hoodie_time | comment fic

Title: none
Author: boysinperil
Characters: Dean, Benny
Genre/pairing: gen, h/c
Rating: g
Word-count: 432
Spoilers: none
Summary: Written last spring for the

comment_fic prompt: Supernatural, Dean&/Any, Dean's so drunk he can't feel the cold biting into his bones (lots of h/c please!)

He hasn't really gotten drunk much since he got back from Purgatory, hasn't really felt that urge that became a habit that became a need. Not like he felt it before. Not until tonight, Sam storming out, a hunt fucked up like he fucks everything, and now he's not even sure where he is, only that it's not the bar, and it's not the hotel, so it must be between, except there's no between, just Purgatory, and it was never this cold there, there was just neverending twilight and monsters and adrenaline and nothing.

Here is cold, but it's all floating an inch above his skin; his skin is hot. So hot, see how those snowflakes melt before they even touch him? Well, his skin, anyway; there's a little layer of snow on his jeans, his jacket. Good thing he's got that jacket, might be cold later. Not now.

He spends some time, minutes, or maybe hours, looking at the different patterns of snowflakes as they land and melt, land and stick. The layer gets thicker while he watches, thinking about snow.

"Mister? You okay, mister?"

Dean's head jerks up, earning him a painful jolt to the skull from the wall behind him. "Nnnu. M'fine. Sleeping, go'way, Sammy."

"Mister, you can't stay here. You'll freeze. Why're you out here anyhow, you could've stayed in the bar, come on, now..."

The voice isn't Sam, and it just keeps talking and talking and talking while he flaps his hands at it and tries to curl up into the soft soft cold pillow of - snow. Huh. Maybe he should get up at that.

"...is there someone I can call? I can't lift you, hon, you're like twice my size, you're gonna have to..."

Dean fumbles in his jacket pocket for his phone, tosses it at the voice. Vaguely, he wonders if it - she - will find anyone on it who isn't dead or who cares even one little bit if Dean lives or dies. He certainly can't think of anyone. Her voice slides away as he goes back to contemplating the snow, and everything follows behind it.

*

"Come on, brother, rise and shine."

That's a voice Dean knows. Trusts.

"An' you accuse me of havin' a drinking problem. Get on up, now, and we'll get you warmed up proper."

"G'way, Benny."

"Nope, not without you."

And aren't those words Dean never expects to hear out of any mouth but his own.

Dean grabs the hand, offered as it has been so many times over the last year. Solid, if not warm.

"Thanks, brother."