The Silence

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Happy belated birthday to BluepeanutM&M. Enjoy!

Young Sam's a chatterbox and always asking questions, until his brother tells him to shut up one too many times.

Limp Sam, Protective Dean, Worried John.

Dean 11, Sam 7.

Many thanks and love goes out to Phx for the advice.

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"Dad? Where are we going?"

John smiled wearily. His little chatterbox of a son had just asked his first question of the day, and no doubt would not be his last.

"We're going camping, Sammy," he replied, with a brief glance in the rear view mirror. Sam was staring with wide eyed wonder out the passenger window, watching the forests go by, the dense canopies occasionally interspersed with bright sunlight before plunging the forest floor back into shadow. His big brother, on the other hand, was busy watching the insides of his eyelids, stretched out along the back seat, head pillowed under an arm and leaning against his own window.

Dean sighed and cracked open an eye just as Sammy opened his mouth again.

"Why are we going camping, Dad?"

"'Cos you suck at it and need the practice, runt!" Dean countered, already gearing up for a day of Sammy-baiting.

Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean. "Didn't ask you, jerk!"

"Didn't ask you jerk!" Dean mimicked in a high voice.

Sam scowled right before he launched across the rear seat and began pummelling his older brother with small fists. The result wasn't quite as he suspected.

"Stop that! It tickles!" Dean giggled, and just managed to deflect a blow to his nether regions. "Jeeze Sammy, you punch like a girl!"

Sam's scowl deepened. He lowered his head determinedly, rammed his small head into Dean's stomach and delivered another punch. "I do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Boys!" John barked out. "That's enough! Time for that later."

"Sorry Dad!" The boys replied at once.

Sam wouldn't deliberately hurt his brother; the little guy would drown in guilt if Dean so much as stubbed a toe on his bed, but their squabbling made it hard to concentrate on the road.

Rolling his eyes, John spied the entrance to the camping area, muttered a prayer of thanks, and pulled in. Finding an empty spot wasn't difficult because at this time of year the place was deserted. Not many people liked to camp out in the middle of winter, especially with the weather reports claiming a blizzard was on the way, but John had a better eye for the weather than most meteorologists. In fact his marine buddies had often remarked on his sixth sense for bad weather. So John knew the storm would pass away to the south, missing the camp site altogether. Though the resulting snow flurries would no doubt keep his boys amused.

The Impala rolled to a gentle stop by a patch of snow laden pines.

"Ok boys, out we get!" John called and watched as his sons alighted from the car and stared all around.

Sam's mouth opened and John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Are we sleeping in tents this time?"

"Yep…"

"Why? We made our own shelters last time, outta wood. Why aren't we building our own again?" Sam gazed up at his dad with wide, hopeful eyes. "That was fun."

Dean let out a snort and ruffled Sam's hair affectionately. "Yeah, it was fun. Fun for you 'cos you just had to sit by and watch. We did all the hard work, shorty!"

Sam pouted, bottom lip trembling a little. "I helped! I got kindling for the fire, and… and… I untangled the paracord for tying the wood to the tree… and I-I unpacked the sleeping bags…"

He sounded so hurt, in fact, that John trudged over to his youngest son, glaring at Dean, and crouched down to Sam's eyelevel.

"You did good, Sammy, but last time you got real sick, remember?" John's eyes twinkled kindly at the boy. "All that sitting around in the cold…"

"I sat by the fire," Sam shook his head, eager to prove he could do this. "I gotta cold back then, that's all, Dad. An' 'sides. I'm bigger now."

The youngster puffed up his chest, which looked rather comical under the copious layers of clothes swamping his small body.

John swallowed his mirth. "Yeah, I know. But the fact is, ya still too little to be hauling around heavy bits of wood. When you're older, may be."

"Aw, but Dad." Sam whined in frustration like only a little boy could.

"That's enough, Sam," John cut him off there, not shouting but with enough authority in his tone to make the child blink and close his mouth again. John secretly wondered how many more years that would work on his youngest. Dean didn't seem to have a problem with it, but Sam was already showing signs of the rebellious teenager he'd become in a few years from now.

