A CHILL IN THE AIR
Chapter 9
The Winchesters' journey south is not without it's hazards.
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A little over an hour had passed since The Winchesters and Bobby had pointed the Impala south and put the snow-bound motel, it's dreadful memories and the pervading menace that it harboured into their rear-view mirror.
As they journeyed on, they were all dismayed to see little indication of the harsh winter weather improving; in fact, if anything, they all conceded that it seemed to be getting worse; the ice crystals feathering the Impala's windscreen and the biting wind that buffeted and nudged her along were sure indications of that.
Despite their concerns, Dean cautiously guided his baby along deserted roads, grey and desolate under the winter's grip, asphalt like sheet ice. Biting his lip in concentration, he weaved and swerved, dodging encroaching snowdrifts and fallen trees.
As careful as Dean was trying to be, both his passengers could feel the edge of urgency in his driving; he knew from Sam's demeanour that what had happened back there at the motel with this Jack Frost douchebag and his creepy faerie magic, it was bad and he had no desire to prolong Sam and Bobby's exposure to that sort of threat.
He let out a grunted curse, feeling a vicious crosswind battering the car as she ploughed her way onward through the blinding winterscape.
Sam peered upwards through her windscreen, concerned eyes scanning the threatening, muddy clouds that roiled and tumbled over them, heavy with the threat of unfallen snow.
"Hell Dean, it looks evil out there," he remarked, "better go easy."
"I am goin' easy," snapped Dean irritably; "hell if I go any easier I'll be goin' in reverse!"
Sitting quiet in the back of the Impala Bobby mulled silently. There was a leaden block of cold concern weighing deep in the pit of his stomach, and he knew it was nothing to do with Dean's driving.
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They continued along for several more increasingly fraught miles.
"Dean man, we've gotta stop," Sam snapped as the rapidly deteriorating weather continued to close in around them. Dean shook his head, squinting as he stared straight ahead through the blustering snow that had begun to fall.
"This ain't no ordinary storm," Bobby warned darkly, leaning over the front seat between the brothers; "this is 'you know who'; he's still pissed at Dean, an' nothin's gonna change that."
Undeterred, the Impala forged on through the encroaching blizzard, trusting under Dean's hand. She slid drunkenly across glassy roads, lurching and shuddering, tossed around like a cork on an ocean of violent crosswinds which lashed and whirled around them, shrieking like a riot of banshees.
Dean set his jaw and cranked up the radio to drown his brother's pleas for him to pull over.
"Dean, you gotta stop," Sam tried again, yelling over the howl of the wind and the dissonant strains of some crash metal atrocity that Dean had found on the local radio station. He let out a gasp as the Impala lurched nauseously under another assault from the gale.
"Dean, for God's sake pull over man, it's lethal out here."
"No," barked Dean; "you heard Bobby, that's what the dickwad wants. Tol' you, he can kiss my freakin' ass; I ain't stoppin' for him."
Dean gripped the wheel with white knuckled ferocity, as much from anger as from anxiety and jerked it back towards Sam as the Impala began to drift across the road.
Bobby sunk back into his seat, knowing that Dean's only slim hope of survival was to keep running. You didn't stand and face faerie magic, you didn't beat it.
You just got the hell out of its way.
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The Impala ploughed on through the storm, fat hailstones beating out a furious tattoo on her bodywork, the deafening rumble of their onslaught echoed through the cabin drowning out the hideous music and the shrieking of the wind.
A swarm of whirling snowflakes joined the assault, hurling themselves against the windscreen, defying the wipers which flipped to and fro, busily trying and failing to dislodge them. They began to overwhelm her, obscuring her windows and headlights, and packing her tyres with compressed ice.
It was a few miles further on where Dean's increasing snow blindness led him to misjudge a bend in the road. It all happened instantaneously and the Impala spun queasily, skating over the ice slick road and ploughed heavily into a deep snowdrift, which collapsed over her.
Her three occupants rattled around inside her by the force of her sudden halt, but eventually as the car settled, so did they. Dean reached forward and switched off her engine.
"Shit!" he yelled furiously; "shit, shit, SHIT!"
