Season 5. Takes place between Abandon All Hope and Sam, Interrupted. Not mine~

As you wake with a start you can hear the echo of the gunshot, and then you can hear a sharp and constant crushing sound, like snow being trampled on. You hear the roar of the river, very close now.

You must have gone into shock earlier, but you're awake now, and pain throbs through you like ocean waves as tall as skyscrapers.

Your face is sore and swollen. The entire back side of your body is pulsing with hurt. Your right arm is murmuring in protest, likely to start screaming soon, from the bullet wound placed a little lower than your shoulder. Dean's got a hold of your wrists with what feels like claws made of icicles, and he's dragging you through the thick blanket that covers the woods.

Your hands, you realize, are completely numb. You try to wiggle your fingers but you don't know if they're actually moving.

More than anything, you're cold. Flurries are sticking to unexposed skin, and the back of your jeans and shirts are soaked through completely, causing goosebumps to map the entire canvas of your body. A massive shiver wracks your frame, and in response, Dean starts to speak again.

"Your wickedness makes you as it were heavy as lead," he speaks to you matter-of-factly. You barely register the words. Your legs are stiff, your entire self frozen and unresponsive. You can't bring yourself to figure out how long you were out— you're tired. You're so tired.

"D'n," you manage out, but you can't get your mouth to move the way you want and your jaw shivers so suddenly that you bite your tongue.

You can't take a deep enough breath to feel comfortable. You feel like you should be scared— of something. Wasn't your heart pounding a little while ago? It's so slow now. You feel the sluggish beat in your chest like a finger gently tapping on you from the inside. Your back aches. Your arm hurts, as if you got shot. You don't remember.

"And to tend downwards with great weight and pressure towards hell," Dean continues preaching, but he's stopped dragging you now, and the roaring is as loud as it'll ever be; you hang your head back again, and see the river, a huge shadow lurking, a monstrous black abyss poking out from gaps in the ice.

You and Dean are right next to one of those gaps. You stare at it.

"D'n."

He ignores you, keeps going with his sermon while he walks around you and starts to push your torso. Drops of obsidian land on the snow next to you, and a few get on your shirt. Then your face is hitting powder and grinding against your forehead.

"And if God should let you go," he's saying, "you would immediately sink and swiftly descend."

Another roll sparks pain in your arm, sparks you into action, and you try to push himself up, but it hurts, it's too late—

"And plunge."

He grunts, pushing you hard and forcing the air our of your lungs, forcing your face right next to the menacing rapids, which hiss and spray at your face—

"Into the bottomless gulf."

And suddenly, you're being swallowed by that black abyss, Dean's last words cut off with it's roar.

Your nerves come alive briefly as you're swept under. The freeze that bursts through every fiber of your being is absolute, unbearable, and it devours you. You jerk and spasm, struggling against the current, fighting for everything. For your brother, for the world, for yourself.

Your fingers are as much a part of you as your clothes now, but you use them anyway to scrape and push and claw the ice above you. Above you is light, below you is— you're not sure. You don't want to know. Yet, you're being pulled down by the current. (By more than the current.) It's unforgiving, merciless, and you feel sick from the way your numb fingers fly against the frozen glass, and how fucking freezing you are. God, you're becoming the cold, you want to scream, but you can't hold your breath much longer and your lungs are burning and you cherish it because it's the only warmth you'll ever have ever again.

You don't want to let go.

Dean's going to be pissed— no, Dean's going to freeze to death. He probably will. Because of you, a goddamn screw-up of a brother. He threw you into a fucking river and you can't even get yourself out.

You don't want to let go.

But you can feel your body slowly shutting down from lack of heat and lack of oxygen, and just for a moment, only just one moment, you let go. For a moment, you become the river, the looming black monster trying to hide under a transparent layer of apathy and strength. (Poking out from gaps in the ice. Everyone always saw those gaps.)

But you're really just (a fucking burden, you know that)?

—and if God should let you go, you would immediately sink and swiftly descend and plunge into the bottomless gulf.

You let go.

Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed.

You let go.

Something's pulling you out of the surging waters. It grabs your hair and yanks. Then it gets a hold of your shirt, and it's dragging your dead weight out of the river. It lays you on the bank, a few feet away from the cracked ice.

You don't move. You don't breathe. The river growls at its loss, it laps at its boundaries and grows louder in frustration at your lack of response. You don't—

You cough, ice water erupting from your mouth. You roll to your side and it comes spewing out of your throat like an avalanche and your throat hurts, your chest hurts your lungs hurt everything hurts like a dull throbbing on the inside, somehow, just beneath the skin.

The cold starts to seep in again, but only a little. You aren't shivering.

You try to open your eyes, but you can't. They're— stuck. You leave them closed. You're tired, so tired, and it's hard to think, but there's something you need to do, and it's important. Your instinct kicks in and you try to figure out just how bad off you are.

Your hands and feet are useless, you're not even sure if they're still there. You can move your legs a little, but they're stiff and you're easily tired from the motion. Your left arm is fairly okay, the right one harder to control, for some reason you're not sure of. Torso, clammy and uncomfortable. Wet. Face, same. You nuzzle the snow briefly and note you've lost feeling in your nose and ears. Your eyes— still won't open.

