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„Oh c’mon, Sammy, it’s not that bad,” Dean offered lightly as he put on a thick winter coat and a ridiculously huge scarf.
“Not that bad, huh? We’re stuck in no-man’s-land.”
That much was true.
The Winchesters’ extended stay in a rural small town in the middle of December wasn’t entirely voluntary. They had wrapped up a successful black dog hunt the day before and had been ready to head south, to warmer climes, when a blizzard hit the area. Within hours, the whole town had been covered in three feet of heavy snow. All the roads were blocked. Apparently, no one had expected such weather – hello, winter in Minnesnowta?! – so there were no snowplow trucks on short call. It would take at least another day to procure vehicles and gear from three counties over.
In short, as Sam had accurately summarized, the brothers were stuck here.
At least they had rented a private little cabin in the woods for this particular hunt because this place was so remote that there weren’t even motels. Their wooden lodge was sort of warm and comfy and just about the neatest place they had crashed in for a while. Plus, luckily, they had stocked up on food and water the day before, so they were good. This was basically a camping trip, right? Not that Dean particularly enjoyed camping (read: hated it with a passion). But he wasn’t about to get grumpy. Not like Sam. His younger brother had been withdrawn lately, more so than usual, sulking, even. His whole emo-brooding-shtick likely wasn’t caused by the weather though, Dean conceded. Sam had almost constantly been in a sour mood for the past weeks and months – ever since Jess’s death. Dean got that. The dire weather and the fact that they were stuck here only added to his sibling’s emotional struggles. Sam was still grieving, and the process was painful to watch for Dean, almost as much as if he were in mourning too, grieving for his kid brother’s lost happiness.
So if Dean wanted to stay sane in those next twenty-four hours until they could get the hell out of dodge, he needed to do something to cheer up his brother. He already had something in mind.
“Yeah, well, when’s the last time we got to enjoy a winter-wonderland like this?”
Sam actually paused at that, his brows furrowing as if he were thinking really hard about the question. That was part of the problem, Sam’s giant brain over-thinking everything. It was Dean who answered for him, “It’s been a while. So let’s do something.”
“Do something? Do what? Wait, you wanna go outside?” Sam blurted out in disbelief, skeptically eyeing his brother’s winter gear. Dean was almost done wrapping himself up well for the awaiting cold outside, slipping on his boots by the cabin’s door. Meanwhile, Sam stood in his jeans and flannel, arms folded over his chest.
“Yeah, let’s take a walk.”
Sam snorted. “You,” he pointed at Dean in an emphatic gesture, “—want to take a walk? You? In this weather?”
Nah, Dean really didn’t.
But he knew that this was the kind of thing his geeky emo of a little brother usually enjoyed – taking long, healthy walks in the woods, freezing his ass off to clear his head. And that’s precisely what Sam obviously needed right now, a way to clear his mind. He had a lot on his plate right now, they both did, what with Jess and Dad and those creepy visions that weren’t scaring Dean at all, no, they really weren’t… Dean breathed deeply.
“Sam, you comin’ or what?” he offered as nonchalantly as possible. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit.
Sam seemed to ponder his options for another few seconds, then finally sighed, long-suffering, and grabbed his hoodie. There wasn’t much else to do anyways, Sam was aware of that fact as much as Dean. Dean smiled to himself. Of course, his little brother knew as well as Dean exactly what this was about. Neither of them said it aloud.
A few minutes and some more layers of clothing later the brothers stepped outside.
It turned out to be a rather short walk.
In fact, Dean stopped wading through the masses of snow not even a hundred feet from the cabin, breathlessly. Damn, with every step his heavy boots were sinking deeper into the snow like it was mud. Walking in these conditions was exhausting. His brother paused a few paces behind him as well, huffing and puffing warm clouds into the frigid air.
Both their boots and pants – dark jeans – were already soaked through up to the knees. They hadn’t exactly packed for a polar expedition. It really was freaking cold out here. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all and they should have stayed inside, Dean absently thought. Sam, however, didn’t complain for once.
Well, they were already out here, so they might as well enjoy the perks of this weather phenomenon – the peaceful tranquility of a landscape oddly muted by a blanket of snow.
They came to a halt at the edge of a small, round clearing not far from the cabin. The almost perfect circle was lined by fir trees, as far as Dean could tell. Every inch of the trees was glazed in thick white crystals. The snow cover marking the clearing had been untouched until now, its smooth, white surface glinting beautifully in the dim afternoon light. The snowfall was decreasing but still hadn’t stopped entirely, bathing the freezing air in a thin, translucent veil of snowflakes. The scenery looked almost magical.
“You alright?” Dean asked into the cold silence behind him and turned around.
