"God dammit, Sasquatch," Dean swears, looking down at his brother on the ground. "Making a snow angel?"

Wendigo hunts were never fun at the best of times, let alone in the mountains in the dead of winter. Especially when your genius brother gets his ass knocked out in the snow and is hypothermic before you even come to his rescue. By the time Dean took out the bastard with his flare gun, Sam was already stirring and trying to stand. When Dean gives Sam a hand, the first thing he notices is that Sam's clothes are soaked through from the snow. The second thing he notices is that Sam's sheepishly not meeting his eyes.

And the third thing is that Sam's not shivering.

Shit.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean prompts. Sam takes a beat too long to meet his eyes, and when he does, they're cloudy.

Double shit.

They're probably only a mile from the cabin they've been squatting in, but Dean didn't leave the fire going, so it's going to be awhile before he can get his brother warm. He settles for ripping off his leather jacket and handing it to Sam, who just stares at him, confused. Dean's heart sinks at Sam's sluggish reactions as he settles for wrapping Sam up in his coat himself. The wind cuts into Dean, and he can't imagine how cold Sam must be with his wet clothes.

"You've got to give me something, man," Dean tells Sam, who blinks slowly. "You okay?"

"Was I out?" Sam asks, and he's slurring his words.

Triple shit.

"Okay, let's go," Dean announces, starting the process of dragging his brother back towards the cabin. Sam's usually pretty coordinated, even with his long limbs, but right now it's like he's six beers deep.

"Did we get it?" Sam asks, suddenly freezing in place as if he's sensed danger.

Despite himself, Dean huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, Sammy, we got it. Well, I got it while you were getting some beauty sleep."

"I was out?" Sam asks again, and any sense of levity leaves Dean once again.

Dean drags Sam as fast as he can safely manage, through the snow and the wind. Sam trips every few dozen steps and his movements are slow, but they make decent progress, all things considered. Dean is just starting to think they'll make it when he notices that Sam's shaggy bangs are getting blown all over his face and coated with snow. Sam doesn't lift a finger to fuss with it. Dean's about to think up a comment that comes across as joking rather than panicked when Sam's eyes flutter closed and he goes limp, taking Dean down with him. Dean does his best to protect Sam's head before they hit the ground, but in their one stroke of luck for the day, the snow cushions their fall.

"Sammy?!" Dean asks, shaking his brother.

Sam groans in response and mumbles something that sounds a lot like "sorry."

"Alright, we're doing this the hard way," Dean decides, hauling himself to his feet and grabbing Sam in a fireman carry. Sam protests weakly, but Dean's already moving. They only have about a half a mile left. Dean can do that. Dean has to be able to do that.

He feels Sam go limp again as the cabin comes into view, and Dean takes off into the closest thing to a run he can manage. "Hang on, Sammy."

In any other circumstance, Dean would crack a joke about carrying Sam over the threshold, but the storm of panic and relief swirling within him take the words from his tongue. Dean deposits Sam in front of the fireplace and lights it before turning back to his brother, still unconscious. The flames start to catch and produce only the smallest amount of light and heat, but they're growing.

"Sam. Sammy, wake up. Rise and shine." Dean shakes Sam until his brother scrunches up his nose and cracks his eyes open. "Atta boy. Let's get you out of these wet clothes. We've got to get you warm."

With very little assistance from Sam, Dean manages to bundle him up into several layers of clothes grabbed at random from their bags. He changes his own clothes, too, mindful of keeping himself warm for Sam's sake. After Dean's scrounged up every blanket he can find and cocooned Sam in them, he takes a breath to reevaluate. The fire is burning strongly now, casting enough heat that Dean's already too warm. Kneeling down beside Sam, he takes his pulse. It's still slow and not as strong as Dean would like, and his skin is chilled to the touch.

"Hey, Sam. Hey." It takes him a couple of tries to get Sam's attention, and he's not tracking correctly with his eyes. "Do you know where we are?"

Sam squints, looking around and considering his answer very carefully. "Minnesota?" He asks, clearly guessing.

"Michigan," Dean replies, heart sinking. "Do you know what we were hunting?"

"Rugar… wendigo," Sam hastily corrects himself, though whether it's due to his own memory or Dean's expression is anyone's guess.

"Look at me for a sec, Sam. What's today?" Dean asks, already sighing and disrupting the bundle of blankets to crawl in and wrap his arms around Sam. They lock eyes, and at least his pupils aren't fixed, even through the cloudiness. Dean is giving off heat like a furnace now that he's under the blankets, rubbing Sam's arms up and down and trying to help his circulation.

"Wednesday?"

"Tuesday, time traveler." Sam flinches briefly at that, and the reminder of one of Sam's many traumas makes Dean's heart clench painfully. "It's okay, I've got you. Just stay awake with me for a bit, okay?" Sam is shivering now, thank god, and Dean pulls him closer.

Sam growls his discontent at staying awake, and it earns a soft chuckle from Dean, until his next words. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"What the hell are you sorry for?" Dean asks.

"Screwin' up. Again."

Another crack in Dean's breaking heart. "Sammy, it happens to the best of us. You've saved my ass more times than I can count. You're just letting me repay the favors." He can tell Sam wants to argue, but doesn't seem to have it in him.

"Don't want you to have to kill me. You don't deserve it," Sam mumbles. And there it is, the last Jenga piece before Dean's heart crumbles.

"Did you just say you don't want me to have to kill you because I don't deserve it?" Dean chokes out, trying and failing to keep his voice even. "But what, you do?"

Sam shrugs noncommittally, as if they're talking about dinner plans. "Imma monster."

"Sammy-" Dean starts, trying to get his emotions in check. He shuts his eyes briefly, arresting the progress of the tears threatening to escape. "You are not a monster. You are never going to be a monster, and I am not going to kill you, and Dad is a bastard for ever thinking that, let alone saying it to me."

There's a brief pause then, before Sam gives a soft sigh and seems to let the topic drop. They sit in silence for awhile; Dean thinks of a thousand ways to break it, but the look on Sam's face is finally content and he doesn't want to shatter the moment. He does sneak a hand to Sam's wrist to check his pulse, and is relieved when he finds it stronger. He knows Sam's probably out of the woods now, but he can't make himself budge. Even if he can't quote find the words he wants, he needs Sam to know he's there.

So Dean stays right where he is as the pair of them drift off to a dreamless sleep, both hoping the other will forget the conversation in the morning.