[A/N: This one, uh... got away from me, so I’m putting most of it under a jump. Length ~1.1k]
Thunk thunk thunk.
The hollow thuds of boots on wood echo under the porch as Dean kicks off the snow. He’d only walked maybe fifteen feet from his car to the steps, but man. It’s really coming down. Visibility is shit; Dean can barely see the tree line twenty paces away, and the wide spot between the trees that counts as a driveway up to this place is barely distinguishable. Thick, fat flakes whisper down with the sincere hush of midwinter. Beyond the porch, only the Impala is clear of white, her still-cooling engine melting any snow that lands on the hood. But that won’t last. Dean is already dreading having to dig her out and melt the snow off once the storm has passed over.
He just hopes Cas makes it alright.
With a final glance around at the slowly-surely-filling woods, Dean wrestles with the latch, pushes open the door, and heads into the cabin.
Inside is barely warmer than outside, but it’s dry and protected from the occasional gust of ice-chip wind. There’s no generator, but there’s a pellet stove, a couple of battery-powered shop lights, plus a coffee percolator, a pot, some rations… he’ll be fine. Cas — they’ll be fine. Dean sets about little tasks, warming the cabin, digging out blankets, sorting the food, trying to convince himself he’s not listening for the rumble of an engine, the knock of boots.
All he hears is the whoosh of the pellet stove under the whirring whistle of the rising wind. Once or twice he hears a tree creaking against its neighbor he freezes until he figures out what it is. Once it’s a wolf’s howl. Just once.
Cas had better get here soon, or Dean’s going to go out of his mind.
Twilight has dimmed the windows and the wind is quickening into a dull roar by the time Dean hears a distinct chug-chug-chug and the squeal of wet brakes. He abandons his long-cooled coffee and the wool blanket from his shoulders to step toward the window.
There’s a new snowless lump, easily recognizable as Cas’s Continental, the dome light glowing a homey yellow in the blue-washed snowscape. Dean estimates the snow has at least doubled since he got here, a good four or five inches settled on the Impala alone. He watches as Cas gets out of the car, a hunched figure against the herding of the wind, trudging slowly up to the porch.
As soon as Dean hears his footsteps echoing through the drum of the cabin’s wood, he grabs one of the shop lamps and brings it over to the door, swinging it open. Cas squints in the sudden glare.
“What kept you?” Dean asks, hauling Cas inside and knocking snow brusquely off his shoulders.
“I was followed out of town,” Cas says. “It made for a time-consuming series of detours.” He sounds bone-weary, as if he’d had to shake his assailant off by brute force. That’s not entirely out of the question, but Dean’s not going to ask for too many specifics.
“You lost him, though, right?” This is the one thing he has to know for certain. He can’t seem to stop touching. He works the snow out of Cas’s hair, unwilling, for some reason, to just let it melt, and not waiting for Cas to pull off his gloves before he tugs at the sleeves of his coat.
“Of course I — Dean, quit it.” Cas steps out of Dean’s reach, and Dean digs his nails into his palms. He focuses on hanging the shop lamp back on its hook, half-lit shadows leaping and swinging crazily until the thing settles, while Cas gets out of his wet coat. Then Dean just… stands there, swinging his arms until he shoves his hands in his pockets, while Cas’s cheeks go pink and ruddy in the sudden warmth of the pellet stove.
“There’s coffee, do you want coffee?” he asks.
That brings a relieved sigh. “Yes. Thank you,” Cas replies, and Dean clatters through the motions of heating water, adding grounds, grateful to have a task while Cas gets settled in.
By the time he can hand the cup to Cas, Cas has made himself as comfortable as he can be on the rock-solid futon that passes for the best furniture in the place. The futon that will fold out into the bed for the evening. Their bed. Dean swallows hard, then swallows again.
“Thanks for coming, man,” he says, sitting gingerly on the far end of the futon.
Cas sips his coffee, glances at Dean over the rim of the metal mug. “You said you need backup,” he says as he lowers the mug. Like it’s nothing. “Of course I came.”
Dean’s face does a funny twitch. “Yeah. Um. It’s not just that, though.”
Cas nods down at his coffee. “I know.”
There’s a long silence, just the ping of the pellets, the wind, and Cas’s slow sips of coffee.
“So you think we’ll be here til the spring thaw?” Dean asks, his levity falling flat.
Cas shakes his head. “I doubt it. This is an early storm. It’s likely to warm up enough for us to make our way back down once our business is complete.”
The wood of the floor is riddled with knots. The one right by Dean’s right foot looks ready to be knocked out. He kind of wants to kick it, but he doesn’t have the energy. “I never shoulda dragged you into this,” he says to the knot.
Cas’s mug makes a dull thud when he sets it on the wooden crate that held the blankets, and is now doing double duty as a coffee table. His hand is still warm from the coffee when his touch lands on Dean’s knee.
“You would have come up here anyway,” Cas murmurs. He watches his own hand like it belongs to someone else, a little wide-eyed, a little wild. “Probably doing something foolish like not telling anyone where you were going.” There’s a faintly accusatory note to that, and Dean finally meets his eyes.
“Did you call Sam?” he asks.
Cas nods. “I called Sam. If we’re not back in a week, he’s sending a search party.”
Dean shakes his head, laughing out a little of the tension from his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted Sam to worry, but it’s probably good to have someone who will know where to look for their bodies if this all goes sideways.
Cas’s hand is still on his knee.
“Dean,” he says at last.
“Yeah.”
Cas moves closer on the futon. He moves until their thighs are touching, knee to hip, their shoulders pressed so close Cas is starting to nudge behind him. Around him. Dean leans ever so slightly into his solidity.
Outside, the darkness continues to creep. The wind and the wolves howl; the snow buries the mountains in an ancient silence. But within their tiny pinprick of light and heat, two souls are content to disappear together.
I started filling (working on filling) requests today and tried typing in an atypical font (not comic sans, but you do you). Drabble number one is sitting at 900 words and not a word of dialogue has yet been written. Long story short, my FYI is this: try switching up your font! Tried and true, it works wonders!
