A/N: This didn't come as easy as the previous chapters. Hope it's not too diced up.

AND FEBRUARY WAS SO LONG

Chapter Six

"... and then we forgot what plants are altogether

and I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting."

-Dar Williams, "February"

He hears the phone ring, once, clear as a bell. And even though he's sucking in gulps of air in relief and panic and fury, even though he's gathering up an armload of soggy, silent little brother, he's not going to let that phone go unanswered. Could be Dad. Could be back-up.

Dean has no idea whether Sam is even conscious, but he slings his brother over his shoulder like a sack of rocks and makes for the trailer. He bangs his shin on the steps, swears, stumbles upward. The door is hanging open, he can hear it creaking as it moves slightly, which doesn't make sense because there isn't any breeze. The phone's ring, when it starts again, doesn't sound right. It sounds warped, garbled. But it's something and he leaps for it.

"Dad?"

There is a rustle of voice on the line. He doesn't think it's his dad. It sounds like maybe Jim, but he can't make out the words.

"Pastor Jim?"

"Dean, are … Sam … kay?"

Dean gets the gist of the question but has no clue of the answer. Sam still hasn't moved. He's so cold. Dean has them both back on the couch, feet pulled up, away from the floor. He's sticking to Sam like a damn barnacle, but they're just both going to have to be okay with that. Something grabs the kid this time, it's going to get two for the price of one.

Dean speaks clearly and simply, loud as he can, although his voice sounds muffled in the fog that's bled into the trailer through the open door. "Sam is hurt. We need backup."

The line goes fuzzy, crackles. Goes dizzyingly quiet for a moment. Then Dean clearly hears Jim's voice say, "- Bobby -"

Dean doesn't know what this means, but he can hope.

He repeats his message a few more times, hoping the pastor will catch enough words to make sense of it: "Sam's hurt. Send backup." By the time the line goes dead, he's already returned his attention to his brother, who, to his great relief, has started coughing against his shoulder.

"Sammy? You with me, kid?"

Sam makes a noise of affirmation, although his lack of actual speech would suggest otherwise.

"You hurt?" Dean presses.

There is a long, cold pause, during which Dean's hands explore his brother's face, head, neck, feeling for damage.

"M'fine," Sam mutters, shoving weakly at his brother's hands. "Stop pokin' me, dude, m'fine."

"You don't sound fine, you sound like after that time I let you eat twenty-three Pixy Stix and you ran in circles for an hour and then threw up all over Dad's weapons bag."

"Sh'up. Said m'fine."

"Your creative contractions aren't convincing ..."

"Dude." Sam sounds just a little more clear now. "Too early'n the mornin' for 'literation."

"I have no idea what you just said. Anyway, it's not morning, it's like seven in the evening. Aren't you the one who's got a watch?"

Sam doesn't answer. Dean jostles him a little. "Hey. Hey, hey. You with me?"

"Mm."

Dean curses the darkness with several words he already knows and at least three that he makes up on the spot. He needs to see Sam, to assess him. To figure out whether that … whatever .. that grabbed him actually hurt him, or whether Sam's just stunned and cold.

"Listen, Sam," Dean says, appealing to his brother's genetics. "You're a hunter. I need you to wake all the way up and tell me everything you know about this … creature or whatever."

"'S cold," Sam says.

"I know it is, it's February. Focus, little brother."

"No, I mean it's cold. The thing. That had me. Is c- cold. I'm really … cold, Dean." He rubs his face miserably against his brother's neck like he used to do when he was much younger. Dean feels cold, too, but in a different way.

"Dude," he deflects. "I'm not a tissue." Pats his brother and makes no move to stop him from burrowing. Sam is cold, colder even than the frozen air around them. Dean stands, tugging Sam with him, feels for the door. He feels the need to close and lock it, even though there is no telling what might already be inside with them, and clearly, salt doesn't bother this thing. He wonders how long the thing that grabbed Sam was here before they knew. How long it had lurked, just out of arm's reach in the dark, listening to them telling ghost stories and checking the phone. How long it had crept toward them, inch by inch, biding its time as it decided which one of them to snatch, which one was small and light enough to steal away with …

Shivers work their way down Dean's neck. This situation is so screwed up.