Sam's jaw clenched and he turned his head, letting loose strands of chocolate brown hair fall over his eyes. He looked so miserable, Dean took pity on his kid brother for once.

"C'mon, runt," he draped an arm over Sam's small shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. "You can help me put the tent up, ok? Call it practice for the real thing."

Sam glanced up at his brother for a long moment and bit his lip. Obviously deciding it wasn't such a bad compromise, he nodded quickly.

"Great!" Dean ruffled his hair again. "You go get the tent from the car, and I'll start clearing the pine cones away. Don't wanna be sleepin' on those tonight, huh?"

"Ok Dean!" Sam scampered back to the car, excited to be part of the team.

Dean grinned when his dad winked at him.

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Thirty minutes later, Dean was scowling deeply and wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Sam wasn't content with just being told what to do when it came to erecting their tent. Oh no. He had his own ideas…

"Hey, what about over here?"

"It's on a slope, Sam, we'll never get comfortable…"

"But it's right by the trees; they'll give us shelter from the cold wind…"

"Yeah, but the wind ain't comin' from that direction, doofus. We got shelter right here for that…"

"But what about…?"

"Sam…"

"No, I mean…"

"Sammy…"

"If we pitched it just here…"

"Sam! We've already set up camp and I ain't moving it again!"

"I'm just saying…"

"No!" Dean stomped over his to brother, ignoring the wide puppy dog eyes that gazed innocently up at him, and grabbed his arm. "Shut up Sam! Just shut up, ok? I'm sick of hearing your whining and complaining…"

"M'not complaining…" Sam whimpered softly when Dean squeezed his arm painfully. "M'jus tryin' to help… y-you said I could help…"

"Yeah, you can help all right!" Dean growled, angrily. "You can get out of my face…" he shook his head, let go of Sam's arm and turned his back. "God! Just wish you would shut up and grow up for once…"

Sam rubbed his bruised arm, watching his brother stalk back to the tent and begin furiously unpacking the sleeping bags. Usually an outburst of that kind would lead to Dean having an angry Sam wrapped round him a second later, unsuccessfully trying to trip him up or push him to the ground. But not this time.

Sam sniffed, blinked back tears and trudged off into the forest alone, an unsettling ache in his little tummy.

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By the time Dean had calmed down a little his father was making his way to camp, dragging several large and heavy logs of firewood behind him. Dean began to regret his outburst and was feeling rather ashamed of himself. Sure, Sammy was irritating when he got all inquisitive, but the kid really was just trying to help and he hadn't deserved his big brother's wrath. In fact, the hurt look on the little guy's face had been haunting Dean since the moment he turned back to his tasks, effectively ignoring Sam and shutting him out. He'd heard the kid sniffle, the noise of his small booted feet crunching over the snow, and realised his brother was so hurt he'd gone off to see their dad. Not to rat Dean out, but to seek comfort, and that made Dean feel even worse.

"I'm sorry Sammy," Dean whispered and wiped his nose on a sleeve.

Once he'd finished laying out their beds for the night and digging a fire pit, Dean was going to confront his brother and apologise, may be offer to let Sam bury him up to his neck in snow.

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John huffed and puffed, pulling on his load and grimacing at the weight, but in truth he was feeling pretty good about things. He had his boys, a break from hunting, the promise of a long weekend of snowball fights and snowmen, and the chance to actually sit down with his sons and talk to them. The lessons in winter camping and survival were an added bonus as far as John was concerned, and his late wife, Mary, had always maintained that learning should be fun for children, and God knew Sam and Dean deserved a little fun. The last few years hadn't been easy on any of them. Dean had gladly shouldered the responsibility of looking after his little brother, ignoring his own grief but still missing his mom like crazy. He didn't have to say anything, John just knew, from the sudden silences and the sometimes lost and lonely shadows in Dean's green eyes. He was only four when Mary was brutally ripped from their lives, but the boy still remembered. Unknowingly, his kid brother kept him shielded from all that most of the time, with his wide innocent smile and those puppy dog eyes no one with a heart could possibly resist.

