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Sans never considered himself to be the responsible adult.
He had found he rather played the part of the fun uncle for Frisk at best and even back when they lived in Snowdin Papyrus was the one always cleaning around the house, cooking, making sure their bills were paid. Sans wasn't very good at worrying about those things, or too lazy to bother with them. But that doesn't mean he can't be the responsible adult if the situation calls for it, everybody has to draw the line somewhere after all.
And Sans draws the line at serious bodily harm.
That's what compels him to say it out loud, even if a bigger part of him knows it's probably useless anyway. "I don't think this is a good idea."
Papyrus laughs. Honest to god cackles and Gaster follows suit, a deep chuckle that kind of catches Sans by surprise. It's been a few weeks, but he still needs to get used to having their father here again. "Having good ideas is not important," Papyrus says, with the kind of overblown confidence people usually display right before they break every single bone in their body and it only makes Sans more nervous. "Having fun is!"
"I'm all about having fun," he answers. "But this particular idea feels a little...deadly."
"I would be offended by your assumption that my calculations are that off," Gaster answers, staring down the hill with an assessing gaze. Sans is quite sure you can't determine the angle of a downward slope with the naked eye but what does he know. "If I wasn't so busy being puzzled by your assumptions that we can die."
"Says the guy who just came back to life after being dead for over a decade," Sans retorts. "Thanks to your calculations being way off I might add."
"Not dead," Gaster shoots back, while Papyrus is busy putting the final touches on their sled. "That would have probably been less... upsetting."
The way he says it is so casual it robs Sans from any response. Their father talks about his accident like it was a momentary stroll to the store that just so happened to delay him for years and as he watches Papyrus unfurl an honest to god sail, complete with little skull flag on the top, Sans wonders how, somewhere along the way, he became the most normal member in the Wingdings family.
"Papyrus," he says, both because their father looks too busy determining their ideal trajectory to pay attention and also because he is seriously worried. "You do know a sail is meant to catch the wind coming from behind, right. To go faster?"
"Excellent explanation of the functionality of sails on boats, brother!" Papyrus answers, connecting the mast to their sled. The thing is made entirely from wood and painted expertly by Papyrus himself and it reminds Sans of the bridge back in Snowdin. "Good thing this is not a boat."
"Could have fooled me."
"The sail will be tied up while we speed down, but as we reach peak velocity we can deploy it to slow ourselves to an amiable meander. A reverse sail, if you will." Papyrus stands up, admires his horrid creation like a parent sending their firstborn off to university. "Except the wind is coming from a forward direction instead of backward like a typical ship sail. Which makes it pretty confusing namewise."
"I do believe between the reverse sail, the angle of the descent, and the combined weight of us and the sled, the landing will stick," Gaster adds, smiling with unrestrained glee and Sans feels the concern grow. He admires both his father and his brother in their own unique passions for physics, much like his own, but just wishes they would use it for something besides death rides and scattering yourself across time and space.
But to each their own.
"Well, it's your funeral," he says, watching as the other two skeletons fit themselves in the carefully carved out seats Papyrus designed for them, leaving the first one empty. "It certainly was ice knowing you."
"You need some new material," Papyrus answers, without missing a beat, even though he's smiling.
"Now, Papyrus," Gaster says seriously. "Don't give him the cold shoulder."
Groans are all he gets as an answer, from both his sons, followed with an empathic: "I will throw myself off this thing mid-ride," by Papyrus.
Then Gaster pulls a lever Sans hadn't even noticed and fire shoots out of the back of the sled, proving that the two exhaust pipes attached there were not merely for show. Knowing Papyrus as he does, Sans really could have guessed as much. He watches in what can only be described as stunned silence, part admiration and part fear, as the thing takes off at an alarming speed, making short work of the flat distance of the hill's summit and then disappearing downward, while Sans looks on.
The rockets give up about one-third of the way down, perhaps because those two had some sanity left in them but more likely because they didn't manage to fit any more fuel into the sled's contraption. Another third and Papyrus deploys the sail, the skull flag at the top flapping bravely in the wind and it takes Sans all but five seconds to realize it's not slowing them down nearly enough. Or at all. Unsurprisingly, as soon as the sled hits a bump it crashes spectacularly, flying in a neat little arc then nose-diving again, throwing both occupants out of the vehicle in an almost impressive display of the unrelenting force of gravity.
