Day 9: Nine Inches
"No freakin' way," Dean said under his breath with a little chuckle as he stared at the laptop screen before him. He had been looking through the local newspaper online for anything of note hunt-wise, and had somehow found his way to the forecast page. It gave an overview of the total accumulation of snow since the night before, Christmas Eve, up until that morning. Seemed as though a cold front had come through and dumped an unexpected amount of it. The headline was what Dean really found hilarious, though.
Winter Blast Pounds Missoula with Nine Inches.
Sitting back in his chair at the small table in the motel, Dean held his stomach and laughed and laughed. He couldn't get over it. Pounds. With nine inches. It was like the title out of a shitty dirty movie on Cinemax.
Sam's voice could suddenly be heard from the bathroom. "What's so funny?" he called.
Steam was still filtering out of the open door and Dean knew Sam must be just about done shaving. Dean smirked, already forming a plan. "Get ready for me to pound you with nine inches, baby boy!" he answered, standing and rummaging through his duffle bag next to his bed for his gloves and scarf.
He bundled up as best he could and was out the motel door before Sam had even popped his head out of the bathroom to ask him if he meant what Sam thought he meant. Kneeling beside the Impala in the parking lot as a perfect cover, he formed as many snowballs as quickly as he could, his breath fogging before him in rapid clouds in his excitement.
Sam came out the door sooner than Dean thought he would have, in nothing more than his jeans, an old, worn t-shirt, and his socks. His hair was still wet from his shower but Dean took no pity. He peeked up from the front fender and pelted Sam with a snowball dead-center of his chest.
Sam's eyes were wide for a fraction of a second in disbelief before they narrowed into dangerous hazel slits.
"Told ya I was gonna pound you, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, sinking back behind the car.
"Oh, you are so dead!" Sam yelled back. The motel door slamming shut loudly surprised Dean and he inched up over the hood to see that Sam had retreated back into the room.
Dean used the time to create more ammo, using up the mounds and mounds of snow available to him as an unlimited arsenal. The sound of the door opening again told Dean that it was time to put his game face on. He looked over the Impala in time to see Sam, bundled in a coat, beanie, boots and gloves, do an evasive roll behind the car two parking spaces to the right.
"Your fancy moves aren't gonna save you this time," Dean said, launching a snowball blindly, grenade style up and over, hoping he'd hit Sam.
"Oh you son of a bitch!" Sam cried.
Dean grinned to himself, gathering up another snowball. He cautiously looked up over the hood and was instantly nailed right in the damn head.
"How do you like taking my balls right to the face?" Sam chuckled.
Dean scowled and brushed the snow from his hair. It was so on. Gathering up an armful of snowballs, he vaulted himself over the Impala's hood like Bo Duke and began his assault. Sam did the same, rounding the car he'd been sheltering behind and then it was all out war. Hard pack snow flew back and forth across the parking lot, dusting the air in a fine powder of crystals shimmering in the early morning sun.
Both brothers were covered in wet snow, panting from exertion, their cheeks rosy from the cold. They ended up wrestling in the now dirty hard pack beneath them after Sam decided to dump a handful of it down the back of Dean's coat and didn't stop until they were fairly exhausted and Dean said he couldn't feel his toes anymore.
They agreed it was time to head back inside for another shower, as hot as they could stand it, just to warm up and Sam conceded that he would be the one to call to order Chinese as an apology to Dean for shoving snow down his back. But only on the condition that Dean would suck him off after lunch as a prize since he had so clearly won their impromptu snowball fight. Dean had been planning on giving him head anyway, but agreed, saying he had let Sam win just because he was his little brother.
After a nap on their shared bed, they both bundled up and did it all again in the failing light of that Christmas Day's sunset, making the most of those nine inches before it all disappeared.
