A/N: Okay, so, it's stupidly late. Reviews are love, not mine, blah blah.
So, the prompt was 'Dean out in the cold, and Sam having to come and save him.' I actually got three frozen Dean prompts in a row, lol. This one is for JoJospn.
I sorta love the idea of frozen Dean making it down the mountain because he thinks he's saving Sam.
Enjoy.
How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Seventeen
"The Unfortunate Thing About Jackets"
Dean didn't know where he was.
He didn't know how he got to wherever the hell he was.
He didn't know how long he had been wherever the hell he was after he got there (however the hell that had been).
Things he did know.
It was cold.
It was windy.
It was dark.
Did he mention it was cold?
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"Dean!" Sam yelled, getting more and more desperate by the moment as the temperature continued to drop steadily. The ghost that had hijacked his brother's body hadn't bothered to take his coat, and now a light snow was beginning to fall.
The wind was fierce, a living, howling creature seeking to reach cold fingers inside Sam's coat, and he shuddered, imagining Dean up here in the dark without even his jacket.
He could very easily freeze to death, if Sam didn't find him soon.
Sam had had no choice but to dig up the spirit's bones in order to salt and burn them first, as he couldn't really fight the ghost head on while it was housed snugly in his brother's body, but now he was worried he wouldn't be able to locate Dean in time.
They'd come to the small mountain town to solve a string of unusual murders.
Average, everyday people who were just up and leaving in the middle of whatever they were doing. Housewives leaving dishes in the sink, mechanics leaving car's with tires laying beside them.
Days later, their bodies would be found on the mountain, killed from exposure to the harsh winter elements.
Sam and Dean had eventually ascertained that it was the spirit of a college kid who had gotten separated from his buddies after a night of drinking over ten years ago.
The others had all assumed he had headed down the mountain, but the kid had stumbled into a ravine, breaking his leg. He'd died slowly, infection weakening him, the elements finishing him off, and all the while, no one had realized he was missing.
A storm-damaged gas line had lead the gas company to digging up the area in the cemetery near where the kid had been buried, and that had been all it had taken to rouse the bitter spirit. From there, he had just started hopping from victim to victim. He'd ride one all the way up the mountain, holding them hostage in their own bodies until they died the way he had. Then he'd ride back down with the newest body, and start the cycle all over again.
Dean had been his latest snatch, and Sam had only managed to find the kid's re-located grave a few hours ago.
Now, he just had to find his brother.
The spirit's hold on Dean should have ended when Sam destroyed his bones, his tie to the physical plane, but Sam had no idea where the body snatching ghost would have left his brother.
Or what kind of shape he would be in when Sam found him.
"DEAN!" He shouted again, following the winding path in the dark, the trail where the majority of victims had been found near.
Snow and wind made it hard to see, hard to hear, but giving up wasn't even an option.
Either both of them came down this mountain alive, or neither did.
"DEAN!" He called again, so loudly his throat was growing hoarse from the abuse.
"...Sammy..?" The voice echoed back faintly, and Sam felt his heart begin to race.
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Dean shivered harder as the wind wrapped chilly arms around him, cold fingers of air snatching at whatever warmth his body managed to create as he stumbled down the mountain side in the cold.
He kept hearing his name, but he was tired, and shivering so hard he could barely see straight, and he couldn't tell, maybe it was just the wind..."
"Dean!" His name echoed again, and Dean stumbled, nearly going to the ground.
But he pushed himself up again, because this time, the voice on the wind was familiar.
Sam's voice.
Dean knew every facet of Sam's voice, his happy voice (not heard enough), his sad voice (heard too often), his tired and irritated voice (pretty much all the time), but this was the voice guaranteed to sink it's claws straight into Dean Winchester's heart and soul.
This was Sam's worried voice, but more than that, this was Sam's scared voice.
Sam didn't scare easily, so even Dean's frozen mind realized that Sam using his scared voice was bad.
A lifetime of looking out for Sam, of being the older brother and the protector had honed Dean's instincts, forging him into a weapon of epic proportions, especially when it came to the safety of Sam Winchester.
Dean had been the one to teach Sam to walk, to talk, to swim. He'd been the one to sooth the nightmares, to beat up the bullies.
He'd spent his life being the thing that stood between Sam and the monsters in the dark, and if Sam used his scared voice, he wasn't calling for John or Bobby or even Cas.
When Sam was scared or hurt, when he was using that voice, he was calling for Dean, because Sam knew that Dean would always come.
Sam didn't use his scared voice idly, so wherever he was on this dark, hellish, FREEZING mountain of doom, he must need help.
He must need Dean.
"Sammy!" His voice was weak and thready, nearly as unsteady as his steps.
"SAM!" He forced more power into it.
It was dark here (wherever here was, Dean was assuming it was a mountain of some sort, though he couldn't remember right then why the hell he was on a mountain), and he couldn't see Sam, but he could hear him, even over the wailing of the wind.
A part of his mind, fractured by the cold and disoriented from being possessed, was paying very little attention to where he was walking, instead wondering about what the hell his little brother was doing wandering around the mountain in the dark (and the cold-cold-cold).
This part of his brain, working on nothing more than big brother memory and instinct, had decided that Sam must have somehow become lost on the mountain, and obviously, Dean had come looking for him.
