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Title: In the Midwinter Cold
Gift for:
atanih88
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 8377
Beta: Huge thanks to
scarletscarlet all mistakes that remain are my own
Summary: Sam and Dean run into a case by accident. The snow's getting thicker, the night's getting colder and soon they have no choice but to get closer (and figure out how to kill the cause.)
When Sam first wakes the first thing he notices is the fire flickering in front of him, then second the walls of ice that surround them. In panic he gropes at his wrists, fearing to find them bound and leaving him hopeless. He looks wildly around for Dean, calls out loudly for him, but the cavern is empty, and his hands are warm enough to indicate that he’s been here far too long. He rubs his itching, tingling fingers, thinking that at least he hadn't lost any even if he was going to be plagued with chilblains for days after this, and picks up the gun that had been lying beside him. Walking away from the fire takes physical effort but he drives himself grimly onwards, calling as he goes. The sound echoes in the vastness of the cavern, filling it with whispered sighs of Dean. There is no reply, and he has to stumble on without guidance.
When he comes to steps carved of ice he hesitates. They are grimly unforgiving, steep and terrifying, arching above his head. Only the thought of Dean being somewhere at the top of them gives him the strength to start climbing. When he reaches the top, he is back on the snowy landscape from which they'd fallen when the ground cracked, and Dean is there, wild-eyed, face red from exertion, tugging Sam down behind the doubtful cover of a tree.
"I was right," he hisses at Sam, and there is something bright and gleeful in his face. "It is the Native American dude. He picked you up and put you near the fire, then he healed me up." He displays the wholeness of his skin. "Seriously, I was gonna lose toes thanks to that shit."
"What the hell," Sam says back, "why does he want us?"
Dean shrugs. "I couldn't understand him, I just sort of got the gist of what he was saying. He likes hunters, said something about being a hunter. If we beat him, we get out of here. If not, then we're shit out of luck."
He doesn't sound too unhappy about that Sam notices, and Dean reads his mind like he seems to do a lot. "Hell, it's a fair chance, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin. "More than we usually get."
"He can control the weather," Sam points out, "and he can bend time and space. It's hardly a fair fight."
Dean shrugs. "Like I said, it's a fairer fight than we usually get Sam. And he's not an evil son of a bitch, he's just doing this because it's what he does." He hesitates. "I sort of got the impression he doesn't usually allow pairs to undertake this. Unless they're, like, warrior brothers."
Sam shrugs. "Well, we pretty much are."
Dean grins at him. "Not that sort of warrior brother," he says and Sam stares at him.
"You mean," he says completely flatly, that even spirits think that we're fucking? This shit is ridiculous.
Dean laughs quietly. "If the look of the skirt fits, Moneypenny," he says with a grin. "Now c'mon. We haven't got much time until he comes back."
Sure enough, across the landscape, there comes the thundering figure of the spirit, running swiftly in soft leather, long spear in one hand. He’s huge, but not out of the range of normal human height, just every inch muscled and toned until he’s literally a human god.
There’s a spear beside Sam, and he picks it up, hefts it in his hand and feels the solid weight of it. “Not bad.” he says thoughtfully,
“No point using guns,” Dean says. “ I loosed off a few shots when I first saw him and they had no effect. Don’t think they can work in these parts, sort of makes sense I guess. This guy’s oldschool."
They step out from the shelter of the tree, when the man catches up with them; circle round the huge figure, feinting occasionally, and Dean chances a thrust at him which is easily deflected. Then there is the counter attack, a whirling blade that threatens him with decapitation, and when Sam leaps in to take his turn he is easily menaced in his own turn. He ‘s trying to put together all the bits of information he’s gleaned. The spirit could have killed them easily in any number of ways before now- could have left them buried in a snow drift, disposed of Sam while he was unconscious, or simply exerted his full strength and thrown the spear at one of them to skewer them from a distance. But he’s left them alive, given them weapons, healed them so they’re well enough to fight. There’s something he’s not getting here.
