"C'mon baby," Dean was pleading now; "do it for me, huh, honey?"
He turned the Impala's engine over again, wincing as if it were he himself who was in pain as she groaned and spluttered miserably before shuddering into a forlorn silence once more.
Sam watched the tragic spectacle from a safe vantage point on the threshold of the charmless motel room which the Winchesters had been calling home since Christmas, well away from the colourful oaths and arm waving fury emanating from Dean as he trudged an increasingly frustrated path back and forth through softly crunching virgin snow between the stricken Impala's open hood and her drivers' seat.
Stomping his feet, Sam attempted in a vain to jolt some warmth back into his bloodless toes and blew into his red, stinging fingertips as he watched Dean slump once again into the drivers' seat, caressing the dashboard and whispering something that Sam couldn't hear, something clearly meant only for the Impala's consumption.
Dean took a deep breath and turned the key.
She tried, heaven knows she tried, but after thirty seconds of painful coughing, grinding and Dean's increasingly desperate encouragement, she sputtered miserably into a defeated silence.
Clambering out of the car, he threw his hands into the air in exasperation.
"She's too friggin' cold," he snorted; "she's not firing."
A series of hard, physical hunts had left the brothers tired, stiff and sore and as a result they had decided to head south to Florida for a few days rest and relaxation over Dean's birthday.
That was until last night when their current base of operations in Vermont had fallen under the arctic grip of a sudden ice storm and Sam reflected glumly that, right at this moment, the balmy, mild climes of Florida seemed a long, long way away.
The fact that a deterioration in the already bitter temperatures had been forecasted for a week hadn't seemed to register with Dean's sense of wounded indignation, and he continued to grumble and chunter sourly under his breath about the 'sonofabitch sucktastic weather'.
Wiping his hands on an oily rag, Dean reached over and irritably swatted a newly fallen layer of snow from his crippled baby's windscreen."Goddamn douchey Winter," he snorted, his breath riding on a curling wisp of vapour; "I hate freakin' winter an' I hate freakin cold an' I especially. Hate. Freakin'. Snow."
Sam allowed the tantrum to wash over him and shuddered, burrowing further down into his heavy jacket. He glanced up into the soupy grey clouds which swirled above them and wilted; it was patently clear there was a whole lot more snow, sleet, hail … whatever else the winter decided to throw at them, just ready and waiting to tumble down on top of them.
"Looks like this is set for the next few days," he sighed again.
Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously.
Sam could suddenly foresee a week cooped up in the smallest, crappiest motel room in the world with a frustrated and disappointed brother nursing a sick car and cursing a ruined birthday, and his life flashed briefly before his eyes.
In short, he could foresee a long, desperate week of unadulterated hell stretching out ahead of him, and his knees buckled in momentary panic.
As a damage limitation exercise, he floundered for a positive.
His eyes scanned the crystalline blanket that covered the ground, twinkling white with a brightness that stung the eyes, muffling every sound so that the world around them shrank to just the heavy crunch of Dean's boots.
Around him, bare trees, glistening with sparkling layers of silver stood bowed under the weight of their translucent burden eavesdropping on the brothers' conversation, and although he instantly regretted it, Sam couldn't help the words that tumbled out of his mouth.
"It's pretty, though;" he offered weakly.
Dean's scowl darkened as he stared in open mouthed disbelief at Sam. "Pretty? Are you insane? Freakin' pretty?"
Sam shrugged meekly; "Well, yeah … kinda … sort of …" He trailed off with Dean's glare burning into the side of his head and a sinking sense of wasted effort.
Dean turned with a dismissive grunt; "friggin' pretty …" he mumbled irritably, shaking his head in disbelief, and furiously swiping a dusting of snow from his jacket sleeve.
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten; 'Dean; it's just a bit of snow. In the grand scheme of things the car not starting is no big deal.' Sam didn't say the words out loud because he rather liked being alive but, heck; Dean really did need to work on his sense of perspective.
Dean disappeared once again under his stricken baby's hood, and Sam heard the intermittent hiss of WD-40 being sprayed around, the clink of metal wrench upon metal engine and a continual stream of muttered invective.
Seconds later there came a loud clang followed by a furious yelp, and Dean erupted from the under the hood, tossing his wrench skywards and clutching a bleeding thumb. His language, increasing in volume and pitch, made the transition from colourful to psychedelic.
Glancing around furtively, Sam noticed a twitch behind the curtains from the next door room. "Dean," he hissed; "keep it down, people can hear you."
Dean's returning glare had 'do you really think I give a shit?' written all over it.
Shaking his head, Sam turned and trudged back into the room to find the first aid kit.
He paused, taking a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine brewing.
It's name was Dean.
Sam was on his hands and knees retrieving the first aid kit from the depths of his duffel when the door flew open to a flurry of snow, and Dean stomped into the room, slamming it behind him.
He sucked on his bleeding thumb, grimacing at the coppery tang of his own blood, and stood, dripping melting snow over the floor.
"I friggin' give up," he snorted petulantly around his thumb; "I don't know what the friggin' problem is; need friggin' time to check everything, but it's too friggin cold out there, my friggin' fingers are goin' numb, and now it's started to friggin' snow again."
Sam rolled his eyes; "that's a lot of friggin' in one sentence." He pulled Dean's thumb out of his mouth with a wet 'pop' and led him over to the sink.
Dean irritably swatted Sam's hand away, and stared forlornly through the window at the blizzard which had descended with startling suddenness.
"I can' believe I'm gonna be stuck here in this goddamned freakin' gulag for my birthday," Dean moaned as he ran his bleeding thumb under the tap; "my baby's sick, and a sonofabitch blizzard has decided to rock up an' park it's ass on top of us so we can't even get out for some decent chow."
Sam passed him a towel and a band-aid. He nodded sympathetically; "the forecasters reckon this is set for the next couple of days at least."
A gloomy silence settled over the brothers as they stood and stared out of the window at the misty grey flurries which whipped and swirled around them, coating the stricken Impala with a thick blanket of sparkling white.
"Yep, old Jack Frost sure is hard at work out there," Sam muttered absently.
"Yeah, well 'old Jack Frost' can go screw himself," Dean snorted contemptuously; "the freaky faerie douchebag's interfered with my baby and spoiled my birthday, so he can take his friggin' 'pretty' snow and his crappy ice and his sparkly douchewad snowflakes and he can stick them up his spiky blue ass where the sun don't friggin' shine."
Sam suppressed a laugh.
"Perhaps we should gank the sonofabitch," Dean grinned wickedly, still staring through the window at the worsening storm; "that'd be so cool."
"You can't gank Jack Frost," Sam replied incredulously.
"Well, one, if you did, there would be no more Winters," Sam replied.
"And that would be a bad thing … why exactly?" Dean turned and took up his best arms-folded-across-puffed-out-chest argumentative posture.
Sam hesitated in thought; okay, that was a fair question. He ploughed on regardless.
"And two, Jack Frost isn't real, he's just a figure of speech, a fictitious personification of Winter, an allegory, a fable, a fairytale; you can't gank something that doesn't exist."
Dean's lip curled; "well he might be a figure of speech, a fictional friggin' perspiration of whatever the crap you were just talkin' about, but he's still a full-on gold-plated dick."
Sam rubbed his forehead. Yup, definitely a migraine …
Welcome to Dean Winchester's Hell
My Fall Will Be For You by Jenn1984 T
I hear my name but can’t react, so I just watch as the beast raises...
Dangerous Assumptions by windscryer T
Dean is not having a good day and Sam's whole year is about to get worse...
A Chill in the Air by DizzoJ