Snow

Sam's Story

Now:

He runs. Powdered snow everywhere, in his eyes, making it hard to see where he puts his feet, sneaking in beneath his upturned collar, in the gap between his pants and jacket; causing involuntary shivers.

A bone chilling wind howls like a pack of starving wolfs all around him, tries to make him fall over on the ice slick ground he is running over.

The string of profanities that he utters is the only thing that tells him he is alive in this gray chaos, the world looks like it is ending just inches from him, everything outside: gray nothingness. No wonder the Norse's hell was a frozen over wasteland, this must be limbo. His muscles burn, his wounded arm throbs and every inhale is ragged and painful as the cold air passes through his throat. He keeps running.

The sound of breaking branches on his left. He spins around, gun raised although he believes his fingers are too cold to be able to pull the trigger. At first he just hears the sound of wood splintering and snow crunching as the hard surface breaks under a heavy weight, white curtains of snow clouding his sight. A shadow slowly asserts itself as it gets closer, outline becoming sharper as less swirling snow is left between them. Sam's entire body is shivering, fear and exhaustion together pounding in his ears so loud it almost drenches out the piercing gale of the storm.

He tries to keep the gun steady, outstretched in front of him, but he is just so tired. After what feels like an eternity to his adrenaline soaked perception he finally catches a glimpse of the figure bounding towards him.

Sam turns and runs, faster than he has ever run before. Tree branches scratch his face leaving red bleeding lines, long claws stretching out for him.

He can't keep this up and he knows it. His bleeding arm is leaving a trail anyone could follow but he can't stop to do something about it.

The panic sits high in his chest and he doesn't even try to stop the dry, hard sobs escaping from his lips. He can think of nothing to do, no plans, his mind blank with fear and he knows; he will die here in this frozen over hell. So he runs.

.

Then:

He should have known that everything would go straight to hell from the moment his brother had smiled over the dingy diner table and said "I'll be a walk in the park Sammy, don't worry". Dean had leaned back against the old, worn vinyl seat; telling Sam to relax, it was just another salt and burn.

As the third child came down with a serious case of death and they had ruled out a vengeful spirit the bad feeling in Sam's stomach had multiplied with a hundred but Dean just dug his heels in and told him to chill, they would get the thing behind this, Winchesters didn't give up.

So Sam did what he did best, researched, while Dean cleaned every gun they had, sharpened every knife, refilled every bottle of holy water and cursed the thing they were hunting in every language known to man.

In the end they had nothing, no clue, no idea what they were after and every fiber in Sam's body told him to run away, to leave this hunt. He told his brother that for every hunter there is that one thing that got away, and this might be theirs. Dean just turned the music up and floored the gas pedal. Snow clad landscape rolled past outside the Impala as they continued the chase.

They had eggs and bacon that evening. Powdered green tinged eggs that made Sam choke as they stuck in his throat as he tried to swallow them. They had followed their pray up into the mountains, it was running from them, that means it knows we are going to kill it Dean argued, Sam was not so sure.

Sam had slammed the door behind him, damn hunter's cabin. He had hated them as a child and he hated them still. Things hiding in forests were always bad news according to Sam. They had called Bobby in the end; he thought it might be a Kitsune they were hunting. A kind of Japanese fox spirit that akin to tricksters lured people by playing mind tricks on them. But this one seemed to prefer children, feeding of them. Bobby had no idea how to kill one.

So they had brought everything, every weapon they had, just in case. They had cleaned the trunk; Dean made some silly joke about feeling like Charlie Sheen in Hot Shots; too much firepower for their own good. They salted the doors and windows and filled the walls with protective sigils and set in to wait for daylight.

Sam had looked out over the landscape, the snow made it so bright even though it was in the middle of the night; the light from the sky seemed to reflect of the white snow creating a blue light that covered the landscape like a blanket. Dean passed the hipflask over to Sam, who took a sip. They sat in silence in each other's company in what Sam could only describe as the quiet before the storm.

A few hours later Sam had wished he had never thought that as the slate hammered against the windows and the wind was trying to take the roof off the cabin. The storm was not natural, no storm kicked in that fast, taking out cell reception and filling the only road away from the cabin with so much snow that they would never get away from there. Even Dean was quiet, jaws clenched as he checked his sawn off for the eleventh time. Nobody said anything but they both knew they were trapped.

It had only ever been a matter of time and eventually a salt line broke, the cabin was hardly windproof, the gale throwing itself against the cabin did its work. Sam looked at Dean, their eyes met and they nodded at each other, a lifetime of experience, understanding and love exchanged in a millisecond. An unspoken agreement with each other; if they were going they were taking this thing with them.

Everything from that point onwards had been chaos. The air filled with snow as the walls of the cabin broke down, splinters of wood and furniture flying everywhere. Sam slammed into the stove, shoulder first dropping his shotgun. He had heard Dean shout his name behind him, he tried to shout back but the fall had emptied his lungs of air.

He had scrambled to his feet, pulled out the gun and tried to find Dean. He had found him, lying still and broken on the floor, neck twisted the wrong way. The world had stopped for a second; even the storm froze as the world was pulled away from under Sam's feet.

He had to get away from there so he ran.

.

The future:

Sam will fall eventually.

A foot caught on an invisible stone hiding in the snow or a fallen branch and his tired body won't be able to parry, so he will fall face first into the snow hitting his throbbing shoulder. He will let out a scream of pain and fear as the relentless ground impacts with his body.

The howling gale will seem to laugh at him as frozen limbs desperately claws at the snow as he tries to pull himself up to keep running. Cold snow in his eyes will blind him and he won't be able to brush it off, his left arm hanging limp and useless down his side and his right will refuse to let go of the gun.

This will happen. It is one of those unavoidable facts of the universe, like gravity, war, sickness and death. Sam will fall and then it will all be over.

But right now he runs; muscles pumping, lungs breathing and his heart beats.

He is beyond exhaustion and despair but defies death by an unwillingness to give up. It is a fact of humans, sometimes they refuse to surrender, it doesn't matter how bad the odds are or what you throw at them; they simply won't give up. Hope and love these are their redeeming characters.

So Sam runs into the night, defying odds and the laws of nature by sheer human willpower, because there is always hope. He runs.