Bobby and Sam exchanged glances. For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the harsh breathing of the Impala's three dazed occupants and the howling of the wind, muffled into nothing more than a moan by the blanket of snow that covered them.
"Well we can stay in the car," Sam broke the uneasy silence cautiously, glad for the opportunity to speak without screaming over the god-awful music. "We could try to ride out the worst of it; we've got plenty of gas, we can at least keep the engine running and the heat on."
"No we can't," snapped Dean; "front end's buried, that means the vents are all blocked up with goddamned snow."
Sam looked at him with a little shrug.
Dean sighed, rolling his eyes theatrically; why was his brother such a mechanical moron?
Bobby answered Sam's question; "that means all the fumes from the engine will be venting back in here."
Sam was silent for a moment as the wheels in his head turned; "oh great," he snorted, "no civilisation in sight and our options are to freeze to death or die of carbon monoxide poisoning."
Dean rubbed his forehead, pulling in a deep breath through his nose; "I say it again, SHIT!"
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The three men fell into a brief silence before Dean spoke up again.
"I can try to dig away the worst of the snow, see if I can get some air flowing."
Sam's eyes widened and he stared at Dean as if he were insane.
"You can't go out there Dean," he gestured around them at the storm raging outside the car; "it's damned mayhem."
"You got any better ideas," Dean snapped defiantly; "you said it yourself, our other options are to freeze to death or poison ourselves with engine fumes."
He sighed deeply and tried to soften his voice for sam's sake; "Sammy, we've got nothing to lose, I gotta try something, my girl's not going anywhere, and so neither are we."
Bobby groaned, he hated it when Dean talked sense because it almost always forebode some reckless act of mindless self-sacrifice.
"C'mon, I'll help ya son," he grunted, sliding across the seat toward the door.
Sam shook his head in resignation and sighed; "okay I'm in, three of us'll get the job done quicker."
Dean's head swivelled round, it was clear he wasn't happy with the arrangement but even he couldn't argue with Sam's logic.
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After a brief exercise in locating every scrap of outdoor clothing that was within reach they forced the doors open, fighting against the gale as they half stepped, half tumbled out of the car.
Sam stood shakily, only to lose his footing and faceplant heavily into the ice beneath his feet. Dean and Bobby bowed their heads, as they leaned into the wind, stumbling blindly around the car, trying to shield their faces from the bitterly cold ice crystals that rode the screaming wind and tore at their skin like burning shrapnel.
"It's him alright," Bobby yelled at the top of his voice, trying to be heard over the deafening shriek of the wind, "he can't get to you now you're shielded so he's attacking you from a distance – through the weather that he creates."
His voice was carried away by the storm's fury, the words unheard by Dean.
Dean clambered his way to the drift and dropped to his knees, making himself as small a target as possible, grimacing as the flying ice and snow hammered into his back, soaking through the layers of clothes he had pulled together. He dug purposefully into the drift, scrabbling out the tightly packed snow, his fingers burning with the intense cold even through his thick gloves.
Beside him, Bobby worked on the other side of the car, leaning into her solid fender to prevent himself being blown over.
A swirling fog of vapour whipped and whirled around them as they panted heavily through the bitter chill.
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"Can we reverse her out?"
Dean flinched as Sam's voice sounded in his ear. He realised Sam had made his way up behind him, his jeans sodden where he had been forced to crawl alongside the car to maintain his footing.
Dean shook his head; "no," he yelled; "too icy, she'd never get a grip."
"What about salt?" Sam asked, "we've got a big bag of it in the trunk, could we lay it behind her wheels?."
Hesitating at his work, Dean considered Sam's suggestion.
"Dunno," he snorted, shivering and hugging his freezing wet fingers under the warmth of his armpits; "it might be worth a try."
Sam nodded and made his way back to open the trunk, fumbling blindly for the bag of salt.
As he grabbed it he turned and froze, his eyes widening in horror at the sight behind him.
"Dean," he yelled; "Bobby."
He stumbled blindly backwards, pointing at the terrible thing that stood behind him.
"LOOK!"
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tbc