for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.
"Sam."
Sam closed his book and took the tumbler from his brother's fingers. Scotch on the rocks.
"How's dinner coming?" he asked.
Dean knelt by the fire, turned the skewers in the flames and poked the potatoes with a fork. "Just about done, I'd say," and he started manhandling food onto plates, cursing all the while as the hot foil and metal singed his fingers.
A blast of wind rattled the oaken door in its hinges.
"Winter is coming," Dean quipped, with his best attempt at a Northern Westerosi accent, handing up a plate filled with meat and roast vegetables.
"I'd say it's already here." Sam glanced into the night, watching as icy gusts drove flurries of snow past the cabin window. It was cold in Northern Maine this time of year. "You know, we could be holed up here a while," he observed.
"Well, we've got enough meat to last a while, a couple of bottles of hunters' helper, and you've got a pile of big fat books to read. There are worse ways we could spend Christmas."
Sam pursed his lips in acknowledgment and ice rattled against glass as they clinked their tumblers together in a seasonal toast. Easing back into the comfortable armchair, he stretched his toes toward the warm fire, and picked up the next volume in the series as he chewed appreciatively on a mouthful of roast Chupacabra
A/N: Both the title and the first line are taken from George R. R. Martin's epic saga, A Song of Ice and Fire. I know I've exceeded the word limit by much and more. I couldn't help myself; this is just what came. I hope y'all don't mind.