Apparently he isn't the only one who thinks so, because just as he gets his fingers around the doorknob, Dean feels Sam go tense against him.

"Dean – do you hear that? Dean?"

Dean doesn't hear anything.

Sam's breathing is coming faster, soft, cold puffs against his brother's neck. "Dean, I think it's here, I think it – I think it's here again."

Dean shushes Sam long enough to listen, really listen. But all he hears is Sam's breath and the soft click as he turns the deadbolt. The squish of both their wet socks on linoleum, then silence as Dean steps his brother onto the carpet, guides him back to the couch. "I don't hear anything, Sammy. What -"

There.

Something. Not a sound, exactly, but a … but a sense. He is picking up something that doesn't belong, and his body responds. Muscles go tense. Chills tease his scalp. The hairs on his arms stand up as if there's been a lightning strike.

Something is here.

But that's not what Sam's saying, Sam's not saying something, Sam's saying It. "It's here, Dean!" Because Sam knows it now, this thing, because it's had its hands on him, it nearly made off with him. Dean is queasy. This thing knows Sam now, too. That's how it works, these monsters in the dark. They get a grip on you, and then –

And this isn't even the first evil thing that's ever had a grip on Sam. In his head, Dean sees the way his father looks when one of them is hurt, a wince, a hard edge of anger and anxiety, but underneath, so helpless, something he can't hide even though he would never want his sons to see. In this moment, Dean understands that expression. He doesn't know how to fix this. He doesn't know how to protect his brother.

Sam's breaths are starting to sound suspiciously like sobs, the breathy, gaspy kind that Dean absolutely cannot stand. Sam doesn't cry much and when he does, he does it quiet. For him to actually make a noise, he has to be either brokenhearted – and not "Sally said she won't be my Valentine" brokenhearted, but "I let Dad down and he won't speak to me" brokenhearted – or he has to be terrified – like – "One of us almost died" terrified.

Like, "one of us might still die" terrified.

"Sam, shh," Dean says. "It's all right. It's all right." Which of course it most certainly absolutely is not.

"Dean, I can see it." Sam gulps but works at steadying his voice. Dean can practically hear his little brother reining in his tears. Pride shines somewhere within him, under the layers of abject terror and all-consuming rage.

"Where, Sam?" Equal parts horrified – for he can still see nothing, and what does it mean that this thing grabbed Sam and now the kid can see it even in the dark? – and relieved – because if Sam can see it, maybe Dean can kill it. "Sammy? Where is it?"

But then Sam answers, his voice sinking in thick layers of fog, and both brothers understand at the same moment. Heavy fog wet on their skin.

"Dean, it's everywhere ..."

"Come again?"

"It's in the fog – the fog is – the fog is gray and it's – I think it is the fog -" He isn't making any sense. And he doesn't sound scared anymore, and for some reason, that scares Dean. And now Sam's tugging out of Dean's grip, wriggling, pushing, freeing one cold, clumsy limb at a time. Dean has to keep recapturing parts of Sam, pulling him back.

"Dude, what do you think you're doing?"

"It's light! I want to go where it's light!" Sam's attempts at escape are getting stronger and something like terror grips Dean, finds its way into his fingertips, which dig into Sam's arms.

"Sam -" Dean swallows, unable to believe he is actually going to say this. "Don't go into the freakin' light, Carol Ann!"

"I want to go see the – it's so pretty, Dean. It's not gray, it's silver." He tugs an elbow free, damp sweatshirt slipping through Dean's gripping fingers. "I want to touch it -"

"Okay, that's where we hop off the loony train!" Dean executes a few of his more complicated sparring moves, pinning Sam to the sofa. He takes a second to be proud of himself for pulling this off in the dark. Sam's little, but he's all elbows, and he's never been easy to contain. Even now, limbs are spilling loose of Dean's grip like cooked spaghetti.

