Characters: Sam, Dean (gen)
Word count: 1660
A/N: Cardfic for becc_j: Snow and Christmas and Winchesters getting along.
Summary: Christmas on the side of the road.
Dean fucking hated snow.
"I fucking hate snow," he muttered, swiping irritably at the flakes beading on his eyelashes. His coat was scant protection against the wind and pelting snow and he felt chilled all the way through. His fingers were so cold that he'd stopped noticing the icy bite of the shovel handle a good ten minutes ago and his breath was puffing out in huge gusting clouds that were making the turned-up collar of his shirt damp and scratchy against his chin.
"So you've said," Sam said from the other side of the car. "Several times." His arm muscles bunched and flexed as he dug another shovelful of snow out from under the Impala's tires, and they were both way too goddamn wet if Dean could see that through the ridiculous number of layers Sam was wearing right now. "Maybe if you stopped bitching and focused on digging so we could get the car out, you might not have to bitch so much."
"Hey, I'll have you know that I'm perfectly capable of bitching and digging at the same time."
"Brilliant. Wonderful. Do it already."
Dean snorted out a disdainful sniff that turned into an unflattering wheeze when the cold air hit his lungs. "Son of a bitch," he gasped.
"You're the one who wanted to take a hunt in Montana in December," Sam reminded him, sounding entirely unsympathetic, the bastard. "And the one who drove the car into a snow bank."
"Did not!" Dean retorted instinctively, and immediately felt like he was eleven years old again and squabbling with Sam about who'd knocked down the front door of the house in Cedar Rapids (it had been Sam).
Sam had the nerve to look amused. "Well, it wasn't me driving so unless you think we ran over a ghost with a vendetta against jackasses who drive classic ca-"
"Alright, already. Princess." Dean dug his shovel back into the snow and focused on clearing enough ground that they'd be able to get the Impala moving again. His baby was all the car he'd ever need, but even Dean had to admit that she wasn't exactly built for half foot snow drifts.
Mostly, they were just lucky that shovels were part of their day job or they'd be digging themselves out with their hands.
They shoveled for a while longer, then Sam shifted upright, propping himself up on his shovel. "Want to give that another try?"
"I'll take 'Obvious Answers' for $300, Alex." Dean gratefully ditched his own shovel and slid in behind the wheel. "Ready to assume the position, Sammy?"
"Shut up," Sam said, walking around to brace himself against the Impala's trunk. "Okay, go."
Dean turned the key in the ignition, put the car into gear and pressed his foot carefully on the gas. The wheels started spinning immediately, fighting to gain traction on the icy ground. Sam shoved hard against the back bumper in time with the careful forward-reverse rocking of the car, trying to gain that extra bit of leverage that they needed to get back on the road.
Snow flew up from under the tires, splattering the sides of the car and coating Sam from the waist down in wet, clinging slush. Dean knew that they'd been stuck for far too long when he didn't even find Sam's disgusted expression in the rearview mirror funny.
Well, it was still funny. But not as funny as it should have been.
The engine strained, revving hard enough to make Dean wince, and he shut off the car with a resigned sigh.
"No dice," he told Sam as he climbed out of the car.
Sam slumped wearily against the trunk, hair plastered wetly to his face. "This is the worst Christmas ever," he moaned, sounding so much like his childhood self that, for a moment, Dean actually thought he'd gone back in time again. There had been many years where Dean's only goal at Christmas had been to find some way of keeping Sam from thinking that.
There was apparently a part of him that still cared about that, too, because his immediate response was, "Don't be such a baby. First of all, it's only been Christmas for, like, two hours, so you can't start complaining about it yet. And second, the year we went up against that banshee was way worse."
Sam's answering laugh was half a groan. "Fuck, I'd almost forgotten about that. Nothing like getting a broken leg for Christmas to make you believe in Santa Claus."
"Eh, you were unconscious for most of the day, anyway. At least you didn't have to share a room with your dork little brother who snored the whole time."
"No, I had to share with my jerky older brother who drew penises all over my cast while I was sleeping," Sam shot back.
