Winchesters on Ice Chapter 1, a supernatural fanfic

Okay, so I kind of wanted to do a Christmas time fic concerning the Winchester boys! NO SLASH! But lots of fluff and brotherly love, with a lot of blood and scary stuff. Seriously Hurt! Frozen! Sam and Protective! Comfort! Dean

Enjoy and Happy holidays.

"God rest you merry, Gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ our Savior
Was born upon this Day.
To save poor souls from Satan's power,
Which long time had gone astray.
Which brings tidings of comfort and joy."

Dean rolled his eyes at the music crackling through the mall speakers. People were bustling past him, multitudes of brightly colored packages and shopping bags hanging off every available appendage. Reds and greens and blues and yellows and whites blinded him at every turn. He rounded the corner of the food court and nearly collided with a young woman pushing a stroller. Bags hung from the little cart, practically burying the kid.

"Oh," Dean threw his hands up and quickly side stepped. "Sorry about that Miss." He politely smiled.

"Yah, yah, get the hell outta my way." She pushed past him, submerging herself in the hustle and bustle of the mall crowd.

"Well, Merry Frickin Christmas to you, too…" Dean shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. This is why he never understood Sam's obsession with celebrating Christmas. It was a holiday of sales and shopping, nothing more. Sam always went on the usual "it's about family" rant around this time of year, but Dean just tuned him out. It was a stupid holiday and that was that…

Then why was he at the mall shopping for Sam's Christmas present?

Because, he told himself, Sam will get you something like he does every year, and if you don't have anything to give to him back then you'll look like a total dick. This is purely a defensive maneuver.

Usually, Christmas wasn't a huge thing for the Winchester boys. It never had been growing up, and as they'd gotten older, the holidays just became an excuse for buying and drinking super heavy eggnog. However, the brothers had been away for quite some time, and there weren't exactly snowmen and Elves in Purgatory. Dean felt the need to celebrate this year, even just a little bit. It was their first Christmas back together, and when they had ridden into town, Dean had seen the lights on the mall a mile away. Sam deserved a present, he had figured, and the mall was as good a place to shop as any. Besides, Dean needed to get Sam's mind of the hunt they were on. It was a nasty one, with people disappearing left and right, only to turn up dead days later. Sam had been doing a lot of work, researching all day every day for the past week now. Needless to say, the young man was tense. Den wanted to get him something nice, or at least, useful.

Dean made his way to the "Big and Tall" shop. Sam needed a new suit. His FBI getup was looking a bit worse for wear and what the hell. But, maybe he would get him something nice while he was here that wasn't hunting related. A set of twinkle lights over a Payless store caught his eye. Hmm….Maybe Sam would want a new pair of shoes, or maybe some moccasins. The damn bitch was always complaining that his feet were too cold. Ooh, look in that window! That's a nice sweater, and it would look good on his brother's massive shoulders. Does it come in a navy blue? Oh! Yes it does! Wait, is that a remote controlled helicopter? Dean strolled to the bright kiosk, captivated. He watched the high tech plastic toy launch and maneuver in the air. SWEET! Dean's eyes were bright and wide. Maybe this shit wasn't so bad after all…

Dean may have gotten a little carried away.

He had to put down a few bags in order to retrieve his motel keys from his pocket. He was almost embarrassed at the amount of crap he had gotten. Bags and boxes flooded the back seat of the Impala, and Dean couldn't hold everything at once. He had to make multiple trips just to get everything into the room. After locking the car and finally closing the lime green door. Dean leaned up against the wall and took a breath, a stupid grin stretched across his face. He chuckled quietly, feeling genuinely happy for the first time on a long time. He could just imagine the look on Sam's face Christmas morning, waking up to see all those boxes with his name on them.

Dean sighed and rolled his neck. Time to get to work-but he knew the effort would be worth it on the morning of the 25th. He wrestled with tape, sliced with scissors, and sparred with boxes. After what seemed like an eternity of shiny gift wrap and paper cuts, Dean was finished. Over a dozen packages, with "Sammy" scrawled across them in black sharpie (no, not exactly formal, but he forgot the stupid labels of all things) now rested in a duffel under his bed. Christmas was in three days, So Dean wouldn't have to hide the bag for too long.

