not a lot of kissing, but some.tiptoe39December 3 2009, 03:21:37 UTC
In the end times there's very little of the world that looks unsullied, unspoiled by the death and suffering that surrounds them every day. But on a morning when snow has even pasted white over the soot-black roof of the Impala, for that moment of rediscovery, everything is new and pristine again.
Until your big brother socks you in the back of the head with a snowball, of course.
Sam lurches forward, puts a hand to his now-freezing noggin. "That hurt!"
"They don't call it a snowball therapy session, Sammy." Wide grin and two packed-full fists that go flying, left-right, one in the shoulder and one in the gut, but now Sam's grinning just as widely. He leans forward like a speed skater on the starting line.
"Oh, I see how it is," he says in a warning tone. "You want a fight?"
"Damn straight." Dean's down and scooping.
"Then--" launching himself forward-- "you'll get a fight!" Sam's leaping, a tiger in midair, and he grabs Dean around the waist. Dean falls ass-first to the ground, oofing loudly, then gets a chestful of Sam bearing him down. He's utterly defenseless, wasn't expecting that at all, and a lifetime of combat training has now proven itself completely useless under the illusionary spell of a dusting of snow.
Sam laughs a lopsided chuckle. "Not so tough without your snowballs, then, are you?
"Get the hell off me." Dean struggles, but Sam's bigger, and besides, his frame is a wonderful warm contrast to the cold ground.
"What's that? You want to make a snow angel?" But Sam looks down and sees an angel in the snow. He traces a finger over Dean's Adam's apple.
"Course not," Dean says with a short laugh. "Now that we know real angels wear trenchcoats."
Sam echoes his laugh, and they're the only two people in the whole world right now. Of course they kiss. They kiss like their love and this snow could rebuild the world from this point up. Maybe it can. The angels are banking on it.
Until your big brother socks you in the back of the head with a snowball, of course.
Sam lurches forward, puts a hand to his now-freezing noggin. "That hurt!"
"They don't call it a snowball therapy session, Sammy." Wide grin and two packed-full fists that go flying, left-right, one in the shoulder and one in the gut, but now Sam's grinning just as widely. He leans forward like a speed skater on the starting line.
"Oh, I see how it is," he says in a warning tone. "You want a fight?"
"Damn straight." Dean's down and scooping.
"Then--" launching himself forward-- "you'll get a fight!" Sam's leaping, a tiger in midair, and he grabs Dean around the waist. Dean falls ass-first to the ground, oofing loudly, then gets a chestful of Sam bearing him down. He's utterly defenseless, wasn't expecting that at all, and a lifetime of combat training has now proven itself completely useless under the illusionary spell of a dusting of snow.
Sam laughs a lopsided chuckle. "Not so tough without your snowballs, then, are you?
"Get the hell off me." Dean struggles, but Sam's bigger, and besides, his frame is a wonderful warm contrast to the cold ground.
"What's that? You want to make a snow angel?" But Sam looks down and sees an angel in the snow. He traces a finger over Dean's Adam's apple.
"Course not," Dean says with a short laugh. "Now that we know real angels wear trenchcoats."
Sam echoes his laugh, and they're the only two people in the whole world right now. Of course they kiss. They kiss like their love and this snow could rebuild the world from this point up. Maybe it can. The angels are banking on it.
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Thank you so much, hon! :D
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Oh, BOYS.:D
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