He’s not quite sure how he’s analysing this while an old-style warrior is attempting to run him through, especially when with awful intent, the spear connects with him, the flat of the blade smacking into his ribs and making him groan, because Jesus Christ on a stick that hurts. He manages to get his own spear up in time to avert a second stroke, rolls away on the packed snow, and hears Dean engage again, giving Sam time to get back on his feet. There’s one thing running through his mind though. That hadn’t been a killing blow. He’d been smacked with the flat of the spear- hard enough he suspected to break a rib or two, but it could just have easily been the point that passed through his ribs.
He’s starting to suspect that this isn’t killing, it’s about winning. Maybe beating the spirit didn’t have to come in the form of taking it’s head, but demonstrating their worth to face him. Unfortunately Dean doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, and was still vainly slashing away, and Sam is almost a hundred percent sure that that wasn’t the way to go about this.
There is a memory itching away at his mind, ninth grade history, listening hard and knowing there was going to be a test on it at the end of the week. Mrs Evans in her perpetual checked suits, permed hair crisp and hard like a helmet, and as he rolls away from another powerful thrust, he struggles to grasp hold of it, knowing that it’s important. She’s standing by the blackboard in his mind, but she’s not writing on it.
“Counting coup,” she tells them all. “Whole battles were won this way. It’s how you demonstrated your skill, your bravery, your mercy. It would leave an enemy chastened but not dead, and it was considered an essential battle art.”
Sam is parrying now, being driven back against the snow as Dean circles around trying to get a chance to throw his spear. The cold is striking again, freezing him until even his brain feels heavy and slow, his hands like lumps of ice as he raises his spear to block. It’s an odd looking spear, part of him notes indifferently. Half of it is almost flat rather than sharp, and at first he wonders if they’re being cheated.
And then it all comes together and he understands. “Dean,” he calls out. “Now.”
With no hesitation, Dean musters all his strength and strides forward to engage, knowing that Sam has something in mind. Sam pulls together every sliver of what remains of his own energy, begs something that he’s guessed right, and lunges forward, flat of the spear toward the spirit and lands a glancing blow on his shoulder- a deliberate touch with no harm intended or done.
The huge man freezes, and Sam backs right away. He knows instinctively the other man had been mostly toying with them, at most been mildly perturbed by their attempts to hurt him. It wasn’t possible for it to be otherwise- the other man/being/god was simply too big, and took no hurt from the snow and the cold. Dean isn’t taking advantage of the lull either, he’s still standing there, and Sam carefully slides over to stand next to him.
The snow-being tosses back his head and laughs, as he leans on his own spear. Sam can’t quite understand him, it’s like the words are just out of reach. But he catches the surprise, the satisfaction, and the pleasure, he doesn’t need the words for those. The surprise is strong enough that he suspects the other hunters who had undergone this ordeal before had not generally figured it out. There’s a sense of pride emanating as well, and the spirit nods to them, and says only one word clearly. “Kabibonokka.”
Sam goes weak with relief, barely manages to hold himself upright, fights the urge to lean on Dean. The cold is flooding through him even quicker, and he can’t help thinking longingly of the fire down in the cavern below. He barely understands the next thing the snow-being does, just feels the solid weight of Dean’s arm slide around him, as cold as he is, but even the heaviness is comforting. The spirit clicks his fingers, and passes his hand in front of him briefly. Then he nods once more, and something like pride burns fierce in Sam’s chest and okay that’s pretty weird.
What’s even weirder is that in one dizzying moment they’re back in their car, and there’s no snow. Well some snow, but nowhere near the quantities that had surrounded them only one moment before. Nor are they in the middle of a road to nowhere, they’re pulled up on the side of the road, in the middle of a town and it’s morning. Passing motorists are looking at them strangely, and one man pulls up his car to ask if they need a hand jumpstarting. Dean says thanks, but that they should be good, then turns and stares at Sam. No need to ask if it was all a dream, they’re still so cold that it’s unbelievable. Sam can’t feel most of himself anymore.