“Fine,” Sam replied curtly and buried his glove-clad hands in the pockets of his coat. His dark eyes briefly settled on Dean before they flicked to the side, taking in his surroundings. Avoiding his brother’s questioning look.
Dean’s heart clenched. Sammy was hurting. It was painfully obvious. Even the cold couldn’t freeze all the trauma in his mind, and neither could the stunning winter wonderland around them. Sam was probably using that thick head of his too much again, his mind replaying memories of him and Jess going for a stroll in the snow, memories of happier times. Memories were all he had. Everything else had been taken by the flames. On top of that, Sam probably hated being stuck here and not getting any closer to finding Dad or the thing that killed Mom (now also known as the thing that killed Jess), or clues on those visions. And maybe he was cold. Most likely all of the above.
Dean had to do something.
His gaze swept over the sparkling bright surface of the snow.
Huh.
Without further thinking, Dean sloshed a few steps forward and into the clearing, ruining the thus far unspoiled beauty. Behind him, he heard Sam huff over the too loud crunch of his boots, but his little brother didn’t move. Dean himself looked around and bent down without falling on his face, which turned out to be quite a feat in the thick snow. He shoveled fistfuls of white powder into his gloved hands, greedily collecting more and more of the icy masses. Satisfied with the pile of snow he was holding, he pushed it together between his hands, grabbing and forming it into something that kind of resembled a ball.
Without further ado, he spun around and aimed for his unsuspecting little brother, who stood just a few feet away, observing the woods.
Thud.
The snowball hit Sam square across the chest, making him stumble for a second.
“What the hell, Dean?” he called, obviously caught off guard, just like back in the day when they were kids and Dean had started snowball fights. Obviously, it had always been Dean to start these brotherly wars as was his big brother duty. Sam scoffed in irritation and dusted off his clothes.
Dean chuckled, already in game-mode. “C’mon, Sammy, just like old times!”
Before Sam could protest again, the next snowball was flying his way, this time missing his arm by an inch.
“Man, we’re not—“
Kids anymore died on Sam’s tongue and was replaced by a classic bitch face. Dean knew he did act like an overgrown child, sometimes (how could you grow out of something you’ve never really been?), but didn’t care one bit. He watched as Sam rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like “Don’t make me do this.”
Dean grinned in sweet nostalgia. He bent down to prepare his next missile when suddenly – splat – something cold struck his rear. He huffed, checking his pants, and discovered a snowy patch on the back of his jeans.
“Dude!” he chuckled, registering Sam’s tiny smirk even through the light snowfall and all those layers of clothing. Half of his little brother’s face was obscured by a loop scarf, and a great deal of his ridiculous mop he called hair by a gray woolen hat. Still, it was there: a glint in the eyes, a waggish shrug, and a sheepish smile.
Mission accomplished: Sam honest-to-God smiled. When was the last time he’d done that? Despite the freezing cold, Dean’s heart thawed at the sight of his brother’s light expression. He had successfully found a distraction from all the crap that was currently piling up in their lives, even if it would only last for a few minutes. His inner child hopped up and down with happiness.
And then something even more wonderful happened. Sam’s smile widened, baring his teeth. A tiny nod.
Tacit kick-off.
Dean’s face lit up, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
The snowball war was on.
Sam and Dean grinned at each other from fifteen feet apart, circling each other like predators. Dean needed this just as much as Sam. He was so damn ready to fire the next crystal scoop. But his little brother was nobody’s fool either, already gunning for his older brother.
Only a moment’s hesitation, then the two grown-up kids launched their attacks in sync.
Over the next few minutes, chunks of snow were spiraling through the air, occasionally hitting nearby trees or the ground. But as the brothers were expertly trained in various forms of combat, most of their snowballs at least grazed their opponent. Quite a few struck home, hitting Dean’s groin or Sam’s butt.
It was a classic sibling rivalry.
Pants and groans and one or two curse words echoed in the still air of the woods in between the crunching of their boots. It didn’t take long for the smooth surface of the clearing to be turned into a mess of stomped and compressed snow. Only a few minutes in, Sam and Dean were both covered in frosty white crystals.
“You’re gonna lose, little brother,” Dean laughed breathlessly, preparing his next strike.
“Watch me!” came the instant reply, accentuated by another snowball smacking his older brother’s middle. Dean made an exaggerated oomph-sound, cradling his sore belly.
“Man,” he puffed jokingly. “You’re gonna regret this!”
Sam laughed at him from the other side of their arena. And if that wasn’t the most beautiful thing Dean had heard in a while. On top of their daily struggle with the supernatural, the kid was traumatized beyond hell, grieving, and mourning his lost love, and fighting strange psychic stuff – and yet, right now Sam was genuinely laughing, dimples and all. Dean smiled wanly.
