A scale-covered tail smacked Sam in the shoulder, hurling him sideways in the Greendale Motor Lodge's retro-rocket-themed bathroom. "What were you thinking?" he snapped at Dean. "I told you this wouldn't work!"

Dean shoved the alligator-like head of the Chara further underwater amid rapidly melting ice cubes. "Right now? Right now, I'm thinking about the life choices that led me to failing to drown a fire-breathing humanoid dragon in a hotel bathroom on Christmas Eve."

Sam seized the thrashing tail and drove it back under. "Maybe put more gold on it? I mean, the gold watch on its wrist is preventing it from breathing fire, could be more is better."

"Sure," agreed Dean as the side of his head smashed against the faded teal bathtub stall. He stepped on the back of the creature's neck and wrapped his palms around the pitted and corroded shower head to brace himself in place. "I'll go stick up a pawn shop so I can turn a Chara into Mr. T before drowning it in a hotel bathtub. 'Cause I'm classy that way."

The water started to steam, and the Chara struggled harder. It let out a trilling growl that resonated through the coarse, scaly hide under Sam's grip. The shower head gave way with a loud crack, and Dean threw it aside with a disgusted grimace. Kneeling, he mopped sweat from his face and shoved the Chara further below the surface.

"This feels kinda cruel," said Sam as the growl took on a higher pitch. "Maybe we're just waterboarding it."

"Fine," muttered Dean, letting go of the flailing monster and shaking the sleeves of his flannel shirt with a disgruntled grimace. "Maybe you got a point. We need an icy lake. And beer. Lots and lots of beer."

"I'm right," insisted Sam. "The lore says Charas were offspring of mating between dragons and crocodiles. For a time, early tribes revered them as gods of fire and air, until the tribal leaders decided that their red coloring meant Chara were devils. These tribes started hunting the Chara, so the Chara burned their villages and ate them. The Chara mutated after eating human prey, and developed humanoid bodies, while keeping the tail of the crocodile and the head of a dragon. Chara lived in water like crocodiles to keep their body heat low. They nearly destroyed human civilization in the region until one winter the lake the Charas lived in froze over, and most of the Charas died. They live in water, Dean. A bathtub and ice cubes wasn't ever going to be enough to kill one. Just freezing it won't work either."

Dean sighed. "Help me get it to the car, then. It's Take Your Dragon on a Road Trip Day."

The two brothers dragged the Chara out of the tub. Its arms and legs were bound with zip-ties, and they'd muzzled its dragon-like jaws with duct tape. Yellow eyes with reptilian slits narrowed in predatory lust. There wasn't much to be done about the tail, which lashed out and took Dean off his feet in the water-drenched bathroom.

"I don't think we're getting that damage deposit back," said Dean, scrambling to his feet and overlooking the blood on his elbow.

"You mean, the Wrigley Finance Corp's travel expense card won't be getting its deposit back?" said Sam.

"The Wrigley Finance Corp's also gonna be confused as to why they paid for two cinderblocks and ten feet of chain at the local hardware store," said Dean.

He and Sam lugged the Chara out of the room into the thin dawn light and hefted it into the trunk of the Impala. "We're gonna need to go all mob hit on its ass and sink it in the deepest, coldest lake we can find."

The deepest, coldest lake they could find ended up being Lake Wenatachi, elevation 7000', depth 918'. It was a six-hour drive, and an annoying one, up narrow, twisting mountain roads.

"That thing better not mess up Baby's trunk," muttered Dean. Snow was accumulating along the side of the road, and large flakes drifted down from a blank gray sky before hitting the windshield and melting into a sloppy mess.

"That's why we also charged the Wrigley Finance Corp for a tarp and two drop cloths at the Talbot Pharmacy and Sporting Goods," Sam reminded him.

A white full-size truck with a light bar and state game warden emblem on the door flew past in the opposite direction, splattering the Impala with thick muddy slush.

"Think the clerk was giving us the, 'Is this a murder kit?' look?" asked Dean, glaring over his shoulder at the truck.

"He was," said Sam. "I was just hoping you wouldn't decide it was time to go shopping for shovels and lye while we were there."

"The joint has a sign outside advertising drugs, ammo, and cleaning supplies, and they give us the side-eye?" said Dean.

"I wonder what they do if you ask for a hockey mask and a hunting knife," said Sam. "Offer the buy one, get one special on bleach?"

"Chainsaw," said Dean, child-like glee settling on his face. "I've always wanted a chainsaw. Why don't we have a chainsaw?"

Sam chuckled. "You ever used a chainsaw, Dean?"

"No, you?"

"Yeah, once," said Sam. "Helping Bobby cut firewood. They're heavy and noisy. They'd be terrible for hunting."

"Yeah, but they're scary," said Dean. "I think we need one."