Even after they’ve used the last dribble of fuel to get to the gas station and refuel they’re still freezing, and bone-tired. The first motel they find, the clerk looks at them dubiously. “No check-in before three,” she says, eyes going automatically to their meagre bags.
Dean lets Sam catch this one, heads over to the motels selection of business cards and leaflets. Sam smiles at the clerk though the effort almost hurts his face. “Please,” he says. “We just need somewhere to crash for a few hours. It’s been a rough night.” He doesn’t need to fake the exhaustion in his voice, and she glances over at Dean, who looks like he might fall asleep where he ‘s standing, and hesitates.
“Did you get caught in the snow?” she asks, and he nods with a rueful smile , and finally she smiles back at him. “The house-keeping hasn’t been round to all the rooms yet,” she says, “but wait a moment.” She calls through to somewhere else in the building, explains the situation, then leans under the desk and snags a key to room number 14. “You’re in luck,” she says. “It’s sort of a busy season for us, so we don’t have many rooms free as it is. But a couple checked out really early this morning- I think they had a fight, and housekeeping’s changed the sheets already.”
Sam thanks her profusely, and pays over the cash, before they head on up. She calls after them that she’s asked housekeeping to knock up the thermostat, and when they get to the room, it’s already beginning to heat up surprisingly fast. There’s only the one bed, but right now Sam could curl up on the floor he is so tired, and compared to the back of the Impala it is a fucking paradise of space. He’s torn between a warm shower and between falling onto the bed. Dean makes the decision first, strips off as fast as he can make his clumsy hands work and crawls under the blankets.
“First one on the bed gets the blankets,” he says with conviction, and he’s already beginning to wind them around himself. Sam opts for the shower, can’t take hot water, but lets the warm water start to thaw him out. His hands and feet hurt but they look fine if you ignore the redness, and he’s fairly confident they’re going to be okay. When he gets into the bed, Dean’s still colder than he is, and Sam yanks the blankets away and gets closer, lets the warmth from the shower and from the room at large warm him up. Dean turns to face him, lips still pale from the cold.
“Fucking bastard,” he says with no heat. “Always so warm.”
“If you hadn’t gone straight for the bed, you’d be warmer,” Sam points out, only a little smugly. He throws an arm across Dean, and lies there. Suddenly he’s very aware of his nakedness, and of Deans, and it’s freaking him out just a little. He tries not to move too close, but Dean ignores that, steals his warmth as best as he can, and Sam can feel himself drifting off, the heat working its way through him, melting the ice coldness in his core. He doesn’t even know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the alarm clock on the side of the bed tells him it’s past 2pm, and every inch of him feels warmed through.
He’s lying there drowsing, just enjoying the novelty of a clean soft bed, and for the first time really understanding why lizards love the sun, when he gradually becomes aware that Dean is drooling on his shoulder, and is in fact pressed up close enough along the line of his back to be able to drool on him. His first reaction is panic, the second is acceptance. Dean expands to fill the space he’s in, and Sam finds a weird sort of comfort in knowing that Dean is the only person who can slip under his defenses, and get so close to Sam without waking him. He relaxes back into it, and Dean throws an arm around his ribcage which definitely causes a twinge. Still, if the price for getting out of last night alive is a cracked rib or two, he really isn’t complaining.
He can feel when Dean wakes up, the tension in his arm and then the deep steady breath out like he’s okay with this at least for the moment. Sam still doesn’t want to move and not just because his ribs hurt. The wintry sunlight is flooding in through the window and it’s a sharp clear day outside. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, and it’s been too long since he’s had anything like this.
