I wrote this for: a Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on hoodie_time on LJ for a prompt saying:
""Christmas during the Stanford years: sometimes Dean wonders if it would be so bad, wandering out into the snow storm and slowly freezing until he can't feel a damn thing anymore.""
I own nothing. And thank you to my awesome beta marlowe78.
Enjoy.
The beer bottle's cold in his hand. He squeezes it tight, but lets go just in time for it not to break, because that's not what he needs right now... he doesn't need the beer spilling down to the floor, he doesn't need his hands cut up from the glass, he doesn't need to see his blood, because his blood is the same as his brothers… he doesn't need to stink up the room even more than it already is, he doesn't need to waste perfectly good cold beer like that. What he needs is... well, some(one)thing that he ain't gonna get.
"Fuck it..." he whispers to the silent room and lets the coolness of the beer ease the burning ache in his throat that had been there ever since... ever since Sam left.
He falls asleep with the bed full of empty bottles that snuggle up to him just like Sammy used to do when he was three.
-:-
The road is just like any road; connecting towns and people with its length, connecting two sides of a forest with its width... and sometimes connecting him with Sam, but not tonight. Tonight there's snow falling, making the curvy stretch of asphalt white and lonely, no destination to be seen at the end of it... no Sam there. The piles of snow that had gathered on the sides in the days past are huge, blocking his view of the dark forest and he's pissed, because that makes him super aware of the empty passenger seat whenever he glances at the piles in fear that they'll eat him alive.
The snow is starting to fall down faster and faster, huge snowflakes hitting the front window, not melting away, not melting away just like his loneliness and the wipers are going double speed to clean it all, but they can't. Can't wipe away this feeling of solitude that had made a permanent home in his chest.
And the snow keeps on falling, snowflakes keep on making his vision blurry from the outside in.
Even Led Zeppelin can't chase away the gloom... it just can't.
-:-
He stops the car, because the snow's starting to fall with a speed that almost seems angry and he can relate. He'd wanna fall as fast as possible too if he could, because his anger combined with months spent without company of his brother... yeah, he'd wanna fall and break himself into pieces too.
The side of the road is clear of piles of snow, probably used by the snowplows, but the new snow is already making small hills that are going to make parking there impossible in a few minutes.
He turns off the car and the silence that falls on him is deafening; making him itch and twitch in all the wrong places… his right hand for his gun, his left hand to punch and his legs to run. So he turns the car back on, the noise and the slight vibrations that start travelling up and down his body, an instant scratch to the itch, relaxing his body, uncurling his fist.
Everything is still before his eyes, but the snowflakes dancing in the slight wind. No motion on his right side, no motion in the backseat, no motion anywhere, but his baby humming beneath him.
Dad left.
Sam left.
Only he has absence of motion.
-:-
The two beams of light from his baby's headlights that are illuminating the road are swallowed up by the snow, darkness and the roaring wind that came out of nowhere so suddenly it made him grip the steering wheel tighter.
A snow storm. Nothing else.
-:-
"Dean!"
"'s a snow storm, Sammy. Nothing else."
"'s loud."
"Go to sleep, we'll make snowmen tomorrow."
-:-
His brother was like a furnace pressed to his side that night. A shaky, sniffling, sneezing furnace that kept them both warm through the cold, windy night.
He sighs: "Fuck.", puts the car back on the road and hopes that the snow storm won't be the thing that would kill him. Because he doesn't want Sam to… he just doesn't want.
He also hopes that the next town ain't far away and that it comes with a motel.
-:-
The room is cold and small, but he's a one man party, so it'll do. It will have to do.
The snow storm ain't stopping, it's only getting stronger and stronger as he watches his baby parked alone in the vast parking lot. She's getting covered by the snow, a thick layer of it already on her roof and his heart hurts, because he knows that feeling and he won't abandon her. Ever.
His baby is all motion, his father, his brother… they are all motion, but he's absence of motion. He doesn't abandon, doesn't leave, doesn't surrender, he doesn't not fight.
-:-
Everything's so still, everything too quiet, everything looking so white even in the oily darkness, the sky falling down on the world...
…he gets up from the chair, opens the door and walks outside to the parking lot to stand by the passenger door. He grips the handle, but doesn't pull, doesn't open the door, just... stands there ankle deep in the cold snow while fresh snow falls on his head, face, arms, back, chest... melts on his lips and cheeks. The wind's poking him with its sharpness, the fucking absence of Sam just pushing his heart into a dark abyss where it's being crushed by nothingness.
He lets his forehead fall down to his baby's roof, the cold snow feeling so good, so good, perfect on his hot skin: "He's gone, baby. Sam left."
He laughs then, because all he wants to do is run into the snowstorm, get lost and freeze to death. It would be so simple... just... run. He's good at that, running. Sure Sam is better, he fucking proved that, fucking better at running away from everything and everyone, but he's good too.
Just... step away from it all and run, because this feeling of loneliness, this feeling of being left behind by everyone... is pulling at his legs, is making them twitch in the snow, is making his hands grip thin air, is making pain blossom in his chest that will burst out of him and then what?
He raises his head up and looks to his left... only darkness there. Darkness and snow. It would be so easy, to just run. To just die.
It would be too easy.
He looks back at his baby... the blackness of her covered by white snow...
He is absence of motion.
"He'll come back, right? We're brothers."
The howling wind agrees with him.
"Merry Christmas, baby… merry Christmas."
He licks the melted snow off his lips and walks back to the dark motel room.
The End.