Prairie Weather, for spn_summergen
Title: Prairie Weather
Recipient: spn_summergen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Big enormous thank you to my usual beta! You know who you are.
Summary: For the prompt: Dean is stranded in a snowstorm. The Impala has run out of gas/stuck in a snow bank and Dean has left it to go for help, but he has gotten lost and is suffering from hypothermia. Sam to the rescue.
To come this far up north was rare for them. Dean liked hot places, the Southwest -miles of desolate road and big sky, dry desert towns no bigger than a single street and a stoplight. And Sam liked the places that were cooler, but not too cool; Kentucky, the mountains, places you could get lost in. Minnesota was not at all at the top of their list when it came to picking a destination.
Yet here they were-somewhere outside Starbuck -or rather, here Sam was, alone in the motel, watching the storm come in, murmur of the television soft at his back, hand clutched around his phone, pacing back and forth past the window, waiting for any sign of Dean.
They didn't come this far north because, frankly, neither of them particularly liked the cold ; because there were usually other hunters around to take care of things in these parts; because most monsters, it seemed, had the good goddamn sense to hunker down when it was freezing-most of the year in places like this. And because Dean refused to outfit the Impala's wheels with chains. Called it medieval.
He'd been gone an hour, only into the next town west up 24 for some decent booze. They were practically done in this place; they'd been planning on leaving tomorrow, heading somewhere where the sun shone. He wasn't back yet, and surely he wouldn't have made it ahead of the storm; it had come in so quickly. Fucking prairie weather- this was why Sam knew he'd never settle down in the Dakotas like Bobby. Too unpredictable. Too fucking cold.
“Come on,” he hummed, anxiously, to himself, lifting the curtains for the sixtieth time since the snow had started coming (first softly, and then all at once , like wood flying out of a woodchipper, practically horizontal), squinting through the driving white for any sign of the Impala. “Come on.” He held his phone against his mouth, worked his jaw.
Behind him on the motel television some blonde woman was calmly listing out severe weather warnings and safety tips, waving her hands over the blue and pink spots on the radar, but it was the same spiel she'd been giving since after Dean had gone. God, but it had come on quick. Like a skidding semi-truck. Hadn't he said? Storm's coming, Dean, better stay in, but Dean never listened when it came to stuff like this-
His phone rang, abruptly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, slammed his thumb across the screen, practically shouted “Hello?”
“Jesus, Sammy.”
“Why are you on the phone?”
“What?”
“Why are you on the phone when you're driving in weather like this?”
“Relax, man.” Dean's chuckle was cut out by the hoarse static that was washing across the line in waves.
“Where are you? Are you coming back?”
“Eh, well.” Dean paused.
Sam groaned, tipped his head back. “Christ. What happened.”
“Kinda -ran out of gas.”
“You what?”
“Look, I thought I could make it back on fumes, grab some across the road from the room-but this snow is crazy, man, I had no idea-”
“I told you going out was a bad idea, I told you-”
“Yeah, yeah, congratulations. I'll bring you a prize.”
Sam pushed his forehead against the frigid window, resisting the urge to burst into a lecture.
“So you're stuck,” he said, clenching his jaw, watching the gas station across the street slowly dissolve away, obscured by the snow-he'd never seen snow like this in his life. Christ, this was Little House on the Prairie shit. “Where on 24 are you stuck?”
“I dunno, like-maybe fifteen, twenty minutes out? Hard to tell, can't see a fucking thing out here.”
“You safe?”
“I'm off the road, yeah.”
“Jesus, Dean.”
“Save it, man, just come and get me. Bring gas. There's no heat, it's getting cold.”
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, crooked the phone between his shoulder and cheek to reach down and grab his boots. “How the hell am I supposed to come and get you?”
“Steal a truck?” Dean said, in his most optimistic I'm-helping voice.
“Terrible idea, Dean,” Sam snapped, sitting down hard on his mattress and shoving his foot into his boot. “Really terrible idea. I'll figure it out.”
“Look, I'm sorry, Sam-”
“Just do me a favour,” Sam said, pausing for a moment on the edge of the bed, the TV flickering green in the corner of his eye. “Just one favour, okay? Stay in the fucking car.”
“Aye, aye, captain ,” said Dean.
/////
He didn't stay in the fucking car . Why the hell would he stay in the fucking car? It was cold in here. That nasty, bone-deep, metal-cold. Like being inside one of those meat freezers serial killers kept in their garages . (He had been inside one of those once . It wasn't an experience he wanted to relive.)
