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Snow was definitely an element Dean preferred to observe from afar, rather than navigating in while trying to keep away from his bloodthirsty brother. It was Christmas morning and the two had taken themselves outside, least they wake their father, who had roused just long enough to scream bloody murder at Brock for breathing too loud.
Snow Wars had seemed like an okay idea inside, but once looking out at the white clad Venture Compound, dead silent and as eerie as a field pre battle, Dean had second thoughts. Hank was still excited about opening presents, which were certainly a long way off, if tradition and Rusty’s inability to sleep off a hangover held true, and seemed to be channeling his restless energies in determination to soundly destroy his twin.
Unable to make snow balls fast enough to keep up with Hank’s ridiculous energy, Dean had been forced to retreat, hiding out behind a snowdrift tall enough to mask his height. Eleven snowballs lay beside him, in the likely event Hank found him, but Dean had fallen one short of a dozen, lost in the serene beauty of the Compound. Most of the snow was unmarred by the lengthening day or muddy footsteps, leaving the whole place looking untouched, almost pure. It was something out of a postcard, picture perfect and the sort of peaceful beauty the Ventures rarely got to enjoy.
Or really cared to notice, seeing as they tended to be running for their lives most of the time.
Dean wriggled his toes in his snow shoes, thankful that Hank had allowed him enough time to find most of his cold weather gear before dragging him outside. He didn’t need to be outdoors to pass the time until their father was ready to join the world and allow them to open their presents— he was quite content to make progress on his ever growing reading pile, adventure novels carefully stacked at the edge of his learning pile even though it never seemed like he made much progress.
Sometimes, Dean could swear he’d read the books a hundred times before, the touch of each cover carrying the warm comfort of an old friend, even though he couldn’t remember a single thing about any of the stories itself. The plots and characters were always new and exciting… but the books themselves always felt hauntingly familiar.
It wasn’t something he liked to bring up with Hank, particularly when he was a bundle of Christmas nerves about to blow at any minute.
Dean though, couldn’t bring himself to be excited for opening presents— they always got the same gifts each year, and presents weren't the reason he loved Christmas, anyway. It was hard to be excited by the prospect of fresh clothes, when he wore the same every day. Or more books, when he still had a stack as tall as he was that he hadn’t conquered. Or lab equipment his father had randomly picked from his work station and shoved into a box, proclaiming Dean the successor to a long line of super scientists and always holding a disapproving air for falling short of the mark.
Hank never received their father’s broad hints at following in the wonderful world of science— it was always comic books and batman costumes and helpful pamphlets about the joys of sanitation work. Which was really a shame, since Hank had the spirit for mad science work, while Dean would rather just sit and watch the snow slowly melt around his world, enjoying the novelty of a bloodless day.
“SNEAK ATTACK!” Hank sailed over the snowbank, twisting his arm in midair to smash a huge ball of snow in Dean’s face before landing neatly on his feet.
“That isn’t really sneaky of you,” Dean grimaced, carefully wiping his face with his damp mittens. “Brock would not approve.”
“Yeah, like we’d ever be able to get Brock to play Snow Wars with us.” Hank shook his head, looking around at Dean’s hide out and evidently finding it sorely lacking by the disgusted expression pulling on his face. “Gosh Dean, this is super weak. Did you even walk fifty feet?”
“Well, someone wouldn’t let me keep looking for my snow shoes.” Dean sniffed, taking off a mitten to wring it as dry as possible, but knowing it would remain a sodden mess long after he was warm inside. Wool took a long time to dry, and there was no way he’d be outside that long.
“You went through THREE supply closets! What was I suppose to do, help you search the whole compound while the snow melted away before I could smash some in your face?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you know they won’t fit anymore,” Hank rolled his eyes. “Some of us more than others.”
“I didn’t TRY and grow an extra inch,” Dean denied vehemently, feeling as if it had been for the hundredth time since Brock had confirmed that Dean was just a hair taller.
“I see you stretching in the morning! Every morning!” Hank was outraged, as if proper care of a body was a betrayal of brotherly trust.
Dean brushed aside stray snow from his parka, frowning. “That’s YOGA Hank! Don’t you pay attention to your learning bed at all? There was a whole week devoted to flexibility and how important it was to stretch before any below the belt activities, and with all the running for our lives we do on a daily basis - ”
“Except the ceasefire on Christmas.”
“Well, yes,” Dean was thrown from his train of thought, left laying there wordless before his smirking brother. It was no secret that Dean’s favorite part of Christmas came at the behalf of the Guild of Calamitous Intent, which had, for the past three years, instated a Winter Holiday Rule that made any arching the final two weeks of the year punishable by steep fines and the ridicule of their fellow guild members. “But it isn’t just Christmas-“
Hank blew a raspberry before flinging himself backwards into a snowdrift. There wasn’t enough of a cushion for the dramatic motion, but Hank was too stubborn to admit he’d winded himself, his words barely above a wheeze. “The presents this year had better be worth all this boredom. No adventures for two whole weeks!”