Dean checked his watch. It was only 5:30. Sam wouldn't get back from the town archives for another hour at least. Dean grabbed a beer from the fridge and slid into the worn couch, flicking through the channels. He stopped when the familiar characters danced onto the screen.

"Thumpity Thump-Thump, Thumpity Thump-Thump,

Look a Frosty Go."

Dean would never tell Sam this, but Frosty the Snowman was his favorite Christmas movie. Dean watched and laughed and even started humming along. He snuggled further into the couch cushion, enjoying the warmth blasting from the heater next to the sofa.

It was going to be a great Christmas.

It was going to be a horrible Christmas.

Sam leaned back in his chair defeated. The cold metal back of the seat pressed painfully into his back. His legs were cramped and sore, and dammit, his feet were cold. He stretched his long arms above his head and gave a huge yawn. Sam rubbed his large, calloused hand across his tired face and down the back of his neck, attempting to get the crick out of his back. It had been a long day, with very few results. He just wanted to go home, eat something tasty, and sleep in a warm bed. Sam stood and cracked his back, letting out a sigh. He was tired, physically and mentally. This thing they were tracking was fast, dangerous, and cruel. People were still disappearing, one every few days, despite the brothers' best efforts. More disappearances mean more dead.

Yah, Merry Christmas.

Sam pulled his coat off the back of the chair and stuffed his arms through the holes. The archives were dusty and dank, but Sam had exhausted everything on the internet and the library. There was nothing in Dad's journal about this kind of thing, nor was there anything in the archives that might point towards a curse or angry spirit. This town was clean, and it was goddamned frustrating.

Sam made his way upstairs and waved goodnight to the Janitor. He walked outside, gasping and grinding his teeth as the bitter winter wind ripped through his jacket. At six o'clock, it was already pitch black outside, and Sam was tempted to just call Dean for a ride back to the motel room. Sam's hand reached into his back pocket to get his cell phone but stopped. There really was no need. He had walked here, he could walk back. It was just cold outside. The walk would warm him up. Sam pulled his hood up and zipped the jacket all the way up to his chin. He set out at a brisk pace, trying to heat up a bit. The street was deserted, save for a few intermittent cars that whizzed past on the slated roads. Snow had begun to fall and Sam was shivering. In the darkness of the evening, the sparse street lamps were his only company. Sam had one hand in his warm pocket and the other on the cold steel of his gun. Some may call him paranoid, but he just called it reasonably precautious.

The only sounds in the quiet of the snow were Sam's boots shuffling over the snowy sidewalk. After about five minutes, Sam saw the diner come into view, signaling the halfway mark to the motel. See? He told himself. Was that so bad? You'll be inside, warm and comfortable in no time. Halfway there…

Sam never made it home.

Dean woke with a start, not realizing that he had dozed off. Once he was sure of his surroundings, he calmed. Dean shot a glance to the analog clock in the kitchen. It was quarter of eight. Dean's eyebrows shot up. He must have been more tired than he thought to have napped for three hours. Dean stretched out on the couch, sprawling in every direction before getting sleepily to his feet. He shuffled his way across the carpet, dragging a hand through his short but unruly hair.

"Sammy? Why didn't you wake me up when you got in? And did you get dinner? I left it in the fridge." Dean stuck his head in the bedroom. No one. He checked the bathroom. Empty. Automatically, a pit of dread formed a tight knot in his stomach. Something was wrong. Very, Very wrong. Sam never came home late without at least calling beforehand. Dean hustled out to the kitchen, wrenching open the door to the fridge. Sam's dinner lay untouched on the plate. Scooting over to the table where he had dropped his pack, dean unzipped the larger pocket. Rummaging past the shells, clips, and rock salt rounds, he found his cell phone and hit speed dial.

"Riinnnnnggggg…"

"Hey, this is Sam. If this is an emergency, call my brother Dean at 475 90-"

Dean slapped the phone shut. "Dammit, Sam!" He threw his shoes on and grabbed his coat. He had a very bad feeling about this. Dean packed an extra clip into his belt, just in case, and tried calling Sam's cell again.

