Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.
Author's Note: This is just plain ridiculous. Ludicrous. Crackfic bordering on truly f-ed up fic. And in case anyone was wondering, Vicki is entirely to blame. Enjoy!
His head shakes, back and forth, back and forth, in that absent sort of way. This can't be happening. This can't be happening, this can't be happening. Thiscantbehappening. "This is not happening," he utters.
But it is.
Sam continues to sit in the sunken corner of the bed, unmoving, unblinking, just staring off into space, his gaze grazing his brother's drooped and ever-shaking head. "Dude," is all he can muster. And even that comes out barely a whisper.
They sit in silence for several more long and drawn out minutes before Dean finally manages to pull himself upright, clap his palms loudly to his thighs and declare, "We have to fix this."
"Yeah," Sam responds, his face still glazed.
"Now Sammy!" he bellows, no patience for his little brother's shock. Dean begins pacing the room, wearing away the carpet beneath his feet. And Sam watches, this new and steady movement gradually lifting him from his stupor. "What do we do?" he hears his brother mumble, almost to himself. "What do we do, what do we do?" Then, turning abruptly towards him, "What do we do!?"
"First," Sam starts, raising his hands in a gentle gesture, "calm down."
"Calm down? Calm down?! Sam, I have freaking icicle baby fairy elves inside of me!"
"Yes, Dean," he says slowly, "I'm aware of that." I'm aware that you, my brother, who happens to be a man, are impregnated with Jack Frost's brood. I am aware. No, even in his head…no. It had to be a dream. A terrible, too, too awful and absurd nightmare. Absurd. Entirely…bizarre. Crazy. Unreal. Ludicrous. Cracked out, fucked up…
He looks up suddenly and sees his brother's red angry face, slightly skewed by the unshed tears still lingering in his own eyes. He hadn't realized he'd been crying. Crying because he's been laughing just that hard. Because, come on, really, the whole situation was just too ridiculous. "I'm sorry," he ekes out, wiping the wetness from his face. "I'm sorry," he says again as he tries to even his breathing and quell the fit of laughter that has left him dizzy.
"It's not funny. This is not funny." He says it in a helpless sort of way that almost makes Sam's heart break, just that defeated and scared.
Of course he's scared. He's carrying magical fairy babies.
"Dude!" He doubles over once more. "Dude," he says again, this time a hysterical snort. "You so picked the wrong fairy to piss off!"
And it was true of course, he had. And he knew it. But how was he supposed to know then? How was he supposed to know that cursing at the heavens for all the icy weather and the constant hassle of frosty patterns left on his car windows would somehow result in…this? Really, how was he suppose to know that there even was such a thing as Jack fucking Frost, let alone that he might be an overly sensitive, incredibly sadistic bastard who was seemingly always listening? How?
"Sam," he tries through clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry," Sam counters through the deep huff of laughter.
"Sam." Louder and more insistent.
"Sorry, I'm sorry."
"You said that already."
"I know." His voice is raw from trying so hard to swallow back the giggles and speak coherently. But he forges on. "We'll…figure something out."
"It's a fairy thing, you know. They love practical jokes," he says, finally calming himself enough so that his voice is almost steady, his nearly fire-red face almost back to a normal shade.
"This is not a practical joke, Sam! It's real! I can…feel them…moving around." His hand falls to his stomach for the briefest of moments before flying up to his mouth as if trying to keep him from vomiting.
"And stop calling it a fairy. Thinking about a freaking fairy doing…this to me…it doesn't help."
"Fine. As I understand it, he's actually more of an elf anyway."
"An elf," he drawls, a pained expression on his face. Santa is so not getting any cookies and milk this year!
"Pretty similar though," Sam says as he begins to flip through the pages of research they'd recently acquired. "Wee folk," he says absently without looking up.
"Oh God," Dean mumbles as he lets himself fall down into the bed opposite his brother. "Sam," he whines through the pillow plastered to his face. Again, more appealing, more pathetic, "Sam."