Even Dean, big brother and know-it-all when it came to Sam, had an inkling that he couldn’t grasp just how much this simple snowball fight meant to his little brother. He could only guess that it meant a shred of normalcy in a world of horror. Sam and Dean in a play-fight like when they were kids, and their world was less dark… it was everything. Sam flashed his brother another telling smile. Dean returned it, his eyes burning from the sheer brightness of all the snow around them. Well, maybe Dean did grasp it all.
Both brothers were as much at ease as they hadn’t been in—Dean couldn’t even remember how long. This was good. It almost felt like they were both back to normal, whatever normal meant in their world.
Dean crouched down again to greedily scoop up more of the cold, fluffy ammunition, getting slightly distracted by two more chunks grazing his leg and his shoulder – accompanied by Sam’s larking laughter. Dean’s fingers were almost numb despite his thick mittens and it was getting harder to form the freezing flakes into actual balls. When he got up, he held a misshapen white nugget in his hands, ready to win. Dean swung his arms back like a shot-putter, aiming for the ultimate blow. At the next second, he darted forwards, releasing the heavy snowball with the force of the momentum.
There was a split-second of recognition in Sam’s wide eyes, one single moment of paralysis in which he was unable to duck the strike—
Bang!
The frozen projectile hit him square across the head, eliciting a curt groan, then knocking him down. Sam was instantly floored, his back hit the ground with a muffled thud.
“Ha, gotcha!” Dean laughed triumphantly while simultaneously wincing in sympathy at the brutal blow. “Told ya I’d win, bro,” he teased, already trudging across the circular court to approach his loser brother. After all, whoever succeeded in hitting the other one in the head was declared winner. Those were the rules Dean himself had come up with as a kid. They still applied.
So, as far as Dean was concerned, their fight was over.
Only now did he realize that Sam hadn’t immediately jumped up from the ground to swing one last snowball – a move he’d always pulled as a child, the little brat he was, to get revenge on his ever-winning sibling. As far as Dean could tell from the distance, Sam lay eerily still, sprawled on a bed of snow.
“Sammy, admit it, you lose,” he exclaimed, figuring that Sam was playing possum a little while longer only to blindside Dean at the next chance. He couldn’t really see anything beyond fat snowflakes falling between them, but he could picture the smug smile on his little brother’s lips. Uh-uh, Dean wouldn’t let him pull none of that bullshit. So, he stopped a few feet away, warily eyeing the dark shape on the ground.
A few seconds passed, none of them moving.
That’s when Dean’s mind started reeling. His brother should have said or done something by now. Anything.
“Sam?”
No reaction.
That was weird. Dean felt a familiar twinge in his heart. He already recognized it as concern even though, as always, he was still trying to hide it under a heavy coat of something that probably sounded like anger but wasn’t quite. If Sam was just playing him, that stupid kid was gonna be in for it.
“Get up, loser,” he teased, a hint of alarm betraying the quip. “Sammy,” Dean repeated, this time neither a question nor an order. His initial rustiness in taking care of his brother in those first few days after their reunion was long gone. He couldn’t help it. Full-fledged big-brother-mode was kicking in, lacing his usually gruff tone with genuine worry. “Sam!”
What the hell? Was Sam… hurt? This was just a stupid snowball war, nothing even remotely monster-related. Then again, his little bro had always been a trouble magnet. Dean held his breath.
Silence.
“De…” a quiet whimper shattered the tranquility.
A whimper, for God’s sake.
Dammit.
And that’s when his irritation and all of his thoughts about winning a stupid play-fight with his little brother, rushed out of his system at once. Dean spurred to action, crossing the distance to his fallen brother in two long strides. He dropped to his knees close beside the huddled figure.
And gasped.
“Crap, Sammy!” he cursed, shaking hands hovering over his brother’s head – the head that was freaking bleeding.
Amid the icy crystals sprinkling half of Sam’s face, there was an ugly laceration just below his hairline where his hat ended. Sticky red was soaking into the fabric, matting those messy bangs, and seeping down Sam’s temple as well as the side of his face. Some stray glistening droplets decorated the ground beneath him, deep red a stark contrast against the white blanket of snow.
Dean swallowed in horror.
Why on earth hadn’t he immediately noticed his brother had a freaking head injury?! A litany of not-so-silent curses escaped his lips.
Lying transfixed to the spot, Sam looked up at Dean with bright, searching eyes, only slightly trembling, if from the blow to the head or lying in the cold snow, Dean couldn’t tell. Sam blinked slowly as if he’d just woken up from a nap, which was probably kind of close to the truth.
