Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case).

Whoops, the day got away from me, so this is a little late. Sorry! I decided to publish both chapters today, instead of waiting until tomorrow to publish Chapter 6, since this one wasn't quite so timely. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading (and big thanks to my reviewers).

Chapter 5

Sam felt odd. His head hurt, badly. His backside felt cold and damp, but the front of his body felt warm. He couldn't move and the world was darkness. And it smelled like Dean. Breathing in deeply, Sam tried to assess what was wrong with him. Light peeked through at the periphery of his vision. When he tried to move, his muscles and limbs responded, they just felt weighted down. So he knew he was neither blind, nor paralyzed. He remembered the ghost showing up and tossing him into a tree. Suddenly all the clues clicked in his head. He was lying in the snow and Dean was unconscious on top of him. His brother's body was warding off both the cold and the ghost. Now that he understood what was going on, Sam had an easier time figuring out what he needed to do next. The ghost had to be around still, or Dean would be in the process of dragging him back to the cabin, not draped over him staving off hypothermia.

That meant the first order of business was setting the bones alight. Sam turned his head to the side, looking around carefully. He spotted the shotgun about a dozen feet away, halfway between him and the grave. After rolling Dean's weight off his torso, he dug through the pockets of his brother's coat for the lighter.

"Dammit," he cursed when he couldn't find it. But he knew there were matches in the duffel bag. He just had to find them. Watching for the ghost, Sam checked Dean quickly. His brother was cold, but his heartbeat was strong. There were scrapes on his face and some blood on the snow beneath Dean's shoulder. Sam knew the best thing he could do was torch the ghost and get Dean home fast. Stumbling, he made his way over to the shotgun and picked it up, automatically checking to see if it was loaded. He pulled the spent shell out and replaced it with one from his pocket. The duffel sat at the edge of the grave, lightly covered by a layer of snow. The bones inside the grave were also covered, but Sam hoped that wouldn't make a difference. He began to search the duffel for the matches. His hand closed on a large container of salt just as an axe swung down by his head.

Without looking, he flipped the container open and swung it at the ghost, shouting, "Go away!"

Feeling his heart race, he dove back to the duffel, desperate now to find the matches. The salt didn't work as well as the shotgun, because the ghost was back almost immediately, threatening him with the axe again.

Trying his best to sound like Dean or his father, he leveled the shotgun at the ghost, aiming for center mass. "Go screw yourself," he said as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of wrestling his way around the objects in the duffel, he dumped the bag out on the snow, searching through them with his gloved fingers. With a cry of triumph, his hand closed around the box. He grabbed the lighter fluid too, just in case. Not even bothering to stand, he flung himself forward, stomach to the ground. Barely at the edge of the grave, he poured lighter fluid down into the grave, emptying the bottle. Fingers trembling, he pushed the box of matches open and struck one against the side. It lit and he waited a relieved second for the lighter fluid to catch. But nothing happened. Sam peered down into the grave and saw that the snow had extinguished the match before it could light anything.

He rolled as Cohenbash swung the axe in his direction, fighting not to panic. His roll ended with him near one of the shovels, which he grabbed and swung at the ghost. When it disappeared, he lowered the shovel into the grave and scraped away as much snow as he could. The ghost reappeared, seemed to consider him for a moment, then began marching toward Dean's unconscious form. Real panic hit Sam as he watched the ghost advance on his brother. Yanking the shovel out of the hole, he scrambled for the matchbox. He dropped the first match before he could light it and fumbled for the second. Cohenbash was closer to Dean, smiling like a fiend. Mathias suddenly appeared, pulling on his father's shirt, trying to slow him down. With a swing a baseball player might envy, the ghost buried the axe in his son's chest. Even from across the clearing, Sam could see the blood spray, followed by the thump of impact and crunch of ribs cracking. Mathias slumped to the ground and Cohenbash braced his foot on his son's stomach so he could pull the axe out. Sam could only watch in open mouthed horror. Then Cohenbash lifted the axe back up to his shoulder and began walking toward Dean again.