Sammy, on the other hand, didn't have the luxury of remembering his mom. Never had the brief encounter from a mother figure that every kid needed. And whether the little tyke knew it or not, he was Dean's reason for getting up in the morning.

It made John smile wistfully to realise that his sons, in their own child like way, protected each other…

"Dad?" Dean's nervous voice ahead of him on the track nearly made him trip over his own feet. "Sammy with you?"

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Sam stumbled on a large tree root buried beneath the snow and fell to his knees. It was the third fall he'd taken and now his jeans and thermal underclothes were soaked through. The shivering had been light to start with, but as the sun slid down the sky and the forest grew colder and darker, Sam began to tremble.

"M'not g-going b-back," he muttered, stubbornly, not realising his face had grown too numb to feel his own tears. "Dean d-don't w-want m-me. G-gotta sh-shutup…m'not g-goin' b-back…"

The mantra became more and more slurred as the cold seeped in through the damp woollen mittens and crept up his arms.

"S-so… c-cold…" Sam stumbled again but kept on going. "D-Dean s-said… g-gotta g-growup…"

His layers of shirts, sweatshirts and winter coat were gradually getting wet from the inside as he sweated, but the cold was also clinging and burrowing its way in through the fabric where it was weakened by stitching. The sweat grew colder and colder, the layers losing their protective warmth, and took Sam's body temperature with it.

Shivering, eyes downcast, chin tucked into his jacket, Sam didn't see the steep slope ahead until the very last second, and by then it was already too late.

The youngster plummeted downwards with a loud cry of fear, rolling and bouncing onwards, until the fall came to an abrupt halt when his head collided with a small tree.

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"Sam!"

"Sammy?!"

"C'mon kiddo where you hidin' out?"

"SAM, WHERE ARE YOU?"

John and Dean had been frantically searching for half an hour. That's not to say they hadn't been searching longer, but it only turned frantic when they discovered Sam hadn't gone back to the car, that he wasn't hiding out and sulking in the rear seat, and, as always, the very last discovery of all, that Sam's footprints actually headed deeper into the forest, not out towards the main campsite. But when it started snowing again, the small tracks already looked in danger of fading on them.

"Dad, why won't he answer?" Dean's eyes swivelled helplessly as though not sure in which direction to look first.

"I don't know, kid," John replied, tamping down his fear in light of Dean's panic. "He's probably gone too far ahead to hear us. We'll soon catch 'im up."

Two flashlight beams cut through the oppressing gloom of falling night as the two older Winchesters moved onwards.

John couldn't bring himself to be angry with Dean, not really. After all, he knew just how trying a questioning Sammy could get. Dean loved his brother and hadn't meant to hurt him, but he was only eleven years old himself, still just a kid.

Dean had taken quite some convincing from John that this little runaway act of Sammy's was just an expression of fear and hurt; because the older boy was certain that his little brother now hated him.

Another fifteen minutes passed them by. Another fifteen minutes of tension, and fear, and Sammy where are you please answer me!

"Dad," Dean sniffed loudly, mouth scrunched up and face streaming with tears. "It's so cold out here, and he's not answering. S-sposin' he's hurt… or worse?"

John regarded his oldest son with a mix of frustration and worry. Dean was a tough little nut and took a hell of a lot to crack, but this was soundly beating him.

Wrapping a warm hand round the back of the kid's neck, John squeezed gently and smiled as best he could under the circumstances.

"Sam will be ok, Dean, and you know why?" his father raised an eyebrow.

"Uh…" the kid appeared to think about that then his glistening eyes hardened with determination. "'Cos I'm gonna find him first. Nothing bad gets to happen to him, not with me around."

"Atta boy."

Another fifteen minutes went by before either of them stopped shouting for Sam at the top of their lungs. And when they did, silence descended thick and menacing, the falling snow blanketing every footfall.

