Dean bolted out of his bed, sweating from the vividness of the nightmare. He glanced over at his brother, who was still sleeping soundly. Grabbing his phone and tucking his gun into his belt, he slipped out of the room and into the frigid Minnesota night.
He stood outside, arms open in the cold for what felt like hours until he couldn't feel his fingers and his lips turned blue. Then he stayed out for even longer.
At around three in the morning, Sam stumbled out of the room.
"Dean?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep. "How long have you been out here?"
Dean shrugged. He had to stay silent. He knew that if he spoke, his voice would betray just how upset he was.
"Where's your jacket?" Sam demanded. "Dean, it's thirty five degrees out here. You're gonna get sick!" He tried to pull his brother back in, but Dean shook him off.
"I need this, Sammy," he finally said.
"What?"
"The cold," Dean explained. "Hell wasn't cold."
Sam realized what was going on. Dean must've been dreaming about Hell and this was how he was coping. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, shivering at how cold it was.
"Dean, just come inside and warm up," he begged.
"No."
"Please, Dean. Let me-"
"No."
"I can't lose you again!" Sam shouted, whirling his brother around and gripping his shoulders. Dean's teeth were chattering, lips blue and cheeks rosy with cold. The older man hung his head, trying to hide the shame that flickered across his face. But, he let Sam lead him inside.
Once they were inside, Sam wrapped his brother in a blanket (or four) and started to brew some coffee. He had to get his brother warm.
Dean had other ideas. He started the shower as hot as he could get it, and before he'd given his body a chance to warm up at all, he stepped in. It hurt almost more than he could handle, and he had to fight to bite back the cries of pain that threatened to spill from his lips. He knew this wasn't a safe thing to do and that his body could go into shock, but he really didn't care. He needed the pain.
When the water started to run cold, he got out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Stepping out of the bathroom, he was met by Sam, giving him one of the most epic bitch faces he'd ever seen.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked through gritted teeth. Dean ignored him, moving past him to grab his clothes. Sam blocked him. "Don't ignore me, Dean."
"What do you want me to say?" he snapped. "That I'm sorry? Well, too bad. I'm not."
With that he pushed past his brother and got his clothes off. Ignoring Sam's every attempt to get him to talk, he drank half a fifth of whiskey and passed out on his bed.
I've got to get him some help, Sam thought to himself as he covered up his brother with a blanket. Before he kills himself.