Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Supernatural. No copyright infringement is intended.

Note: I made the mistake of looking at the winter/holiday themed prompts over at hoodie_time. Someone asked for the following: "It's Christmastime at the Braeden's and Dean just doesn't fit into their traditions. He feels like an interloper - intruding on their lives and he stumbles and missteps through the dinner with Lisa's parents and siblings. And he misses Sam so hard and he's barely holding it together. Ben notices and follows Dean outside into the cold snow and maybe gives Dean what he needs most." And well, I apparently have a serious weakness for anything involving sad boys hanging out in the snow so I could not resist filling it. I hope you enjoy my first SPN fic.

Lisa has probably one of the most beautiful smiles Dean's ever seen. It's all wide and genuine, with perfect white teeth that stand out against her tan skin; her whole body is made specifically to smile, he thinks— eyes and shoulders and hips all playing their part to present a picture so good, so home, that sometimes he says the dumbest shit just to get her to grin at him. There have been very few people in his life that have smiled at him like that.

Yet, despite the fact that one little upturn of her lips can make him feel like maybe he isn't as worthless as he always feels, he can't help but wish he was somewhere else right now. Some ratty little hotel with terrible heating and windows that aren't sealed right so each blast of wind rattles them.

He rolls the beer bottle back and forth between his fingers while he watches her smile and laugh, hands gently reaching out to touch and playfully slap her family, her smile growing bigger at each excited shout from her son. Ben is surrounded by a field of decimated wrapping paper, the successfully pillaged items stacked in front of him. The rest of the clan is stretched out on couches, groaning under the happy weight of too much sugar sitting in their stomachs. The entire scene looks like it should be on a card somewhere in a Christmas aisle, the inside stuffed with pleasant greetings and cheerful sentiment.

In his rundown, cheap hotel room, it's just him and Sam, groaning over the piss poor reception on the TV while eating fistfuls of stale convenience store popcorn.

He shifts from his spot next to the kitchen and moves past Lisa towards the front door. She glances up at him and gives him with one of those smiles that are reserved just for him: soft, tentative, and a little sad.

"You okay, babe?"

He leans over and kisses her on the forehead. "Yeah, just need some air for a second."

"Don't be too long, okay? We still need to watch A Christmas Carol." She tugs at the front of his shirt as if she can get him to stay, get him to take part. He loves her for trying and hates himself for not being able to. But he has reached his limit; traditions stacked on top of traditions, each a stone weight on his chest. He wonders how it is possible to have so many because all he and Sam ever needed were some hastily newspaper-wrapped gifts with a side of cheap eggnog. He's never been more aware of how little he fits into this life than when he opened a present, half-expecting a porn mag and instead saw a new sweater. With each moment, he feels more the outsider, watching a family communicate in their own secret language over cups of hot chocolate; the only person Dean wants to talk to is somewhere he can't reach.

A hole grows wider somewhere in his chest (somewhere in Kansas) while he pastes on a lopsided grin, promising that he'll be right back.

He stands outside in the snow long enough for his nose and ears to turn frigid, for him to empty and discard the beer bottle and wish for another one. While one Christmas plays out in the brightly lit, warm house behind him, Christmases that were and that should have been play out in front of him, echoes swirling with each snowflake-filled gust of winter wind. There are some days when he worries that he is forgetting what Sam's voice sounds (sounded) like and others where it is so crystal clear that it feels like he'll never be able to breathe right again.

The door opens and he quickly swipes at his eyes that are watering after a particularly sharp blast of cold wind. He sniffs hard and glances over, expecting to see Lisa wrapped tightly in her cardigan, beckoning him to come inside. Instead, Ben stands there looking at him, tugging on his wool cap that his mom almost certainly demanded he put on before stepping outside.

Ben shuffles over to him and leans against him, a warm heavy weight pressed along his side. "Ya thinkin' 'bout Sam?"

He looks down at the wool covered head tucked under his arm and swallows hard. He doesn't answer at first, trying to figure out a way to give a watered down, safe-for-children answer, until Ben fixes him with a 'no bullshit, dude' stare and he wonders exactly when and where the kid picked that up because it's definitely not one of Lisa's expressions. "Yeah."

Ben nods and bites his lip, his face thoughtful. "Dude, that sucks."

It's so blatantly honest, so true, that it forces a watery bark of laughter out of him because yeah, it does.