“T-truce?” Sam managed to mutter through clenched teeth, his eyes fixing on his brother.
Dean ignored the question, and instead cupped Sam’s cold cheeks. He wasn’t in the mood to play games anymore. “Sammy, you alright?”
Duh. Dumb question. Dean just didn’t know yet the extent of Sam’s not-alright-ness.
Sam furrowed his brows the way he always did when he was sleepy or confused about something. Apparently, he had no clue why his big brother sounded so worried. The obvious puzzlement reminded Dean of a five-year-old version of his brother. It was almost funny to watch, except Sam being hurt was the opposite of fun. Dean’s expression darkened.
“Uh… wha—?” came a slightly slurred reply, spiking Dean’s concern to another level. He let out a sharp breath, frustrated.
“Not alright, gotcha.” Dean sighed. On the outside, he tried to remain calm. Inside, bewilderment grabbed at him, fury and worry and how the hell did this happen?!
Then he saw.
Next to Sam’s head lay the remnants of the snowball Dean had flung at him, frosty crystals scattered on the cold ground. And under all that supposedly fluffy, soft powder was something that absolutely shouldn’t be there under any circumstances. A blunt-edged pebble, originally light gray, now smeared with red on one side. It was about the size of a chestnut.
Dean hissed and spit out a few choice words.
“My head kinda hurts,” Sam mumbled, bafflement obvious in his slight frown, and that was without him actually seeing his messed-up face. It was obvious that he was in pain and probably registered a viscid something on his face. But he seemed to have difficulty pinning down what exactly was wrong.
Dean took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Yeah, um, it’s leaking a little ‘cause you hit your noggin, buddy,” he explained, flashing Sam a fake smile in an attempt at reassurance.
Wrong, he internally chided. Dean had hit Sam’s head. Hard enough to knock him out for a minute. He shuddered, guilt-ridden.
That’s when recognition flashed across Sam’s face, melting away some of the drowsiness. As if just realizing his entire backside was stuck to ice-cold snow, he started getting up on his elbows, trembling. His thus far still arm moved up to his head, but Dean – cat-like reflexes still intact – gripped Sam’s hand mid-air.
“Don’t touch it, dude. I’m gonna take care of this, just relax for a minute. Can you do that for me?” He put his brother’s hand down again and helped him sit up at least a little. It had only been a minute or two since Sam had hit the ground, but it sure felt a lot longer, so Dean understood why Sam wanted to get off the cold snow as fast as possible. And he would, but not before Dean got a chance to assess the damage.
Sam, now being propped up by Dean’s strong hands, shuddered and wrinkled his forehead but reluctantly complied. “Okay.”
Dean let out a slow breath. His heart was still running a marathon but gradually slowing down to a degree with the adrenaline shock of finding a bleeding little brother slowly ebbing away. Sam was alert and moving around, so that was something. Nonetheless, Dean was still trapped in his mind that was busy liberally spitting self-accusations at him.
He should have known better… hell, he did know better than to randomly pelt his kid brother with stuff he hadn’t thoroughly checked for potential harmfulness. Dad had drilled as much into him all his life. In all fairness, their old man had not once explicitly forbidden snowball fights, but come to think of it, he’d never been keen on them either – probably for this exact reason. But, come on, what were the odds?! The chances of actually being unmindful enough to scoop up a sharp, unforgiving object with all that snow were—Dean wanted to think slim but shook his head. Yeah well, apparently Dean Winchester, kickass-hunter and expert fighter, was stupid enough to do just that.
He’d thrown a freaking rock at his little brother’s head.
Dean gulped down another wave of self-blame. This was supposed to be fun. Just a playful snowball war like when they were kids. A happy distraction from all the stuff his little brother was going through. But now Sam sat on the frozen ground, snowbound from head to toe, freaking bleeding and looking like a lost puppy while he was at it.
Well, the damage was done. It was time for triage.
“Okay, okay, lemme see…”
Dean pulled Sam’s loop scarf down an inch to rub a soothing gloved thumb over his brother’s jaw. His other hand gingerly cast aside the blood-coated hat and some stray snowflakes. Sam stirred under his touch and couldn’t quite hide a wince.
“It’s not that bad,” Sam muttered, his speech a lot clearer, and he looked very much ready to get up.
“Nah-uh. Stay down just a minute longer,” Dean commanded. “I need to check some things.” His glove-clad hand went from his little brother’s jawline up into the air.
Sam obeyed with a groan, “Fine,” and a barely suppressed eye-roll. His petulance was a good sign.
