This story is inspired by the two kids I babysit when I saw them having a snowball fight; they're brothers too and since it was a Friday and I was thinking about seeing Supernatural that night it came together in my head...this is the result!
Just a short random oneshot I wrote in a day when school and thus exams were cancelled due to the snow, meant to be kind of cute and random…I hope you like it!
The snow was at least six inches deep, after falling heavily all night when twelve-year-old Dean Winchester shivered out to his dad's car, thinking he might have left the Led Zeppelin tape he was looking for in there. John was out at the library researching their latest hunt, leaving Dean to look after Sam as usual. This thought process slowed Dean as he paused by the Impala-where was Sam, anyway? He hoped he hadn't wondered off-this cold was not funny. It was in fact the coldest December on record for the state of Ohio.
Something hit him in the back of the head then, something hard and cold, that dripped off his cropped hair and down the back of his sweater. Dean cursed furiously, shoving at the snow on his collar with numb hands, whirling round. He was under no illusions as to where the snowball had come from, and sure enough, all he had to do was turn to see the excited, half-guilty face and untidy chestnut hair peeking up from the side of the house, which was quickly but belatedly withdrawn the moment his gaze fixed on it. Dean rolled his eyes and bent to scoop up a snowball of his own-he couldn't just let Sammy get away with this. Abandoning his hunt for the cassette tape he inched round the car to the side of the derelict house they were squatting in for a few days, only to see Sam's next snowball come rushing in a hard streak of whiteness towards him before it hit him the stomach. Sam himself, giggling uncontrollably, went racing around the house in escape.
“Okay, kiddo, that means war,” Dean snarled, breaking into a run himself. He paused before turning the corner, wary as if he was on a real hunt; he could hear nothing and flung himself round the house on impulse, hurling his snowball. It got Sam's back as he was running away, prompting a yelp of delight from the eight-year-old, but it wasn't nearly a good enough payback. Bending to grab another snowball, Dean went haring off after him. He dodged round the next corner and stopped, surprised-Sam was nowhere to be seen. The broken window they had used to get into the house the first time was concealed behind an old sackcloth, Sam's lumpy, wonky snowman stood directly in his path. That's where Dad's hat went, Dean noted absently, spying it on top of the white icy head. But where's Sam?
“C'mon out you coward,” Dean called, advancing slowly. “You want to surrender? Okay, Sammy, come out here and surrender then...”
“I'm not surrendering!” came an indignant voice from somewhere up ahead. Dean glanced up, searching for the source of the voice.
“Y'know, if you yield I won't throw this lovely juicy snowball, kiddo,” he went on. “Pity to waste it, but I'd do it if you came over here and knelt to me...”
“No!” Sam yelled from his hiding place-wherever the hell it was. Dean could not understand it-the kid was terrible at hide and seek. He tended to get bored and come out to see what was happening-that was if he didn't fall asleep as he did on the rare occasion that he actually found somewhere good to hide. Dean pressed forwards-the overgrown hedges surrounding their current home concealed the street from view, and all he could see was a lot of pristine white, lumpy snow, with nowhere to hide. Unless Sammy had somehow managed to make himself invisible-
“Wouldn't put it past him, either,” Dean muttered. His breath fogged out from his mouth like smoke and he was freezing. The game was starting to get a little bit annoying.
And then out of a deep snowdrift like some snow monster leaping from the earth, Sam lunged up, completely covered in snow, roaring hoarsely and unconvincingly, and barrelled into his amazed older brother, knocking him right over into the snow. Dean tried to get the kid off him but Sam was hanging on tight to his jacket and flinging great armfuls of snow in his face, and finally he heard Sam's excited yell- “You have to surrender now, Dean!”
He looked up, shaking the snow off his face. Sam peered back with an innocent, overexcited expression despite being so coated in snow he looked barely human.
“Can't you guess what I am, Dean?” he asked with some disappointment. Dean leaned his head back into the snow wearily, staring at the sky.
“I'll go with no.”
“I'm a Bigfoot!” Sam shouted. “I'm a yeti, Dean, an abonible snowman, and even Dad never killed one of those so I'm invincible!”
“Dad never killed a yeti-or Bigfoot-'cause they don't exist, Sammy,” Dean sighed. “And I'm pretty sure it's abominable. Can you let me up now?”