That was what Dean did.
He took care of Sam.
Where was his kid, anyway?"
"SAM?!" He called again, turning in an unsteady circle, or maybe the mountain was turning...
"Dean!" The word was said like a prayer, full of relief and gratitude, and Dean turned with a punch drunk smile.
"Sam!" He cried, stumbling over to Sam and nearly losing his balance. Sam caught him, hoisting him up easily, draping one of Dean's arms over his shoulder.
"I found you." Dean said fondly, as his eyes fluttered closed.
"What? Dean, Dean, talk to me. Open your eyes, Dean. Dean, I need you to open your eyes." Sam's voice was scared again, and it tugged on Dean's conscience, left a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't like when Sam was scared.
Did something need killing?
Dean felt warm hands press against his face, and he frowned.
"S'hot. Sammy." He mumbled tiredly. "You're too hot. Got a fever?"
Had Sam gotten sick up here on the mountain, lost in the cold? Was the kid wearing a jacket?
Dean struggled to stand on his own, forcing his eyes open. If Sam was sick, Dean needed to get him down the mountain side, before he got worse.
"Gotta...get you down, Sammy. Getcha some medicine. Gone...be okay." He mumbled again, trying to lead his brother forward.
"What? Dean, I'm not sick. You're sick, man. It's the cold. The ghost hijacked you, left you up here. I've been looking for two hours. Come on, the Impala's only a few miles away. Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?" Sam asked, concern in his voice.
Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. "I'm...big brother. I carry...I carry you. I carried you out...of the fire." He said, losing his train of thought again.
Sam sighed. "That's right, Dean. You did. Both times, you got me out."
"Sam...you gotcha coat on? S'cold..." Dean said, trying to focus on his brother's chest.
"Yeah, but, you're right, Dean. I have a fever, I'm too hot. I need to take it off. How about you wear it for me, I don't think I can carry it right now." Sam said cajolingly.
Dean shook his head in confusion, Sam's words not making too much sense. It was cold out here, Dean knew that, though he couldn't really feel it anymore.
If Sam was sick, he should wear his jacket...
Sam was already trying to unbutton his coat, but Dean's free hand was fighting him, trying to stop him from taking it off.
"Too...cold, Sammy." Dean said, trying to make his brother understand. It was dangerous, it Sam got to cold...
"I'm sick, Dean. I'm too hot. Please, will you help me? Will you wear it so I don't have to carry it, and then help me get down the mountain to the Impala?" Sam begged.
Dean frowned, still sensing that Sam shouldn't be taking off his jacket, but his mind was too cloudy now to out think Sam's logic, and all Dean could hear was his baby brother pleading for help in that scared voice, the voice that had launched Dean into a hundred battles, that made Dean relive hazy memories of wrenching Sam away from a burning apartment building, of catching Sam's falling body in the muddy main street of Cold Oak.
It was the voice of Dean's fears, because Dean didn't get afraid for himself.
He got afraid for Sam.
"I need help, Dean. I need you to help me, or I won't make it down." The absolute certainty in Sam's voice had Dean believing him. Sam needed help, or he wouldn't make it off this mountain.
Dean would always help Sam.
"Okay, Sam. Here, give me...jacket. I'll help you." Dean said, straightening as much as he could.
He sighed out loud as the warmth of Sam's coat encompassed him, finally offering a barrier against the soul stealing anger of the wind.
"Dean, can you help me get down the mountain?" Sam asked again, that scared and worried tone in his voice again, and Dean's hand closed reflexively on his arm.
"It's okay, Sammy." He soothed. "Car's...not far."
"Okay, let's go then, Dean. I'm sick. I want to go." Sam said, as they started down the path, quick and ungainly, a strange creature with two heads and four legs and one heart.
Dean started losing time then, the trip down the mountain a series a flashes and half-memories.
The next thing he knew, he was rousing groggily in to motel room, on the bed farthest from the door.
"Dean?" Sam came in from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.
"Hey, how are you feeling? You slept so long I almost thought I should have taken you to the hospital instead..." Sam trailed off as he watched Dean look around the room in confused displeasure. "Dean?"
"I'm on the wrong bed." Dean said, levering himself up unsteadily. He lurched on rubbery legs to the bed closest to the door, feeling a little better almost immediately.
Sam chuckled a little as he pulled on jeans and then crossed quickly over to his brother. "Sorry. It was closer to the heating vent." He explained.
He knelt beside Dean, looking into his brother's face intently. "How are you feeling though? Headache? Chills? Sore throat? Anything numb-Dean, what are you doing?"
Dean had reached out his hand, placing the palm against Sam's forehead. "Well, your fever's gone." He announced tiredly.
Sam just looked at him, wide eyed for a moment before he grinned. "Yeah, Dean. I'm all better. You got me down, Dean. But I think you're still a little tired, and a little out of it."
"Yeah." Dean agreed, laying back on his bed. He felt Sam tuck the blankets around him snugly, but he was too tired to call him out on it.
"Thanks for getting me down, Dean." Sam said softly.
"You should...make sure...jacket...next time." Dean mumbled, already more asleep than awake.
"Will do, big brother. Will do."