“Okay, smarty-pants, how many fingers am I holding up?” Dean asked, hand still held up, warily watching Sam’s reaction.
“Uh, I don’t know…” Sam scrunched his eyes behind a curtain of snow-damp bangs, though not with puzzlement but… amusement? Dean eyed his brother skeptically.
“You’re wearing mittens, man,” Sam finally deadpanned.
Dean let his hand fall to his side and snorted, quite satisfied with his sibling’s answer to his trick question. “You’re damn right, I’m wearing mittens. They’re cozy, you know, like tiny sleeping bags for hands,” Dean chuckled, his ever-present worry finally making (a little) room for one of his go-to-coping strategies – humor.
“That was a lame test,” Sam said, going for a petulant tone, but his lips’ slight upwards curl gave away his amusement at his older brother’s comical comparison.
And that right there was enough to finally calm Dean’s worries some.
Sam obviously had his wits together. That was a weight off Dean’s mind. His heartbeat gradually slowed down another level to an almost comfortable jog instead of the sprint from earlier. He rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder, well, on the layers of undershirt, overshirt, flannel, hoodie, jacket, coat. Dean smiled at his little brother, searching his eyes. Relieved, he noticed that Sam’s pupils were normal-sized and even, and as far as he could tell their reaction to light was not delayed.
“Okay, geek boy, I think you dodged a concussion,” Dean announced, genuinely relieved. “This thick skull of yours is good for something, after all.”
Sam made a face. “Bite me.”
The harmless insult was music to Dean’s ears. He laughed, affectionately smacking Sam’s arm. “Cranky much? I’ll give you a pass on that one, little brother, but only ‘cause you’re bleeding like a pig.”
Sam’s glare was priceless.
Dean barely managed to hide his grin until he woefully remembered that he still had a job to do. The sight of sticky, bright red blood coating half of Sam’s face wasn’t exactly funny. So, along with his cheerful mood Dean’s expression faded to a sincerer smile as he cleared his throat. “Seriously though, this cut is probably gonna need stitches.”
Sam visibly winced at the mention of needles but still nodded. “Not like it’s my first time,” he admitted, grimacing. His tone was still tinged with well-hidden pain. Dean caught it anyway, of course he did.
Head wounds were always nasty. And Sam, accident-prone as he was, unfortunately had his fair share of experience with them. But luckily, they often looked scarier than they actually were. Hell, as shocking as seeing Sam bleed was, they were damn lucky the stupid rock had only hit Sam’s temple – and not one of his eyes. Dean clenched his jaw against the horrifying image of his little brother losing his eyesight because of some stupid game. And not even on a hunt, for Christ’s sake. Dean felt himself shaking but brushed it off as an effect of the cold.
“Dean?” Sam interrupted his train of thoughts, “Can we get up now? It’s getting a little c-cold.” Sam’s teeth were slightly chattering, and from where he still sat waiting patiently in the white crystals, he looked like the freezing temperature had well and truly seeped into his bones. Just now did Dean realize that he had been making Sam stay glued to the icy ground for a few minutes now, his body cooling by the minute.
Dean huffed. Another realization that came to him was that Sam had just asked his big bro for permission to get up because he still trusted whatever Dean had to say – even when Dean had undoubtedly screwed up and gotten Sam hurt in the first place (which was something he’d need to think about hard and long later). Despite the lengthy period of time they had spent apart and the fact that Sam had by then become a freaking Sasquatch, independent and defiant and strong, he’d never stopped being a little brother. Still guilt-ridden but also filled with warmth despite the sub-zero temperature outside, Dean counted himself lucky and wondered how he had survived with that kid missing from his life for so long.
“Yeah, sure, let’s—” not talk about how I almost killed you with a pebble, of all things, “… get you up and inside,” Dean said with a half-smile.
Dean grabbed the bloodied hat, carefully slid his hands under his little brother’s arm and helped pulling him up. Sam’s quiet moan didn’t slip his attention, neither did his swaying and how Sam needed a minute to fully support his own weight. He finally stayed steady, albeit trembling even more than before.
“C’mon, I’ve got you,” Dean said, pulling his taller little brother’s shivering frame close. The pair slowly shuffled towards their rental cabin.
After a few minutes, Dean carefully shoved Sam into the relative warmth of their room and shut the door behind them. He moved to the small corner fireplace, throwing a few pieces of wood and kindling inside, and lit them up. He rubbed his hands, knowing all too well it would take a while for the cabin to get really cozy.
He turned around to where he had parked his little brother right by the entrance. Sam was vertical but was leaning on the door handle and blinked idly, apparently not exactly knowing what to do next. Despite his earlier bitchiness, maybe Sam was a little more out of it than Dean had assumed.