Dean spent the first fifteen minutes after Sam hung up huddled under his jacket-backwards-face smushed into the collar . It hadn't done much, and it was freaky quiet in here without the radio or the roar of the heat. The wind was so harsh it was rocking the Impala on her wheels, violently, sometimes so violently he wondered if she'd tip-if he'd even realise she was tipping-out the windows everything was the same stark shade of white; if she rocked onto her side he probably wouldn't know.
After twenty minutes he started to shiver-found gloves in the glove compartment, which was something he was sure he and Sam would be laughing about for ages after this whole debacle was over-pulled them on and squeezed his fingers together, trying to get his blood pumping. Curled his toes in his boots. Didn't help much. He was becoming starkly aware of how thin the windows in the Impala were, and how nasty cold glass could get.
He wondered if he should call Sam again. Get an ETA. It was probably going to take a while-finding a ride, getting gas, driving out here-maybe they wouldn't find him; it was hard to believe there was any possibility of seeing anything but white out here-maybe he'd be stuck here until after dark, and it would get colder and colder-fuck if he was gonna be the dumbass who froze to death in his car on the side of the road.
On his way up to the liquor store in the next town he thought he'd seen something out here-a barn, or a farmhouse, something. Not far. Right around here, if his memory served, and it usually did. At any rate a much nicer-safer-place to weather this cold than in a car just off the road. Hell, anyone could run into him, right? In a storm like this ?
He leaned forward, wiped the steam away from the inside of the windshield with his palm, squinted out.
There it was-well, there it almost was, or seemed to be-a greyish smudge, definitely a building, tall enough to be something to shelter behind, at least.
Hell, he could make it. He had good boots, a good coat. He could call Sam from inside and tell him not to worry, he was warm and safe. Sounded a lot better than curling up in the car for God knew how much longer.
“Stay in the fucking car ,” Dean mumbled, reaching haphazardly backwards into the back seat to feel around for his hat. “Whatever.” He yanked it on, pulled his jacket back around, shoved his gloved hands through. When Sam found him, nice and toasty-warm in some sweet Minnesota farmowner lady's kitchen sipping hot apple cider , he'd tell him a thing or two about staying in fucking cars when it was fucking freezing out.
Opening the door was a bad idea; that came to him immediately; it nearly closed like a steel trap on his leg under the force of the wind, and he may or may not have yelped in surprise, pushing hard to push back against the gale-Jesus, how fast was it coming?-just enough to fall out into the snow and let it slam shut.
“Fuck,” he said, as much as he could with his teeth chattering so suddenly and so hard. Who even lived in places like this? Prairie weather. Goddamn ridiculous. He'd take the Arizona desert any day of the week.
But he could still see the building, only a little ways off, and maybe it was his imagination forming it into a sweet little farmhouse, but hey-whatever got him there.
He took two long, trudging steps in the snow and fell over. Face-first.
It was practically up to his knees when he stood again, and he was at the top of the ditch, for crying out loud. And now his whole front was speckled white, chunks of snow falling off the lapels of his jacket, and his face was wet. He rubbed at his eyes with his gloves, but the snow was driving practically into his eyes-it was useless. He just had to keep walking.
Just had to keep walking. This was a good idea. He'd knock on the door until someone let him in and he'd be smug as hell about it when Sam arrived. Sure.
Six feet from the ditch and he fell over again.
This was a terrible idea.
/////
“God, I hope he stayed in the car,” Sam said, gripping the door handle of the motel manager's truck so hard he could see the whites of his knuckles.
“If he's smart , he will,” said Steve-God-bless-Steve, sweet Steve, wonderful Steve-Sam could practically have kissed the man for offering to lend a hand when he'd stumbled into the lobby, red-faced and panicking and desperate for a ride.
“Well, he's smart,” Sam said, peering out at the slick whitened road with unease, “but I wouldn't put it past him.”
They had two full gas cans sitting in the footwell, snow chains on the tires, blizzard-tested Minnesotan at the wheel-Sam was starting to feel better already.
Now they just had to find him. Wouldn't be too hard-24 wasn't a busy road; only went two ways in and out of town. He'd be along it somewhere. The Impala was hard to miss.
“Is this kind of weather, like-normal?” Sam asked, faintly aghast as Steve navigated them onto the treacherous road-he couldn't see a foot past his passenger-side window. His breath was a fog curling out of his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” said Steve. “You get used to it after a while. Ain't so bad. I'll tell you-last year we had worse!”