Sam stood up quickly, shouting, "Hey! Over here. Come get me, you – turd. You killed your own kid, twice, why not come kill me? Or do you only pick on people who can't fight back?" Holding tightly to the matches, Sam waved his hands in the air to distract the ghost. For a second, hope flared. The spectre took a single step toward him, then another. But it didn't last. With a grimace, the older man turned and advanced on Dean again.

Muttering, "No, no, no," under his breath, Sam focused on the matches. He ripped the gloves off with his teeth, clenched a match between two fingers and struck it. Crouching near the grave, he tossed it at the clear area he'd made with the shovel. It arced and went out. Cohenbash was standing beside Dean now, slowing raising the axe. Shuddering with cold and dread, Sam lit the next match, then shoved it at the cardboard box of matches in his hand. When the edges of the box caught, he flattened out on the ground, stretched his arm as far as he could into the grave, and dropped the box just as all the matches inside flamed simultaneously. A piece of the burlap caught the flame and then the lighter fluid Sam had poured on earlier accelerated the blaze. There was a crackle and a whoosh as the whole grave erupted in flame.

Sam looked up to see the axe's downward arc toward Dean's head. He tensed and began to run even as the ghost crackled orange. The ghost and the axe vanished before they could touch Dean. Sam scrambled through the snow to his brother. Dean was colder now, his skin pale and lips tinged slightly blue. After making sure Dean's jacket was buttoned securely, Sam grabbed the collar and used it to drag his brother over near the fire.

"Come on, Dean. We're going to use this to get you warmed up, then get back to the cabin. The ghost is gone. We got him." Sam propped Dean up by the edge of the fire and packed everything back into the duffel, including the shotgun. He put his own gloves back on and tried to figure out how he was going to get his brother back to the cabin as quickly as he could. Dragging him by his collar wouldn't work, the short trip across the clearing proved that. Sam's arms ached from the strain, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his head throbbed for attention as well. But Dean had been knocked out and unconscious in the snow for who knew how long? Sam knew the only reason he hadn't frozen to death was because his brother had been draped over him, keeping him warm. Furiously he thought of all the lessons their father had taught them.

"Nothing. Nothing! What am I going to do?" Sam whirled helplessly, trying to remember something – anything that might help.

Books he'd read over the years came back to him. Jack London, history books, accounts on the Donner tragedy, journals from hunters. Whatever Bobby had lying in stacks around the house and anything Sam gleaned from the numerous schools they'd both attended. His brain rapidly sifted through all the flotsam until it coalesced into a plan.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on the ground near Dean's hips. He carefully rolled his brother onto the coat and tied the sleeves as tightly as he could around Dean's waist. The slick surface of the winter coat would hopefully act as a sled of sorts, as well as protection. He lashed a bit of rope around the knot, to hold it securely. As an afterthought, he loosely tied Dean's legs together. He crossed Dean's arms, tucked his brother's hands into his armpits and tied them in place as well. With the remaining rope, he made a harness that he tied first around Dean, then around himself. After slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder and positioning the two shovels as walking sticks, Sam knew he was ready to try his plan.

Closing his eyes briefly, he gathered his strength. "Please let this work. Please." He sent the brief prayer skyward and took a step forward. It was hard to walk dragging Dean's weight behind him, but not impossible. The harness didn't dig in and Sam's head maintained only a steady throb. Happy that everything seemed to be working, at least for the moment, Sam started back to the cabin. The footsteps they made on their way into the woods were still visible, though filled a bit with snow. He set off, moving as quickly as he could.

The snow tapered off as he slogged through the woods, relying on the tracks they'd made earlier to get them both home. He talked to Dean while he walked about anything he could think of, hoping his brother would answer back. There were occasional groans, but Dean never woke. Sam checked Dean's pulse whenever he stopped and was relieved to find it strong and steady. But the Dean's shivering and cold skin worried him. He had to get Dean to the cabin and get him warm. He resolved to keep walking until they were back at the cabin without any more rest breaks.