They don’t have to do this. They’re warm now, not huddled in the back seat of the Impala. There’s no reason for it, no necessary force driving them both closer. They just want it, and Sam savours that for a moment. It’s rare that they get what they want with no strings attached and he intends to make the most of it. Later he’ll get up and browse the web, find the details of whatever it was that had called itself ‘Kabibonokka.’ They’ll get food, probably pretend this didn’t happen, that whatever this strangeness was that had suddenly sprung up between them didn’t exist. Maybe get drunk later in celebration of still being alive.
But for now he gets this, warmth around him, touch that he didn’t even realise he’d needed. He turns his head right back to try and catch a glimpse of Dean’s face. He doesn’t think Dean’s freaking out- he’s still loose and relaxed, but seeing his face makes him feel better about it still. Dean’s eyes are open, close enough that Sam can see everything about them. The interplay of colour, the tiny lines around them, and how they’re looking at him. Like Dean needs this as well.
He takes a deep breath and does the scariest thing of his life. Rolls over until they’re face to face, far too close for comfort. Doesn’t apologise or shift away. Dean’s still calm, doesn’t move either. That’s when Sam can acknowledge something he’s tried not to think about for a very long time. That he could lean forward, close his eyes and kiss Dean, and Dean probably won’t headbutt him hard enough to break his nose. He thinks about it for a moment, as the lassitude flows through his limbs again, holds the thought in his mind like a beacon, and Dean does it for him. Kisses him slowly and gently, and Sam hadn’t ever thought that Dean could kiss like that. Lip against dry lip, like he’s saying something important without words. He lets it happen, all part of the dreamy strangeness of the last day, smiles against Dean, and moves in as close as he can get. Closes his eyes again and thinks about how he’ll kiss Dean properly when they’ve both had a chance to brush their teeth. For once, they’ve got time.
Author's note: Kabibonokka is a Native American spirit who brings the snow, ice and turns the leaves red. There's very little information about him, apart from a brief reference to him being a hero, so I've taken a lot of liberties with some of the details!
______________
Regardless of when you're reading this, feedback/crit always appreciated.
Gift for:

Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 8377
Beta: Huge thanks to

Summary: Sam and Dean run into a case by accident. The snow's getting thicker, the night's getting colder and soon they have no choice but to get closer (and figure out how to kill the cause.)
When Sam first wakes the first thing he notices is the fire flickering in front of him, then second the walls of ice that surround them. In panic he gropes at his wrists, fearing to find them bound and leaving him hopeless. He looks wildly around for Dean, calls out loudly for him, but the cavern is empty, and his hands are warm enough to indicate that he’s been here far too long. He rubs his itching, tingling fingers, thinking that at least he hadn't lost any even if he was going to be plagued with chilblains for days after this, and picks up the gun that had been lying beside him. Walking away from the fire takes physical effort but he drives himself grimly onwards, calling as he goes. The sound echoes in the vastness of the cavern, filling it with whispered sighs of Dean. There is no reply, and he has to stumble on without guidance.
When he comes to steps carved of ice he hesitates. They are grimly unforgiving, steep and terrifying, arching above his head. Only the thought of Dean being somewhere at the top of them gives him the strength to start climbing. When he reaches the top, he is back on the snowy landscape from which they'd fallen when the ground cracked, and Dean is there, wild-eyed, face red from exertion, tugging Sam down behind the doubtful cover of a tree.
"I was right," he hisses at Sam, and there is something bright and gleeful in his face. "It is the Native American dude. He picked you up and put you near the fire, then he healed me up." He displays the wholeness of his skin. "Seriously, I was gonna lose toes thanks to that shit."
"What the hell," Sam says back, "why does he want us?"
Dean shrugs. "I couldn't understand him, I just sort of got the gist of what he was saying. He likes hunters, said something about being a hunter. If we beat him, we get out of here. If not, then we're shit out of luck."
He doesn't sound too unhappy about that Sam notices, and Dean reads his mind like he seems to do a lot. "Hell, it's a fair chance, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin. "More than we usually get."