Fucking Minnesota , thought Sam.
/////
This was a really, really, really incredibly terrible idea.
For one, even though he was sure he'd been headed in the direction of the grey smudge of a building, Dean couldn't see it anymore-wasn't sure if the wind had picked up, obfuscated it from sight, if he'd gotten turned around after falling for the third or fourth time-and he couldn't see the Impala, either, which was making him even more anxious. And he was exhausted, very suddenly, although he'd probably only been fighting the wind and snow for fifteen minutes. His legs protested against the push through snowbanks, his gloves were far too thin, and his ears were burning even under the warmth of his hat.
He was crouched in the snow, now, arms over his face, too tired to keep trudging-it was only a small break; he'd get up in a minute, keep going-he had to go somewhere, now that he'd gotten himself into this mess. God, Sam was gonna have a field day with this, if he managed to get here before Dean froze to death.
He hadn't known it was possible to shiver like he was shivering. His heart was pounding; he wasn't breathing deep enough, he could tell-the wind was snatching the air off his lips and chapping them to hell to boot.
With difficulty, Dean fumbled inside his jacket for his cell phone, hoping to heaven it'd get service still, even out here, even in all this. Please, God, he thought, over the rattling of the teeth in his skull, if Sam gets me out of this, I'll take all of his advice for the rest of my life. Even the shitty advice.
His heart sank when the screen lit up, feeble in the horrible brightness of the blizzard. No bars. No service.
Dean clutched his phone to his mouth, dipped his head, pushed it between his knees as best he could to find the warmth of his own body. The wind was tearing at him like it wanted to punish him, to rip him apart.
/////
“Oh, shit,” said Sam.
Steve pulled off into the ditch, facing the Impala's quiet bumper, her lights dark, and pulled his hat down around his ears. “You see him?”
“No,” Sam said, leaning forward, trying to peer into the Impala's windshield, to see if maybe Dean had lain down in the front seat, or curled up in the back. The driver's side door was just barely open, wavering a little in the wind . He ran a hand back through his hair, biting down hard on his lip. “Shit. I think he made a run for it.”
Steve twisted in his seat. “Ain't many places to go around here. Which way do you think he headed?”
“Probably-back towards town-” Sam unbuckled, steeled himself to open the door. “I gotta go find him.”
“Want me to come with you, kid?”
“No-if you could just fill up her tank? That'd be a huge help-”
“Sure thing.”
Sam was already climbing out of the truck, braced against the storm, and though he did shout thank you over the wind, it was swept off his mouth. Steve didn't hear.
Whatever tracks Dean had made were gone, obliterated-nothing seemed to last long in weather like this. But there was a kind of greyish smudge back the way they'd come, a barn, Sam thought, and it was likely Dean had seen it too and had gone towards it. So he went.
“Dean?” he called, hoping the wind would carry it in the right direction, though that was pretty much hopeless-but it felt dangerous to walk in silence in weather like this. “Dean!”
It was hard to move-the snow was piling on thicker than he'd ever thought possible-Sam lifted his legs high, trying not to drag them, keeping his balance with his arms outstretched though they screamed to be held close and warm to his body. He paused every few steps to look back, to find the black shape of the Impala, to be sure he didn't get lost or turned around.
“Dean!”
He tripped, suddenly, faceplanted in the snow and scrambled back upright, scrubbing his face with his bare, red-whipped hands-blinked, stumbled, realised the Impala wasn't in quite the same position as before-he had to be careful not to get too far out of sight-
“Sammy?”
He barely heard it over the wind but it was there, weak, and not far away.
“Dean!” Sam tripped a little, squinting through the whiteout, and then he saw it, a little ways off, a dark shape that could have been mistaken for a rock or an animal-Jesus Christ, he hoped it wasn't a rock or an animal. He skipped and hopped towards it, feeling like a kid trying to run through water, and dropped down-and shit, yes, it was Dean, tipped over on his side, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes squeezed shut and mouth trembling with the effort of having called his brother's name.
“Fuck,” Sam said, gently pushing against Dean's shoulder. “How long have you been out here?”
Dean mumbled something; his eyelids slid open just enough to show the rolling whites of his eyes.
Once-a long time ago, now-they'd watched an Everest documentary together, because Dean loved that stuff, and had jokingly promised to hold Sam's hand all the way through, because mountains scared the shit out of Sam, and Sam had smacked at him for that, and thrown popcorn at his face. And on that documentary they'd shown it-a dramatisation of someone freezing to death, some poor German climber. And of course it had wormed its way into Sam's brain, all the symptoms, the complications, and he felt fear flooding into his system.
