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I can't believe I'm almost done with my first year of college. Only two weeks of academic constipation left...it's a small miracle.
Now, uh, this poopy set reminds me of a thing I wrote five months ago, so I might as well plop it here:
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The close-knit suburban cluster of buildings seemed hushed and skeletal in the pale winter air, gnarled tree branches ghosting nakedly around empty front yards. Sam stared unseeingly out the window of the Impala, his forehead creased slightly and his bottom lip painfully chapped. He resolutely avoided looking at Dean, who had been drumming his fingers against the wheel for the past mile and a half. A familiar tension swirled and eddied between them, silencing their restless tongues in preparation for the release of a regurgitated argument.
Sam blinked in realization and leaned his head against his window. "It's snowing," he intoned softly, focusing his eyes on the bits of white that had started to flutter downward. And without a word, Dean had stopped the car near a tiny neighborhood park and was ejecting himself into the rising flurry outside. Sam's frown deepened as Dean opened the passenger door and ushered him out impatiently, sending a blast of cold air and several snowflakes into the car as he did so.
"Dean, what-we're gonna freeze our asses off."
"C'mon, Sam, can't we..." Dean trailed off vaguely, his breath billowing over his upturned hands.
Sam sighed and went to stand next to Dean so that their shoulders were pressed together.
"Yeah, okay."
A flicker of a smile played on Dean's lips, and he slapped Sam lightly on the shoulder before breaking their contact to crouch down. The frost-eaten dirt wasn't yet peppered with mounds of snow, but it was getting there. Even so, Dean lowered himself gingerly to the ground and laid there, spread-eagled.
"Remember Ohio, '92? First time we saw snow, huh? We made shitty snow angels for hours. Nearly caught goddamn pneumonia."
"...Yeah."
"Dad could've killed me, he was so mad."
Sam stared at Dean's closed eyelids. A trembling flake of snow had caught in his eyelashes.
"You just gonna stand there, Sammy? Come join me."
With his eyes still shut, he extended an arm and patted the hard dirt to his right. A protest began to make its way up Sam's throat, but he thought better of it, shut his mouth, and hesitantly sat cross-legged in the spot Dean had indicated. The snowflakes buffeted the brothers' faces gently, imprinting the stark silence and the icy chill of the park into their bones.
Eventually Sam shifted his eyes from the speckled sky to Dean's face, lying just a foot from his left elbow. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and a couple of half-melted flakes decorated his hair and nose. Dean chose that moment to open his eyes, and caught Sam looking.
"What is it?"
Sam gave a tiny shake of his head, watching his own breath gust out hastily. Dean sat himself up and set his hands in his lap, making no attempt to clean the snow off his body.
"Sam," His eyes were bright and steady.
"Hm?"
"Do we need to..."
"It's fine, Dean. I'm fine. We just, uh..."
With his words echoing uselessly in the emptiness, Sam fought to tamp down the indescribable thing threatening to tear his chest apart. Sam swallowed, hard, and blocked out the voice in his head screaming about time and dead ends and broken goodbyes. He glanced down, addressing his raw knuckles, "Stop looking at me like that, man. It's not me we should be worrying about."
A snowflake landed on his thumb and devolved into water almost immediately. He heard Dean breathe out slowly, and suddenly, his brother's hand was clasping his own. Sam raised his head in surprise, and the look on Dean's face made the lump in his throat grow a little.
"Dean, I-"
"Me too, Sammy."
And they sat like that for a stretch, warming the slowing snowfall and the divide between them with simple sentiment.
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