Their flashlights cut a swath through the night, each and every snow flake picked out like a mentalist's 3D picture. It also picked out the faint scrapes and scuffles still just visible before they swiped down into the black horizon of a steep hill.

John eyed the evidence for just a second before he reacted.

"Dean, stay here. Keep your flashlight on me!"

He trampled down the slope, heart heavy and aching, feet slipping dangerously, ever conscious of the steadily dropping temperature.

"Sammy?" He yelled, his own flashlight fixed dead ahead, until a small dark shape, lightly dusted with snow, came into range. Thanking God for the coverage of the tree canopy – we could've just walked right on by him – John plunged down further into the gloom.

Sam's small face was peeking out at him from the depths of his coat, eyes closed, and lips blue with the cold...

– I hope! I really hope it's just the cold!

Dropping to his knees, John breathed in a calming breath and pressed two fingers to Sam's neck, and felt the youngster's puff of breath against his hand.

"Thank God!" He turned his head a little to call up the hill. "Sammy's alive. Cold, but alive!"

No answer, except a set of scrambling feet, and snow showered through the air, hitting John in the face. Without waiting for orders, Dean was making his descent.

"Dean, slow down. Don't need the both of ya getting' hurt," John leaned over Sammy, sheltering the boy from his brother's frantic movements.

"Sorry Dad," Dean panted out, then slid on his knees the last few feet. "Sammy? You ok?"

"He's unconscious, Dean," his father explained, gently running his hand over Sam's head and neck, checking for injury. He hissed in sympathy when his fingers encountered a large bump, and shook his head. "Noggin injury. Must've hurt."

Dean watched, wide eyed with worry as his Dad carried on checking Sam's body.

"I think that's all, but he's soaked to the skin," John gently rolled the kid onto his back and slid an arm under his knees. "C'mon. Let's get him back to camp, get him dry and warm before hypothermia sets in."

Cradling the youngster close to his chest, John sharing his body heat as best he could, the small family set off back up the slope, with Dean's gloved hand grasping one of Sam's ankles – anything just to stay in physical contact with his little brother.

This is all my fault. Sammy got hurt and it's all my fault.

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"Dean, I'm gonna get that fire built up a little more. You get your brother into some dry clothes," John ordered, the moment he carried the child into the tent and carefully laid him down. "We need to warm him up, but slowly. Don't take it too fast or it could make him sick."

He didn't see any point in panicking the poor boy by telling him Sam could suffer cardiac arrest if the cold blood from his extremities reached his heart.

Dean didn't hesitate by pulling off Sam's boots and several thick socks, then started on his jeans, jacket and shirts. He gasped in dismay when his hands encountered clothing so soaked he could practically wring large drops out. But it was touching his brother's frozen little hands and feet that brought tears to his eyes.

"God, Sammy!" he whispered, and began gently drying him off with a towel from his backpack. "So sorry… all my fault."

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John overheard Dean's guilt-fest easily from outside the tent. The flames were roaring nicely by now, licking at the mess tin of water John set up for some hot drinks. The heat from the fire would soon reach inside the tent and begin to warm it up, taking the chill off the air and warming Sammy's lungs.

The snow was coming down a little harder, the flakes melting the moment they fell near the fire, and John was once again grateful for the shelter of the trees. Their little clearing was warming up, a small haven of heat in a wintery forest. Outside, the snow settled in their footprints, compacting, and wiping the forest floor clean.

John sighed. Sam's injury wasn't serious but the possibility of hypothermia worried him. There was little chance of driving out of here tonight, and even if they could, the nearest ER was over fifty miles away. And that was a long journey to risk when the roads were turning into ice rinks.

Getting to his feet, he peered in at his boys.

Dean was busy dressing his brother in soft sweats, and talking to him in a low voice.

"He awake, kiddo?" John whispered.

The older boy cast sad eyes his way and shook his head. "Not yet, Dad."

"Well," his father smiled and gestured at the youngest boy, who eyelids were showing movement underneath. "Looks like it won't be long now."

