not_refined

 “You think it’s true?” Dean asks. His voice is so quiet that it startles Sam. He’s been drifting in and out of sleep, knowing better than to think his big brother will let him drive in these conditions.

It’s been snowing for hours. Silent, thick flurries that obscure road signs and make this whole driving thing insanely dangerous. He lets Dean carry on. “What?” he asks, clearing the dreams from his throat.

“The whole no two snowflakes being alike thing. Is that true or what?”

“Yeah. I think so. Why?”

Dean fails to reply. He keeps his eyes on the dark road ahead, still the king of inexplicably strange conversation. Sam looks out of the window. They seem to be the only people unhinged enough to be on the road at this time of night in this kind of storm. But, he reasons, neither of them have much to lose. It only makes sense to do crazy things when your time is running out.

“What time is it?” he asks. His watch stopped working three states back and he hasn’t gotten it fixed yet. Sam doesn’t want to spend months obsessively checking every minute, because that means taking his eyes off the prize, as Dean puts it.

“No idea,” Dean says, holding out his left arm. “Check it out.”

His watch has stopped at six-thirteen.

The Impala’s clock is useless, too. Sam changed the time on it to mess with Dean’s head about four months ago and neither of them has ever set it right. Sam breathes. He could whip out his phone, but he decides against it. Probably best not to know that it’s midnight, or two or four. Probably best just to think that this is a reasonable time to be awake and then he won’t go back to sleep.

Dean asking a question that strange means that he wants company. And Sam can tell by the set of his mouth that he needs to talk.

“You tired? Want me to take over?”

“Lost your mind there, huh? You really think I’d put my baby in your hands in this?”

“We could pull over.”

“We’d freeze, idiot.”

Sam smiles. “I mean, find a motel. There’s gotta be one round here. Where are we?”

Dean shrugs. “Somewhere with a lot of fields and not many people. I’ll tell you somethin’, Sammy, next sign you can actually read? I’ll pull over, pay for a king-size, and we’ll bed down.”

The thought of getting cosy with Dean is the only incentive Sam needs to force himself to look through the snow. Seems like they’re heading for another town where dust will coat his lungs and have him coughing at night. It’s another thirty miles before he finds anything, and Dean pulls a face at the price – like it’s even his money – but pays anyway. The girl behind the desk smiles tiredly and gives them their key. 

Dean showers and complains loudly that there’s snow smushed in his hair, and Sam just takes all his clothes off and dives between the sheets, moving his toes to warm up, listening to his brother talking about unimportant nothing. This is a lot like when their father died, how Dean put the Impala back together instead of fixing himself. Sam watched him from a distance, sitting on some broken down old truck missing most of its parts. He rarely approached his brother. Only with coffee or water or food in his hands, some form of peace offering. And Dean took it silently, threw an insult at him and turned away. Went back to ignoring what really needed attention.

Here they are again, nearly at the end. Dean still ignoring what needs seeing to. And Sam shivers endlessly.

When Dean sits on the end of the bed, towelling his hair dry, Sam doesn’t pretend to be asleep even though it’s tempting.

“Sammy. Tell me something.”

“What?” Sam lies flat, twists his neck so he can see Dean’s broad back.

“Tell me about anything. Snow. Talk about snow.”

“I don’t know that much about snow, Dean, I was studying Law, not meteorology.” He’s not even sure if he means meteorology. His tongue is sloppy with the need to sleep.

Dean’s shoulders slump.

Sam can feel his hair, dirty, against his ears. He should go and shower, maybe it would keep his toes from feeling so frozen, but he can’t move. Dean wants something like a bedtime story, a little talk to soothe him. And Sam can’t turn his back. He murmurs, “Some people think that Eskimos have hundreds of words for snow. Maybe thousands.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He’s not a scientist of any form, but he knows what his brother wants to hear right now. “And it is true. No two snowflakes are alike. Like people.”

Dean turns and looks at Sam, his eyes dark and cutting. “Now two people are alike?” he asks slowly. He’s getting at something, but Sam cannot figure out what exactly. Dean normally hates going around the point. He hits right on it, shoots it, doesn’t give a crap whose fingers he blows off in the process.

“Everyone’s unique,” Sam says, yawns, “come to bed.”

“I’m still wet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m cold.”

Dean closes his eyes and breathes with a tremble. “You never wanted to be special, did you?”

“When I was a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“No kid wants to be different. I like it now.”

“You sure?” Dean half-smiles without it looking real.

Sam can see the tears behind his smile, but he doesn’t say so. Everything is breaking Dean’s heart lately, and he only lets it show when they’re alone, when it’s late at night and he can brush it off the next day. Sam figures this might just be another dying wish. “Sure I’m sure. Now come on before my toes drop off.”

“You better not touch me with them.”  Dean leaves his wet towels on the floor and gets in next to Sam, instantly presses his feet to Sam’s, warming him up. Sam leaves the light on so he can look at Dean. It’s a strange luxury, even though he’s convinced himself that this is a view he’ll have for years and years yet.

Dean is less sure. He lets Sam look at him, and that says it all. They lie shoulder to shoulder until Sam turns and slides his arm under Dean’s neck. “I don’t mind being special when I’m with you,” he says softly, yielding. Dean needs to hear this.

In turn, Dean shifts closer into Sam’s arms. “Yeah,” he says, all hard gravel, “I know.”

And Sam understands. “There’s only one Dean Winchester.” He makes his voice light and teasing; even though he wants to tell Dean that no one will ever replace him.

Dean ignores him, and that’s what tells Sam that he’s heard. That he’s grateful. And he can’t reply because he can’t show it. “Sammy? You think I’ll see snow like this again?”

Sam can hear the real question as if he’s just come right out and said it. Dean has fallen in love with all these days. With Christmas three weeks ago, with the days it’s sunny and the days it rains, with snow and the prospect of sunshine. In the face of never having any of this again, it all becomes beautiful. But he can’t go into that now, he needs to rest and Dean needs to rest. Sam puts his face in Dean’s hair and murmurs, “Sure you will. All you have to do is wake up tomorrow.”

--End--