“Come on,” he said, stammering, and not just from cold. “We gotta get you out of the cold, okay?”
Dean mumbled something else that might have been I'm fine, and Sam said “Bullshit,” gripped his upper arms and levered him into a sitting position, let Dean lean against him until he got his knees to straighten up.
Dean's face pressed against his neck was so cold it burned, and Sam felt a twinge of guilt laced in with the fear. All the way here he'd been planning the lecture in his head about driving in bad weather and now it was gone, blown away. He had to get Dean warm or there was a very real chance that he would -
“We're not gonna think about that,” he said, mostly to himself, hauling Dean up against his shoulder, trying to be gentle. “Let's get you to the car, okay?”
“No gas,” Dean said.
“It's cool, man. I've got someone filling her up right now. You can walk, yeah?”
Dean made a noncommittal noise.
“Well, we're gonna try. See where that gets us,” Sam said. “Come on.”
Dean sagged, dangerously, and Sam clung to his side, willing him to get upright, to get his legs working.
“Come on, man,” he said, forcing a laugh out behind his teeth. “You really gonna let some stupid blizzard kill you?”
Dean perked up, then-maybe it was the threat to his pride . Sam didn't really care.
/////
Sam followed Steve back to town, driving as carefully as he knew how, throwing glances at Dean in the back seat whenever he possibly could-he was covered in his own jacket and Sam's, too, but his clothes were soaked and Sam knew that not even the heater was doing enough to get him warm. His face was alarmingly red.
When they got back-no mishaps, thank God-Sam threw another thank you towards Steve, coaxing Dean out of the back seat and gently into the room, and Steve lingered in their doorway until he was sure they were both inside.
/////
Dean woke with a raging headache and the distinctly weird feeling he had always hated of being naked under blankets.
The room was dim; he could hear rafters and framing creaking in the wind. He tried to move, and realised he couldn't-he was tucked up so securely under a mountain of blankets that he was practically cocooned . He turned his head.
“This really necessary?” he croaked, towards the slumped figure of his brother in the armchair by the bed, and Sam started like a frightened horse. “You got like twenty blankets on me, man.”
“You're awake,” Sam said, as if it weren't obvious. He swallowed, shook his head to wake himself up. “And-yeah, it's really necessary.”
Dean rolled his head back, closed his eyes briefly, managed-somehow-a smile.
He lay there, privately accounting for his fingers and toes and moving them each individually under the mountain of scratchy wool and fleece, and in his peripheral vision Sam got up to put something in the motel microwave. He couldn't remember getting from the outdoors to getting here, but that was fine by him-just fine by him-he wanted to sleep for a million years.
“Here.” Sam set something down on the bedside table and slipped an arm behind Dean's shoulders, lifting him up, and Dean was only mildly ashamed to admit he needed the help; he rested against the headboard, and Sam pushed a hot mug of milk into his hands.
“Could have at least given me the booze I almost died to get,” Dean muttered, frowning into it.
“Mayo Clinic says no alcohol. Drink up. It'll help.”
Dean took a sip and made a face.
“Hey,” Sam said, taking a mug of his own from the bedside table, settling back into his armchair, “just be glad I didn't do the naked cuddling thing while you were out.”
“There's a naked cuddling thing?”
Sam laughed. “Medical science, man.”
“Jesus.”
They sat for a while in silence, sipping their respective drinks, and Dean watched the snow out the window-so far away, it seemed, now that he wasn't out in it; almost surreal. Under the blankets his skin was prickling but coming back to life; he could see his wet clothes laid out over a chair across the room. And Sam, it seemed, didn't have the heart to lecture him, and Dean found he didn't have the heart to make any more jokes, not right now.
He could have died. But for the grace of God. And Sam, and a nice guy with snow tires.
“Hey. Sam?”
“Yeah?”
Dean thought about saying thank you-it seemed like the thing-but Sam had that look on his face, the one that said I already know-you're welcome, you idiot. But he hoped Sam felt it, anyway.
Dean swallowed, rested his mug in the crook of his legs.
“Let's go somewhere very, very south, yeah?”
Sam chuckled, raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “I'll drink to that.”
Dean raised his mug, held it out. He said, with all solemnity, “Fuck Minnesota.”
Sam grinned. Clinked their mugs together.
“Fuck Minnesota.”