Dean gazed hopefully at his little brother's face. "Sammy? You waking up?"

Sam let out a small whimper and shifted his head towards Dean. Eyelashes fluttered weakly but finally opened to reveal dazed blue-green irises, and his brows dipped into a worried frown.

"D-Dean..." he croaked, throat sounding a little sore.

"Yeah, it's me. Your awesome big brother," said Dean, smiling down at him.

Sam blinked. "Huuhh?"

To Dean's dismay, tears sprang to Sammy's eyes and rolled down his pale cheeks.

"Aw, Sammy..." Dean was tugging the kid closer when he began struggling, trying to get away. "Don't Sam... c'mon, calm down."

"Noooooo... y-you t-tol'me g-getouttayaf-face!" Sam wailed out, his little body shivering with the cold.

"I didn't mean it, Sammy, I promise!" Dean cried out and sniffed miserably, still stubbornly holding on to his kid brother. He lowered his voice, mouth by Sam's ear. "I was stupid and selfish, and I'm so sorry."

"Y-you g-got m-mad at m-me," stuttered Sam in time with his shivers. Sobs growing quieter, he snuffled and hiccupped. "Wh-wha'd I do wrong? Why'dya h-hate m-me?"

"Nothin' Sammy," Dean rocked him gently, pulling Sam's face into his neck. "You didn't do anything wrong and I don't hate you, little bro. I was a big ol'jerk to you, and that was so not cool."

John shuffled on his knees further into the tent, grabbed a blanket from his duffle and tucked it round his boys. Sam was awake but he'd need watching over and, somehow, John knew exactly who would volunteer for the job.

He leaned over and tenderly cupped Sam's chin, smiling when the boy tilted his head back a little to gaze up at his Dad.

"How ya feelin', son?"

The kid just blinked, lashes wet with tears. "Wha?"

"You wandered off after I yelled at you, Sammy," Dean spoke up, gently petting Sam's head. "We found you lyin' in the snow... we think you fell and hit your head."

Sam closed his eyes for a second. "H-head h-hurts. S-so c-cold."

But the shivering had calmed down a little, John observed, ever thankful for small mercies, and the pale tinged to his lips was fading nicely.

"You'll soon warm up, Sam," said John, carefully feeling for the bump on the back of Sam's head. Hmm. At least it's not bleeding.

Sam hissed in pain at the contact but was too tired to flinch away.

"Sorry, kid," John leaned in to study Sam's eyes, realized it was too damn dark in the tent for a proper examination, then fumbled in his jacket pocket for a flashlight. Though Sam found the light painful, John sighed in relief when his pupils reacted equally. Things were looking good for the Winchesters. Sam was warming up, with no sign of concussion, and the boys appeared to have reached some kind of truce.

John smothered a grin. No doubt the younger brother would have yet more questions for Dean when he was a little more compos mentis.

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Dean was the first awake the next morning, to find his arms full of little brother, whose head was tucked under Dean's chin. Sam hadn't taken long to get to sleep the previous evening. In fact, just as their dad was serving up hot cocoa in camping mugs, Sam eyes were drooping, head rolling back against his brother's shoulder. He went out like a light, leaving his untouched cocoa for an eager Dean, and didn't stir again that night.

Gently laying the kid on his back, Dean got up, stretched and yawned, then nearly tripped over his father, who was sleeping lengthways across the tent right by the flap.

John shot up, awake in an instant, hunting knife already in hand. Dean gulped and froze for a long moment, eyeing the blade hovering steadily in front of his face. But the guy was an ex marine; awareness had dawned before his eyes had even opened, and the knife withdrew immediately.

"Sorry kid."

"S'ok Dad," was Dean's shaky reply.

John blinked a few times and scrubbed a hand down his face. "You boys sleep all right?"

"Yeah, Sammy's still asleep, though," Dean began dragging on his boots and tying the laces. "I was gonna get some breakfast ready for him before he wakes up."

"Nope," his father yawned and stretched. "I'll get this. You two stay warm and dry. Need to get the fire going again, anyhow. How's bacon and eggs sound?"

