Bound to Be a Better Ride than What You’ve Got Planned
Title: Bound to Be a Better Ride than What You’ve Got Planned
Author: yourpalkara
Pairing/characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism
Word count: 1,721
Summary: These wonderful things are the things we’ll remember all through our lives!!!
Notes: Er….this is a piece of un-original fluff/crack that I wrote solely for the purpose of using one line in particular. At least it didn’t get too out of hand. The title is from Simon and Garfunkel’s “A Hazy Shade of Winter”
“Dammit, Dean, I told you.” Dean startles awake at the sound of his name.
“Sammy, what?” he says, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Sam just stands there by the window, doesn’t say anything. Dean counts to seven, silently, then twelve, and then thinks okay twenty-five for real this time and when he reaches twenty-five and a half, he concentrates all his non-existent energy into the muscles in his back and sits up.
Still foggy with sleep, everything outside looks like it’s covered in white. Dean blinks a couple times more, and it doesn’t go away.
His brain catches up with him.
“Hey look, Sam!” Dean says. “Snowing!” He lets out a good-humored grunt but Sam continues just standing there, looking less than good-humored.
“Yeah, Dean, y’think?” Sam says.
“Aw, Sam, it don’t matter. We can…we can still work the case, we’ll just…”
“There’s a foot of snow out there, Dean, I don’t think any Wendigo is going to be very easy to-”
Dean cuts him off. “To…what?”
Sam says, “To get to, Dean. The roads are going to be impossible to drive on and-”
“We'll walk,” Dean says with a shrug. “Think we’ll see the abominable snowman on the way?”
He thinks Sam looks like he’s going to kill him, except after everything they’ve been through, Dean’s pretty sure that’s not true.
“Dean, you’re the one who made us work this stupid case,” Sam is saying. “Remember? Dean? Or were you too wasted at the time to remember saying you missed this, wanted to hunt a ‘good old fashioned’ Wendigo, or maybe a ghost, after I said we should keep going after the Leviathan.” His eyes are on the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey next to Dean’s bed.
Dean takes a swig from the bottle, just to see that annoyed expression on Sam’s face get more defined.
“You know what, forget it. We’ll just have to, have to wait until the snow clears up, I guess. You’re not driving in this weather, especially not when-”
“Okay,” Dean says quickly, because he doesn’t want to hear it. “So we can’t go out, can’t go work the case. Guess there’s only one thing we can do.”
Sam stares at him.
“……..research?”
Dean shakes his head and finishes off the whiskey.
“Sammy,” he says once the burn in his throat has cleared. “We’re gonna go play in the snow.”
+
It’s an hour and a half later and Sam and Dean are standing a couple blocks away from their motel, staring at an empty park, blanketed in white.
“Dean,” Sam says. “I really think we should-”
“Build a snowman?” Dean finishes. “Sam, you are absolutely right.” Sam looks down at his gloveless hands, already starting to turn unnatural colors from the cold.
“Shoulda thought of that,” Dean tells him, wagging a gloved finger. “Here,” he says, pulling off one of his gloves and tossing it in Sam’s direction. “What an awesome big brother I am.” Sam looks like he couldn’t disagree more.
“Now let’s get to work,” Dean says.
+
They get to work.
Dean makes Sam look for things they’ll need to turn the snow man from a probably badly crafted lump or two of snow into a work of art. He recites a list:
“Two branches about this long,” Dean hold out his arm. “Couple pieces of coal. Uh, seven? No, make it ten. A carrot, a scarf, a top at if you can find one.” He thinks hard. “Oh and a broom.”
Sam rolls his eyes and comes back four minutes later with a twig, four rocks, and an empty beer bottle.
Dean frowns down at the objects Sam had dumped on the ground. Then he looks up at his brother’s face and is all ready to bitch and moan about how Sam is sucking all the fun out of everything like he always does but there’s this light in his Sam’s eyes, like he’d tried real hard. So instead, Dean reaches out a hand to clap Sam on the shoulder.
“Great job, he tells him. "Now, wanna start making the head while I work on the body?”
Something else passes through Sam’s eyes then.
“Hold on a second,” he says.
“What?” Dean says. “You wanna get started on the body and I’ll make the head?”
“No, Dean, just-” Sam is kinda staring at him and Dean feels like the four layers he’s wearing aren’t enough, suddenly.
“What’s gotten into you?” Dean puts down the ball of snow he’s holding, early workings of the snowman’s ass.
“Just enjoying a snowy winter’s day with my little brother,” Dean tells him.
“No but,” Sam says, looking characteristically concerned. “You’ve been all ‘you’re new Sam I’m still me still grumpy old alcoholic me blah blah blah’ for as long as…and now you suddenly want to…build a snowman and…”
“Sam,” Dean says, stepping forward, “Sammy.” He puts on a look of sincerity and gazes into Sam’s eyes.
