Thinking, That's All

It's cold, and it's quiet. Graveyard quiet. The worst quiet. He can't do anything about the cold, but Dean has to do something about the quiet, now.

He hawks back a loogie, spits and sends it a good sixty feet, where it connects with a silent splat against the rough edge of a dark granite headstone. Maybe a personal best. For the sake of saying it is, he goes with it, bumps Sammy with his elbow. "You see that?"

Sam turns, face pinched. "That was disgusting."

"And?"

"Kinda disrespectful."

"And?"

"A little impressive," Sam relents.

Dean nods, burrows his hands deeper into the flannel-lined pockets of his coat. "What are you thinking about?" His words fall into a warm vapor mist in front of his lips, then dissipate into the frigid winter air. He blows out another mouthful of hot breath on the off-chance a shift in breeze will send the brief relief of warmth back into his face. No dice.

Sam's hands, buried in his own pockets, flap against his thighs in a way that signals his annoyance. His cheeks are cherry red. "Why are you always asking me that?"

"Would you tell me anything if I didn't?"

"Probably not."

"See? I pry because I care, Sammy."

Sam doesn't correct him, so he puts that in the win column. Probably the only thing he's likely to put in the win column this night, since this ghost doesn't seem to give a damn they're out here freezing their asses off. Dean can feel the cold metal of the shotgun's barrel through his jeans leg, shifts on the stone enough to let it fall softly to the ground instead.

"I can't feel my fingers."

"I can't feel my balls," Dean returns.

"Thank you."

"Anytime. So what are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about waiting in the car."

"Sammy."

"Sam."

There it is. "I mean it, man. You're gonna have to talk to me at some point."

"I talk to you a lot, Dean, and I'm very much talking to you now. It's pretty much the only thing keeping me from turning into a human Popsicle."

"A Samsicle?"

Sam just huffs, because he should know better than to leave one out there like that.

Dean stamps his boots on the hard, frozen ground, gets some feeling back in his feet in the form of icy pins and needles that don't make it all the way to his calves. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, man."

"Seriously, Dean? I'm freaking talking to you. Right now. My lips are moving, and I'm not thinking about anything I shouldn't be thinking about. You want me to write it down for you? Would that be easier to understand?"

Dean blinks. "Was just talkin' about the cold, dude."

"Oh."

Dean sniffs, runs a frozen finger under his nose to catch a drip of snot he thinks is there. He can't feel his hands or his face well enough to know if he was successful, wipes the hand on his jeans anyway before stuffing it back into his pocket. "So…yeah."

"Yeah, it's pretty damn cold."

"Oh, we've moved past the cold, little brother. What was with that little soliloquy you just threw at me?"

Sam levels a glare at him, now visibly shivering. "Where did you learn that word?"

"I learned it in Kiss My Ass School, Sam. What was that about?"

"What do you want from me, Dean? You want me to tell you I'm obsessing over Dad? Or Jessica? I'm only thinking about two things right now. How cold I am, and how annoying you are." He shakes his head. "We've been out here for almost two hours, and this ghost isn't gonna show. I'm gonna go sit in the car."

"Okay."

Sam straightens from his lean against the headstone next to Dean's, stands and stares expectantly.

"What?"

"Keys?"

Dean digs the frozen metal keyring out his jeans pocket and pitches it at his brother. Sam stomps off behind him without a word.

Dean rolls his neck, a bad idea as a fresh blast of winter air snakes beneath the collar of his coat. He straightens and bounces a couple of times to get the blood flowing before settling back into his vigilant position.

He hears Sam return before he sees him, the crunch of frozen leaves under the feet of a human Sasquatch.

Sam props himself next to Dean with a sigh. "This doesn't mean I want to talk or anything, okay? It just means that, if you're gonna insist on waiting out here a little while longer, I'm not gonna make you do it alone."

Dean grins and splays his icy cold palm across Sam's rosy cheek. "Aw. Sammy."

Sam lurches away. "Get offa me. Jerk."

"Bitch."

Author Note - My muse must be vacationing in the past, because that seems to be where I've been stuck lately! My 70th story - WHAT?