“They do so exist,” Sam returned crossly.
“No, they don't.”
“Yes they do, I saw one!”
Dean blinked. “No you didn't.”
“I did, it was when we were in Montana chasing that skinwalker and I woke up at midnight and there was this huge monster outside my window, and it was Bigfoot!” He suddenly looked chastened. “I told Dad but he said it was a dream but it wasn't, and he was really mad at me...”
Dean decided to take advantage of his little brother's momentary distraction to free himself, lunging up and twisting over to pin Sammy underneath him. Sam shrieked with anger and struggled so viciously eventually Dean had to let him up and watch him go racing away towards the car-they had made a full circuit of the house.
“All right then, little brother,” Dean hissed. “Let's see you dodge this one...” He whipped up another snowball and pressed it hard, flung it just as Sam looked round to check if he was being pursued-the ball struck him on the side of the face just above his eye with surprising force, and Sam started violently, gave a little cry, slipped, stumbled and went suddenly down on the ground.
“And he's down!” Dean cheered. “The crowd goes wild for the awesome Dean Winchester, snowball champion of the decade, master even of yetis-” He watched eagerly, expecting a swift comeback-nothing came. Sam just lay there curled up in the snow. Dean went from exhilarated to panicked in the space of about a second.
“Sammy?” He broke into a run, crossing the snowy drive and dropping down beside Sam's tense, curled, snow-covered form. “Sam, are you okay?”
Sam looked up at him through angry, hurt hazel eyes, one hand pressed tight to his forehead. “You're not supposed to throw stones, Dean,” he mumbled in dizzy indignation, and Dean saw with alarm that lines of blood were trickling from under Sam's tightly-closed, frozen fingers. He reached out gently and dragged Sam's hand away from his head, then cursed. “Oh, hell-”
There was a deep cut in the skin just above Sam's eye, and more blood than Dean liked to see was oozing out of it. It looked painful, too...Dean glanced to the side and instantly spotted the cause of the cut-beside Sam, in the ruins of the last snowball, a large jagged stone.
“Oh, hell, Sammy, I'm so sorry-” He looked around, feeling slightly helpless, then grabbed Sam's arms and pulled him to his feet. The little boy swayed unsteadily and Dean swore under his breath; this was looking like a mild concussion.
“Dean,” Sam said softly. “It's cold.”
“Yeah, I know Sammy, let's just get inside where it's warm, okay?” He held his little brother tightly by the shoulders, walking him towards the house. Halfway there Sam suddenly stopped and fell back against him with a little cry of surprise. Dean scowled in anger at himself and lifted him up in his arms, carrying him the final few metres to the door, where he set Sam down, holding him close to his side with one arm. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket-dammit where are they-pulled them out and jammed them into the lock.
“Hurts, Dean,” Sam said miserably, looking up at him through confused, teary hazel eyes. Dean finally got the door open and helped his younger brother inside. “I know it hurts, just sit down and I'll take a look...” Sam was shivering too, his clothing soaked, no longer exhilarated by the snow and ice outside. Dean pulled him through into the dim, dusty sitting room where he made him sit on the grubby sofa. Sam's hand came up to cover the gash on his head again and he turned sideways, snuggling into the cushions, despite their stale smell. Dean shook him as his eyes began to close.
“You gotta stay awake, Sammy!”
Sam looked up again, a betrayed expression in his face. “But I'm tired,” he protested. Dean was at a loss, and guilty too; he could have checked for stones in that snowball, instead of hurting his baby brother like this. “Just stay here and don't go to sleep, I'm going to get the first aid kit, okay?” he asked him, and Sam nodded slightly; then his lip trembled and his face tensed up as pain split through his head. Dean ran to the other room, grabbing the first aid box and racing back. Sam was curled right up in a tiny ball of wet clothes and shivers, and it made Dean's heart clench up with pity and guilt. “Hey, hey kiddo, look at me now, okay?” he prompted softly.
“Hurts, Dean,” Sam moaned again. His whole face was streaked with blood by now and his pupils looked dilated. Dean pulled his little brother's hand away from the cut on his head once more and inspected it, then tore open the box and pulled out an antiseptic wipe. Sam watched in mild puzzlement, then, as Dean pressed it to the cut, he flinched away and the tears in his wide eyes overflowed onto his cheeks.