The wind rolled on and on and on.
Recipient: spn_summergen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Big enormous thank you to my usual beta! You know who you are.
Summary: For the prompt: Dean is stranded in a snowstorm. The Impala has run out of gas/stuck in a snow bank and Dean has left it to go for help, but he has gotten lost and is suffering from hypothermia. Sam to the rescue.
To come this far up north was rare for them. Dean liked hot places, the Southwest -miles of desolate road and big sky, dry desert towns no bigger than a single street and a stoplight. And Sam liked the places that were cooler, but not too cool; Kentucky, the mountains, places you could get lost in. Minnesota was not at all at the top of their list when it came to picking a destination.
Yet here they were-somewhere outside Starbuck -or rather, here Sam was, alone in the motel, watching the storm come in, murmur of the television soft at his back, hand clutched around his phone, pacing back and forth past the window, waiting for any sign of Dean.
They didn't come this far north because, frankly, neither of them particularly liked the cold ; because there were usually other hunters around to take care of things in these parts; because most monsters, it seemed, had the good goddamn sense to hunker down when it was freezing-most of the year in places like this. And because Dean refused to outfit the Impala's wheels with chains. Called it medieval.
He'd been gone an hour, only into the next town west up 24 for some decent booze. They were practically done in this place; they'd been planning on leaving tomorrow, heading somewhere where the sun shone. He wasn't back yet, and surely he wouldn't have made it ahead of the storm; it had come in so quickly. Fucking prairie weather- this was why Sam knew he'd never settle down in the Dakotas like Bobby. Too unpredictable. Too fucking cold.
“Come on,” he hummed, anxiously, to himself, lifting the curtains for the sixtieth time since the snow had started coming (first softly, and then all at once , like wood flying out of a woodchipper, practically horizontal), squinting through the driving white for any sign of the Impala. “Come on.” He held his phone against his mouth, worked his jaw.
Behind him on the motel television some blonde woman was calmly listing out severe weather warnings and safety tips, waving her hands over the blue and pink spots on the radar, but it was the same spiel she'd been giving since after Dean had gone. God, but it had come on quick. Like a skidding semi-truck. Hadn't he said? Storm's coming, Dean, better stay in, but Dean never listened when it came to stuff like this-
His phone rang, abruptly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, slammed his thumb across the screen, practically shouted “Hello?”
“Jesus, Sammy.”
“Why are you on the phone?”
“What?”
“Why are you on the phone when you're driving in weather like this?”
“Relax, man.” Dean's chuckle was cut out by the hoarse static that was washing across the line in waves.
“Where are you? Are you coming back?”
“Eh, well.” Dean paused.
Sam groaned, tipped his head back. “Christ. What happened.”
“Kinda -ran out of gas.”
“You what?”
“Look, I thought I could make it back on fumes, grab some across the road from the room-but this snow is crazy, man, I had no idea-”
“I told you going out was a bad idea, I told you-”
“Yeah, yeah, congratulations. I'll bring you a prize.”
Sam pushed his forehead against the frigid window, resisting the urge to burst into a lecture.
“So you're stuck,” he said, clenching his jaw, watching the gas station across the street slowly dissolve away, obscured by the snow-he'd never seen snow like this in his life. Christ, this was Little House on the Prairie shit. “Where on 24 are you stuck?”
“I dunno, like-maybe fifteen, twenty minutes out? Hard to tell, can't see a fucking thing out here.”
“You safe?”
“I'm off the road, yeah.”
“Jesus, Dean.”
“Save it, man, just come and get me. Bring gas. There's no heat, it's getting cold.”
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, crooked the phone between his shoulder and cheek to reach down and grab his boots. “How the hell am I supposed to come and get you?”
“Steal a truck?” Dean said, in his most optimistic I'm-helping voice.
“Terrible idea, Dean,” Sam snapped, sitting down hard on his mattress and shoving his foot into his boot. “Really terrible idea. I'll figure it out.”
“Look, I'm sorry, Sam-”
“Just do me a favour,” Sam said, pausing for a moment on the edge of the bed, the TV flickering green in the corner of his eye. “Just one favour, okay? Stay in the fucking car.”
“Aye, aye, captain ,” said Dean.
/////
He didn't stay in the fucking car . Why the hell would he stay in the fucking car? It was cold in here. That nasty, bone-deep, metal-cold. Like being inside one of those meat freezers serial killers kept in their garages . (He had been inside one of those once . It wasn't an experience he wanted to relive.)