"Hey, this is Sam. If this is an emer-"

"Fuck!" Dean pocketed the phone and jogged to the Impala. It was bitterly cold outside, and the frigid leather of the Chevy was not comforting to his previously toasty ass.

Dean started up the car and rubbed his hands together, already numb. Quickly checking the rearview mirror, he skidded out of the parking lot and pulled onto the snow-dusted road. Dean drove slowly, despite his anxiety and restlessness. But he knew that Fast and Furious was no way to find a missing Sam.

The hunter was halfway to the Archive Storage Facility when he spotted a dark brown lump on the sidewalk. It was covered in a fine sheet of white, but it stuck out on the flat terrain like a sore thumb. Dean pulled over quickly and hopped out of the Driver's side, hustling warily over to the discarded object. He stooped, brushing the snow away with his ungloved hand. Dean froze, and it wasn't from the cold. His eyes went wide and he gripped the edge of the object hard.

Sam's jacket.

Dean let out a shaky breath and stood, the jacket in hand, shaking more snow off. Judging by the good half inch of powder covering the tanned material, Dean could guess the jacket had been lying there for at least two hours.

Not good.

Dean's mouth went dry and he felt his heartbeat speed up. He ran his cold hands over the worn leather, surprised when his fingers caught on the fabric. By the light of a lonely lamppost, Dean stretched out his arms to get a better look at the coat. When he saw, he gasped.

Blood.

So much Blood.

The originally tan material was spattered with dark red splotches, frozen and caked into the cloth. Dean saw what his finger caught on: the jacket was ripped to shreds, giant claw marks crisscrossing across the back of the jacket from one shoulder seam to the other. The slashes were outlined in his brother's blood.

Dean felt bile rise into his throat.

Sam was missing.

Sam was bleeding.

Sam was freezing.

A white-hot rage started the eldest Winchester's chest, ebbing and pulsing to every extremity of his body. He couldn't feel the chill in the air, nor did the howling frigid win bother him. Whatever this bastard was, it was going to die. And If Sam was seriously hurt…or…

"Dammit, Dean. Don't even think about that, you stupid son of a bitch." Dean closed his eyes, not caring if he was talking out loud. He bowed his head and clenched his hands around his brother's shredded jacket with an iron grip. He would find Sam and bring him home if it was the last thing he ever did.

The first thing Sam noticed was the cold.

Never mind the incessant pounding in his head, or the stinging, unadulterated pain raging and coursing from his shredded flesh. They weren't important. Hell, they were like finger pricks compared to the cold.

Sam was frozen. He knew it, too. He couldn't feel his fingers or his toes, or the majority of his face and arms for that matter. The wind whipped around him, blinding, carrying and throwing snow in his already numb face.

"D-n…" He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. He tried again to call for his brother, but it was useless. Sam tried to pick up his head, but his neck was coated with blood, and was completely frozen to the ground. Sam rolled his eyes in every direction, trying to figure out where the hell he was. He was outside- that was for sure, the only question was where. Minnesota was not a forgiving place in the winter, and pretty much every square inch of forest was identical to the next. Sam wanted to cry-from the pain, from the cold, from the fear, from everything- but the tear drops just froze in his eyes. Sam brought an unfeeling hand up to his face and gritted his teeth at what he saw. His hand was blue-like, Papa Smurf Blue. Not good. Frostbite was deadly, and he knew that if he didn't restore blood flow, he was royally screwed. Sam was frightened, but he knew what he had to do. Preparing himself for the looming pain, Sam took a few quick hard breaths and gritted his teeth. Quickly, he shoved both of his hands into the warmth of his armpits, probably the last section of him that was above forty degrees.

And he waited.

"Ahhh-Jesus-FUCK!" Sam smashed his frozen head back against the snow, cringing at the small blood icicles that stabbed at his scalp. His hands tingled and burned at the new warmth as the dead tissue came back to life. It hurt so badly, so fucking badly! Sam wanted nothing more than to rip his hands out of his shirt and plunge them back into the snow, but he knew that would only do more damage. So, using up every ounce of will power he had, Sam Winchester held his frozen paws in the warmth of his underarms, and squeezed his eyes shut.

