Sam stumbled across the floor of the cabin dragging his brother with him. He huffed out a relieved breath, grateful to be out of the harsh elements. Squinting in the sudden dimness, he took in their surroundings. They were in the middle of a modest living room with rustic, paneled walls and an empty, almost forlorn-looking stone fireplace dominating most of one of them. There was a small kitchen to the right and an open door in the back right corner appeared to lead to another, smaller room, likely a bedroom. "C'mon, bro, just a few more steps then you can rest, okay?"

"'m tired?" mumbled Dean.

"Yeah. Tired, not to mention injured."

"Injur'd? D-Don't feel annnythin'."

"You will."

Sam led Dean to the worn, threadbare couch positioned in front of the fireplace and eased him down on the cushions. He dropped the backpack to the floor, pulled off his gloves and undid the ties of his hoodie, shoving it off his head. He shivered as clinging bits of snow found their way down the back of his neck. The cabin may have provided shelter from the elements but at the moment the interior was almost as freezing as outside.

The younger Winchester's own cold fingers reached for then fumbled with the snaps and zippers on Dean's coat. Tugging at the sleeves, Sam worked to get the jacket off uncooperative limbs. With a final tug, it slid free. Sam tossed it aside and reached for the snap on Dean's jeans. As he expected, Dean protested, albeit weakly.

"N-Nooo—wha're doing?" Dean clumsily shifted against the cushions.

"Take it easy, bro. I need to get your wet clothes off. Get you warmed up."

"I-I can do—"

"Relax. It'll be faster if I do it." Sam studied Dean's hands which were bright red and slightly puffy looking. He noticed that the very tips of Dean's fingers were white. Frostnip—the beginnings of frostbite. Sam gently tapped Dean's wind-burned cheek, drawing his attention. "Trust me, okay?"

After Dean murmured his consent, Sam made quick work of unbuttoning and unzipping the jeans and easing them off Dean's hips. Not wanting to cause further injury, he slowed when he neared the wound on his brother's thigh. Sam's gaze took in the gash through the bloody rent in the denim. Holding his breath, the younger Winchester gently eased the half-frozen material away from his sibling's skin. Once that hurdle was cleared, Sam emptied his lungs, stirring his shaggy bangs, and pulled the jeans to Dean's ankles, pausing only to remove his boots and socks, and finished extracting Dean's feet from his pants before gathering all the items and dumping them on top of the discarded jacket.

Still clad in his boxer briefs, t-shirt, long-sleeved button down, and watchman's cap, Sam thought his brother may have looked comical if not for the sum of his various injuries, the pale, drained expression, and glassy green eyes. Under other circumstances, it would call for a quick pic taken with his cell phone. However, worry and a protective bent far outpaced any ideas of future teasing.

"Here, Dean—why don't you lay down?" Sam helped Dean stretch out on the couch and propped his feet on the armrest. Pulling the scratchy, old, and ultimately too short, blanket from inside the backpack, the young hunter draped it over his prone brother.

"Listen, I need to go find some firewood, okay?"

"Wha?" Dean asked, through teeth that were beginning to chatter.

"I need to find some firewood, build a fire in here and get you—and me—warmed up. I'll be right back."

"Y-Y-You sure?"

Sam shook his head. "Yes, I'm sure."

"'kay."

Leaving Dean ensconced on the couch, Sam again raised his hood and pulled on his gloves before heading for the door. Wishing he didn't have to face the frigid conditions once more, he hesitated for a split second before yanking the door open then gasped as a blast of arctic wind sucked the breath from him. He stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut before slogging across the porch and descending the steps.

Sam walked toward the back of the cabin doing his best to ignore the ice snow pellets stinging his face and the ferocious wind that harmonized with his own ragged breathing as his lungs protested the vicious cold. On his reconnaissance of the cabin just a short while ago, he'd noticed a small shed, or outbuilding, adjacent to the back wall. It was there he headed first, hoping to find at least a small supply of firewood within its confines. A hurried look though, when he finally got the stubborn door open, showed the small structure to be for the most part empty except for a few crumpled cardboard boxes, a small stack of old newspapers piled in the corner, and wispy cobwebs. Sam all but growled in frustration.

Moving farther inside the outbuilding, Sam's searching gaze caught a dull glint along the back wall and he grinned. A hatchet! That would do the trick. He'd find some useable wood amongst the trees surrounding the hunting cabin. Sam grabbed the tool from where it hung suspended from two nails and hurried back outside to his task, anxious to return to his brother.

