I've decided h/c fics are needed at the moment. This chapter's the h. And, unlike me, I haven't actually written chapter 2 yet! But I will - in the next few days, and probably post it next Sunday, I think. This is Dean's story. I want to write one where Cas is miserable and gets fixed too, because I thought that would be fun. Enjoy the ride... Or cry a bit, possibly.

Dean hadn't bothered putting the music on.

Music to drive to, especially when he was on his own, was one of the things that kept him going normally - it crowded out the voices in his head and damped down some of the loneliness. But there was no point. He wouldn't be able to hear it above the flapping of the tarp that he'd had to tape over the driver's side window.

Duct tape. Stuck onto his Baby's paintwork. Useful stuff - you could use it to close up a bad wound if you had to, in an emergency. But it had damn well better not spoil the Impala's finish when he ripped it off.

Dean hadn't bothered putting the heater on either. All the heat would just blow straight out faster than the freezing cold air was coming in.

It would have to snow, wouldn't it? And not just snow, but throw it down in gusting drifts. How often did that happen in these parts? A couple of times a year? It was just Dean's luck one of those times would be when he was missing a window.

He'd got the wendigo, though.

"Sounds like a skinwalker," Dad had said, his voice cutting in and out over a bad line. "You don't need me there, Dean."

Yeah, well that had worked out real well, hadn't it? Dean immediately slapped down the sarcastic voice in his head, just as Dad would've.

Still, Dad had been right, hadn't he? Dean had handled it. The wendigo was dead. And at the expense of just one broken window, which he could get replaced at Bobby's. Bobby had a couple of wrecked Impalas he kept for spares - it made Dean wince to see them so beat up, but if their parts brought new life to his Baby, then at least they were going to a good home.

The tarp fluttered with a continuous rattling slap, growing to a vibrating buzz when they hit a cross-wind. Dean shivered.

The drive from the Wendigo's forest territory in Iowa to Sioux Falls should have taken about five hours - or nearer four if the conditions were good. The conditions were goddamn fucking awful - dark, windy, white with heavy snowfall, and Dean'd better be on his game and alert for patches of ice or he wouldn't make it to Bobby's at all. As it was, it seemed like he'd been driving forever.

His hands were cold. All of him was cold, but his hands most of all, although at least that meant he couldn't feel the scrapes on his knuckles.

The whirling flakes thickened and he eased off the gas even more, the headlights creating flickering shapes in front of him - dancing, confusing, making him doubt the steady curve of the road, wondering if he was about to head into the ditch. Dean tightened his grip on the wheel and leant forward, peering into the blurred mess of black and white.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes and winced.

It had thrown him. That's how the window had got broken - because the damn wendigo had picked him up and not just idly tossed him but thrown him with full force, so that his back had hit the window and cracked it through. Dean's head had smacked back into the metal frame too, but after, when it was dead, he had run his hand along the line of the door and he didn't think it was dented. He didn't think the upholstery had got scratched or torn either, because he'd picked the shards of glass off the driver's seat as carefully as he could. He'd fix the window at Bobby's anyway. The Impala had taken worse in her time.

It was getting colder. He couldn't feel his toes and the cold had penetrated right through the layers of his jacket, shirt and undershirt. His jacket wasn't even buttoned up. It had been, hadn't it? When he'd got out of the car and the first flakes had started to fall he'd buttoned it right up before he'd got the kit out of the trunk. But even in the winter cold, he'd warmed up when he was tracking the wendigo. And he'd certainly got plenty hot when it had caught his scent and it was hunting him as much as he was hunting it. He must've undone it then.

Dean took one frozen hand off the wheel and fumbled for the buttons. He grabbed one, but couldn't find the hole for it to go in, and then lost it and couldn't find any others. Maybe they'd fallen off. He should stop.

No. He'd keep going. It'd be warm at Bobby's. He must be nearly there.

The side of his face had gone numb now. Not the side closest to the window, but the other. Because it was wet, maybe. Wet from… snow. Yeah. He'd fallen a couple of times and it'd been snowing pretty hard when the thing had been chasing him. His back felt cold and wet too, and sort of itchy.

He probably had a couple of scrapes, of course, because that was just what happened on a hunt, especially when it was a fast-paced hunt through a forest in the winter. So, a couple of scrapes, some bruises and a smashed window… well, that still wasn't too bad for taking down a wendigo, was it? Maybe a bump on the head. Because his head had hit the doorframe, even if he hadn't been able to feel a dent in the metalwork.

The tape would leave a sticky mark, but it'd come off with a bit of WD-40. He'd replace the window first, clean off the tape marks and then give her a thorough clean inside and out. And a polish. Get the chrome back to shining like new.

Was that something shining out in front? Was it headlights? Dean blinked, the snowflakes danced and he blinked harder and rubbed his eyes again, which stung. No. There was nothing there now. No one else'd be stupid enough to drive in this anyway.

Dean missed his music. A bit of Led Zeppelin was what he needed. Or anything, to keep him awake. He was so tired.