“Hey, it's helping you,” Dean said anxiously. Sam glared, still crying.
Dean grimaced. “It's meant to, Sammy. It means it's doing its job. Look, can't you...be a little bit brave for me? Like Dad? It'll only take a few minutes and then we'll get you dry and I'll make you some juice and we can even read a book and then you can go to sleep, okay?” The words spilled out of him, and Sam began to look interested, sniffling.
“Can we read The Owl Who Was Afraid Of The Dark?” he asked suspiciously. Dean never just offered to read with him. Dean nodded vigorously, seeing that the bribe was working. “Sure, sure, anything you like...” He had a feeling that he was going to regret this later. “Just let me do this.”
Sam considered. “Okay,” he agreed at last with an expression of determination, rubbing his hand across his eyes to wipe away the tears. He looked nervous, but he allowed his big brother to scrub the gash with the wipe without making a sound, impressing Dean. He had not expected Sam to be so brave about it. Then, seeing that the bleeding was stopping, Dean took a big band-aid and fastened it across the cut; it was so big it covered about a quarter of the kid's forehead and underneath it Sam's teary eyes looked big and vulnerable.
“That feels better, huh?” Then he sighed as Sam's arms went around him in a tight hug; he hesitated, then gave in and hugged his little brother back. “Thank you, Dean,” Sam's voice mumbled from his jacket, and Dean felt him curl around him like some sort of small furry animal. A very wet and cold one.
“Okay, okay. So let's get those wet clothes of you, right? C'mon...” He stood up, extending a hand down to Sam, who blinked up at him form under the bandage. “Let's go upstairs.” Sam sat up straighter and tried to get off the sofa, dizzy as he was, but it sent shudders of pain rushing through his head and he scowled in an attempt to keep from crying again. Dean, perceiving this, decided to make another concession. “You know what, how about I carry you piggyback?” he suggested, and Sam's face lit up. “Really, Dean?” In answer, Dean bent down and offered his shoulders, onto which Sam climbed with much enthusiasm. It was lucky the kid was so small for his age, Dean thought as he awkwardly manoeuvred them both up the stairs to their shared bedroom, where he set Sammy down on the bed and rummaged through the unpacked duffel bag on the floor to find some dry clothes; Sam didn't seem to have any and Dean cursed himself for not having bothered to do any laundry for a couple of weeks now, and dragged one of his own T-shirts out of the bag. Then he glanced back at Sam and sighed-the kid had fallen asleep on his bed.
“Okay, I guess its okay now...” He went across and started easing the soaking sweater, jeans and shirt off the boy's skinny frame. Sam stirred and mumbled something that sounded a lot like Dean's name, but did not open his eyes, even as Dean rubbed most of the icy water off him with a towel and slid the dry shirt over his head, careful to avoid the bandaged cut, before piling the blankets around Sam and tiptoeing out.
If they were lucky, Dad would never have to know.
Sam did not wake until much later, when Dean was roused by a small hand pulling on his quilt. He cracked his eyes opened, caught sight of his watch, which read 01:23 AM and groaned.
“Can I come in your bed, Dean?”
“No. Go back to sleep.” Then Dean woke up properly and rolled over to look at Sam properly. “Hey-how's your head?”
“It's all fine now, Dean,” Sam said proudly. “Look-it's snowing again.” He pointed to the narrow window, where white flakes were just visible in the darkness, drifting gracefully downwards. Dean groaned again. “Great.”
“You still have to read my book with me tomorrow,” Sam told him with authority. “You promised you would.”
“Yeah, yeah...go back to your own bed please Sam...”
“But my bed's cold.” Wide, innocent puppy-dog eyes pleaded with him. Jeez, thought Dean, and rolled over, saying neither yes or no. The next thing he knew Sam had pulled back the covers and slid in next to him. Dean made an annoyed noise, which Sam ignored, snuggling into his shoulder. Dean finally decided to cede ground this time-if Sam wanted to be a baby then let him...
“B*tch,” he muttered sleepily, to save his pride. Sam's eyes popped wide open and he sat up, glaring down at his big brother.
“That's not a very nice thing to say, Dean. Dad would be so mad at you if he knew you said bad words to me. You're such a...” He paused, clearly racking his brains for a suitable insult. Then at last his face brightened.
Well there it is, hope you liked this snowy fluff...