"He can control the weather," Sam points out, "and he can bend time and space. It's hardly a fair fight."
Dean shrugs. "Like I said, it's a fairer fight than we usually get Sam. And he's not an evil son of a bitch, he's just doing this because it's what he does." He hesitates. "I sort of got the impression he doesn't usually allow pairs to undertake this. Unless they're, like, warrior brothers."
Sam shrugs. "Well, we pretty much are."
Dean grins at him. "Not that sort of warrior brother," he says and Sam stares at him.
"You mean," he says completely flatly, that even spirits think that we're fucking? This shit is ridiculous.
Dean laughs quietly. "If the look of the skirt fits, Moneypenny," he says with a grin. "Now c'mon. We haven't got much time until he comes back."
Sure enough, across the landscape, there comes the thundering figure of the spirit, running swiftly in soft leather, long spear in one hand. He’s huge, but not out of the range of normal human height, just every inch muscled and toned until he’s literally a human god.
There’s a spear beside Sam, and he picks it up, hefts it in his hand and feels the solid weight of it. “Not bad.” he says thoughtfully,
“No point using guns,” Dean says. “ I loosed off a few shots when I first saw him and they had no effect. Don’t think they can work in these parts, sort of makes sense I guess. This guy’s oldschool."
They step out from the shelter of the tree, when the man catches up with them; circle round the huge figure, feinting occasionally, and Dean chances a thrust at him which is easily deflected. Then there is the counter attack, a whirling blade that threatens him with decapitation, and when Sam leaps in to take his turn he is easily menaced in his own turn. He ‘s trying to put together all the bits of information he’s gleaned. The spirit could have killed them easily in any number of ways before now- could have left them buried in a snow drift, disposed of Sam while he was unconscious, or simply exerted his full strength and thrown the spear at one of them to skewer them from a distance. But he’s left them alive, given them weapons, healed them so they’re well enough to fight. There’s something he’s not getting here.
He’s not quite sure how he’s analysing this while an old-style warrior is attempting to run him through, especially when with awful intent, the spear connects with him, the flat of the blade smacking into his ribs and making him groan, because Jesus Christ on a stick that hurts. He manages to get his own spear up in time to avert a second stroke, rolls away on the packed snow, and hears Dean engage again, giving Sam time to get back on his feet. There’s one thing running through his mind though. That hadn’t been a killing blow. He’d been smacked with the flat of the spear- hard enough he suspected to break a rib or two, but it could just have easily been the point that passed through his ribs.
He’s starting to suspect that this isn’t killing, it’s about winning. Maybe beating the spirit didn’t have to come in the form of taking it’s head, but demonstrating their worth to face him. Unfortunately Dean doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, and was still vainly slashing away, and Sam is almost a hundred percent sure that that wasn’t the way to go about this.
There is a memory itching away at his mind, ninth grade history, listening hard and knowing there was going to be a test on it at the end of the week. Mrs Evans in her perpetual checked suits, permed hair crisp and hard like a helmet, and as he rolls away from another powerful thrust, he struggles to grasp hold of it, knowing that it’s important. She’s standing by the blackboard in his mind, but she’s not writing on it.
“Counting coup,” she tells them all. “Whole battles were won this way. It’s how you demonstrated your skill, your bravery, your mercy. It would leave an enemy chastened but not dead, and it was considered an essential battle art.”
Sam is parrying now, being driven back against the snow as Dean circles around trying to get a chance to throw his spear. The cold is striking again, freezing him until even his brain feels heavy and slow, his hands like lumps of ice as he raises his spear to block. It’s an odd looking spear, part of him notes indifferently. Half of it is almost flat rather than sharp, and at first he wonders if they’re being cheated.
And then it all comes together and he understands. “Dean,” he calls out. “Now.”
