As promised here's the next chapter! Thought we should get some of Dean's POV this time.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed!
Enjoy!
Everything hurts. It's like thousands of needles repeatedly stabbing him everywhere, showing no mercy. Deep, unrelenting aches settle in his bones, the pain in the bones and joints he had broken or dislocated in his lifetime throbbing without reprieve. He shifts positions hoping to ease the pain but the mere act of moving causes his entire body to scream in protest. The human body isn't designed to be this cold and live.
He keeps his eyes closed because when he opens them all he can see is white. White like the snow ravaging the world outside. The brightness of the white hurts his eyes, hurts his head and the fact he can't see anything but white, white, white scares him more than anything else. More than maybe dying from this poison. It's like the unforgiving whiteness has taken from him what little control he had left, leaving him feeling detached from the world around him. A frozen shell.
Since getting stuck in the ditch Dean's been lying on his side partially on Sam's lap as his hand continues to try and rub warmth into him, but Dean knows it's useless and he suspects that Sam does too. But he doesn't say anything even though the motion is only making the pain worse. Dean's given up, accepting that it's probably too late to be saved from this curse, but Sam's still clinging to hope and Dean can do nothing else but cling to Sam. That's why he doesn't protest the close contact, he doesn't protest the useless attempts at warming him up.
The poison is freezing him from the inside out. Nothing will be able to warm him. It's useless, it's hopeless…what's the point of trying? He's better off running outside and let the blizzard claim him before the poison can.
Rolling awkwardly onto his back, he blindly gropes the air in search of Sam's hand. Foolishly opening his eyes in the hopes that maybe this time he won't see nothing but white.
"S'mmy," he groans weakly, beyond caring about how pathetic he sounds, beyond pretending that he's OK and it's not that bad. Right now he needs his brother to anchor him, remove him from the dark, hopeless thoughts running through his head. He wonders if maybe it's the poison talking, convincing him that there's no way out of this mess. Or maybe it's the unnatural blindness combined with the cold removing him from reality. He can feel Sam grasp his hand in a tight grip, feels his body being pulled up and he scoots closer as Sam's arms wrap around him, he can feel his warm breath on his frozen neck and can hear whispered promises of salvation and warmth.
Unable to hold it back he whimpers softly, needing that hope, needing that reassurance. It's the only way he can force himself to keep fighting when succumbing to the poison seems so much easier. Bobby has the antidote, Bobby can save him he just…he just has to…has to…
The frozen fire within him flares all of a sudden and his body writhes in response as an almost inhuman cry escapes him.
"Dean!" he hears Sam yell. He can feel Sam grasping him trying to hold him steady and keep him from hurting himself further as his breath is suddenly stolen from him and he violently convulses in jerky, uncontrolled movements.
The next few agonizing minutes are nothing but torturous. His heart pounds rapidly, painfully, straining to combat the ice pumping through his veins, threatening to freeze his blood solid. It seems every time the poison attacks, it gets that much stronger and he comes out worse off than before. He wonders how many more attacks before he succumbs, how much longer before his heart is a block of ice like the autopsy reports revealed on the previous victims.
Vaguely he wonders if maybe he won't die at all but transform. Maybe he's not dying but becoming the creature that attacked him. After all, that's what happens isn't it? Didn't Bobby say that the poison is like a werewolf's bite, that it can turn a person into another ice-creature but 99.9 percent of the time the victim dies before they can become? That's why the creature is so rare, because everyone dies before they can tun, but what if he falls into that 0.1 percent? Maybe that's why he's lasted this long…
"Sam!" he cries out, even as his body is seizing and convulsing, though for all he knows it may sound more like an incoherent hiss. He opens his eyes to seek him out, ignoring the whiteness that assaults his vision hoping that maybe if he squints he can see something, a faint outline of his brother, anything just as his brother had squinted and focused in a desperate attempt to see the road before they got stuck. He was wrong, the unnatural blindness doesn't scare him as much as the thought of becoming the creature they hunted. "Sammy," this time his voice is a weakened whimper, desperately begging Sam to keep him from turning if it came to that, but he doesn't have the strength to say anything else.
He can vaguely hear his brother call his name, he can feel hands on his face holding him steady despite the violent tremors. He can distantly feel his breath, warm against his cheeks, as Sam begs him to breathe.
