Title: The Appeal of Snow-Based Theoretical Warfare
Theme/Topic: "Dean and Cas playing in the snow. Dean catches a cold."
Character/Pairing/s: DeanxCas (As narrated by Sam who does things right)
Spoilers/Warnings: Through mid-S5 I guess?
Word Count: 1,245
Summary: There was supposed to be a snowball fight. Cas and Dean are doing it wrong.
Dedication: hils's request on my holiday gift fic meme! I realize Dean doesn't actually get sick in this, but Sam thinks he will after. That counts, right?
A/N: IDEK. My writing, she is random this week.
Disclaimer:No harm or infringement intended.
Despite not having a normal childhood, Sam is pretty certain he knows what a normal snowball fight is supposed to look like. It's one of those things you don't necessarily have to experience firsthand to know how it's done. On top of that, it's not rocket science or anything. You can basically learn how to do it from watching a few movies and listening to some songs.
And so, while he may have never been in an actual, real-life snowball fight before (this is, of course, not counting all the times Dean may have randomly chucked one at the back of his unsuspecting head and then laughed himself silly at Sam's shrieking indignation afterwards), Sam is still 100% certain that right now, they're doing it wrong.
Well, right now he is watching Dean and Castiel do it wrong. Sam knows how this is supposed to go, despite never having been in a snowball fight as a child with other children his age for realsies.
Right now he's also probably making that face he makes sometimes. The one Dean says makes him look just like Bobby does when Bobby thinks you're a demon.
There is a snowball, perfectly formed and ready to be flung, sitting in his hand.
In fact, he's got a whole stash of them behind the tree immediately to his left, and had been ready to ambush his brother with his masterly planned attack just a moment ago, when he'd seen Dean come careening through the trees, grinning to himself like an idiot.
Sam is pretty sure that when they started this whole thing, it was to show Cas the appeal of snow-based theoretical warfare as enacted by juveniles of the species, or whatever the angel had called it when he'd been watching Christmas specials on Bobby's TV this morning.
Cas had declared, "I don't see how that could be amusing," and just like that, Dean had lit up like the Christmas lights wrapped around the trees in front of Sherriff Jodie's house as he suggested they give Cas a taste of it right the fuck now, to show him just now damned amusing it can be, if, and Sam quotes, "done right."
Naturally, Sam had been against the whole idea. One, because it is the end of the world, and two, because it is cold as fuck outside since the fire is inside like they all should be. But Dean had given him this look, and then Cas had also given him this look (completely different from Dean's look but no less compelling in its own way), and eventually, Sam had sighed and trudged upstairs to put on his gloves and his jacket and his scarf so that he could go romp around outside in the snow like an idiot and catch his death trying to prove to a former angel of the Lord that snowball fights were all great fun.
The catching his death part might still be on the table. It is cold outside. Like, really cold.
The romping around in the elements having a snowball fight with his brother and his brother's socially awkward angel part might not be happening after all, though.
Either that or they just don't realize they're doing it wrong.
Sam watches the shenanigans currently happening in the snow drift six feet in front of him and eventually drops the snowball he is holding with a sigh of disbelief. He decides to wash his hands of the whole stupid affair, because Dean and Castiel have either developed a whole set of rules completely foreign to Sam and the art of snowball fights as he knows them, or, they have completely forgotten that Sam had originally been part of this equation at all. Either way, Sam doesn't see why he should stand here— silent and freezing as he is— while contemplating the semantics of proper snowball fights while Dean and Cas roll around in the powder in front of him like a pair of lunatics. Dean is laughing so hard he's going to make himself hoarse while he shoves armfuls of snow down the back of Cas's jacket. In sneaky angel retaliation, Cas uses whatever is left of his heavenly mojo to shake the branches of the trees over their heads in order to send piles of freezing white death careening down onto both their heads. Kamikaze style.
Sam's pretty sure all the close-quarter combat (wrestling, really) precludes the necessity for projectile warfare at all. Why take the time to make snowballs and carefully construct a strategy of attack when you can tackle a pretty-boy angel into a nearby snow drift and put handfuls of snow down his pants while they're in easy reach? Or vise versa, as the case may be. Cas is a fast learner.
Sam thinks that at the rate they're going, Dean is going to get sick and Sam is going to have to take care of him afterwards. He is going to I told you so very hard at his brother when that happens and make him drink soup with vegetables in it. Cas will probably feel guilty for helping Dean catch cold, particularly from all the reaching right into Dean's shirt the way he is and smearing handfuls of snow directly onto Dean's skin. They're both going to be soaked through and miserable after all is said and done, and if they wanted an excuse to roll all over each other and reach into each other's pants did they really have to drag Sam into the middle of it—and the freezing cold— as well?
That's just inconsiderate.
Sam throws up his hands and turns around. He trudges back into the house alone, before this gets any more ridiculous (if it even can). He ends up rummaging around in Bobby's kitchen for a can of chicken noodle soup and a pot, because Dean will need it when he finally realizes he is freezing and comes back inside to warm up again (though probably not before he catches that cold).
Halfway through the process of heating up soup, Sam finds himself scowling to himself in dissatisfaction. Thirty seconds after that, he finds himself throwing on his jacket and his scarf and his gloves all over again.
He stomps determinedly back through the snow to his tree—the one with all the prepared snowballs hidden behind it—and picks up the biggest, rounded, most solidly packed snowball that he'd made.
By now Dean and Cas have stopped trying to ravage each other with snow and look like they're on the verge of ravishing something else entirely. Which is still, for the record, not how this was supposed to go.
After taking careful aim, Sam pitches the snowball he is holding at the back of Dean's head, where it explodes with a powdery and satisfying whump against his brother's skull.
"Ha!" Sam declares triumphantly, because he's the only one here doing this whole thing right and he feels like his brother and the angel ought to know.
Then Sam turns around and goes right back inside again.
Dean mutters, "What the hell, Sam?" after him, while Castiel blinks down at Dean and says, very seriously, "I still don't see the appeal."
Sam slams Bobby's door shut behind him.
He sits down at the table with a bowl of hot soup and the warm feeling of victory from his first—and hopefully only—snowball fight.
That, he thinks, is how you really do it.