Sans holds his nonneeded breath for a moment, two, then he hears the echoing laughter from the distance and sees Gaster throwing him a thumbs up and he starts sauntering slowly down the hill. No need to hurry, after all.
By the time he makes it down there, a trip that took the sled a few minutes at most but takes Sans a whopping ten minutes at the leisure pace he uses for non-emergencies, Papyrus has already managed to put the thing upright again and is noting the damage, Gaster is scribbling in his notebook with renewed vigor.
"So that went well," he says, while Papyrus lifts him up effortlessly and spins him around.
"It went perfectly!" his brother exclaims proudly. "Better than I had hoped!"
"Did it?" Sans asks as he is put down again, pointing at the warped frame of bottom rails. "Because it looks to me like you crashed."
"Just a little."
"Luckily the snow here is quite thick and cushioned our bodies from exploding into a gazillion tiny bone shards," Gaster adds triumphantly, turning to them.
Sans pushes his hands into his pockets. "What was that about sticking the landing?"
"Well, we probably would have if you had been in the sled. We did calculate for three passengers."
"Thinking I would step into that deathtrap in the first place was your biggest mistake then." Sans laughs but everybody ignores him.
"Sadly we burnt through all our fuel reserves in one go," Papyrus frowns at the rockets as if it was their fault for not being more considerate. "We won't be able to launch it again today to see for different results." Gaster pats him on the back in a consoling gesture.
"That's great because I'm not stepping in that thing," Sans repeats.
Gaster throws him a truly infuriating smirk. "Really, Sans, who would have thought you had become so boring while I was gone."
"I'm not boring for not wanting to die. And not wanting you to die either."
"Sans is very boring," Papyrus agrees with a solemn nod. "He does many things very boringly."
Sans sighs, tries to refrain from cracking his knuckles because he knows how much Papyrus hates it. "Well, excuse me for not wanting to lose something I only just got back, okay?" he mutters and it does stop the others dead in their tracks, smiles falling from their faces suddenly. "We only just got to be together again. There's... there's still a lot I want to do now that we have the chance-"
They are stunned for a moment, Sans doesn't give them much time to think it over though, bending down instead to scoop up a handful of snow and aim it at his father's face. "Like this!"
To his credit, Gaster ducks surprisingly fast for his age and the snowball misses him and hits Papyrus right in the eye instead. Sans burst out laughing at the same moment that Papyrus yelps, shaking the snow out of his socket. His laughter is quickly interrupted by a face full of snow himself however, courtesy of Gaster.
The area quickly devolves into an impromptu battlefield, the sled serving as cover for Papyrus who proceeds to expertly decimate his opponents with his superior aim and effectiveness, rolling masses of snowballs in record time and hurling them with marksman accuracy. Sans could have predicted this, he hadn't won a single snowball fight between the two of them since his brother turned nine, but that didn't mean it wasn't fun. And he definitely got a few hits in on Gaster, who despite his initial ducking wasn't very adept at snowball fighting himself.
By the end, they had no choice but to declare Papyrus the ultimate snowman (a title he chooses for himself) and Sans "soaked to the bone", pun intended. He didn't wear a coat, because the cold usually wasn't a problem, but now both his hoodie and short were heavy with melted snow and too wet for comfort. He grimaces at them.
"I guess we should postpone our sled relaunch until next time," Papyrus says, lifting the entire thing with just one hand. "When I have convinced the black market human to sell me more fuel."
Sans decides to ignore how concerning that statement is, instead focusing on Gaster, busy brushing the snow off his black coat. "Are we going to let him do that?"
"I don't see a reason not to."
Sans nods. "Of course you don't."
"Instead," Gaster says, as they start following Papyrus, who is by now lifting the sled high above his head with the skull flag still waving in the wind. "How about you tell me some of those other things you still want to do together now that I'm back."
"Right," Sans says, and the sky is strikingly clear but with dusk setting in he can just see the twinkle of stars in the distance. "That would be nice."