With no hesitation, Dean musters all his strength and strides forward to engage, knowing that Sam has something in mind. Sam pulls together every sliver of what remains of his own energy, begs something that he’s guessed right, and lunges forward, flat of the spear toward the spirit and lands a glancing blow on his shoulder- a deliberate touch with no harm intended or done.
The huge man freezes, and Sam backs right away. He knows instinctively the other man had been mostly toying with them, at most been mildly perturbed by their attempts to hurt him. It wasn’t possible for it to be otherwise- the other man/being/god was simply too big, and took no hurt from the snow and the cold. Dean isn’t taking advantage of the lull either, he’s still standing there, and Sam carefully slides over to stand next to him.
The snow-being tosses back his head and laughs, as he leans on his own spear. Sam can’t quite understand him, it’s like the words are just out of reach. But he catches the surprise, the satisfaction, and the pleasure, he doesn’t need the words for those. The surprise is strong enough that he suspects the other hunters who had undergone this ordeal before had not generally figured it out. There’s a sense of pride emanating as well, and the spirit nods to them, and says only one word clearly. “Kabibonokka.”
Sam goes weak with relief, barely manages to hold himself upright, fights the urge to lean on Dean. The cold is flooding through him even quicker, and he can’t help thinking longingly of the fire down in the cavern below. He barely understands the next thing the snow-being does, just feels the solid weight of Dean’s arm slide around him, as cold as he is, but even the heaviness is comforting. The spirit clicks his fingers, and passes his hand in front of him briefly. Then he nods once more, and something like pride burns fierce in Sam’s chest and okay that’s pretty weird.
What’s even weirder is that in one dizzying moment they’re back in their car, and there’s no snow. Well some snow, but nowhere near the quantities that had surrounded them only one moment before. Nor are they in the middle of a road to nowhere, they’re pulled up on the side of the road, in the middle of a town and it’s morning. Passing motorists are looking at them strangely, and one man pulls up his car to ask if they need a hand jumpstarting. Dean says thanks, but that they should be good, then turns and stares at Sam. No need to ask if it was all a dream, they’re still so cold that it’s unbelievable. Sam can’t feel most of himself anymore.
Even after they’ve used the last dribble of fuel to get to the gas station and refuel they’re still freezing, and bone-tired. The first motel they find, the clerk looks at them dubiously. “No check-in before three,” she says, eyes going automatically to their meagre bags.
Dean lets Sam catch this one, heads over to the motels selection of business cards and leaflets. Sam smiles at the clerk though the effort almost hurts his face. “Please,” he says. “We just need somewhere to crash for a few hours. It’s been a rough night.” He doesn’t need to fake the exhaustion in his voice, and she glances over at Dean, who looks like he might fall asleep where he ‘s standing, and hesitates.
“Did you get caught in the snow?” she asks, and he nods with a rueful smile , and finally she smiles back at him. “The house-keeping hasn’t been round to all the rooms yet,” she says, “but wait a moment.” She calls through to somewhere else in the building, explains the situation, then leans under the desk and snags a key to room number 14. “You’re in luck,” she says. “It’s sort of a busy season for us, so we don’t have many rooms free as it is. But a couple checked out really early this morning- I think they had a fight, and housekeeping’s changed the sheets already.”
Sam thanks her profusely, and pays over the cash, before they head on up. She calls after them that she’s asked housekeeping to knock up the thermostat, and when they get to the room, it’s already beginning to heat up surprisingly fast. There’s only the one bed, but right now Sam could curl up on the floor he is so tired, and compared to the back of the Impala it is a fucking paradise of space. He’s torn between a warm shower and between falling onto the bed. Dean makes the decision first, strips off as fast as he can make his clumsy hands work and crawls under the blankets.