It's only then that he realizes he had stopped, so he gulps in air greedily. The air he inhales is warm but it seems to freeze the moment it reaches his lungs and he coughs, his stomach clenches and protests and the blood and bile burns as it travels up his oesophagus and spills into his mouth. He pulls away from Sam, sitting up slightly, turning and leaning over the seat. He realizes that he's puking up blood all over the floor of his car but he's beyond caring. Dean can feel Sam holding him, comforting him and keeping him from falling and he's not sure whether to laugh or cry because any other time he'd be shoving him away, but now all he wants to do is hold on an not let go. The contact is the only thing keeping him from losing it altogether amidst the pain, the cold, the blindness and fear.
The attack is over and he lays on his side, gasping for air, his fingers reaching for Sam and finding purchase on his jacket and clutching tightly for dear life.
For a moment there's nothing but the sound of his wheezy breaths in sync with Sam's, his struggling heartbeat and the cacophony of the violent winds outside hissing a wrathful tune. Sam's taken his hand and squeezes and they stay like that for a moment.
"Dean?" Sam asks finally, "you with me?"
Dean nods, but doesn't trust his voice to speak just yet.
"Hold on," he murmurs comfortingly, but underneath there's a frightening determination that has Dean clutching him tighter. He can feel Sam carefully moving away from him, and while he can't see him, he can sense an energy radiating off of him that tells him that Sammy's planning to do something incredibly stupid.
"S-s-sam…" he whispers hoarsely, which is all he can manage, "wh-what're y' doin'?"
"I'll be right back."
"Wh-what? No, S-sam, y-you can't l-leave!" he tries to sound authoritative, but the weakness in his voice, the weakness in his entire being has him sounding childish and desperate. "Th-the s-s-storm…"
"It's dying down some, visibility is improving, I can see the road now," Sam says, and even though Dean can't see it, he knows Sam's lying. He can hear the wind howling and feel the Impala gently rock against the force. "I'm gonna dig us out." Sam lets go of his hand and he can hear him struggle to open the door against the wind, feel the snow forcing it's way through the narrow opening.
"N-no!" he cries out, "Sam, d-don't y' d-dare!:
"We can't stay here and wait this out, Dean," Sam argues, "you don't have time. Don't worry, I can do this, I can dig us free. Just hold on. I'll get us to Bobby's, I promise!"
"Sam!" he protests weakly, lacking the energy to point out how dangerous it is to even attempt to go outside. Sam could freeze to death in his attempt to dig them out. The violent winds could knock him down, and would easily make his efforts futile. Just trying to drive would be dangerous for both of them.
"I'll be right back!"
Dean can hear the door opening, feel the wind and snow rush in and cling to him. He blindly reaches out, launching towards him, determined to pull Sam back inside but the door slams and his fingers brush against the door handle.
"Sam!" he repeats, knowing it's useless. Suddenly the pain flares up again and he cries out, his back arching mercilessly off the seat as he clutches the steering wheel, holding on for dear life. His other hand grabs at his chest, it feels as though someone's stabbing him with a hot poker and twisting, the wound so cold it burns and he claws at his chest suddenly doubting if the creature's claw really was pulled out. What if it broke off inside him and there's still a piece in there?
His body writhes as he claws at his wound, blindly tearing away at his jackets and shirt. As his frozen fingers come in contact with the wound the pain that follows is so searing that he releases a guttural howl, and the whiteness invading his sight flares and a brutal spike of pain stabs at his eyes.
Dean gasps for air, his grip on the steering wheel going limp, his arm falling uselessly to the floor as the other claws weakly at his wound, too weak to do any damage. He's fading and he knows it. It's taking far too much effort than it should for him to simply breathe.
He idly wonders how it's even possible to be this cold and endure this much pain and still be alive.
Eventually the agony fades to a dull ache and he can feel consciousness slipping from his grasp.
He coughs a couple of times, his body going completely slack as he forces himself to keep breathing, wills his heart to keep beating. He can feel it pounding weakly in his chest, forcing his blood to keep pumping through his veins to fight the poison's efforts to freeze him solid. But it's erratic, and steadily beating slower and slower as though it's giving up.
"Sam," he mouths in a mute plea.
He doesn't know how much time has passed since Sam went outside, all he can focus on now is staying awake and to keep breathing.
His heart continues to slow down, beating slower, slower, slower...
Until it comes to a stop.
A/N I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! (Ducks for cover and hides) I know it's an evil place to end the chapter but...my muse made me do it! I swear!
Don't worry, (spoiler alert!) this is not a deathfic.
Seeing as though I'll be working about 35 hours in the next three days, I probably won't be able to update until Friday or Saturday.
Again thanks to everyone who has reviewed and thanks for reading. Once again please let me know what you think!
