still a little to heavy for him to carry in one hand.
Dean tries to walk in Dad's tracks where walking isn't all that hard. His feet are already freezing cold where the snow trickled over his boots. He thinks about telling Dad, but he doesn't want Dad to send him back to Pastor Jim's place, so he keeps stumbling forward, listening for the laughter of little kids, which is what this ghost does, lure children into the forest so it can kill them.
He listens so intently that he almost jumps out of his skin when Dad suddenly says, "stay right here for a second."
Dean's heart is in his throat, beating so hard he can hear it in his ears, but that's okay. Dad says fear is something you can use, just make sure you never let it in the driver's seat.
He wants to say yes, sir, but his teeth are clattering so bad they've circled back to screwing his jaw shut again, so he gives a sharp nod that messes up his scarf, so the biting wind can blow down the back of his jacket.
"Your fingers warm?" Dad asks and when Dean looks at him he sees tiny pieces of ice stuck in his hair.
Dean nods quickly, shifts his grip again and suddenly Dad is kneeling in front of him, hot puffs of air tickling Dean's nose. Dad picks the gun out of his hands and it scares Dean how easy it is, how his fingers can't remember how to hold on to things. Dad pulls off his knitted gloves that are left over from last winter and a bit too small for him, but they're keeping them until they fit Sam. He rubs Dean's fingers between his own warm palms, breathes on them, massages cold skin until the blood starts flowing again, hot and prickling and it almost hurts, but not quite.
"Don't lie about that," he says, all soft and low, but that doesn't make it any less of an order, so Dean tries to stand up straighter. "Not to me. All your training's worth nothing if you can't pull a trigger. There, better?"
Dad lets go of his hands and Dean flexes his fingers a little before Dad slips his gloves back over his hands.
"Stay here," he orders again before he walks off into the white darkness. "Shoot first, got it?"
"Yesss-ssir," Dean forces out and quickly clamps his mouth back shut to keep the cold from getting in.
Dad is gone for a long time. So long Dean's hands grow cold again and he'd take off his gloves and blow on them, but he can't let go of his gun, can't disappoint Dad again, like he did last year when he dropped his guard and Sammy almost died. He's almost eleven now, which means he's almost a man and men don't mess up a simple clean shot just because their hands are a little cold.
"Dad-d?" he whisper-shouts and his voice sounds small and tiny and the snow falls down on it before anyone can hear him.
Dean slowly turns where he's standing, booted feet crunching on fresh snow. He can't remember which direction Dad disappeared in, the tracks he left already filled up again with snow that never stops falling. Trees and white, that's all Dean can see and sometimes a bit of dark sky, when the clouds move apart.
It's Christmas, John. That's what Pastor Jim said when Dad told Dean to get in the car. He should be huddled in front of the fireplace. At least give him that.
Dean made sure to look down at his toes then. He's pretty sure they would have packed up and left right then and there if Sammy didn't need a bed to sleep in while they are out on their hunt. Dad doesn't like it when you tell him he's wrong.
The cold is starting to hurt his chest when he breathes in, sharp stabs of pain, like a million ants on his inside.
Dean tries to scan the darkness again and suddenly he knows what happened. Knows with every piece of his stuttering, freezing-over heart, that Dad is dead, out there in the snow, killed by the ghost they're supposed to be hunting.
Dean stumbles back a step, then two. He needs to get back to his brother, now that he's the only line of defense left between Sammy and the darkness that's trying to kill him.
Dean doesn't know when he fell. There's wet snow, burning his skin where his jacket is too short and the holes in his jeans ripped open again on the low branches.
It's almost not cold anymore and Dean thinks he should probably be worried, but all he can think of is the crackling of Pastor Jim's fireplace and Sammy under the heavy quilt on their bed and how maybe he will be warm again if he manages to dream for a while.
Dean Winchester.
The voice isn't Dad, so Dean knows it's the ghost and it's come to kill him too.
He waits for his heart to jump into his throat again, so he can use his fear as a guide, but it's too cold for that. All he can do is force his eyes to open ever so slightly and let his hand drop on his fallen shotgun.
You don't need to be afraid. I am your friend.
Dean tries to turn his head a little until he sees the man in the trench coat standing over him. Or maybe it's not a coat, it's feathers and wings, but that doesn't make sense, so Dean closes his eyes again.
A hand settles on his shoulder and suddenly the cold was never there in the first place.
"You the thing that killed my dad?" Dean asks and he can't even find the energy to be scared or angry or anything other than finally warm.
Your father isn't dead.
Dean smiles, not sure why he believes the man.
"'m I gonna die?"
No.
"How'd you know?"
This has already happened. It's difficult to explain, but you will not die.
Dean wants to tell the man that he knows he's the spirit killing kids and Dean's not gonna fall for his act and that his dad told him everything about rock salt and consecrated iron rounds, but when he opens his mouth, he says "okay" instead.
Dean hears something that sounds like feathers, fluttering in the wind and then the man is gone and there's children laughing between the trees and Dean can see his own breath, cold and white in front of his face, but on the inside he stays perfectly warm, even when the white lady sits down next to him, puts her cold hands over his nose and lips, even when Dad comes barreling through the trees with screaming guns and even later, when he's back at Pastor Jim's place under a million blankets and doesn't understand why Dad can't even look at him without tearing up.
:: :: ::
Castiel makes sure Dean's whimpers have completely died down before he takes his hand off the angry red burn on Dean's arm, flexes his wings and disappears.
He will be back another night for another nightmare.
Dean will pretend he doesn't know why he's upset by his dreams, Cas will pretend he doesn't understand why humans aren't meant to use their children as bait for monsters.