“Y’wanna make the head or the body?”
Sam sighs with his whole body and Dean should say something he should run up to him and say I’m sorry I’m sorry he should kiss his lips and kiss his neck and run hands through his hair.
So he picks up that grapefruit-sized mound of snow he’d made and throws it at his brother.
Sam’s lips form the poor imitation of what his smile had once been, but a smile, still, and tosses one right back.
Dean says “it’s on” like the cliché-spouting son-of-a-bitch he was always meant to be and whips one harder than he’d intended at Sam’s chest. Sam ducks and, too tall to sink low enough to avoid it, it hits him in the face.
Sam spits snow onto the ground and then dives forward and Dean’s falling back against the snow, crushed underneath the weight of his brother.
“Sammyyyyyyy,” Dean whines against Sam’s neck. He pushes and pushes.
“Getoffme.” Sam holds on tight a minute, then rolls off and lies back against the ground next to Dean. He looks so peaceful that Dean can almost believe this really is a new Sam.
“Make a snow angel, Sam!” Dean says before Sam can pull himself to his feet. Sam laughs with his eyes and Dean stands up to make room for two tree-sized arms and two telephone poll-sized legs to wave back and forth in the almost-too-deep snow.
Sam winces a little, says, “snow down my pants,” and Dean lets out an exaggerated “thank god it’s not me,” laugh.
Moment later, Sam says he’s done. Dean holds out his hand and pulls Sam up. They stumble away from Sam’s creation and stand back to admire it.
Dean scans over the imprint in the size and shape of his brother’s body. He gives Sam a nudge of approval.
“Sammy, that’s the most beautiful angel I’ve ever seen,” he says.
Sam turns to look at Dean. He’s kind of staring. Dean says,
“What, something on my face?”
“Uh,” Sam says. “Uh yeah, actually, you have snow-” he reaches over and his thumb rubs against Dean’s eyelash. It takes a little too long for him to flick the snowflake or whatever the hell out of his eye and Dean pulls away, finally, saying,
“You done?” But Sam’s apparently just beginning. He pulls at Dean’s shoulder and then, and then, he’s sucking on Dean’s bottom lip.
Dean sighs against him. He lets himself relax into his brother’s arms as Sam takes that lip between his teeth.
Dean, he’s never gotten used to doing this in public. It’s always nobody knows we’re brothers nobody knows we’re brothers through his head the entire time and yeah, there’s no one around right now, but the bird in the tree above them and the squirrel underneath the bench - they probably know they’re brothers.
Sam shoves his one bare hand into Dean’s back pocket. Dean slides his under the front of Sam’s shirt.
Sam hisses. “Cold, cold!” But he lets Dean keep it there.
They stay like that so long that snow probably builds up on their shoulders and on the bridge their noses make.
Dean draws back.
“’m freezing, Sammy.” Sam pulls Dean’s hand out of his shirt. Dean says, “Hey!” in protest but Sam looks down at it and then twists Dean’s frost-red fingers together with his own. He squeezes tight, and that’s real warmth Dean feels.
When Sam starts pulling him by the hand, though, Dean tries to tug away.
“Sam we’re not holding hands all the way home,” he says.
Sam says, “Fine,” he gives Dean one last squeeze then pulls away. Dean’d been expecting some “As long as your hand’s in mine, big brother, I’m already home,” crap but they walk out of the park in silence, leaving a elephant-sized angel in the snow and a pile of forgotten snowman body parts behind.
+
They end up at some gas station down the road. The sky’s already growing dark and Dean hasn’t had anything to eat all day (Sam either but Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard his brother complain about an empty stomach). Dean tries to buy six chili dogs but when Sam steps away from the register, he hands him two.
Then Sam shoves a cardboard cup into his hands. Dean says,
“Bit late for coffee,” and takes a sip.
“Dude,” he says, swallowing. “Hot chocolate.”
Sam shrugs. “Thought it was fitting. Considering you tried to make be build a freaking snowman and all.” Dean puts an arm around his shoulder, draws him closer. He nudges his nose against the side of Sam’s face.
“Thanks, Sammy,” he says against his cheek.
They stand at the counter under the window while they eat. Outside, it’s snowing harder than it’d been all day. The streetlights come on and illuminate the snow. Inside, it’s warm and all their troubles lay forgotten, for a moment. Days like this make it easy to forget they’d ever had any.
Dean thinks that later, they’ll go back to the motel, they’ll dump all their snow covered clothing down on one bed, and press each other into the other. They’ll continue the process of pretending everything’s fine, the only real way they know how. But for now, they stand side by side, breathing chili dog scented air against each other, and they watch the falling snow.