"I veto the chainsaw," said Sam firmly. "Haven't you noticed every weapon we use eventually gets used on us? I'm not stitching you up after a chainsaw 'incident' and that's final."

"But - chainsaw!" said Dean, looking determined to argue the point.

"Let me put it this way," said Sam. "They come with a warning, 'Do not attempt to stop chain with hands or genitals.'"

"Eew." Dean recoiled, grimacing and clenching his legs together. "Ugh. That's just wrong!"

Sam pulled a map out of the glove box and studied it as Baby's powerful engine propelled them up the side of the mountain through slush thickening to snow.

It would not be a pleasant afternoon to go out on the water, but for now he could enjoy the heater's warmth within the cocoon of their home on the road. This was one of his favorite parts of life, riding in the passenger seat of the Impala with Dean's comforting presence to his left and the drone of the engine and the road lulling him into a relaxed state where monsters and hell and conflict eased away with each mile that passed. He traced the lines of the roadways with his fingertip.

"Okay," said Sam. "Take a right on Highway 210 up ahead, and in about twenty miles we should see a cutoff for a small marina on the right. With any luck, it'll be abandoned in this weather."

"Unless someone's holding a Christmas Eve party on the water," said Dean.

"I'm thinking this place is less Christmas parties on yachts, and more creaking rotted docks and metal fishing boats," said Sam.

"You couldn't bother to find us a decent marina?" complained Dean. "One with expensive pleasure craft and women in bathing suits? You know what cold weather does to their, ahem -"

"Yeah, I know, James Bond," said Sam. "You do realize what cold weather does to yours, right? Unless this hypothetical woman has a fetish for the miniature..."

"Shut up," Dean grumbled. But he gave Sam's arm an affectionate shove, and Sam grinned.

"This place smells like sea monsters," said Dean as they hauled the Chara down a rickety wood dock, his feet skidding on a slushy mix of ice and snow covering partially-rotted planks. He got clobbered on the shoulder with a bright red, scaly tail in response.

Lake Wenatachi in summer would be postcard-perfect. The circular alpine lake sat low in what looked like a vast crater surrounded by rustic lodgepole pines. The dock extended out onto the surface in an invitation to fishermen and boaters. Now, early winter brought threatening clouds that lurked low over the rim of the mountain, making late afternoon light struggle to pierce the gray gloom. Snow hadn't yet blanketed the landscape, so what lay before them was a soggy patchwork of trees still clinging to the hope of fall.

It wasn't too hard to hot-wire a modest but sturdy boat with a tiny cabin and engine room. The last coat of varnish it received could have been carbon-dated, and it came with a free abandoned bird's nest on the bow, but it didn't seem to be leaking anywhere critical.

A threatening growl emitted from the trussed-up monster as they heaved it onto the deck of the little craft, which swayed and bobbed when the brothers boarded.

Sam took the tiller and pulled away from the dock. He shivered when snow melted on his face and ran down his neck and under his collar. The layers he wore were warm, but not waterproof. The cabin was open at the back and did nothing but block the wind. He glanced over his shoulder.

Dean was attaching chains and cement blocks to a very pissed-off monster, and his hands were clearly numb from the way he was botching it. The sway of the small boat on waves kicked up by wind over the lake didn't help. Neither did that damn tail. After a couple of minutes Dean came forward to stand in the cabin's windbreak, puffing, his cheeks red and his breath forming clouds. Flakes of snow melted into his hair and dripped down his skin.

"You look like a Chara yourself," said Sam.

"Next time, you attach cinderblocks to the angry dragodile," said Dean.

"Dragodile? Really?"

"Crogon?"

"That at least sounds more monster-y," said Sam. He cut the engine. "We're at the center of the lake. Let's do this."

"We gotta keep the gold watch," said Dean. "Thing's worth like six grand."

"Soon as we take it off, the Chara will be able to breathe fire again," said Sam. "Bad idea."

"That's our hard-earned - okay, hard-stolen gold," said Dean, with a mulish set to his jaw that said the watch would come off no matter what Sam said.

"Okay," said Sam, "How about we balance the Chara and the blocks at the edge of the platform at the back of the boat, facing away from us. We unclasp the watch from its wrist and shove the whole lot overboard."

"Sounds good " said Dean.

The two of them wrangled the thrashing red monster into position, Dean unlatched the watch, and Sam shoved with all his might.

The Chara splashed overboard, and the cinderblocks sucked it below the surface with a speed that made the lake look sentient - and hungry. Dean grinned, and Sam returned the grin with a high-five. He went forward and started the motor.

Only to have the entire bow of the boat erupt in flames.

Sam glanced sideways at Dean.

"Ru-roh," said Dean, shrugging his shoulders a split second before he plunged off the starboard side.