Dean's rumbling stomach had John laughing softly.

Surprisingly, on leaving the dome tent, John found the embers were still hot and red. With very little effort, and a few logs John had hidden under a small tarp the night before, the fire was once again blazing and crackling away, warming the cold, winter morning. Wood smoke curled lazily upwards through the forest canopy to meet the sunrays coming the other way. John sniffed the air and glanced around their little clearing. He couldn't keep the contented smile off his face no matter how he tried. Here, it was quiet, peaceful, the only noise the occasional rustle of leaves as some kind of bird alighted from a branch.

In the cold light of day, it really was quite beautiful here...

Less daydreaming and more cooking. You've two hungry young boys to feed.

John grinned and cracked open an egg.

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Sam's nose twitched and Dean grinned.

He remembered doing this to baby Sammy when he was just eight months old. Running a finger gently down the baby's little nose would result in cute baby giggles and baby squirms, then a pair of bright eyes would fix on Dean, little baby hands reaching up and trying to grasp hold of his big brother.

This Sam's reaction wasn't much different. The kid was trying so hard to smother his laughter, eyes closed and fake sleeping.

Dean wasn't having any of that.

Reaching under their shared blanket, big brother took it upon himself to ensure little brother woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready for breakfast. And he achieved this by grasping Sammy's tiny waist, and gently digging away with his fingers until the kid gasped and squirmed.

"Deeeaaannn! Stop it!"

"C'mon wake up, Sam! I'm hungry!" Dean sniffed the air and groaned appreciatively as the smell of cooked bacon wafted into the tent. "Aw man, that smells good!"

Sam sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes with small fists, and winced in pain.

"Ow." came out as a whimper.

"Sammy, what is it?" Dean's grin disappeared in the face his of brother's discomfort. "You ok?"

"My arm..." Sam gazed up him, miserably.

Pushing up Sam's sleeve and seeing the bruises in the shape of his own fingerprints, Dean closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. You also got a bump on your head. S'gonna hurt for a few days," he bit his lip, feeling guilty as hell, and not just for the morning's rude awakening. "I'm Sorry. About those things I said yesterday. Didn't mean..."

"Dean?" Sam blinked up at Dean, a little worried about his big brother's poor memory. "You all ready said that. Last night, remember?"

"I know I did... wait! How do you remember it?" asked Dean, a little taken aback. "You were semi conscious!"

Sam shrugged. "Just do."

The brothers stared at each other for a long time before Dean spoke, measuring his words carefully.

"I was real mean to you."

Sam shrugged again. "You said you're sorry."

Dean stared at him in amazement. "You must've hit your head harder than we thought."

"Why?" Sam's question was pure innocence, and it made Dean want to cry. Again.

"You got hurt, Sam!" Dean shook his head feeling annoyed and couldn't say why. "You got hurt 'cos I said some mean things, and I-I bruised your arm Sammy..."

"You didn't mean to, and you said you're sorry..." Sam interrupted, his hand curling gently round Dean's wrist.

Dean brushed his fingers over Sam's poor arm. "Sammy," he whispered, sadly, staring wide eyed at the bruises. "How can you forgive me so easy?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "'Cos... 'cos you're my brother, Dean!" he replied in genuine amazement, as though that was the obvious answer and didn't understand why it hadn't occurred to Dean. "And brothers always forgive each other, everyone knows that!"

Dean's only answer was an embarrassing "eek?"

Since when had his seven year old brother gotten so wise?

"Boys? You dressed?" their father called from outside the tent. "Food's ready! Come and get it!"

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Two days later...

"That's it Sammy, pack in a little more snow." Dean smiled fondly, and helped his little brother seal the snowman's head to its body by sitting the kid on his shoulders so he could reach. Between them they'd just built the biggest snowman ever, cunningly named Mr. Snowman, and both brothers were feeling kinda proud. Dean happily did most of the physical work, and kept a close eye on Sammy in case he got cold. He still worried about the kid's head injury, even though his father had assured him everything would be fine so long as Sammy took it easy.