Dean chuckled. "Ah, good times." He turned his attention back to the car and scowled. "And fuck this shoveling bullshit," he decided. He left his shovel where it was lying and walked around the car to pull open the trunk. "Where the hell's the salt?"
"You sure you want to try that?" Sam asked, as Dean pulled out the container and slammed the trunk closed. "If it freezes over again before we get the car out, we're going to be stuck here forever."
"And that's different from now, how exactly?" Dean poured a generous sprinkling of salt in front and behind each tire, then straightened up. "And now, we wait. First time in my life I wished I had Triple A membership, Jesus Ch-"
Something cold and powdery exploded against the side of his face and Dean stilled. Ever so slowly, he turned to look at Sam, feeling snow sliding down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Sam had already scooped up a second snowball and was smirking at him through his stupid wet hair.
"En garde," Sam offered, and Dean dropped down behind the Impala as the next snowball flew through the air where his chest had just been.
Dean dug his hands hurriedly into the snow, arming himself just in time to let a snowball fly at Sam as he rounded the car. Sam didn't dodge quite fast enough and Dean grinned triumphantly when he caught him in the ear.
"Too slow, Sammy!" he crowed, and dashed off before Sam could grab for him.
They ducked and weaved through the snow, flinging snowballs at each other that went wide more often than not and getting snow in their boots every time they skidded on the slippery ground. The heavy drifts slowed them both up and Dean used that to his advantage, because Sam might have had the advantage of longer limbs - stupid not-so-little little brother - but his size also made him a bigger target.
A flurry of snowballs that were hardly more than handfuls of snow forced Sam's arms up to protect his face and Dean launched himself at Sam's legs, tackling him into the snow with a bone jarring thud.
"Ha!" Dean squirmed up until he was sitting on Sam's chest, and grabbed a double armful of snow.
"Dean, stop!" Sam cried. Dean ignored him completely and proceeded to wash Sam's face with snow, making sure to get it up his nose and down the front of his jacket for good measure.
"What's that?" he asked, mashing more snow in Sam's hair. "Can't hear you over the- fuck!"
One fluid roll of Sam's hips knocked Dean from his perch and left a broad, heavy imprint of their bodies in the snow. Sam wrestled Dean onto his stomach and Dean swore at the cold sting when his chin got buried in the snow.
Then one of Sam's hands caught at the back of Dean's belt and Dean froze.
"Don't you fucking dare," he warned.
"Can't hear you, Dean," Sam said brightly and, without any further delay, shoved a massive handful of snow down the back of Dean's pants.
Dean yelped, driving his elbow into Sam's gut to make him let go. Sam gave ground with an 'oof!' and Dean scrambled to his feet, trying without success to wiggle away from the sensation of snow melting in his underwear.
"You are so dead," he growled, and Sam honest to God laughed before flinging another snowball with deadly accuracy at Dean's head and taking off running.
Dean was unable to prevent an answering smile from curling his lips as he scooped up a massive handful of snow and gave chase.
By the time they finished kicking the shit out of each other and finally got the car back on the road, Sam and Dean were both completely soaked and shivering in the cold. Dean found a couple blankets to spread across the seats - damn snow had done enough damage to the outside of the car without fucking up the upholstery too - and he cranked the heat as soon as the Impala was warm enough to let him.
Sam fell asleep within minutes, hair curling like mad around his face and head lolling against the window in a way that was going to be hell on his neck. Dean left him to it, reminded once again of a much younger Sam all tired out from a hard day's play in the snow. The storm picked up again about three miles down the road, turning the visibility to shit and making the already slick roads even harder to navigate, and Dean resigned himself to a white-knuckled drive all the way to the next motel. His wet clothes were sticking to him in places they had no business sticking and the air inside the Impala was stale with the musty smell of wet fabric. Dean's whole body tingled with the pins and needles sting of warmth returning to his chilled skin. He still couldn't feel his nose. Sam was snoring, just a little.
All in all, Dean thought, a pretty good Christmas so far.
Also available on AO3