Author: yourpalkara
Pairing/characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism
Word count: 1,721
Summary: These wonderful things are the things we’ll remember all through our lives!!!
Notes: Er….this is a piece of un-original fluff/crack that I wrote solely for the purpose of using one line in particular. At least it didn’t get too out of hand. The title is from Simon and Garfunkel’s “A Hazy Shade of Winter”
“Dammit, Dean, I told you.” Dean startles awake at the sound of his name.
“Sammy, what?” he says, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Sam just stands there by the window, doesn’t say anything. Dean counts to seven, silently, then twelve, and then thinks okay twenty-five for real this time and when he reaches twenty-five and a half, he concentrates all his non-existent energy into the muscles in his back and sits up.
Still foggy with sleep, everything outside looks like it’s covered in white. Dean blinks a couple times more, and it doesn’t go away.
His brain catches up with him.
“Hey look, Sam!” Dean says. “Snowing!” He lets out a good-humored grunt but Sam continues just standing there, looking less than good-humored.
“Yeah, Dean, y’think?” Sam says.
“Aw, Sam, it don’t matter. We can…we can still work the case, we’ll just…”
“There’s a foot of snow out there, Dean, I don’t think any Wendigo is going to be very easy to-”
Dean cuts him off. “To…what?”
Sam says, “To get to, Dean. The roads are going to be impossible to drive on and-”
“We'll walk,” Dean says with a shrug. “Think we’ll see the abominable snowman on the way?”
He thinks Sam looks like he’s going to kill him, except after everything they’ve been through, Dean’s pretty sure that’s not true.
“Dean, you’re the one who made us work this stupid case,” Sam is saying. “Remember? Dean? Or were you too wasted at the time to remember saying you missed this, wanted to hunt a ‘good old fashioned’ Wendigo, or maybe a ghost, after I said we should keep going after the Leviathan.” His eyes are on the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey next to Dean’s bed.
Dean takes a swig from the bottle, just to see that annoyed expression on Sam’s face get more defined.
“You know what, forget it. We’ll just have to, have to wait until the snow clears up, I guess. You’re not driving in this weather, especially not when-”
“Okay,” Dean says quickly, because he doesn’t want to hear it. “So we can’t go out, can’t go work the case. Guess there’s only one thing we can do.”
Sam stares at him.
“……..research?”
Dean shakes his head and finishes off the whiskey.
“Sammy,” he says once the burn in his throat has cleared. “We’re gonna go play in the snow.”
+
It’s an hour and a half later and Sam and Dean are standing a couple blocks away from their motel, staring at an empty park, blanketed in white.
“Dean,” Sam says. “I really think we should-”
“Build a snowman?” Dean finishes. “Sam, you are absolutely right.” Sam looks down at his gloveless hands, already starting to turn unnatural colors from the cold.
“Shoulda thought of that,” Dean tells him, wagging a gloved finger. “Here,” he says, pulling off one of his gloves and tossing it in Sam’s direction. “What an awesome big brother I am.” Sam looks like he couldn’t disagree more.
“Now let’s get to work,” Dean says.
+
They get to work.
Dean makes Sam look for things they’ll need to turn the snow man from a probably badly crafted lump or two of snow into a work of art. He recites a list:
“Two branches about this long,” Dean hold out his arm. “Couple pieces of coal. Uh, seven? No, make it ten. A carrot, a scarf, a top at if you can find one.” He thinks hard. “Oh and a broom.”
Sam rolls his eyes and comes back four minutes later with a twig, four rocks, and an empty beer bottle.
Dean frowns down at the objects Sam had dumped on the ground. Then he looks up at his brother’s face and is all ready to bitch and moan about how Sam is sucking all the fun out of everything like he always does but there’s this light in his Sam’s eyes, like he’d tried real hard. So instead, Dean reaches out a hand to clap Sam on the shoulder.
“Great job, he tells him. "Now, wanna start making the head while I work on the body?”
Something else passes through Sam’s eyes then.
“Hold on a second,” he says.
“What?” Dean says. “You wanna get started on the body and I’ll make the head?”
“No, Dean, just-” Sam is kinda staring at him and Dean feels like the four layers he’s wearing aren’t enough, suddenly.
“What’s gotten into you?” Dean puts down the ball of snow he’s holding, early workings of the snowman’s ass.
“Just enjoying a snowy winter’s day with my little brother,” Dean tells him.
“No but,” Sam says, looking characteristically concerned. “You’ve been all ‘you’re new Sam I’m still me still grumpy old alcoholic me blah blah blah’ for as long as…and now you suddenly want to…build a snowman and…”
“Sam,” Dean says, stepping forward, “Sammy.” He puts on a look of sincerity and gazes into Sam’s eyes.
