Title: Tuesday
Author: Jager Speed
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nopers.
Summary: With the Impala stranded in a blizzard, Sam checks himself.


"Wow, it's really coming down out there," Sam observed as he reclined in the passenger seat, watching the snow fall in large flakes outside the Impala. The blizzard had come in from nowhere, and stuck on Route 95 the Winchester brothers had to pull to the side of the road to weather the storm out. Bogged down in the backroads, Dean knew driving would be too dangerous until morning. The silence was uncanny, a deafening roar of quiet pervading the thick musky air of the Chevy.

"Mmm," Dean grunted in response, reaching for a spare case of gun polish. The revolver he was working on glinted in the moonlight that reflected from the snow, the shiny white flakes laid out in thick blankets across the Connecticut hills.

Sam sighed. Dean and his guns. Whenever he wasn't cleaning the barrels of his shotgun Dean was polishing his set of twin revolvers, artfully inscribed with the Winchester logo. Dean and his guns, and not much room for anyone else.

"Hey, Dean. Do you know what day it is today?" Sam asked nonchalantly, keeping his gaze forward. He knew better than to indulge his boyish hope and decided instead to play it casual. Dean wasn't a very romantic kind of guy and the survival of both the boys depended on those stupid guns. But still...

Dean paused his movement and cast a glance at Sam, eyes flickering briefly-- searching for something-- before they were once again examining the butt of his revolver. He shrugged. "Tuesday, I think." He opened the cartridge and squinted one eye shut to check for any residue before clicking it back into place.

"Yeah. Tuesday," Sam echoed quietly. His shoulders shrunk a little and he went back to searching the skies for stars, a glint of moonlight echoing in his dark eyes and etching a pale line across his brooding features.

"Ya know, Sammy. Most revolvers, no matter how much you clean them they're guaranteed to jam up on you at least once. But this one," he held up the firearm with a smile, "this beauty's trusty as can be. May not look like much until you polish it up a little, but in a pinch it's the first thing you want by your side," Dean said with an air of pride, running an errant finger over the Winchester crest embedded in the butt.

Sam was only half listening, feeling foolish at the slight sting of disappointment that grew in his heart. "Yeah. Trusty. Where's the other one? I'll help."

Dean cleared his throat. "I don't know." He polished the silver barrel with renewed interest, not meeting Sam's gaze.

"You don't know? Those twin revolvers are your best guns. I'd sooner believe you forgot where you put your right hand," Sam's brow furrowed.

"I had to get rid of it, OK?"

"Get rid of it?" His little-brother curiosity poked out.

"Yes, Sam, I had to sell it. We were low on cash."

Sam knew this couldn't have been the truth, but didn't press the issue. It wasn't the time to annoy Dean, not tonight. A small part of him realized that just the two of them being together, stranded and uncertain and probably in danger, was enough for him. Tonight. For Sam anyways. He thought Dean would probably be happy enough alone with his dumb shotgun to keep him company. Sam imagined Dean affectionately hugging the barrel and tucking it snugly into the bed beside him before giving it a kiss goodnight. The thought was about to make him laugh when he felt a package drop into his lap, startling Sam out of his reverie.

It was a box wrapped in delicate white tissue paper with a red ribbon tied firmly around the lid. Sam looked over at Dean and could have sworn he saw a shy look of embarrassment.

"What's this?" Sam grinned ear to ear, his heart feeling like it grew three sizes.

Dean shrugged and tried to look away coolly, but noticed Sam's persistent attention. "Oh just open it!" His cheeks were turning quite red but could not conceal the broad grin that broke out across his face.

Sam wanted to keep Dean in suspense (how he looked like a little kid on December 24th!) but his own excitement got the better of him. He tore off strands of paper haphazardly, letting them fly around the car and ripped open the box. Sam's breath caught in his chest.

"Well?! Do you like it?" Dean was on pins and needles, sitting nearly at the edge of the driver's seat.

"Dean..." Sam whispered. A well-worn first edition copy of "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman lay delicately tucked inside layers of cotton. Sam's favorite poet. And this out-of-print edition. How could Dean have gotten this? Sam was nearly speechless, a large lump developing in his throat.
"How did you?"

"Shhh! Look what else!"

Dean gingerly picked up the book and saw beneath it a black and white photograph of the Winchester brothers, arms around each other and smiling, set in a silver frame. A familiar family crest adorned the polished metal and reflected the moonlight. "It's beautiful," Sam said, wiping away a tear that had fallen onto the photograph.

Dean was nearly jumping out of his seat, ecstatic that Sam liked his gift.

"Dean that revolver was your favorite," Sam whispered.

The older Winchester pulled Sam into the driver seat with him and wrapped his arms around his chest. "You're my favorite." Dean nuzzled his nose into Sam’s thick hair and Sam felt overcome with emotion; pulling Dean into a slow, lingering kiss.

"Like I said. Not much to look at until you polish it up, but once you do--the only thing you'll ever want by your side." Sam smiled at this and leaned back into the warmth of his brother's embrace. The two sat together and gazed out the window, watching the heavy snow fall and cover up all the dark in the world. "Happy Valentine's Day."