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Through half-lidded eyes, Dean watched his brother leave the cabin. When the door thudded shut, he closed them completely as weariness cascaded over him. The hunter bit his bottom lip in discomfort as his fingers and toes started to tingle as his body began to warm slightly. His face too began to burn, especially the tip of his nose. With the cabin empty, there was no one else there to hear the soft whimper-sigh that passed his lips. Strong, stoic hunter or not, it hurt.

Dean tongue darted out and he licked at his severely chapped lips before swallowing against the dryness in his mouth. He desperately wanted some water but was too enervated to search through the backpack Sam had discarded on the floor.

A voltaic, preternatural draft suddenly fluttered through the cabin, and Dean tensed. A low, sinister laugh assaulted his ears causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand at attention. Dean's eyes flew open. And there stood the three Cailleacha with their knotted and bony bodies, tangled gray masses of hair, and rheumy eyes.

The older Winchester shot to a sitting position, gripping the blanket tightly with slightly swollen fingers and silently cursing for not having a weapon within his grasp. "No, no—you're dead! We ganked you skanks. I know we did. Sammy swore we did!"

The three winter hags laughed that same skin-crawling laugh again then the middle one spoke, her voice sibilant and coarse. "Foolish hunter. You should know we do not die; not until that which we last unleashed runs its course. We remain bound to our grand elemental farewell." As she spoke, the hags moved forward, grinning from ear-to-ear and revealing shark-like teeth in various stages of decay.

Dean shuddered as a clawed hand caressed his cheek, leaving a trail of ice in its wake. The hunter jerked his head to the side and growled, "Get off me."

"I am Ice," she tittered, ignoring his demand. Her fingers trailed along his chin and up his other cheek.

"I am Snow," intoned the hag on her right.

"I am Wind," the last of the three announced. She twirled a finger and the otherworldly zephyr danced again throughout the cabin.

The middle hag spoke again. "Where is your brother? Out in our beautiful blizzard? A perilous place to be." The treacherous caress came again. "Perhaps we should go have some fun with him, yes sisters?"

"No!" Sam! Dean struggled to stand. The room tilt-a-whirled, and he sank back down, gripping the edge of the couch cushion.

The trio cackled and spoke as one. "You'll never find him. He is lost. Lost and alone. So very, very alone. And s-s-s-slowly freezing. To death."

That last word tap-tap-tapped at Dean's eardrums. He rose and stumbled across the room and out the door. He tripped through the snow, as oblivious to his bare feet and general state of undress as he was to the arctic weather howling around him.

The Cailleacha followed, still cackling and taunting. "He is lost. Never to be found. Lost and so very, very alone without his brother. Freezing. Slowly freezing. To death."

Dean's lungs seized, caging his protests. As he moved away from the cabin, the winter hags closed in, surrounding him. The knurled hands of Ice, Snow, and Wind pawed at him, grabbed at him. Snared his wrists. His arms. Forced him to his knees. Then flat on his belly. One pair of twisted hands wrapped around his neck and squeezed, cutting off his air.

A low buzz echoed in his ears. Wet snow filled his mouth as he struggled to pull in air. He bucked beneath the relentless hands. Then darkness yanked him under.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Sam wiped at his eyes with a gloved hand, the wind making them tear up relentlessly. Snuffling a little against his stuffy nose, he spit then then finished chopping at the tree branch. When he was done, he bent over and gathered the respectable amount of wood he'd managed to collect. With the armload of wood and hatchet in hand, he slogged through the ever-accumulating snow back to the cabin, already daydreaming of a warm fire in the fireplace.

Blinking away the snow crusting to his eyelashes, Sam lumbered up the steps, growing eager to dump his burden. With an amazing feat of balance and coordination, he twisted the knob and shoved the cabin door open, all but falling across the threshold. Once inside Sam made a beeline for the fireplace, dumping the wood on the hearth when he reached it. "Dean, I found enough wood to get a fire going. Should warm this place up in no time." He pulled off his gloves.

Turning to grab the backpack and the book of matches therein, Sam's eyes widened and he gaped as he took in the empty couch. The blanket lay in a heap on the floor. A quick trip around the cabin ratcheted up his worry and his fear.

Dean was gone.

TBC…