“Sam, you should get out of these clothes. You’re dripping,” Dean ordered without heat. He himself had already shrugged out of his damp coat, scarf, hat, and mittens, all the items now carelessly littering the cabin floor.
Sam, however, still in a daze, didn’t move away from the door. Head injury, right. Concussion or no, blows to the head tended to have a rattling effect.
“Uh, yeah,” Sam finally said, then started fumbling with his gloves. His hands were shaking badly, struggling with the thick fabric. His face looked a shade paler than normal but not ghostly enough to make Dean worry he would keel over at any moment.
“Okay, Sammy, c’mere. Lemme help you,” he offered. Sam nodded in gratitude as Dean carefully helped him out of his snow-wet gloves, his coat, his jacket, hoodie and flannel. His two shirts were dry and could stay. He tossed the clothes aside along with Sam’s scarf. As an afterthought, Dean remembered that he’d stashed Sam’s blood-stained hat in his own jacket pocket, pulled it out and, unsure yet if it was a lost cause or could be salvaged, put it with all their other laundry. Sam’s shaking had already died down some. Nodding at his brother in reassurance, Dean crouched down and helped Sam untie his wet shoes as well, pulling them from Sam’s icy feet. The drenched socks came next. Satisfied with his work, Dean finished discarding his own freezing clothes and shoes.
“You good?” Dean asked, meeting his brother’s slightly unfocused eyes with a scrutinizing look.
“Yeah, just tired,” Sam replied groggily and rubbed a hand over his chin. He did look like he was about to fall asleep on the spot, Dean noticed. When Sam swayed on his feet a little, Dean grabbed his biceps and arched an eyebrow, visually inspecting the cut on Sam’s forehead. The bleeding had stopped, it could wait another minute.
“I bet. But no sleeping, kiddo. Not yet. Think you can manage the pants?”
Sam nodded, some color returning to his cheeks. “It’s okay.”
Soon after, Sam had managed to get changed into a pair of comfortably dry sweatpants and warm socks, just like Dean. Dean had made Sam sit down on his bed and coaxed some water into his worryingly bemused sibling while rubbing some warmth into his stiff fingers.
Now came the fun part.
It was time for another visit at the Winchester clinic. Neither of the brothers even suggested a real hospital. Apart from the obvious lack of options – still blocked roads, no insurance – as long as no one was dying, treating their wounds in dingy motels or, in this case, remote cabins, was their default. Sam and Dean had done this a thousand times. And, fortunately, the injury wasn’t too serious. This was something Dean could handle. Even after years apart, it was still an unspoken agreement between them that they would always patch each other up, which was why Sam didn’t question any of Dean’s actions. Their inherent trust in each other had never been truly broken.
“You’re ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should lie down for this,” Dean suggested, fully expecting a snarky retort.
To his surprise, Sam agreed. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Dean didn’t miss Sam’s pale complexion and the way he slightly slouched. He looked spent. Without hesitation, Dean gently helped Sam ease down until he lay flat on his back.
“This is gonna sting a little,” Dean said as he sat down on the edge of the mattress with their first aid kit in hand. He had already disinfected his hands as best he could.
“Just get it over with,” came the soft reply.
Dean nodded in sympathy, “Alright,” and gently pressed an alcohol wipe against the angry-looking wound. His brother ground out a low hiss, his body subtly tensing, but otherwise managed to stay completely still. He knew the drill. Dean gingerly dabbed at the clotted blood some more, eyeing his kid brother.
“Hang in there, almost done… well, with this part, at least.” He finished cleaning the laceration and the side of Sam’s face with a few more wipes. It honestly wasn’t even that bad. Head injuries just tended to bleed a lot and look scary as hell. Now that the blood had been mostly wiped off, it was revealed that the cut was about an inch-and-a-half long, surrounded by some nasty swelling, but the wound didn’t look too deep and was pretty high up on Sam’s forehead, so it probably wouldn’t even be super obvious while healing.
“I’m gonna stitch you up now, okay?” Dean asked while flexing his still cool fingers.
Sam’s reply was a nod, followed by a deep breath.
Sam obviously knew he was in for a lot of pain. But Dean didn’t want to risk painkillers just now, before he’d monitored Sam for a few hours. Despite his earlier hopefulness, Sam’s current weariness brought along the possibility that a mild concussion couldn’t 100 % be ruled out, after all. Dean’s mittens-test really had been lame. But he could handle this. Just like he had all those times before. And now that Sam’s face wasn’t covered in blood anymore, the coppery stench replaced by a faint alcoholic smell filling the air, it came easier to Dean to ease back into his accustomed coping-techniques.