After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than five minutes, the tingling and burning subsided to a dull throbbing pulse. Carefully, Sam extracted his previously iced hands from the inside of the plaid button down. He was pleased with what he saw. His hands were still cracked and bleeding, but they were much more of a pinkish color than they had been before. Sam shook his whole body, twisting and kicking, trying to increase blood flow. The wind had died down by now, but the air was still lethally cold. The hunter brushed the layer of white from his soaked pants and shirt, struggling to sit up. He had finally managed to push himself into an upright position, despite the protest from his shredded back, when a wave of dizziness and nausea flooded over him. Sam twisted to the side just in time as steaming hot vomit flooded his nostrils and throat, spewing from every direction it could. He just kept gagging and choking, barely getting in enough oxygen.

When the contents of Sam's stomach were fully on display, steaming in the snow, Sam curled into a ball and stuck his head between his knees. The world was still swimming, and if the pounding in his skull was anything to go by, he figured he must have a concussion. He rocked back and forth, trying to comfort himself the way Dean used to when he was sick. Sam almost managed a smile at the thought of the other Winchester. If Dean were here right now, he would strip off every ounce of clothing he had (Throwing self-respect and heterosexuality to the wind) and give it to Sam, if that meant his baby brother's body temperature would go up by half a degree.

That's why Sam knew that he needed to get up and get moving. Dean would never forgive himself if Sam died.

He's probably flipping Shit right now, wondering where the hell I am. Sam paused.

Jesus Christ, I don't even know where the hell I am.

Sam gazed upwards at the crystal clear night sky. If it weren't for the fact that he was freezing to death, Sam would have stopped to consider the beauty of the clear winter sky. The stars stood, ever watchful, burning like candles in the black curtain of night. The moon was hidden behind a passing wisp of a cloud, but its silver luminescence still radiated through any and every gap it could find.

Sam's vision was still a little blurry, and his head wasn't exactly completely steady yet, but all the same, he grabbed on to a nearby pine branch and hauled himself to his feet. The moment he was upright, another wave of vomit coursed its way up his esophagus, burning the wall of his throat. Sam hurled it into the tree, watching the steam rise off the pool of stomach acid and mist away into the clear air. He couldn't complain though. Despite how disgusting it was, the vomit was extremely warm, and it left a hot feeling around Sam's icy face.

The young Winchester took one unsteady step, then another, keeping a firm grip on the low hanging branch. When the feeling started to return to his toes, and his balance improved, Sam let go of the tree and ventured from its shadow. The snow was deep, but Sam was tall, and his legs could step over the drifts and banks with ease. He walked for a long time, jogging when he could. The heat his body was producing was keeping him out of the hypothermic state he had woken up in, but just barely, and he was still shivering violently. But Sam kept going. He was determined to work up a sweat and keep it going- keep himself warm. It didn't take long (after all, he is a sweater). Not even ten minutes later, the warm salty liquid was flowing steadily into his eyes, and unfortunately, into the raw and jagged lacerations on his back. The stinging kept him awake and alert, but Sam was suffering. The constant movement was reopening his frozen wounds, and the blood was trickling down into his pants. But he kept going, stopping only to vomit and catch his breath in the frigid air.

If he could survive until dawn, He might be okay.

If he could survive until dawn, Dean would find him.

Sam kept repeating this to himself as he jogged. It was his motivation, his drive to live- his brother needed him, although he would never admit it, but they both knew it. One could not and would not survive without the other, and Sam knew that Dean would be close behind if he should die.

But enough thinking about that, he told himself. You are not going to die.

He skirted around an icy patch of rock, trekking fast like a mountain climber.

You will be fine. You've had worse. This is a walk in the park, a stroll in meadow- you can do it.

Sam climbed over a fallen log.

Hell, remember that time in Kentucky when-

And that's when he heard it-

-A low, primitive growl that sent a spike of fear down Sam's spine. It froze his feet where the stood, and he subconsciously inched his hand towards his holster, only to be met with empty space.