"Sam Winchester! Eyes front!"

He feels Sam startle slightly. Although Dean still can't see a thing, he is sure his brother, who appears to have some sort of magical fog vision – and how screwed up is that? – is looking at him now.

"You look at me, Sam," Dean commands. "You look at me. Don't look at this fog thing, it's messing with your head, all right? Look right at me and tell me – tell me how you clean a rifle. Start to finish." There is a beat of silence. "Now, Sam! Sound off!"

"B'uh – firs' you check to make sure it's not loaded. You open the bolt and look to see if- Dean -"

"Keep going, Sam!" Dean has his hands on his brother's cheeks, forcing the boy's gaze toward him. He feels certain that if it weren't pitch-freakin'-dark, their gazes would be locked. He can feel Sam's attention, on him, not the fog, and it feels a little warmer in the room.

"You, uh – you look to see if it's got build-up or resi – residue – Dean! I can't see it anymore."

Dean keeps himself upright, although he feels like he could sag onto the couch with relief.

"Good, that's good, Sammy. You just keep talking. Keep talking while we walk out of here, okay?" The trailer has been breached. He is not going to keep Sam here, where the thing has already got to him once, where it's looming. He doesn't know what they're going to find outside, but outside at least they won't be sitting ducks. There will be more places to hide. More places to hide Sam.

Maybe there will even be people. Or light.

As Sam starts rambling about solvent and wire brushes, Dean fumbles with the deadbolt that just a moment ago seemed like a good idea. He guides his brother through the door and down the steps, out into the fog.

Bobby's nerves are never going to be the same.

Neither will his danged hat.

Three in the damn morning and he still hasn't reached the Winchester boys. The roads are shit. Ice, covered in snow, covered in ice again. Bobby's just this side of hot-wiring a salt truck. Might not be a bad thing to have with him down in the valley, anyhow. Assuming he ever gets there.

It's been a while since he's met any other cars on the road. No headlights in the rearview and none coming toward him, either. All he sees is his own two headlights glancing up off the winter wonderland, catching new snow mid-air. It's tough to tell when everything's covered in a blanket of white – Bobby curses the snow six ways from Sunday – but he's got the uneasy feeling he's already covered this stretch of road.

There aren't any payphones down this way, and if there were, he's sure the lines would be down anyway, on account of the blizzard. His radio still works and he's glad for the occasional updates, even if they don't tell him much more'n he already knows, which is that the weather sucks and any fool who's still out in it deserves what they get.

He's slid off the damn road twice.

Cost precious minutes getting dug out, making sure he was still aimed in the right direction, and it had the added bonus of soaking him in the damn precip, which means that now he's cold and soggy and about as cheerful as a wet tomcat. The steering wheel has become the object of his ire, and he beats it up with regularity. That is, when he's not too busy mashing a permanent crease down the center of his best (read: oldest) trucker cap.

Three-fifteen. He's supposed to be there by now.

Last truck stop, half past eleven, the good pastor's report was that he'd reached Dean Winchester, briefly. The connection was terrible, but Jim was able to hear the words "Sam" and "hurt," and at least twice, he heard Dean say "backup." Jim also said he'd spent much of the evening phoning other hunters, but it seems everyone is already in the crap too deep to dig out and be of help. Shit's going down all over the map. Makes Bobby damn uneasy.

All he's seen in front of him for hours is the snow, so when he sees something else, off in the distance, he doesn't know what he's looking at for a minute.

"Is that a light?"

Headlights, in fact. But his heart sinks. They're not moving. The lights are pointing up at an angle, shining off ice-encased tree limbs. Somebody's in a ditch. Bobby doesn't see any motion and he winces. Hopes he's not going to have to stop and pull a body out of a wreck on the way back out of the valley.