"Well, maybe you should know better than to mess around with fairies." Dean's face rises just long enough to glare at Sam in a hateful, almost murderous way that the younger Winchester had never seen before. "Elves?" he tries, but to no avail. "Wee folk?" he offers, the corner of his mouth unconsciously rising in a near smile. And Dean's eyes continue to bore through him.
Sam looks away, back to the books and papers before him, and attempts to make himself more somber. For his brother's sake. "All I'm saying is that fair – these…people, are very sensitive. And you obviously offended him. And they don't take kindly to that."
"So I've gathered," he mumbles again through the pillow.
"I mean, we have protection from them. Salt, iron, even sleeping with a knife under your pillow, they're all means of warding off…those creatures. But…you must have really pissed him off."
Dean bolts to a sitting position, his face red with anger once more. "All I said was that I was freaking cold!"
"No, actually, you said that you were tired of this damn freezing weather and the damn icy roads, and the damn frosty windows. And that Mother Nature or Jack Frost or who-the-hell-ever could kiss your warm rosy ass. Then you whipped it out and wrote Fuck You in the snow, which, I think, kinda sealed the deal."
"Oh, like you've never peed in the snow before."
"Usually when I pee it's because I have a full bladder. I can't remember the last time I used it as a retaliatory sign of dissatisfaction."
"You're the one whose knocked up with fairy babies."
"I hate you."
Hours pass as both of the brothers silently make their way through all of the information – which sadly is not much – on Jack Frost and other entities like him. The mythologies are all so similar it's often hard to tell who's who, what's what. The icon traditionally known as Jack Frost, may be nothing more that the elfin artist who so adeptly paints pictures on the leaves and windows with his frosty brush. Or it could be more akin to the Russian legends of Father Frost, who forges chains of ice during the coldest months to bond the water to the earth. Or, it could be any one of hundreds of variations on both of those. Snow witches and winter wraiths, and a variety of other mythological trickster creatures.
Didn't matter. All that mattered now was that this…thing, whatever it was, had put Dean into a rather precarious position. And they needed to figure out a way to fix it. And so far, they had nothing.
"I'm cold," Dean whines, slamming shut the book on his lap.
"Shocking." Sam doesn't look up, but Dean stares daggers at the back of his head anyway, hoping he'll somehow sense it.
"Sam, I'm cold."
Turning the page of the book he's been so intently reading, Sam says simply, "Put on some mittens"
"I'm serious, Sam."
"Fine, go take shower."
"A hot shower?"
"Yeah. If you're cold – "
"But what if that…hurts them…or something?"
Sam's head snaps up and he turns his entire body around to look at his brother. "Them?" he asks, his voice deep and slow.
Dean's eyes shift, jerk to the side so as not to meet Sam's. "The…you know…"
"Frosty fairy fetuses?"
"Yes," he responds quietly, his eyes closing, brow furrowing in something between embarrassment and horror.
"I'm not asking because I care," he spits out, a little too quickly. "I mean…what if they, like, melt…or something? And then there are these little pools of melted fairy, just floating around inside me?"
"Huh," Sam offers thoughtfully. "I can honestly say that possibility never entered my mind."
"So you admit it's a possibility?"
"I don't know," he says before turning back to his book. "All I do know right now is that we have officially entered the weirdest conversation ever. And I think, for us, that's saying a lot."
"Cause I'm really cold."
"So I've heard."
"And I could really use a shower."
"Kinda a cold one though. If you know what I mean."
And again Sam's long body twists slowly around to face his brother. Again, his head cocks confusedly, hesitantly to the side. And he says, his eyes shutting as the words fall from his lips, "What do you mean, Dean?"
"I'm pretty horny."
It takes a moment for those words to sink in, but as soon as they do… "What?" he asks in shock, amazement. Terror.
"Isn't that common? When chicks are…you know…"
"Dean," he says, his voice rising and eyes bulging. "You're not a chick!"