Gently lowering his brother to the ground, Dean pulled the woollen bobble hat down over Sammy's eyes and grinned when he whined out his annoyance.

"DEE-EAAAANNN!"

Sam scrabbled to pull his hat back up, revealing wide eyes bright with mischief. Instead of retaliating, however, he turned back to the snowman and tipped his head to the side in consideration.

"Something's missin'," the youngster mused, thoughtfully.

Dean chuckled and threw an arm round the kid's shoulders.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Well," Sam turned those puppy dog eyes on his big brother. "Shouldn't he have a face? Ya know, like eyes, nose and mouth, kinda thing?"

Dean frowned and nodded. His face suddenly lit up. "Gimme a sec."

As he headed off in the direction of the tent he couldn't help throwing "Stay there and don't move!" over his shoulder.

Sam blinked innocently and shrugged in a who, me? manner.

But once his brother disappeared inside the tent, Sam grinned, crouched down and grabbed up some snow. Carefully rolling it into a ball, he crept behind the snowman, sat down, and waited with one mitten-clad hand over his mouth to hold in the giggles.

Dean raided the emergency sewing kit and gleefully held up three large black buttons. Shoving his way back out of the tent, he spotted his father trekking back from his trip to the snares, and carrying three rabbits strung together over his shoulder.

Their father had taught his oldest son how to make and set the snares that very day, figuring it couldn't hurt the kid to learn another potentially useful survival skill. That, and he'd planned to cook up some nourishing rabbit stew that evening.

"Hey Dad? Can we use these?" Dean called out, trying to sound nonchalant but failing. "Sammy wants our snowman to have a face."

"Uhuh." The corner John's mouth quirked up in amusement. "Well, if that's what Sammy wants," he raised a knowing eyebrow. "Then that's what Sammy gets."

"Thanks Dad!" Dean raced off leaving a quietly laughing John.

The laughter didn't last long, not when Dean's terrified voice suddenly rang out up ahead.

"Sammy? Sammy where are you?!"

Three very dead rabbits hit the ground and John took off like a bolt from a crossbow after his son. It was only a few feet into the trees, and the snowman came into view soon enough, but there was no sign of Sam.

"Sam?!" John bellowed loud enough to wake the dead. "Sammy, where are you, kiddo?!"

"Right here, Dad," a small voice announced from behind.

John and Dean whirled round in time to see their youngest poking his head round Mr. Snowman.

"Something wrong?" Sam's forehead wrinkled slightly with concern, but John caught the gleam in the kid's eye and decided to keep quiet. He was highly amused and looking forward to seeing what Sam had up his sleeve. He'd berate the kid later for his little stunt, but for now, John just wanted to enjoy the show.

"Don't you ever..." Dean's tirade was cut off by a face full of snow. "Sam!"

The older brother spat out some snow and launched after the giggling little Winchester, who scampered back behind the snowman and began furiously gathering up more snow.

"You little... just you wait 'til I get a hold o' you!" Dean was scowling but also obviously fighting a grin. "I'm gonna bury you alive, Sammy!"

John folded his arms, loving the sound of his sons laughing and having fun, but felt a few things needed to be said

"Just be careful. I don't want him getting cold again!" he warned, keeping his voice just shy of stern.

Dean froze for a fraction of a second, snowball in hand and drawn back in readiness for the attack on his younger brother. Sam caught Dean's eye and John could swear something passed between them, because a split second later, Dean changed direction, Sam raised his own snowy missile, and the two of them attacked their dad.

A few minutes later found John lying on his back with his two boisterous sons pummelling him with more snowballs.

And John only made things worse for himself, 'cos he just couldn't stop laughing.

Mr. Snowman never did get his eyes, nose and mouth.

The End.

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Author's notes:

I fancied quite a mixture in this fic, so we have it all; a brotherly argument, some angst, mild Limp Sam, guilty Dean, fatherly John, and a family play fight.

(sighs) And, ya know, I don't even care if John seems OOC in this.