An hour later, the sky was brightening and Sam hoped they were getting close. The headache from getting smashed into the tree had faded from his awareness. It was there, but inconsequential. His legs were trembling, threatening to give out, and the rope harness around his shoulders and waist had begun to dig in, if the burning skin was any indication. There were sure to be bruises later. At least sweating seemed to be keeping him warm. None of it mattered though, as long as he got Dean someplace safe. Finally, he saw what he'd been looking for: the roofline of the cabin. They were almost there.

"Come on, Dean. I can see it. You're going to be warm soon, I promise. Don't suppose you could wake up now and help me these last few feet?" Sam pulled his brother around the side of the house to the front door and tugged him up the front steps. He shoved the door open and tossed the shovels inside. With some careful maneuvering, he got Dean inside, then closed the door and laid down a salt line. When he tried to untie the rope harness, it was so frozen and stiff that his fingers merely fumbled. He pulled the knife from Dean's ankle sheath and sawed the rope away from them both. Blood rushing back through the bruised areas made him sway. After dropping the duffel and shotgun, he stripped Dean of his hat, coat, gloves, boots, and socks. Then Sam dragged his brother over near the fireplace. He started a fire, and while it built up energy, pulled off Dean's jeans and shirt.

"I'm telling everyone – including you – that you woke up long enough to undress yourself. Man, you weigh a ton. Maybe after this I can get you to lay off the bacon double cheeseburgers." Sam grabbed as many blankets as he could off the bed, wrapping them around Dean's still form. He checked the laceration on Dean's shoulder and knew it wasn't bad. Once he'd cleaned it and used butterfly strips to tape it up, he cleaned the scrapes. Worryingly, Dean slept through the entire process.

Satisfied that his brother was as warm and cared for as he could make him at the moment, Sam went to the kitchen area and took out two pots. He filled the first with water and put it on the stove to boil. The second he filled with canned soup. While he waited for everything to heat up, Sam went to the bedroom to change out of his wet clothing. Wincing at the welts the rope harness had raised on his torso, he grabbed dry clothes and dressed.

Minutes later he sat in front of the fire, trying to wake up Dean. When talking to him and slapping his face garnered no result, he tried gingerly tipping spoonfuls of broth down his brother's throat. Finally, Sam's anxiety eased when Dean began to show signs of life. Then he coughed, sputtering on a bit of soup.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was a harsh croak. He cracked his eyes open and blinked. "What happened?"

"Ghost knocked me out. I woke up with you unconscious on top of me, keeping me warm. I roasted the ghost and dragged you here. Come on, you need to finish this soup."

"What about you? Are you okay?" Dean tried to struggle out of the blankets, wanting to check on Sam.

"I'm fine, Dean. Really. Finish this soup up, and then you should probably take a warm shower."

"Yeah, sounds like a good plan." Dean took a taste of the soup, then out the spoon down. He stared at the bowl so long that Sam cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the soup.

"Eat. You need to get warm."

"Yeah, I know." He picked up the spoon again, swirling it in the soup. When he didn't take another bite, Sam started tapping his foot. Dean finally ate a little. Sam broke off the stare and moved toward the kitchen to dish out some soup for himself.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called him back. "Thanks. I could've gotten us both killed. I screwed up. Dad always says make sure the monster is down for the count before you check on injuries. Life or death. I ran for you instead of following my training."

"Dean, even after the ghost came after you, you tried to protect me. Your last thought before you blacked out was to keep me warm. That makes you a pretty awesome big brother as far as I'm concerned."

Dean shook his head at his brother's words. "No mushy stuff. You should be pissed at me, you know? This is going to make it hard to be mad next time you screw up." He paused, then asked, "Why do you suppose Cohenbash didn't come after us while we were both out?"

Shrugging, Sam answered, "Mathias, maybe? Or maybe he just thought we were boring when we were both out cold. Or maybe he thought we were already dead. Or that the cold would finish us off. Who knows?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Dean gave him a long look. "Thanks, little brother."

"Right back at you." Sam smiled and went to get his own soup.