Okay, I thought this story was going to be a two-shot. But now it looks like a three chapter story. I know this is a short chapter, but I hope everyone enjoys it anyway.

Vanessa


"Shit!" Sam tore across the room and jammed his feet into his boots before grabbing his gun off the nightstand and tucking it at the small of his back. He was shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jacket as he jogged through the door into the landscape of arctic white where steamers of sparkling snow still undulated on chaotic currents of air. His gaze automatically sought out the bulk of the Impala, hoping that that had been his brother's destination, but her current haute couture mantle of glimmering white remained regrettably undisturbed.

His hazel eyes tracked first to the right then to the left, finally spying the indistinct indentations in the powdery snow. Plowing through the accumulation, his long legs and wide gait a distinct advantage, Sam quickly cleared the corner of the building, his feet punching into the crunchy snow. Peering ahead, he spied a tall, shadowy shape crossing the empty field next to the Easy Living.

"Dean!"

His brother neither wavered nor slowed in his steady march forward. Sam picked up the pace, closing the distance in mere moments. He reached out and grabbed his older brother's arm, hauling him to an abrupt stop.

"Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

The older Winchester didn't react other than to make a half-hearted attempt to pull away. Sam's tightened his fingers.

"C'mon, let's go back to the room."

"Gotta go to the warm place to lie down," mumbled Dean, staring ahead.

Sam tugged at Dean's arm. "Yeah, we have a warm place, dude. It's called a motel room. C'mon."

"No! Gotta go…gotta go to the warm place to lie down!" Suddenly, Dean was in motion, yanking his arm from Sam's grasp, roughly pushing him away, and plunging forward in the snow.

Caught by surprise, Sam rocked back on his heels. The loose snow under his feet shifted and the tall hunter fought to maintain his balance before plopping—with a startled gasp—denim-clad bottom first onto the ground. With nothing more than his pride bruised, Sam regained his feet on the slippery terrain and managed to catch up to Dean in a few inelegant strides. His fingers wrapped around his brother's wrist like an iron manacle, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hey…Dean, look at me."

When Dean made no move to comply, Sam firmly grasped his chin, turning his head until they were face-to-face. "Look at me."

Finally, Dean's distracted gaze locked with his. The cloudiness therein receded a bit. "Sam? Whaddya doin' here?"

"Could ask you the same thing, big brother."

"I-I was…I was…uh…lookin' for a place…some place to lie down."

"We already have a place, Dean."

"We do?"

"Yeah. The motel room. Why don't we go back there right now?"

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Come on." Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, feeling the shudders rippling through his muscular frame. "That's it, let's just go back this way." He led Dean back toward the squat building.

After several steps, Dean slurred, "S-my? Wha—'m I so c-cold?"

"'Cause you're outside in the middle of a snowstorm with no coat and no shoes, dude."

"I am?"

"Yeah. But not for long." They rounded the corner of the building; their room door, their safe haven, up just ahead.

"'kay."

Sam stiff-armed the faded green door open and guided the shorter man inside. He dusted the accumulated snow from Dean's hair and shoulders before guiding him over to his recently-abandoned bed. He pushed Dean gently down on the edge of the mattress. He retrieved his duffle bag from the floor between the beds and pulled one of his hoodies from its depths. "Here, Dean, put this on. You'll feel better." He helped his brother lethargically maneuver into the warmer garment.

Dean blinked groggily. "'m tired."

"You look it." And he did. His face was milk white with dark circles ringing green eyes that were normally fiercely expressive but were now washed out and dull. His lips looked a shade duskier than usual. Sam's expression creased into a worried frown. "Why don't you lie down?" He waited for Dean to comply then gathered the jumble of blankets from the floor and arranged them haphazardly across his prone form. Sam once again picked up the thermometer and secured a reading. Ninety-six point five. Sam felt a shiver tremble through his body that had absolutely nothing to do with his recent excursion out into the cold. He eased down onto the foot of the bed.

He slipped out of his coat and toed off his boots while he waited for Dean to drift into a restless slumber. When he was sure his sibling was asleep, Sam commandeered his cell phone from its resting place near the computer, flipped it open, and scrolled through his Contacts list till he found the desired entry. With a sigh, he pressed "Send". The call was answered on the third ring.

"Singer."

"Hey, Bobby. It's Sam."

"Hey, kid, it's been awhile. What can I do for ya?"

Sam sighed into the phone. "It's Dean. Something weird's going on with him."

"What—you're just figuring that out now? Weird's that boy's middle name." The gruff older man's teasing fell flat, eliciting no answering chuckle from the other end of the phone. "All right. Tell me what's goin' on?"

"I dunno. I mean—I—I can't explain it. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought to organize his thoughts. "We—We're on this job—a vengeful spirit we think—you know, a simple salt-and-burn—and we did some reconnaissance in the woods in the middle of the night last night. We stopped for breakfast on the way back to the motel. Then he just started acting weird."

"Weird how?"

"He complained that his coffee and food were cold."

"Okay. And?"

"And they weren't. Not at all. Then I noticed he was shivering, and he complained of being cold which isn't like him. I—I thought at first that he was just getting sick, you know."

"Now you're convinced that's not all it is?"

"Not unless you've heard of a sick person who's temperature keeps dropping."

"Heh."

"It gets worse, Bobby. When we got back to the motel, he went to the bathroom. When he came out, he was bitching that there was no hot water. But his hands were bright red—nearly scalded." Sam paused for a second, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. "And then just now, I walked out of the room for a couple of minutes, and when I came back he was gone."

"Gone?"

"Yeah. He bugged out. I found him outside wandering around disoriented, coatless and barefoot, in the snow. Now he's on the bed, under all the covers I can get my hands on, and he's still shaking. Dammit, Bobby, I don't know what to do; I don't know what's wrong with him."

The gruff older hunter ran a hand down his face then smoothed his graying mustache and beard with his fingers. "Anything else you can tell me?" Bobby adjusted the trucker's hat on his head. "Anything unusual about this hunt you're on?"

"No, nothing. Over the last several years, there have been a number of disappearances. People just gone without a trace. Then in the last two months, a couple of outdoorsmen have disappeared and later been found dead. Drowned in Claxton Lake. We think it might be the spirit of an ice fisherman—a Don Castleman. That's all we have so far. I've no idea why or how this hunt could be connected to what's goin' on with Dean."

"Okay, listen. I've got a couple of ideas but I need to go check into a few things. I'll call ya back as quick as I can. You sit tight."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't thank me yet. If I'm right, we're up against the clock and we don't have a lot of time. You keep an eye on that brother of yours."

TBC…