Dean spent the first fifteen minutes after Sam hung up huddled under his jacket-backwards-face smushed into the collar . It hadn't done much, and it was freaky quiet in here without the radio or the roar of the heat. The wind was so harsh it was rocking the Impala on her wheels, violently, sometimes so violently he wondered if she'd tip-if he'd even realise she was tipping-out the windows everything was the same stark shade of white; if she rocked onto her side he probably wouldn't know.
After twenty minutes he started to shiver-found gloves in the glove compartment, which was something he was sure he and Sam would be laughing about for ages after this whole debacle was over-pulled them on and squeezed his fingers together, trying to get his blood pumping. Curled his toes in his boots. Didn't help much. He was becoming starkly aware of how thin the windows in the Impala were, and how nasty cold glass could get.
He wondered if he should call Sam again. Get an ETA. It was probably going to take a while-finding a ride, getting gas, driving out here-maybe they wouldn't find him; it was hard to believe there was any possibility of seeing anything but white out here-maybe he'd be stuck here until after dark, and it would get colder and colder-fuck if he was gonna be the dumbass who froze to death in his car on the side of the road.
On his way up to the liquor store in the next town he thought he'd seen something out here-a barn, or a farmhouse, something. Not far. Right around here, if his memory served, and it usually did. At any rate a much nicer-safer-place to weather this cold than in a car just off the road. Hell, anyone could run into him, right? In a storm like this ?
He leaned forward, wiped the steam away from the inside of the windshield with his palm, squinted out.
There it was-well, there it almost was, or seemed to be-a greyish smudge, definitely a building, tall enough to be something to shelter behind, at least.
Hell, he could make it. He had good boots, a good coat. He could call Sam from inside and tell him not to worry, he was warm and safe. Sounded a lot better than curling up in the car for God knew how much longer.
“Stay in the fucking car ,” Dean mumbled, reaching haphazardly backwards into the back seat to feel around for his hat. “Whatever.” He yanked it on, pulled his jacket back around, shoved his gloved hands through. When Sam found him, nice and toasty-warm in some sweet Minnesota farmowner lady's kitchen sipping hot apple cider , he'd tell him a thing or two about staying in fucking cars when it was fucking freezing out.
Opening the door was a bad idea; that came to him immediately; it nearly closed like a steel trap on his leg under the force of the wind, and he may or may not have yelped in surprise, pushing hard to push back against the gale-Jesus, how fast was it coming?-just enough to fall out into the snow and let it slam shut.
“Fuck,” he said, as much as he could with his teeth chattering so suddenly and so hard. Who even lived in places like this? Prairie weather. Goddamn ridiculous. He'd take the Arizona desert any day of the week.
But he could still see the building, only a little ways off, and maybe it was his imagination forming it into a sweet little farmhouse, but hey-whatever got him there.
He took two long, trudging steps in the snow and fell over. Face-first.
It was practically up to his knees when he stood again, and he was at the top of the ditch, for crying out loud. And now his whole front was speckled white, chunks of snow falling off the lapels of his jacket, and his face was wet. He rubbed at his eyes with his gloves, but the snow was driving practically into his eyes-it was useless. He just had to keep walking.
Just had to keep walking. This was a good idea. He'd knock on the door until someone let him in and he'd be smug as hell about it when Sam arrived. Sure.
Six feet from the ditch and he fell over again.
This was a terrible idea.
/////
“God, I hope he stayed in the car,” Sam said, gripping the door handle of the motel manager's truck so hard he could see the whites of his knuckles.
“If he's smart , he will,” said Steve-God-bless-Steve, sweet Steve, wonderful Steve-Sam could practically have kissed the man for offering to lend a hand when he'd stumbled into the lobby, red-faced and panicking and desperate for a ride.
“Well, he's smart,” Sam said, peering out at the slick whitened road with unease, “but I wouldn't put it past him.”
They had two full gas cans sitting in the footwell, snow chains on the tires, blizzard-tested Minnesotan at the wheel-Sam was starting to feel better already.
Now they just had to find him. Wouldn't be too hard-24 wasn't a busy road; only went two ways in and out of town. He'd be along it somewhere. The Impala was hard to miss.
“Is this kind of weather, like-normal?” Sam asked, faintly aghast as Steve navigated them onto the treacherous road-he couldn't see a foot past his passenger-side window. His breath was a fog curling out of his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” said Steve. “You get used to it after a while. Ain't so bad. I'll tell you-last year we had worse!”