Sam's ears begin to buzz, his left eye twitches all on its own, and he starts to wonder if his head might actually explode. If it did, of course, it would be perhaps the most normal thing encountered all day. "You don't have hormones, Dean. I mean you do, obviously. But you're not…you know…I mean…you're not actually pregnant. You know?"
"Of course I know that, Sam," he says in a tone so serious that Sam begins to wonder if he somehow misinterpreted what just happened. "But something is happening to me."
"Yeah, I think we've pretty much – "
"You're not hearing me, Sam! I'm telling you that I'm cold and horny and craving cow!"
Sam winces at the volume of his brother's voice before saying, "Please tell me you mean you're craving cow to eat."
"That's not funny," he responds, his face straight and firm, set in anger. Then, seemingly out of the blue, it cracks and falls into a pathetic grimace as tears begin trail down his cheeks. "It's not funny," he sobs out before collapsing into his pillow.
Sam stares, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific scene in front of him. He'd heard pregnant woman were…hormonal. Overly emotional. Sensitive. Prone to intense mood swings. But this was his brother. And, well, it just didn't make any sense. At all.
"Dean," he manages in a soft voice. His hand reaches out and hovers just over his brother's shoulder.
"Go away!" he yells, causing Sam's hand to fly back. "Just leave me alone."
Sam stays up for as long as he can, searching for an answer. But just as Dean's crazy 'hormonal' tears eventually paved the way for his sleep to come, so too do the words splayed out before him. All day they had been reading and researching, trying to figure all of this out, thus far to no avail. Neither of them even brought up the idea of calling around, seeing if someone else might know anything about this sort of thing. Perhaps if they'd done that, it would have been like admitting it was actually happening. And that was not happening.
And so they had found nothing. And they both fell into deep, dreamless sleeps. And neither would have woken had it not been for the chattering of their own teeth, prickling of their own flesh, as a sharp icy wind blew through the room.
Sam raises his head first, looks toward the door, then the window, assuming one or the other must be open. But they are shut tightly in, just as he'd remembered. Then he turns toward Dean. Their eyes lock in acknowledgment. Something is wrong.
"I don't feel so good," Dean says simply before lurching forward, clutching his stomach.
"Dean!" Sam races over to him as he leans back onto the bed, straightens and twists in agony. "Dean?"
The writhing lasts for no more than a minute before tiny, sharp protrusions begin poking their way through his middle. Sam jumps back in horror, watches as dozens of little pointy shapes attempt to vacate his brother's body. Then, all at once, they burst out of his stomach and shoot toward the ceiling. Once reaching the top of the room the tiny icicles blow apart, becoming a fine downy snow that begins to coat the entire room.
Sam stares, dumfounded. Dean lets his hands fall back to his middle and feel around for any injuries. The pain is gone, as is the little flutter of movement he'd been feeling all day. But usually when something bursts out of a man's stomach, it leaves a mark. He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels nothing. How that's possible he doesn't know. But, really, how is any of this possible?
"Check please," he mumbles, as snowflakes fall to his lips.
Sam, eyes wide as saucers, skin as white as the snow now falling around them, looks over. "Are you okay?"
Dean nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
Sam looks up and around the wintry room. "What the hell?"
"Yeah," he nods again. "What the hell?"
As soon as the snow stops they move quickly, throwing their now cold and wet belongings into bags or over their shoulders. Packing is not a priority. It doesn't matter how they get their stuff out of there. All that matters is that they get the hell out of there. As soon as humanly possible.
Once in the car, doors locked, heat pulsing, they look at each other, each gaze seemingly sharing the same question: Was that real?
Dean is the first to speak. "Practical jokes, huh?"
"Could have been some kind of glamour. Probably. Must have been."
"They usually do."
"But it wasn't."
"No fairy babies."
"Nothing inside me, nothing that burst out of me."
"It was a glamour."
They sit a minute longer, both trying to digest what just happened. "Sammy," Dean says as he prepares to put the car into drive.
"I'm never gonna pee in the snow again."
"Yeah," he nods solemnly. "I think that's a good idea."