“Y’wanna make the head or the body?”
Sam sighs with his whole body and Dean should say something he should run up to him and say I’m sorry I’m sorry he should kiss his lips and kiss his neck and run hands through his hair.
So he picks up that grapefruit-sized mound of snow he’d made and throws it at his brother.
Sam’s lips form the poor imitation of what his smile had once been, but a smile, still, and tosses one right back.
Dean says “it’s on” like the cliché-spouting son-of-a-bitch he was always meant to be and whips one harder than he’d intended at Sam’s chest. Sam ducks and, too tall to sink low enough to avoid it, it hits him in the face.
Sam spits snow onto the ground and then dives forward and Dean’s falling back against the snow, crushed underneath the weight of his brother.
“Sammyyyyyyy,” Dean whines against Sam’s neck. He pushes and pushes.
“Getoffme.” Sam holds on tight a minute, then rolls off and lies back against the ground next to Dean. He looks so peaceful that Dean can almost believe this really is a new Sam.
“Make a snow angel, Sam!” Dean says before Sam can pull himself to his feet. Sam laughs with his eyes and Dean stands up to make room for two tree-sized arms and two telephone poll-sized legs to wave back and forth in the almost-too-deep snow.
Sam winces a little, says, “snow down my pants,” and Dean lets out an exaggerated “thank god it’s not me,” laugh.
Moment later, Sam says he’s done. Dean holds out his hand and pulls Sam up. They stumble away from Sam’s creation and stand back to admire it.
Dean scans over the imprint in the size and shape of his brother’s body. He gives Sam a nudge of approval.
“Sammy, that’s the most beautiful angel I’ve ever seen,” he says.
Sam turns to look at Dean. He’s kind of staring. Dean says,
“What, something on my face?”
“Uh,” Sam says. “Uh yeah, actually, you have snow-” he reaches over and his thumb rubs against Dean’s eyelash. It takes a little too long for him to flick the snowflake or whatever the hell out of his eye and Dean pulls away, finally, saying,
“You done?” But Sam’s apparently just beginning. He pulls at Dean’s shoulder and then, and then, he’s sucking on Dean’s bottom lip.
Dean sighs against him. He lets himself relax into his brother’s arms as Sam takes that lip between his teeth.
Dean, he’s never gotten used to doing this in public. It’s always nobody knows we’re brothers nobody knows we’re brothers through his head the entire time and yeah, there’s no one around right now, but the bird in the tree above them and the squirrel underneath the bench - they probably know they’re brothers.
Sam shoves his one bare hand into Dean’s back pocket. Dean slides his under the front of Sam’s shirt.
Sam hisses. “Cold, cold!” But he lets Dean keep it there.
They stay like that so long that snow probably builds up on their shoulders and on the bridge their noses make.
Dean draws back.
“’m freezing, Sammy.” Sam pulls Dean’s hand out of his shirt. Dean says, “Hey!” in protest but Sam looks down at it and then twists Dean’s frost-red fingers together with his own. He squeezes tight, and that’s real warmth Dean feels.
When Sam starts pulling him by the hand, though, Dean tries to tug away.
“Sam we’re not holding hands all the way home,” he says.
Sam says, “Fine,” he gives Dean one last squeeze then pulls away. Dean’d been expecting some “As long as your hand’s in mine, big brother, I’m already home,” crap but they walk out of the park in silence, leaving a elephant-sized angel in the snow and a pile of forgotten snowman body parts behind.
+
They end up at some gas station down the road. The sky’s already growing dark and Dean hasn’t had anything to eat all day (Sam either but Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard his brother complain about an empty stomach). Dean tries to buy six chili dogs but when Sam steps away from the register, he hands him two.
Then Sam shoves a cardboard cup into his hands. Dean says,
“Bit late for coffee,” and takes a sip.
“Dude,” he says, swallowing. “Hot chocolate.”
Sam shrugs. “Thought it was fitting. Considering you tried to make be build a freaking snowman and all.” Dean puts an arm around his shoulder, draws him closer. He nudges his nose against the side of Sam’s face.
“Thanks, Sammy,” he says against his cheek.
They stand at the counter under the window while they eat. Outside, it’s snowing harder than it’d been all day. The streetlights come on and illuminate the snow. Inside, it’s warm and all their troubles lay forgotten, for a moment. Days like this make it easy to forget they’d ever had any.
Dean thinks that later, they’ll go back to the motel, they’ll dump all their snow covered clothing down on one bed, and press each other into the other. They’ll continue the process of pretending everything’s fine, the only real way they know how. But for now, they stand side by side, breathing chili dog scented air against each other, and they watch the falling snow.