There's not much you can do. (What can you do?) You don't know where your duffel is, you wouldn't be able to open it regardless. You don't know where you are. The worst part, you don't know where Dean is, and that terrifies you. You barely remember what happened. Christ, if Dean fell in too—

Dean had been the one to push you in, hadn't he? Had you been— had you fought?

(You selfish son of a bitch I'm through with cleaning up your messes)

No, no, Dean had been possessed. By a— a ghost. And you— you had sent a message to Castiel. He had to have gotten it. He had to have saved Dean.

Using your elbows, you try to get up, to go somewhere, and you start to crawl away from the roaring river. But you're too weak; you collapse back down with your face pressed against the snow. Your breath, no longer coming out in white puffs, is light and shallow. You don't want to try again. You decide to curl up instead, your dead hands moved to your scalp and your arms touching your face. You bend your knees as much as possible, which probably isn't much at all, and then you let the cold consume you once more. You lie there, like a lost child who's never going to be found. The immensity of the forest dwarfs you, and soon starts to hide your body with a new layer of snow. You feel yourself begin to shut down again, and you're okay. Castiel had to have saved Dean. You're okay.

"Sam."

The voice is barely heard. It's low, and rough, and familiar, and it contains relief and regret and happiness. But it's not Dean.

There's some crunching noises, getting louder and louder 'til they're right at your face, and the only thing between it and the noise are your arms covered with frozen shirt sleeves. Sounds maybe like boots.

It's not Dean.

There's a small pressure on your forehead, and then you're gone.

You wake up— again— cold and unable to move. You're still wet, too. Except now something's moving you, touching you and jostling you. You're being stripped, slowly and carefully, each layer being peeled off like a bandaid. Wanting to fight, you try to struggle, but your limbs won't cooperate. A low growl comes from the bottom of your throat.

"Jesus, Cas, can't you go any faster?"

"I already told you, I'm only able to heal a little bit at a time. My power is not sufficient enough to completely repair him."

And suddenly you're being dressed again, something's being wrapped around your arms and legs. You're not sure about your hands or feet.

You're starting to shake, from the cold and another thing— those voices— That's Castiel. That's Dean.

Dean is safe. (Oh, God, Dean is safe.)

You try to open your eyes again, and you can. You see, the first thing you see, is the motel room, bright oranges and reds and Castiel's pants. Your mouth opens and you try to speak.

"D-d'h."

You cough. And instantly, Dean's face is right in front of yours, his hands on your cheeks and then your forehead and then your cheeks again, and you flinch, and you notice that his hands, they're bandaged, and guilt floods through you. But you're so glad Dean is okay, and here.

"Sammy, Sammy, God, are you okay, man? I'm so glad you— I thought— We fixed up your arm. We were gonna start working on your back God Sammy I'm so fucking glad you're okay, I—"

He stops there, but his hands don't stop moving around your face. You feel your heart rate begin to speed up again and your trembling gets more intense, like you're practically convulsing. There's a shift behind Dean and you break eye contact for a second.

"You'll need some blankets," Castiel says with a bundle already in his arms, "you're cold. We can take care of the wounds from the shotgun later."

Dean quiets, looks away, but he helps the angel cocoon you in the comforters.

You try to work your mouth again, and find that it'll acquiesce for the most part.

"C-cas," the words come out choppy and erratic and fatigued, "th-tha-anks-s f-f'r p-pull'n-ng m-me out-t-t f'th-the r-r-riv-v'r."

The man leans down next to Dean, staring at you with deer-wide eyes. "Sam, I did not pull you out of the river."

He glances down then, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He clears his throat, then continues softly, "Sam. I'm, uh. I'm sorry I couldn't find you— sooner."

You start abruptly, then settle again. That means— what Castiel said, were you—?

You look at them, both full of guilt and regret and pain, like you. You wish you could apologize for your failures, your mistakes, everything you've ever done to them. For a split second in this motel room, you envy Dean and Castiel. Because they're able to be absolved for what they do or don't do. They're able to ask for forgiveness and get something besides too little, too late back.

"S-s'alr-r-right-t." And you mean it, too. They hadn't done anything wrong. They don't deserve the guilt.

"Sam..." Dean starts, but you shake your head and level him with a stare.

"D-don't." And that's about it. You're too tired to say any more, so you tilt your head a little away from them and try to keep your eyes open. Your jaw hammers rapidly and you're freezing.

They both seem to sigh at the same time. After a stretched silence, Dean says gently, "We'll get someone else to finish the hunt," and his hands are on your face again, combing your hair back.

Castiel's hand is unexpectedly on your face too, and warmth spreads through your frame with the touch. Your nose and ears and fingers and toes twinge. What color are they, you wonder.

Someone else will finish the hunt. You'll probably stay in this motel room for a while, maybe go to the hospital eventually to deal with anything Castiel is unable to fix. You'll always remain a little damaged from this, a little cold. This hunt will doubtless never be brought up again.

The two begin to move around you again, pacing, circling you like mourners. You think about asking Castiel for Dean's amulet, but you're too tired, so you go to sleep.