If Sam was here, he would have offered to drive. Dean would have said no, of course, because they both would've just taken out a wendigo, wouldn't they? So they'd both be equally tired, which meant Dean would drive because he was older and it was his responsibility to look after Sam. Except it wasn't anymore. Sam was looking after himself. HIs little brother was doing his own thing, far away in California, living his brand new, shiny, family-free life. He didn't need Dean any more.

"Eyes on the road, Dean."

His brother's voice jerked him awake. The tyres were bumping along the edge of the verge.

"Fuck!" Dean swerved back onto the road, breathing hard, his head pounding along with his heart.

HIs eyes flicked to the passenger seat, but, of course, Sam wasn't there. Of course he wasn't.

"Jesus. Stupid…!" All he had to do was keep his eyes on Dad's tail lights - what the fuck was wrong with him? Couldn't he even do a simple thing?

There were no red lights ahead. Had he lost Dad? Blackness above, then blurring white where his headlights hit the snow, then just more snow, off into the darkness. Shit. Dad'd be pissed. Again.

No, wait. No. Dean had hunted the wendigo alone. Dad was off in… Nebraska? Nevada? Hunting… what?

Maybe Dad hadn't told him. Quite often, he didn't. He didn't tell Dean much of anything these days - less than he ever had. Now that Sam was gone, Dad was pretty much gone too. He'd call every so often, of course - to make sure Dean had taken out whatever Dad had told him to take out and to give him a new trail to follow. Which was good, really. It was - because it saved Dean having to scour the newspapers to find something to do.

Anyway, Dad was off wherever he needed to be and Dean needed to get to Bobby's so he could fix his window and be ready when Dad called again. Maybe Dad would ask for Dean's back-up. Maybe they'd hunt together for a while, like they used to. No, not like they used to, because Sam had been there then. And Sam might not like the life, but he'd been brought up to it. He and Dean hunted in sync, each knowing what the other was thinking and actually, Sam could say what he wanted - Dean knew that sometimes he did like hunting. They'd be waiting, each flattened against a piece of cover, ready to burst out and gank whatever fugly Dad had flushed in their direction. Then they'd catch each other's eye and Dean would smirk and Sam's lips would squinch up tight and his eyebrows would do this kinda wiggly thing - and Dean could tell Sam was having fun too. They were good at what they did and they both got a kick out of it, at least some of the time.

But Sam was gone and Dad was gone and Dean had to get to Bobby's. He had to get to Bobby's. That was all.

"Get to Bobby's. Get to Bobby's," he murmured, on and on, as if the car would stop if he stopped saying it. "Just get to Bobby's."

Dean drove, the tarp flapped, the snow fell, on and on, into the lonely bitter-cold night.

Then something was different and he couldn't work out what it was. He was cold - so cold.

The snow was falling still. It weaved and danced, flicked and spun in the two bright white beams, flecks of silver edged in gold and rainbows. He blinked and the rainbows sparkled. Dean's head was leaning against the steering wheel - which was hard and cold and hurting him, so why was he leaning against it?

"Huh."

Baby's engine rumbled on, idling, but Dean's foot was off the gas and, glancing down, he could see he'd put her in park. The tarp covering the window was still flapping, but gently, not the constant rip of wind there'd been as he was driving through the blizzard. And there was a light out there, somewhere.

Dean sat up, slowly and stiffly and pulled his frozen hands off the wheel. Tall, uneven shapes loomed behind the curtain of flakes and the light came from his right, somewhere off the ground. Windows. Bobby's windows? Yes. Bobby's house, where it'd be warm and he'd fix the car window and everything would be okay. He'd made it.

Dean let one hand fall from the wheel and fumbled at the key. The engine died, the headlights faded.

"Bobby," said Dean. Nothing happened.

He blinked at the windows. The yellow light was still there - two small squares which were the kitchen and the bigger, irregular one which was the library. But Bobby hadn't heard or there'd be a rectangle of light to one side, as the door opened and he came out to get Dean. Like that time Dad had brought them both here and Bobby had carried Sam in because he was asleep. Dean could have carried him. His arm had been sore from that thing with the… witch - it had been a witch, hadn't it? But anyway, he could still have carried Sammy.

"Bobby."

Dean sighed. It wasn't working. He wasn't coming out to carry Sammy this time. And Dean didn't think he could do it by himself. He was okay, of course - just a couple of scrapes, a couple of bruises, a bit cold, a bit tired. Those things, even taken together, shouldn't add up to him sitting in the car when he could be in the house, getting warm.

So, come on then, move.

It looked like he'd have to fix the driver's door as well as the window, because he couldn't get it to open. But then it must've worked because - wow - now he was really cold. Which you could expect if you stuck your face in the snow.

"Get up, Dean," said his Dad. "What the hell are you doing down there? Get the hell up, now!"

"Yessir," said Dean, his lips numb.

He couldn't get up. His face was in the snow but he'd left his feet in the car and that was pretty funny, really. Sammy laughed.

"Bitch," mumbled Dean.

"Get up then, jerk," said Sam. "Get up and go inside."