Besides his own headlights and the ones up ahead, the forest is eerily still. Snow makes everything quiet, secret-like. Bobby only likes secrets if he's on the keeping end of them. This whole situation's got him wound up, on edge. All the bells and whistles going off. Maybe he's just being paranoid, but if he didn't know better, he'd swear – are those –

"Shit fire!" He knows those headlights. Those are the headlights of a '67 Chevy Impala. If Bobby could lay on the gas without sliding off the damn mountain, he would. As it is, all he can do is continue to inch toward the scene ahead of him, sick at the possibility of what he might find.

John doesn't know how long he's been out, forehead on the steering wheel, slick with blood, when something shines in his eyes, bringing him awake.

"Wha -" This is the only syllable of confusion he allows himself before forcing his mind back into focus, sore though his head may be. "Bobby?" How in the hell – "Singer, what the hell are you doing out here? Didn't think you were straying too far from the salvage yard just now." John tries to sit up, tries to hide the wince of pain, but he knows Bobby sees it.

His on-again, off-again friend, reluctant mentor, and occasional babysitter steadies him, helps him sit up. "John. You know how long we've been trying to reach you?"

"Yes," John says grimly. "When I couldn't reach my boys, I called Jim."

"And he didn't tell you I was coming out here?" There's a brief pause, and Bobby continues with a snort. "No, I don't guess you gave him that much time. Stayed on the line long enough to hear there was trouble, and aimed your non-winterized hunk of classic metal into the worst blizzard this side of the country's seen in more'n a decade."

John doesn't deny it. The mention of Jim, of the phone call, has him struggling to push open the driver's side door against a solid wall of snow. Bobby, who is reaching in through the passenger side, takes pity on his slightly-addled fellow hunter and tugs him toward the opposite side of the car. "This way, ya idjit."

John allows himself to be guided out of the car, but wrests free of Bobby's grip as soon as he's clear. He's got supplies to gather from the trunk, a long hike ahead of him. Nevermind the way the forest sways when he stands to his full height. He hears Singer snort again, feels Bobby's hand on his elbow.

"Try not to keel over."

"Got to get moving."

Bobby nods to his truck. "I got supplies, John, get your ass in the truck before you -"

"No – no, we're walking. We have to walk in."

"'Cause it's a lovely damn evening for a stroll."

"I'm serious," John says. "I've been driving down this road for hours. It never gets -" he swallows, hard. Bobby can see the mask disappear for a moment, then fall back into place, solid. "It never gets there. We're going to have to try a different tactic."

"And you think hiking in is the answer?"

"Far as I can tell, the next hill, that's where it all starts to – you know, sort of – sort of repeat. Everything gets familiar. I think the road kind of … loops … up ahead. I figure we've got to go off-road, blaze a trail as the crow flies."

"Ain't no crows flying in this weather," Bobby comments, but he helps John access the trunk before returning to his own vehicle for supplies.

Dawn finds the men still walking, Bobby occasionally, casually, steadying John, who for his part does not slow down even when the concussion threatens to knock him on his ass. He'll feel it later. There's time for that later. Right now, all he feels is the absence of his children, who were supposed to be safe, dammit. Who were not supposed to be a part of something awful –

Whole damn day's been awful. John doesn't mention the hunt he just came from, and Bobby doesn't ask. The new lines around John's eyes and the blood still etched around his fingernails despite an obvious scrubbing tell the story for him. He lost three more people this morning on that hunt, three people who didn't have to die, who died because they were too damn stubborn to listen to him and stay put, stay safe.

Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Dean and Sam, after all, listened. They stayed put. They're supposed to be safe, and instead, they're lost in a ghost town that has ceased to exist at the end of this road. John chalks the nausea up to concussion, the tremors up to the cold. He does not allow himself to think of possibilities. He puts one foot in front of the other.

To be continued ...