“First one on the bed gets the blankets,” he says with conviction, and he’s already beginning to wind them around himself. Sam opts for the shower, can’t take hot water, but lets the warm water start to thaw him out. His hands and feet hurt but they look fine if you ignore the redness, and he’s fairly confident they’re going to be okay. When he gets into the bed, Dean’s still colder than he is, and Sam yanks the blankets away and gets closer, lets the warmth from the shower and from the room at large warm him up. Dean turns to face him, lips still pale from the cold.
“Fucking bastard,” he says with no heat. “Always so warm.”
“If you hadn’t gone straight for the bed, you’d be warmer,” Sam points out, only a little smugly. He throws an arm across Dean, and lies there. Suddenly he’s very aware of his nakedness, and of Deans, and it’s freaking him out just a little. He tries not to move too close, but Dean ignores that, steals his warmth as best as he can, and Sam can feel himself drifting off, the heat working its way through him, melting the ice coldness in his core. He doesn’t even know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the alarm clock on the side of the bed tells him it’s past 2pm, and every inch of him feels warmed through.
He’s lying there drowsing, just enjoying the novelty of a clean soft bed, and for the first time really understanding why lizards love the sun, when he gradually becomes aware that Dean is drooling on his shoulder, and is in fact pressed up close enough along the line of his back to be able to drool on him. His first reaction is panic, the second is acceptance. Dean expands to fill the space he’s in, and Sam finds a weird sort of comfort in knowing that Dean is the only person who can slip under his defenses, and get so close to Sam without waking him. He relaxes back into it, and Dean throws an arm around his ribcage which definitely causes a twinge. Still, if the price for getting out of last night alive is a cracked rib or two, he really isn’t complaining.
He can feel when Dean wakes up, the tension in his arm and then the deep steady breath out like he’s okay with this at least for the moment. Sam still doesn’t want to move and not just because his ribs hurt. The wintry sunlight is flooding in through the window and it’s a sharp clear day outside. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, and it’s been too long since he’s had anything like this.
They don’t have to do this. They’re warm now, not huddled in the back seat of the Impala. There’s no reason for it, no necessary force driving them both closer. They just want it, and Sam savours that for a moment. It’s rare that they get what they want with no strings attached and he intends to make the most of it. Later he’ll get up and browse the web, find the details of whatever it was that had called itself ‘Kabibonokka.’ They’ll get food, probably pretend this didn’t happen, that whatever this strangeness was that had suddenly sprung up between them didn’t exist. Maybe get drunk later in celebration of still being alive.
But for now he gets this, warmth around him, touch that he didn’t even realise he’d needed. He turns his head right back to try and catch a glimpse of Dean’s face. He doesn’t think Dean’s freaking out- he’s still loose and relaxed, but seeing his face makes him feel better about it still. Dean’s eyes are open, close enough that Sam can see everything about them. The interplay of colour, the tiny lines around them, and how they’re looking at him. Like Dean needs this as well.
He takes a deep breath and does the scariest thing of his life. Rolls over until they’re face to face, far too close for comfort. Doesn’t apologise or shift away. Dean’s still calm, doesn’t move either. That’s when Sam can acknowledge something he’s tried not to think about for a very long time. That he could lean forward, close his eyes and kiss Dean, and Dean probably won’t headbutt him hard enough to break his nose. He thinks about it for a moment, as the lassitude flows through his limbs again, holds the thought in his mind like a beacon, and Dean does it for him. Kisses him slowly and gently, and Sam hadn’t ever thought that Dean could kiss like that. Lip against dry lip, like he’s saying something important without words. He lets it happen, all part of the dreamy strangeness of the last day, smiles against Dean, and moves in as close as he can get. Closes his eyes again and thinks about how he’ll kiss Dean properly when they’ve both had a chance to brush their teeth. For once, they’ve got time.
Author's note: Kabibonokka is a Native American spirit who brings the snow, ice and turns the leaves red. There's very little information about him, apart from a brief reference to him being a hero, so I've taken a lot of liberties with some of the details!
______________
Regardless of when you're reading this, feedback/crit always appreciated.