Dammit! He had left his gun in the inside pocket of his jacket!

Sam mentally kicked himself. He always made sure that his sidearm was in its holster—unless of course it had been digging into his leg for 8 hours in that stupid metal chair, so he had finally unclipped it.

But there was no time for self-pity and hindsight. He needed a way to defend himself.

Sam scanned the forest floor and found what he was looking for. He gripped the fallen branch with both hands, spike facing the surrounding darkness. Despite the spike of agony that flowed up his back, Sam went into a defensive crouch, backing up against a crop of boulders to his right. He looked in every direction, peering as hard as he could into the darkness. The growl came again, closer this time. It was no animal growl-that was for sure. Then again, it had been no animal that had attacked him.

Sam remembered the chaos: the beast had lunged, moving so quickly it had been nothing but a silver blur. Its razor claws followed the initial knock-down, ripping him to bits and smashing his skull against the concrete before he's even gotten a good look at it.

Now the beast was back, playing with its food. It had let him think he was free- let him try to escape, but Sam had gotten too far, and the monster decided that he'd had enough amusement, watching his little snack squirm and run. Now, it was dinner time.

Sam felt the cold edge of the boulder press into his back. He crouched lower, waiting for the monster to lunge from the darkness at any second. Sam waited for another growl, anything to give away its position.

Nothing.

Sam wasn't fooled though. He knew it was still out there. So he settled down against the boulder and waited, still as the rock itself.

Still nothing.

A good ten minutes had gone by, and Sam was feeling the cold set into his bones again. He had to make up his mind. Stay here, against the rock and probably freeze to death, or make a run for it, possibly right into the jaws of the waiting beast.

He had to make a choice.

Sam stood, makeshift spear in hand, and looked around once more. The woods were eerily silent, but Sam felt more confident in his combat skills than his survivor-man skills.

Sam Winchester hadn't even taken a step when the wet, hot, rancid breath shot down his collar. A low, guttural growl reverberated behind him. Sam's heart leapt into his throat and adrenaline coursed like wildfire through his veins, but he stayed deathly still, other than the tightening of his fingers around his branch. No doubt, the beast was perched on the very same boulder Sam had been leaning up against this whole time. Sam turned, very slowly, and raised his eyes to the hulking mass above him. It was silhouetted against the moon, turning it into nothing more than a black and deadly shadow.

Sam's scream died in his throat as the beast lunged forward, wrapping its powerful jaws around his waist. Sam shrieked in pure, unadulterated agony as his left hip bone crunched beneath the fangs of the monster. Fresh blood gushed from his abdomen as the monster retracted his teeth, dropping the Winchester to the frozen dirt. Sam hit the ground with a thud, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He was lightheaded from blood loss, and completely incoherent from pain.

"Dean!" he shouted, tears streaming down his face. He just wanted his brother. The monster took a few steps away from its snack, no doubt preparing for a final blow. Sam flailed wildly in the snow, panic overtaking him.

"DEAN!" He cried again into the echoing forest. Sam crawled away from the heaving, panting mass behind him and struggled pathetically to the base of a pine tree, his spear raised. "D-Don't you dare c-come near me, you s-s-son of a b-bitch…" Sam was seeing spots, his vision going black at the edges, but the monster stayed a distance away. Sam was confused. Why didn't it pounce? Why didn't it finish the job? Sam watched in complete disbelief as the shadowy beast retreated further and further away. The monster turned its head one last time before vanishing completely behind the veil of trees, its green eyes almost…laughing?

Holy shit. The realization hit Sam like a freight train. It's playing a game. This is all a game…

And I am going to lose.

PLEASE REVIEW! I live in Connecticut, not fifteen miles outside Newtown, so I would really appreciate it if everyone who reads this says a little prayer before they go to bed tonight. Every Review=1 hug for those in need of hugs this Christmas. You don't even have to review if you don't want to; just send me a blank message, just so I know you care and that everyone is thinking about the poor families here in Connecticut who have lost their loved ones. Thank you.