Sam launched himself off the port side and landed with a splash in water so icy it seared him and stole his breath away. He swam away from the boat, turning when pain in his chest from exertion in the extreme cold became overwhelming.

He was just in time to see the thrashing Chara's snout emerge one last time from the water to blast the boat with fire. The creature's enormous strength must have returned along with its ability to breathe fire, but it was losing the battle with the cement weights. The red snout slipped under the surface, and where the boat had been, Sam saw white.

Diving on pure instinct before he even registered the explosion, Sam escaped the worst of the blast. His shoulder hurt though, and when he surfaced, blood-red water ran off his arm.

"DEAN!" he yelled, his heart pounding from more than the exertion.

His wet clothing threatened to drag him under, and he worked to kick off his shoes while he frantically scanned the surface of the water. The boat was gone. The water was so cold, it burned, biting his skin and stealing away his breath.

"DEAN!"

Sam swam towards the wreckage with every bit of strength he had, clawing through waves that slapped him in the face and felt like they were made of solid ice.

"DEAN!"

"Sam," a weak voice answered, followed by a shallow cough.

His brother looked waterlogged and dazed and was struggling to keep his head above water. Dean's clothing was weighing him down too, and Sam hauled off his own jacket and shirts, leaving only the pants to be dealt with. It had the effect of making him feel warmer and freed him to use his full strength to swim.

Dean didn't look like he could swim; he was barely treading water, and his eyes held the grim determination that Sam had learned long ago masked Dean Winchester in terror. It was a sight that ripped at Sam's soul. This was a threat that couldn't be defeated with a weapon or fists or even words, and Dean was crippled by his inability to fight.

"Hang in there," said Sam, gripping Dean's shoulder hard and looking around. He spotted a large chunk of torn-up wooden planks, part of the side of the boat, bobbing up and down maybe forty feet away.

"Come on," Sam ordered in his sternest voice. "We need to swim. You need to take your shoes and clothes off."

Dean glared at him, teeth chattering. "Not an idiot. Shoes off. Pants - jacket - can't get."

His brother was shaking, the cold robbing him of coordination. Sam could no longer feel his fingers or feet, but he'd adapted in a way and could at least move. He unzipped his own pants and kicked out of them to make this easier, then helped pry the struggling Dean's jacket and shirts off. He tried fumbling for Dean's pants only to be met with an angry, "Hey!" and decided enough was enough.

Sam hooked Dean's left arm over his shoulders. "Come on," he ordered. "Swim."

Dean clung to him and kicked and paddled as much as he could. Sam focused on keeping his eyes on the dark, bobbing float ahead and ignoring the cold seeping into his bones as he helped propel his brother through the water.

When they reached it, Sam used his remaining strength to help Dean onto the jagged remains of the boat. His entire body had an ice cream headache, and he wanted to close his eyes and let it be over, because he was on the way to dead. But no way in hell was he giving up and leaving Dean alone to face the world.

"No - you -" croaked Dean.

"No," said Sam firmly. "I have more body mass than you, it'll keep me alive longer. You need to be out of the water, now."

With Dean on top of the debris, clinging to it, shaking, and looking like a bloody, drowning rat, Sam surveyed the situation. The shore was too far to swim to in this icy water, and there were no signs of civilization. Their only hope was that someone had heard the explosion and would come investigate, or they could somehow muster the strength to take turns swimming while dragging the waterlogged mess of torn planks.

Or Cass. Castiel hadn't been within praying range for a long time, but... "Castiel, if you can hear my prayers - we need a hand right now. This - this could be it for us. Please, if any of you angels are listening-"

"Son of a bitch!" said Dean explosively, startling Sam into halting his prayer.

"What?"

"I'm in Titanic! And I'm the chick! In a chick flick! A chick flick, Sam..."

Sam had to smile, and pressed his forehead against the water-slicked wood.

"Get your ass up here, Jack," growled Dean. "I am not re-enacting one of the lamest moments in cinematic history, with my brother as the mopey heroic dead guy."

Sam eyed the "raft." There was, maybe, technically, room for both if they were willing to lie more or less on top of each other. Which might be a good idea for conservation of warmth.

"How many times have I told you, no chick-flick moments! Do I look like fucking Kate to you? If you don't get your ass up here, I'm jumping off."

"Okay, okay," said Sam. It was precarious, but with his very determined older brother's help, he scrambled on. He ended up half lying on top of Dean, and the raft settled so low into the water it swamped them with every bob and dip of the waves.

"That's b-better," said Dean, his teeth chattering. "If we die, we die cuddling."

Sam chuckled, and held Dean's shoulders with arms he couldn't feel. The cold was a spreading, sleepy ache. Even like this, they wouldn't make it for long. It would just replace drowning with a slower death from hypothermia.

But no matter what happened, he wouldn't be letting go of Dean. Everything was a little better, just from holding him.