“It has been nice.” Dean said firmly, but angling himself against the pile of snow to better see his brother, wincing as the moisture began to immediately seep into his so-called waterproof parka. He’d have to get a new one before their next Arctic Adventure, which knowing their father would come the moment the Holiday Rule rolled over. “Brock hasn’t killed anything in a whole week.”
“I think he’s going through withdrawals.” Hank grinned. “I saw him stroking his hunting knife yesterday, trying to argue with Pops that bear was totally traditional for Christmas dinner.”
“I don’t know why he didn’t just let Brock go. It isn’t as if anyone is going to attack us while he’s out murdering in the forest.”
Hank shrugged, settling the back of his head on his crossed arms. “Habit I guess. Brock’s kind of our shadow, you know?”
“A murdering shadow.”
“He’s always there,” Hank stared quizzically at the off white sky, as if he was trying to unlock the secrets to the cosmos instead of puzzling out a stray thought. “You know, kinda like a year round Christmas present.”
“Yeah, that’s a good way to put it…”
But Hank wasn’t paying attention anymore, his attention fixed to the distant horizon, a frown beginning to stretch across his face. “Hey, what’s that?”
“What’s what?” Dean squinted, but he couldn’t see anything amiss. “Hank, I don’t see anything-“
And just like that, his entire field of vision went cold, white, and painful. “That’s because you’ve got a snowball in your face!” Hank crowed. The extra crunch of the snow against the bridge of Dean’s nose as Hank pressed the ball harder against his face didn’t help Dean appreciate his twin’s sense of humor any.
“Henry Allen Venture, you take that back!” Dean dragged his sole remaining mittened hand across his face, brushing the ice away but the burn of the cold still lingered.
“I can’t take that back, Dean, it already happened!”
“Ug, you know what I mean!” Dean threw up his hands in exasperation. “Honestly I can’t take you anywhere-“
“I’m the one who dragged you here-“
Dean shoved Hank back, glaring. “I didn’t ask to be dragged out here-”
“Don’t push me!” Hank shouted, pushing Dean back, his hands firmly pressing against Dean’s shoulders.
“Then don’t shove me!” Dean tried to shove Hank once more, but his twin was too quick, rolling beyond Dean’s reach. Instead he got one of Hank’s sharp elbows in his spleen, Dean’s breath knocked clear out to Gargantua-1.
“Gosh Dean, you fall for that every time--oooof!” Hank’s voice trailed off as he himself earned a sharp punch to his gut.
After that, it was a blur of fists, shoulders, and Hank’s teeth in retaliation after a well placed kick had landed home. “Why are you ruining Christmas?” Dean demanded once he’d gained enough of an upper hand to catch his breath, Hank squirming in his hold. “This is suppose to be a celebration-“
“And I can celebrate Christmas however I want!” Hank twisted out of Dean’s hold, and the fighting began in earnest after that. The once pristine, snow clad scene had become a storm of brotherly violence, and neither seemed willing to stop.
At least until they found themselves yanked apart, Brock holding each back by the nape of their coat. “What’s going on here, boys?”
“He’s being stupid!” They answered at once, then glared at one another.
Brock drew out a long, resigned sigh of a man who had broken up countless sibling tussles in the past. He released both of them, needing his hands free to light up his cigarette, which he drew a long drag from before he spoke. “There are better places for fighting,” He hinted. “Warmer places.”
“Aw, but I don’t want to go inside! We can’t open presents until Pops wakes up, and who knows when that’s going to happen! It is loads more fun out here-”
“With you horsing around inside, that’s bound to happen a hell of a lot sooner than it would otherwise.”
Dean knew better to assume their father would wake up just because Hank was a loud mouth— there had been quite a few bottles in his collection the night before, and their father slept like the dead even on the best of days.
“And then it is time for presents?!” Hank asked, tugging at Brock’s shirt.
Brock took another long drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around his fingers. He began walking back towards the main house, confident the boys would follow. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
Hank was practically stepping on Brock’s heels, but Dean was slow to follow. Although thoroughly trampled and already beginning to melt beneath the young sun, the field was still enticingly beautiful, the silence so unlike anything the Venture Compound usually saw. This was what their lives should be like the rest of the year— no henchmen rising up for a hopeless strike, no Brock committing murder every five minutes, no Rusty moaning about how easy the boys had it, as if their lives were somehow a walk in the park compared to what their father had grown up with.
“Get your ass in gear, Dean.” Brock called out. “Before something freezes off out here, Christ.”
Dean sighed, giving the trampled, former wonderland once last wistful glance before he began to follow the others. “Merry Christmas to us all, I guess."