A/N: Happy Holidays! Yeah, okay- I can't believe it's already December, but alas, 2015 has come and gone. Anyways, I'm here to bring you a Holiday themed h/c ficlet, because ya know- GIFTS AND CRAP HAPPEN IN DECEMBER.
Honestly though, I hope you enjoy this ficlet- and if you could leave a thank you for my sister in your review, that'd make my day. She did inspire this ficlet, even if it was by doing a flip off a sled when she was 7. Damn tree branches getting in front of our sled... My ideas tend to morph throughout drafts, making the original inspiration seem unrelated to the piece of writing. For example, my fanfiction Gunshots was inspired by a street fair… Go figure.
Anywho, I better shut up and let you read.
Love & Holiday cookies,
~Salted (::) (::) (::)
**PS: I've taken elements, lines, similar sentence formats, etc, from ficlets I've uploaded throughout the year, so keep an eye out!**
**PPS: Sorry this is out so late! I've been crazy busy.**
Gunnison, Colorado- National Forest
12-20 minutes prior to current events
Freezing specks of alabaster powder pelted the frigid ground, a growing sheen of ice rendering it slick, the colors compressed and dulled.
Overlarge paw prints littered the snowy landscape, rabid howling piercing the silence, accompanied by heavy, panicked breathing.
All too quickly, the youngest Winchester realized that being bait for a pissed off Akhlut was an idea for the ages.
And to top it off, being only armed with a shotgun loaded with normal, copper, bullets as opposed to silver (the Akhlut would smell the silver & never take the bait), the only metal that would harm or phase the Inuit beast.
So overall- running like hell was Sam's only option.
Then again, that wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea if he hadn't lost his bearings in the midst of the raging blizzard around him.
Animalistic snarls grew steadily closer, adrenaline urging Sam faster- as if it would make much difference in the end... He had to burn out eventually, and if Dean didn't find him by then..
Frenzied thoughts & blurred focus mixed with an uncoordinated gait had Sam tumbling over a snow-covered log in snowblind panic.
Sliding on the ice-laced ground, Sam felt himself skid onto a hard, slippery surface.
He scrambled for purchase on what he figured was ice, only to land on the frozen lake's exterior. There was an unmistakable crack beneath him, followed closely by a burning pain in Sam's right forearm as a piece of jagged ice embedded itself in it, jerking his shoulder roughly out of it's socket.
He attempted to cry out in pain, but found himself submerged in numbingly cold water, unable to come up for air due to his mangled arm.
Sam choked on bitter glacier-like water, lungs burning for air, trying in vain to push out unwanted liquid. Consciousness drifted in & out as lack of oxygen took it's toll, Sam's vision darkening around the edges.
Limbs grew heavy and leaden, eyes drifting shut- hanging by his injured arm, denied precious air by frigid gallons of fetid lake water.
It was warm. Sam wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it was soft, warm, & comfortable.
He was wrapped in what felt like fleece, the fabric rubbing against his bare arms. Sam vaguely registered a soft shirt covering his chest underneath what he assumed was a fleece blanket, It smelt oddly familiar- like leather, gun oil, gasoline & cheap cologne. The only shirt he remembered felt that way- smelt that way, really- was the faded AC/DC tee they kept in the Impala for emergencies.
It'd been his father's, then Dean's, then his- though he barely fit into it now. But if he was wearing it, that meant something was wrong- hence 'kept in the Impala for emergencies.'
Almost by instinct, Sam tried to call out for his brother, but it came out as a muddled, "Nughhh."
He panics a bit at that, because he can't fucking talk. And if he can't speak straight- or think straight for that matter- that means there's definitely something wrong. In addition, his arm hurt and he was cold, even if the material around him was warm, practically forcing the heat on him. If Dean wasn't there he'd probably lose it- because Dean has to fucking fix it.
He whimpered loudly, squirming in his cocoon of blankets, breath coming in short gasps, because Dean didn't respond and-
"Sammy?" Sam gave a sigh of relief as fingers combed through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He feels blankets being pulled up to his shoulders again, relaxing minutely after his moment of delusional panic.
"Just relax, okay? Don't need you freaking out on top of everything else," Dean's voice still seems quiet & far off, but it's there, and that's something, "Can you open your eyes for me?" Sam doesn't remember shutting his eyes, but finds them strangely heavy, only able to open them to slits.
Even blurry, Sam recognizes the Impala's backseat, the heater cranked up to a setting he didn't even know it was capable of, his long frame wrapped in blankets and settled against Dean's chest.
A thermos was pressed to his lips, "Small sips- don't overdo it." The taste was sweet with a bitter undertone- the liquid lukewarm, akin to reheated cut-rate coffee.
Sam whined when it was taken away, as the heat acted to soothe his timeworn throat.
He nuzzled into Dean like a kitten seeking warmth and sighed contentedly, letting his eyes slip shut.
~Epilogue~
Gunnison, Colorado
1 Week Later
"Dammit!" Dean yelled, scowling at his brother as he twirled a cheap plastic spoon in his fingers.
"It's not my fault you suck at Spoons," Sam razzed, re-shuffling the deck of old playing cards, dealing four to each himself & Dean.
Their motel room was shabby -per usual- though half-assed Christmas decorations gave it character, though it was a reminder of the season. It was Christmas Day, after all- but the brothers didn't exactly celebrate it anymore, it wasn't like they could afford much anyways.
Just as Dean reached to snag the plastic spoon from the bedspread, Sam sneezed loudly, blowing the messily stacked cards across the sheets, effectively sending his older brother's four matching cards into the jumble of cards.
"You have to be kidding me!" Dean barked as he tossed a half-empty box of tissues at Sam's blanket-covered form.
Aside from being bedridden & the occasional chill or sniffle, it wasn't obvious that Sam was sick- but I suppose that's what you get after being severely hypothermic for multiple hours.
Sam hastily shoved the tissue box back on the nightstand, holding a now empty mug out to his brother- sniffing lightly, turning on his watery puppy eyes behind his overlong bangs- smiling silently as it was taken. Works every time.
He choked and sputtered when he drank from the refilled mug, "Did you spike this?!"
Dean snorted as he watched his brother lean over the side of the bed to spit into the trash-can, scowling as he went.
"Merry Christmas, Sammy."
FIN