Fucking Minnesota , thought Sam.
/////
This was a really, really, really incredibly terrible idea.
For one, even though he was sure he'd been headed in the direction of the grey smudge of a building, Dean couldn't see it anymore-wasn't sure if the wind had picked up, obfuscated it from sight, if he'd gotten turned around after falling for the third or fourth time-and he couldn't see the Impala, either, which was making him even more anxious. And he was exhausted, very suddenly, although he'd probably only been fighting the wind and snow for fifteen minutes. His legs protested against the push through snowbanks, his gloves were far too thin, and his ears were burning even under the warmth of his hat.
He was crouched in the snow, now, arms over his face, too tired to keep trudging-it was only a small break; he'd get up in a minute, keep going-he had to go somewhere, now that he'd gotten himself into this mess. God, Sam was gonna have a field day with this, if he managed to get here before Dean froze to death.
He hadn't known it was possible to shiver like he was shivering. His heart was pounding; he wasn't breathing deep enough, he could tell-the wind was snatching the air off his lips and chapping them to hell to boot.
With difficulty, Dean fumbled inside his jacket for his cell phone, hoping to heaven it'd get service still, even out here, even in all this. Please, God, he thought, over the rattling of the teeth in his skull, if Sam gets me out of this, I'll take all of his advice for the rest of my life. Even the shitty advice.
His heart sank when the screen lit up, feeble in the horrible brightness of the blizzard. No bars. No service.
Dean clutched his phone to his mouth, dipped his head, pushed it between his knees as best he could to find the warmth of his own body. The wind was tearing at him like it wanted to punish him, to rip him apart.
/////
“Oh, shit,” said Sam.
Steve pulled off into the ditch, facing the Impala's quiet bumper, her lights dark, and pulled his hat down around his ears. “You see him?”
“No,” Sam said, leaning forward, trying to peer into the Impala's windshield, to see if maybe Dean had lain down in the front seat, or curled up in the back. The driver's side door was just barely open, wavering a little in the wind . He ran a hand back through his hair, biting down hard on his lip. “Shit. I think he made a run for it.”
Steve twisted in his seat. “Ain't many places to go around here. Which way do you think he headed?”
“Probably-back towards town-” Sam unbuckled, steeled himself to open the door. “I gotta go find him.”
“Want me to come with you, kid?”
“No-if you could just fill up her tank? That'd be a huge help-”
“Sure thing.”
Sam was already climbing out of the truck, braced against the storm, and though he did shout thank you over the wind, it was swept off his mouth. Steve didn't hear.
Whatever tracks Dean had made were gone, obliterated-nothing seemed to last long in weather like this. But there was a kind of greyish smudge back the way they'd come, a barn, Sam thought, and it was likely Dean had seen it too and had gone towards it. So he went.
“Dean?” he called, hoping the wind would carry it in the right direction, though that was pretty much hopeless-but it felt dangerous to walk in silence in weather like this. “Dean!”
It was hard to move-the snow was piling on thicker than he'd ever thought possible-Sam lifted his legs high, trying not to drag them, keeping his balance with his arms outstretched though they screamed to be held close and warm to his body. He paused every few steps to look back, to find the black shape of the Impala, to be sure he didn't get lost or turned around.
“Dean!”
He tripped, suddenly, faceplanted in the snow and scrambled back upright, scrubbing his face with his bare, red-whipped hands-blinked, stumbled, realised the Impala wasn't in quite the same position as before-he had to be careful not to get too far out of sight-
“Sammy?”
He barely heard it over the wind but it was there, weak, and not far away.
“Dean!” Sam tripped a little, squinting through the whiteout, and then he saw it, a little ways off, a dark shape that could have been mistaken for a rock or an animal-Jesus Christ, he hoped it wasn't a rock or an animal. He skipped and hopped towards it, feeling like a kid trying to run through water, and dropped down-and shit, yes, it was Dean, tipped over on his side, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes squeezed shut and mouth trembling with the effort of having called his brother's name.
“Fuck,” Sam said, gently pushing against Dean's shoulder. “How long have you been out here?”
Dean mumbled something; his eyelids slid open just enough to show the rolling whites of his eyes.
Once-a long time ago, now-they'd watched an Everest documentary together, because Dean loved that stuff, and had jokingly promised to hold Sam's hand all the way through, because mountains scared the shit out of Sam, and Sam had smacked at him for that, and thrown popcorn at his face. And on that documentary they'd shown it-a dramatisation of someone freezing to death, some poor German climber. And of course it had wormed its way into Sam's brain, all the symptoms, the complications, and he felt fear flooding into his system.