He released a low chuckle. “I’m sorry to say this might leave a scar, but you know, chicks dig scars, so…” He held up a sterile needle and smiled, studying how Sam rolled his eyes at the stupid comment but failed to hide the amused twitch of his lips.
“Though they might not even see your scar with all that Disney princess hair hiding your entire forehead,” Dean added just to see a proper smile.
“Hey,” Sam complained with a grin.
“You know,” Dean teased. “I could cut those ridiculous bangs for you no problem, right now. Just gotta get the clippers from my bag.”
“Don’t you dare,” Sam retorted with a sharp glint in his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.
Dean laughed. “Yeah, yeah, you can keep your magnificent mop, for now, but only ‘cause it’s serving as protective padding for your various stunts involving head injuries.”
“Dude,” Sam grinned and smacked Dean’s hand lightly. “Would you stop talking about my hair and hurry up stitching me up?”
That, in fact, was a good idea. Just one more thing… “Come to think of it, your hairy extra padding kinda means you have an unfair advantage over me when it comes to snowball fights.”
Sam settled against the pillows again. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Dean quipped only half-joking. “Which means that we probably shouldn’t do this anymore. It just wouldn’t be fair to me.”
“Right.”
A moment of silence hung between them, the apparent joke falling flat. Dean didn’t intend to throw snowy projectiles at his brother ever again for various reasons. An unfair advantage on Sam’s side being none of them. Sam and Dean exchanged a look that conveyed everything they didn’t dare say out loud.
Finally, Dean cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s do this.”
In the next few minutes, the only sounds in the cabin were the crackling of the fire and an occasional low groan from Sam. Dean was focusing hard on not messing the stitches up, not wanting to be the reason Sam ended up looking like Frankenstein’s monster. His little brother, however, didn’t seem to be too concerned about that. His neck muscles were corded and tense like a bow string, but he didn’t complain. To Dean, it was amazing how, even after all this time, Sam simply had faith in his brother’s ability to fix things, that he trusted him so completely. Honestly, Dean really was quite good at what he was doing. His stitches almost looked professional. It was ridiculous how much practice he had with first aid and even minor surgical procedures – and how much of that experience he had unfortunately attained by fixing none other than his little brother. Dean inwardly cringed, trying to not let his thoughts show on the outside. But damn, Sammy got hurt too freaking often.
“There… done,” Dean announced. He inspected the sutures – nice and clean – applied some antibiotic cream, placed a sterile patch over the healing wound and put away the med kit. He squeezed Sam’s hand, noticing that, finally, some warmth had seeped into his brother’s bones. Dean gave Sam a small smile, waiting for his brother to look up at him. “You’re as good as new.”
Sam had closed his eyes for the procedure, but now his eyelids fluttered as the rest of his muscles loosened. After a few blinks, he peeled them open entirely, the taut lines of his face relaxing into a groggy half-smile. He looked almost… stoned, despite the fact that no meds were involved (yet).
Dean stifled a giggle. “I might’ve even improved your face, dude.”
The expected sneer never came. Dean’s attempt at humor went either ignored or unnoticed by his weary little brother. “Thanks,” Sam mumbled sleepily. He was already snuggling deeper into the pillows, obviously exhausted.
A rock to the head could do that to you.
Not for the first time today, the somewhat gloating expression died on Dean’s lips. He hummed an affirmative and watched his tired little brother. It wasn’t like Sam was dying or anything – thank God – or like it was the first time something like this had happened, not by a long, loooong shot, but still. Dean had hurt Sam today. He was supposed to protect his little brother, not harm him. It was all very simple. Dean had two rules guiding his morale.
Rule number one: Take care of Sammy.
Rule number two: If something goes wrong, go back to rule number one.
Today, he’d broken his own rules by… abiding by them? Before their snowball fight, Sam had been moping all day, he’d been hurt emotionally (in all likelihood he still was, the death of a loved one didn’t just go away), so big brother Dean had tried to lift his spirits. And now he was hurt physically because of said action. Man, taking care of a hurting sibling sometimes was a tightrope act.
Dean inhaled deeply. He had to get something off his chest before his brother succumbed to sleep.
“Sammy,” he exhaled slowly, “I know I hit you with a freaking rock today, but… I didn’t mean to, really. I’m sorry.”
There, an honest apology, something the Winchesters rarely offered. It felt good to say those words aloud, but at the same time, Dean was still beating himself up with guilt. Yeah, he’d fixed Sam, at least the things about him he could fix. But that wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t hurt the kid in the first place. It was his fault that Sam would probably wake up with a hell of a headache and yet another scar to mar his face. It wasn’t the first time Sam had gotten hurt in a stupid play-fight. As kids, the brothers had wrestled and sparred all the time. An occasional bruise hadn’t been uncommon. But bleeding head wounds that may or may not be accompanied by a concussion but definitely required stitches? On a day like this when Sam was already hurting so much? In Dean’s book, that was a low, especially when it was him being the cause of such an injury.
