A.N. Truly sorry for the huge delay. I was distracted by my adorable sisters.

…

December 23rd

…

"Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!" Dean and Sam sang raucously together. Sam was a little off-key and Dean voice cracked slightly on some on the notes. But both were very happy and by the end of the song they were on the snowy ground, giggling relentlessly. Both Winchester brothers had extremely ruddy cheeks, especially Sam who had fair skin at that time.

Sam and Dean had been out all day from about six o' clock in the morning until high-noon…playing in the thick piles on snow that blanketed the ground, making it look like a surreal, vast dreamland. All the bare, once forlorn looking tree branches were heaped with powdery snow and adorned with little icicles.

The snow was still falling. The flakes clung onto the boy's eyelashes and the locks of Sam's exposed hair which he attempted to stuff in a knit cap. But his hair was too silky and slippery so many large strands managed to escape.

Dean, on the other hand, had fairly short hair so he didn't have to worry. His dilemma was his body temperature. The weather outside was steadily getting colder, but his leather jacket hadn't managed yet to get warmer. He had flatly refused to put on as much snow gear as Sam, fearing that he might look like a "dork". Heaven forbid that from ever happening! Dean Winchester could never be caught looking like a dork.

So, there they were, having fun in the snow. Singing, laughing, smiling, making snow angels, and having the time of their lives.

"Whatcha wanna do next, Sammy?" Dean asked his little brother after they were able to stop laughing. Both were lying on their sides in the snow, facing each other.

"I don't know," Sam tried to untangle a piece of a pine straw that was embedded in his hair.

"I know," Dean stood up and held his hand out to his brother. Sam timidly took Dean's hand with his own gloved hand and Dean pulled him up. "We'll have a snowball fight. Whattdya say, Pipsqueak?"

Sam looked down at his boots. "I don't know how to make a snowball."

"Here, Dummy," Dean bent down, scooping up a pile of snow in his bare, ungloved hands. "Repeat my actions,"

"Yes, Mr. Dean," Sam reached down and shoveled some of the cold, icy substance into his stiff but very warm, gloved hands. "What do I do next?"

"Call me "Mr. Dean" again and there won't be any "next"," Dean gave his brother a shove. "Okay…so you try to press it together…like this," Dean compacted the snow in his palms. "And you work it into a ball." Deans fingers moved in and out, working into the snow and molding it until he had a perfectly formed snowball.

Sam, on the other hand, was having a little difficulty,

"Mine doesn't look like that." Sam said dejectedly, holding out a lumpy, long "thing" made out of snow.

"Sam," Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Here…" Dean picked up some more snow and this time put it in Sam's cupped hands. "Okay. Let me show you how to do it."

Dean stood behind Sam and took his hands from behind, controlling them. He made Sam's palms press the snow together and forced Sam's gloved fingers to form the snow into a ball.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, once he took a closer look at Dean's hands. The almost-completed snowball plummeted to the ground. "What happened to your hands?!"

Sam took his big brother's hands and examined them. They were as cold as death and very stiff. The fat tips of his fingers were cherry red tinged with a light purple.

"It's nothing," Dean pulled his hands away. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't you have any gloves?" Sam looked up at his older brother with concerned eyes.

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "It's nothing…I swear."

"But, Dean…"

"Don't "But, Dean" me," Dean snorted, putting his hands in the pockets of his leather jackets. His hands went right through them since both pockets had the bottom worn out of them. "Now…do you want to learn how to make a snowball or not?"

"Well…"

"Dean!"

Dean's ears perked up at the sound of his father calling him. He looked up to see John sticking his head out the window.

"Yeah, Dad?!" Dean shouted back.

"Come up here! I need you to run an errand!"

"Yes sir!" Dean called out. He then turned back to Sam. "Sorry, Dude."

"No biggie," Sam shrugged. "Have fun…running errands."

…

Dean walked out of the drugstore with a plastic bag clenched in his fist.

"Ring! Ding! Ding!" Bells had been placed over the drugstore entrance door so that a jingling sound would be heard every time the door opened or closed. Very obnoxious.

Dean had been sent out to buy some more Advil for his father. Apparently he was having a "headache". But Dean knew it probably had something to do with his father's recent encounter with the hellhounds. Or…maybe he really was experiencing headaches from all of Sam and Dean's Christmas carols.

The frosty winter air nipped at the tip of Dean's nose and the edges of his ears. It was so cold. A lot colder than Dean had ever experienced in his life. But, alas, all he could do was pull his insubstantial leather jacket closer to his body for body heat.

"Stupid, damn snow," Dean grumbled. "It's too freakin'…"

Dean never got to finish his rant due to a slippery patch of ice on the sidewalk that sent his tumbling to the cement. Luckily, he fell over on top of a large, cardboard box on the curb that helped break his fall.

"Shit!" Dean shouted as he tried to scramble off of the box. The problem was that he was upside down in the box. The top of his head was resting at the bottom of it.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and kicked his legs. No success.

Dean was yelling out an eclectic mass of curse words that would make a pirate blush when something hot, rough, and wet glided across his nose.

"What the…?" Dean opened his eyes. A shaggy, brown mass with glossy, black eyes was staring at him and panting steamy breath in Dean's face. A monster.

Dean let out a yelp and practically flipped out of the box by leaping up around fifty feet in the air.

Once Dean plopped back to the ground on the balls of his feet, he realized he had tipped the box over.

Then, from the box emerged the little, brown, hairy beast. It was about the size of a small loaf of bread, but Dean knew better than to take size into consideration. His father said that sometimes the most vicious, violent, ghastly things come in small packages.

Dean backed up as the creature leapt playfully onto his shoes.

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed. "Get off, you…" The little thing let out a "baby bark", better known as a yip. "…dog?!"

The little scruffy thing had a little stub of a tail that was wiggling back and forth. It also had a little pink tongue that hung slightly lopsided out of its mouth. And though it was a gangly, dirty, scraggly thing...it was considerably (dare he say it?) cute.

Dean turned over the box and noticed on the front there was writing. It was crude, messy penmanship and it was obviously done with a blue magic marker.

"Free dog. Take it or leave it."

Dean looked at the sign and he looked at the mangy puppy. With a bath, some brushing, and little meat on its little frame…it might look presentable.

Dean looked around to see if anyone was watching before he bent down and scratched the dog behind his floppy little ears.

"Aww!" Dean smiled, looking at the puppy. It reminded him of his Sammy. Big, innocent eyes, cheerful, but slightly goofy and awkward disposition, and…there was the fact that the dog's fur color wasn't that different from the color of Sam's own dark brown hair.

"Wait…" Dean thought aloud to himself. "Maybe…"

If light bulbs really could float over people's heads when they get ideas, that would've been happening then with Dean Winchester. He scooped the puppy up in his arms, zipped it up inside his jacket, and scampered home.