The last place that Dean wanted to be in the dead of winter was Maine, with its icy roads and snow coated trees, each breath resulting in a puff of fog out of his mouth.

He'd grumbled about it to the ends of the earth the entire drive up, about how stupid it was, how stupid cold, and how he knew that the Appalachian mountain cases were always a priority when they came up with how centric they were for the weird and the otherworldly, but goddamn.

You were certain you'd heard it all by now, even though you didn't think it was that bad. The motel they'd picked had warm heat, and something warm and chocolatey to drink in the small dining area, so you were more than alright with these circumstances. Dean, however, was forever grumpy, even moreso at the icy wind that turned his cheeks and nose pink.

He'd been too preoccupied with his grumpiness to notice when your attention drifted from his ramblings to a group of little kids playing on the snowy hill. You thought they were playing, at least — they were rolling around in the snow, arms and legs kicking.

Dean's head turned to follow your gaze, leaning down to speak into your ear, and maybe because being close to your body heat was enough to make him forget his own cold. "They're makin' snow angels." His lips quirked once he saw interest pique in your eyes. "Yeah, dove, y'heard me right. You just—"

His body was moving before he even realized it. Was he seriously getting onto the snowy grass, about to demonstrate for you? Him? What the hell was he was thinking? "C'mon, I'm not doin' it alone. Get your cute ass down here."