Cold:
His thirteen-year-old arms, already more muscle than bone, dyed with the smell of grass.
His face, wet.
Warm:
Feet, runners bowls of mud, shoelaces swamp grey and soaking.
Dad was away late. Stay inside, he said, because of extra danger extra near.
It was cold enough that Sam's fingers made mist marks as he looked out the window at the kids playing soccer in the vacant lot behind the motel.
As Sam and Dean splashed across the street, the streetlights dimmed on, but the grey-blue light from behind the clouds was still bright enough to see the the faces of the strangers kicking the ball around.
"I'm Dean, this is Sam."
And just like that, they weren't strangers anymore, just boys with muddy shins and a common goal net. It was full-contact soccer, or at least, it was after Dean came in, tackling and grabbing shirts and sliding on the muddy grass, and when he looked over he could see Sam breathing hard through a grinning mouth.
When it got pitch dark and all you could see was the soccer ball like a fat muddy ghost, a kid about twelve picked it up. "Who wants pie?" He said, tossing it from hand to hand.
"That was freaking awesome," Dean said, sitting in a strange warm kitchen eating strange warm pie being fed to him by a strange plump mother. Even though they'd lost, even though John saw their wet shoes when he came home before they dried completely over the heater vent.
Sam was in bed and Dean curled up beside him, listening to his brother breathing and John sighing downstairs.
Sam was sleeping like a rock, and he was smiling.