“Come on,” he said, stammering, and not just from cold. “We gotta get you out of the cold, okay?”
Dean mumbled something else that might have been I'm fine, and Sam said “Bullshit,” gripped his upper arms and levered him into a sitting position, let Dean lean against him until he got his knees to straighten up.
Dean's face pressed against his neck was so cold it burned, and Sam felt a twinge of guilt laced in with the fear. All the way here he'd been planning the lecture in his head about driving in bad weather and now it was gone, blown away. He had to get Dean warm or there was a very real chance that he would -
“We're not gonna think about that,” he said, mostly to himself, hauling Dean up against his shoulder, trying to be gentle. “Let's get you to the car, okay?”
“No gas,” Dean said.
“It's cool, man. I've got someone filling her up right now. You can walk, yeah?”
Dean made a noncommittal noise.
“Well, we're gonna try. See where that gets us,” Sam said. “Come on.”
Dean sagged, dangerously, and Sam clung to his side, willing him to get upright, to get his legs working.
“Come on, man,” he said, forcing a laugh out behind his teeth. “You really gonna let some stupid blizzard kill you?”
Dean perked up, then-maybe it was the threat to his pride . Sam didn't really care.
/////
Sam followed Steve back to town, driving as carefully as he knew how, throwing glances at Dean in the back seat whenever he possibly could-he was covered in his own jacket and Sam's, too, but his clothes were soaked and Sam knew that not even the heater was doing enough to get him warm. His face was alarmingly red.
When they got back-no mishaps, thank God-Sam threw another thank you towards Steve, coaxing Dean out of the back seat and gently into the room, and Steve lingered in their doorway until he was sure they were both inside.
/////
Dean woke with a raging headache and the distinctly weird feeling he had always hated of being naked under blankets.
The room was dim; he could hear rafters and framing creaking in the wind. He tried to move, and realised he couldn't-he was tucked up so securely under a mountain of blankets that he was practically cocooned . He turned his head.
“This really necessary?” he croaked, towards the slumped figure of his brother in the armchair by the bed, and Sam started like a frightened horse. “You got like twenty blankets on me, man.”
“You're awake,” Sam said, as if it weren't obvious. He swallowed, shook his head to wake himself up. “And-yeah, it's really necessary.”
Dean rolled his head back, closed his eyes briefly, managed-somehow-a smile.
He lay there, privately accounting for his fingers and toes and moving them each individually under the mountain of scratchy wool and fleece, and in his peripheral vision Sam got up to put something in the motel microwave. He couldn't remember getting from the outdoors to getting here, but that was fine by him-just fine by him-he wanted to sleep for a million years.
“Here.” Sam set something down on the bedside table and slipped an arm behind Dean's shoulders, lifting him up, and Dean was only mildly ashamed to admit he needed the help; he rested against the headboard, and Sam pushed a hot mug of milk into his hands.
“Could have at least given me the booze I almost died to get,” Dean muttered, frowning into it.
“Mayo Clinic says no alcohol. Drink up. It'll help.”
Dean took a sip and made a face.
“Hey,” Sam said, taking a mug of his own from the bedside table, settling back into his armchair, “just be glad I didn't do the naked cuddling thing while you were out.”
“There's a naked cuddling thing?”
Sam laughed. “Medical science, man.”
“Jesus.”
They sat for a while in silence, sipping their respective drinks, and Dean watched the snow out the window-so far away, it seemed, now that he wasn't out in it; almost surreal. Under the blankets his skin was prickling but coming back to life; he could see his wet clothes laid out over a chair across the room. And Sam, it seemed, didn't have the heart to lecture him, and Dean found he didn't have the heart to make any more jokes, not right now.
He could have died. But for the grace of God. And Sam, and a nice guy with snow tires.
“Hey. Sam?”
“Yeah?”
Dean thought about saying thank you-it seemed like the thing-but Sam had that look on his face, the one that said I already know-you're welcome, you idiot. But he hoped Sam felt it, anyway.
Dean swallowed, rested his mug in the crook of his legs.
“Let's go somewhere very, very south, yeah?”
Sam chuckled, raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “I'll drink to that.”
Dean raised his mug, held it out. He said, with all solemnity, “Fuck Minnesota.”
Sam grinned. Clinked their mugs together.
“Fuck Minnesota.”
The wind rolled on and on and on.