“’S not your fault… jerk,” a sleepy voice yanked him out of his mind.
In between owlish blinks Sam was staring blearily at Dean, flashing him the ghost of a smile. Dean puffed at the dopey look, patting the kid’s cheek. He busied himself with pulling a blanket up to Sam’s shoulders, then another. His little brother sighed dozily into the warmth.
Sam’s words slowly sank in. And Dean smiled to himself. Sam didn’t blame him for what had happened. Kind-hearted Sammy had never been one to carry grudges. Dean’s gaze dropped, overwhelmed by the unexpected relief gushing from his heart just because of these few words of forgiveness out of his brother’s mouth.
Just when Dean thought his brother had fallen asleep, Sam quietly spoke up again, “Hey Dean, I know what you were trying. What you’re still trying to do. Jess, Dad…” His voice trailed off.
Dean’s eyes fixed on Sam again just in time to see how his brows briefly furrowed in that typical dazed-Sam-way, then smoothed out again. The kid had a lot of crap to deal with. It wasn’t fair. Dean’s chest ached in sympathy.
“I get it, Dean. You’re just doing your best,” Sam mumbled drowsily, leaden eyelids finally losing their battle against gravity. “You always take care of me.”
Dean studied Sam’s peaceful expression, one of warmth and safety. A tiny smile was tugging at Sam’s lips even as fatigue was slowly taking over.
And Dean still stared, baffled. “Sammy…” he breathed, unable to say anything else but this one word he knew would convey all his affection for his little brother. Sam was right. Dean did take care of him. Always. At least he tried, he always did. He’d tried taking care of his hurting brother today, too. He’d die trying. And Sammy saw and appreciated his brother’s efforts.
Did the room just get a little blurry? Dean’s heart constricted with all the love he felt for his kid brother. The surge of affection easily outshone the pain of having hurt him. He let out a long sigh.
“Thanks,” was the last barely audible word Sam muttered before his breathing evened out in peaceful sleep.
And just like that, the tight knot of guilt in Dean’s gut finally loosened. He found himself smiling.
Despite all the crap that was happening in their lives, his soulful, trusting, loving little brother was still here. Smart kid he was, he was seeing right through Dean and his good intentions. He knew that Dean hadn’t hurt him on purpose and trusted that he never would. To Sam, what mattered was that his big brother was there for him, that – against all odds – Dean tried to make everything okay.
Sam loved Dean unconditionally, as he always had. It went both ways.
Besides the well-acquainted feeling of guilt, Dean allowed himself to feel something else. Could it be—yeah, happiness. Okay, those last thirty minutes or so hadn’t exactly turned out awesome – but before that? The brothers had actually had fun. Sam had had fun. For the first time in months, his kid brother had genuinely smiled. And now, seeing the lines of pain in Sam’s face smooth out in relaxation tugged at Dean’s heart in a way nothing else could. Sam was okay, more or less, and he was safe.
As messed up as it seemed, incidents like this one today might just be another brotherly thing – their version of a glimpse at happiness in a world full of trauma. A mean little pebble to the head was a piece of cake compared to their usual adversaries. Pretending the world was alright, that Sam and Dean were alright, was easier when a snowball fight gone bad was their only problem of the day. One that Dean could easily solve. When seemingly unbeatable foes dared to threaten them, Dean always retreated to more basic ways of taking care of Sam. Even if he couldn’t take the burden of grief from his little brother, simple head wounds he could fix. So, in a way, Sam getting hurt physically gave Dean something he could work with, something he could help make better.
Damn, they were screwed up. But they would figure that out, too.
Dean’s smile lingered when he patted Sam’s sleeping form once more. “Sleep tight, Sammy.”
And after another few minutes of drinking in the sight of his little brother’s peaceful sleep, Dean rose to his feet, cleaned himself up, and pulled a chair right next to Sam’s bed. He placed a bottle of water and some painkillers on the nightstand before settling down and propping his feet up on the bed next to Sam’s legs. It had gotten late, and his body had gotten tired. But his mind was wide awake. Tonight, just like so many nights before, he would keep vigil over his snoring little brother.
“G’night, bitch.”
Tiny epilogue: A few months later, Sam and Dean found themselves in another ‘winter wonderland’ as Dean had once called it. Only this time, as a matter of prudence, it was Dean who – instead of starting a snowball fight – opted for building a snowman.
The end