"Yeah."

Dean pulled his legs out of the car and then Baby must've given him a hand up because he was leaning against the roof and the snow was piling up already. His hands left thick black lines against the white as they slipped off the ice-cold surface.

Snow on the roof meant snow inside the car if he didn't shut the door. Dry her out, fix the window, fix the driver's door. Maybe Bobby would help him.

Bobby would call him an idjit for just standing there with the door open. He was an idjit. Why was it taking him so long to do anything? Dad would be furious with him for lagging behind when he and Sam had already gone in. But Sam was in California and Dad couldn't come here because Bobby said he'd shoot him if he did. Which didn't make sense, because if Dean couldn't follow orders, of course Dad was going to punish him and Bobby should've realised that and not gotten so mad.

Dean made his legs work. Just a couple of steps, then a push - he fell against the door and his hands caught in the tarp, which came away. Dammit. Always messing up. He was always messing up and Dad would have to clear up after him.

Dean squinted at his fingers. He couldn't feel them, but they were still there. He watched as they plucked clumsily at the tarp, pulling it back up and sticking the tape back down again. Got to get inside. Get Bobby to help put a new window in.

Dean leant against Baby and slid along her wing, then let one hand after the other take his weight along the front of the bonnet. The yellow lights were still there. He glared at them, but they came no closer. He'd have to go to them.

He'd definitely need a deep breath and a run of speed, like if you had to run up a really steep bank because you'd been stupid and fallen down it and Dad was damned if he was coming down to get you. But Dean couldn't get a deep breath. His chest was full of rattling ice and he thought his heart might've frozen - probably when Sam left, which was a stupid thought, worthy of some teen-girl magazine.

He fixed his eyes on his goal and left the support of his car. The lights swayed. Bobby should fix that. Dean could fix it for him.

Then he tripped and fell, like the clumsy idiot he was. Idjit.

"Stop crawling in the dirt and get up."

Dad again, and Dean wanted to tell him he was crawling in the snow, which was soft and didn't hurt as much, but his mouth wouldn't work and you didn't talk back to Dad anyway. You just said, 'Yes, sir,' and did as you were told.

Dean, as he always had, did as he was told, getting one foot under him, then the other, because that was how standing up was done, even though it didn't seem to work that well and he thought vaguely that there must be a better way. He made one leg move, then the other, one and then the other and then he fell again and it hurt more, because the hard edges of wooden steps banged against his legs and his chest and his chin.

He got up again, before Dad had to tell him this time, because he did learn and he did listen. He remembered too - important things like knocking on Bobby's door instead of barging in, breaking it down or picking the lock, even just for practice. Because unannounced visitors would find themselves with a faceful of holy water, salt, lead and iron, not necessarily in that order. Bobby was dangerous when surprised.

Dean knocked by falling against the door. But he was clever, though. That bit'd move when Bobby opened it, so Dean kinda rolled sideways just a bit and leant against the doorframe and then he wouldn't fall into the house. He didn't want Bobby to think he was turning up soaked in bourbon. Bobby'd kick his ass for that, even though he always had enough empties to start bottling his own.

Nothing was happening. Dean yelled and hammered on the door. No, no he didn't, he'd dreamt that. His hands were down there somewhere, unresponsive, not up for clenching into fists either for fighting or for pounding on doors.

"Bobby." He couldn't feel his lips and the doorframe didn't respond to the whisper. "Bobby."

Snow fell. Was it that that damped down the sound or were his ears frozen too?

There was a double rattling click from the other side of the door. And something in Dean relaxed so that he slid another couple of inches down the frame. The sound of comfort, of protection, of family - the ratcheting of a round into the breech of a heavy firearm.

"Who's there?"

Me. Bobby, it's me. It's Dean.

"You'd better say something or I'm sending a few rounds straight through the door, woodwork be damned!"

Dean tried so hard to make his voice work or to raise a hand in a polite I'm-not-a-monster-that-needs-its-head-blown-off knock. He managed to direct his shivers against the door and rattle it a bit.

Please don't shoot.

There was a pause. Then the sound of muffled swearing and stomping. He was going. Bobby was going. He must think it was the wind or a fall of snow from the roof and that he'd got his shotgun out for nothing.

The stomping receded. He was going into the library, where it'd be warm from the fire and there were chairs you could sit down on and rest.

Dean could go to sleep right here. He slid a bit further down. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't so cold. Had he stopped shivering? Things didn't seem to hurt as much. What was it that had hurt? His head? His back? Why wasn't Sammy here to give him the answers. His brother always had answers, even if most of them were stupid or annoying - or even if they were perfectly good, Dean would pretend they were stupid and annoying because that's what brothers did.

Sam had gone, though.

Dean's knees hit the layer of snow on the doorstep but he didn't feel them because snow was soft and gentle and not so bad - a bit like a blanket, really. He could just go to sleep right here, couldn't he?

I hope you like the story so far! Poor Dean - so cold and wet and miserable and thinking more about his car than himself. I'm not sure whether to write the next chapter from Bobby's POV. Maybe.