A/N: This was written for the Beta Branch BigBang, inspired by a prompt at hoodietime, and covers my hypothermia square in h/c bingo.

Cover art was drawn by the lovely finaljoy!

xxxx

Dean hates snow. He comes to that conclusion around the second time he collapses to his knees and as he sits there shivering and trying to conjure enough energy to get up, he decides that it's a valid thing to think. In fact, he isn't sure why snow even exists. It's an unnecessary evil and doesn't help anyone; he would get rid of it forever if he could. Sam would disagree, of course. He'd say that snow is important for the ecosystem, blah blah blah, and what about the polar bears and the penguins?

Dean swallows thickly and takes as deep a breath as his ribs will allow, and uses his good left hand to lever himself to a mostly-upright position. The snow is a good seven or eight inches thick and shows no sign of slowing up, drifting down in a steady pound. Dean starts trudging forward again. Polar bears are pretty cool, he guesses, so maybe snow has a few good uses, at least. And penguins are kind of cute. Plus the ones in that Madagascar movie are funny.

"See, Sam?" Dean says, "I can be rational. Snow is good."

The only answer is the whistle of the wind that tosses the snow around and bites through his thin shirt and pants and raises goosebumps on his skin. Dean shivers and tries not to inhale too sharply; the cold air tickles his throat, which makes him cough, which makes his chest throb in agony, which makes him inhale too sharply. It's a cycle of doom, really. At least his arm has gone mostly numb.

The bastards who kidnapped him broke it. Thoroughly. He can't see the bone sticking out of it now because he bandaged it the best he could, but it's bled a good bit. He thinks it's slowed down now because of the cold, which is mostly a good thing. At least, he thinks so. Everything is a bit jumbled and his head feels thick and kinda fuzzy. It's weird.

He stumbles and this time he knows he won't stay on his knees. He throws his arms in front of him out of instinct and only has a split second to realize that that's a really, really bad idea before he hits the ground. Pain shoots up his arm and through his chest and damn the polar bears he hates snow.

And then everything just…stops.

xxxx

They took him at a bar. A bar. Sam knows he's going to hear about that one for weeks from Dean. They kidnapped me from a bar, Sammy. Bars are off-limits. Bars are sacred. What kind of douchebag messes with a man at a bar? Sam will remind him that, actually, all kinds of crappy stuff happens at bars, but Dean will pretend he didn't hear him.

That's all assuming, of course, that Sam can find him.

He called Bobby as soon as he woke up and realized Dean had never come back to the motel and wasn't answering his phone. He felt a tiny bit silly as he dialed, but he was worried about Dean; they were both still reeling from Dad's death even if neither would admit it and damn it, Sam didn't want to do this alone.

Bobby took it with as much grace as he always did, which is to say he cussed Dean out and said he would be there in three hours.

Sam checked the hospital first (hey, it was a pretty good guess considering Dean's track record) and then the police station (wouldn't be the first time) and then started checking bars near their motel. It's at the second place that the bartender, a thin wisp of a man, recognizes Dean's picture.

"Oh sure," he says, nodding. "He had all the ladies in here gawking."

Sam manages not to roll his eyes. "Did you see him leave?" he asks.

"Yep," the bartender says. "Right around 10:30 if I recall correctly."

10:30 is early. 10:30 means Dean should have been home in time to cram in at least one beer before bed.

"Did he seem okay? When he left?"

The bartender scratches awkwardly behind an ear and gnaws at his lower lip. Sam is anything but reassured by the nervous gesture. "Well, it ain't really my place to judge," he says, "but when he left off he seemed like he'd had a bit too much to drink."

Sam frowns. It would take a lot these days to get Dean drunk off his ass. "Did he leave alone?"

The bartender shakes his head. "Nah, left with two of his buddies."

"Buddies?" Sam asks, alarm sharpening his voice. "What did they look like?"

"I dunno, they were bigger, one of 'em had a beard."

"Anything else about them that stood out?" Sam asks, panic slowly starting to creep in.

"Look, I already told you what I know," the bartender says, his voice taking on a defensive edge, and Sam recognizes that the man isn't going to give him anything else.

"Okay, okay, thanks," Sam says. His brain is racing as he turns to leave, trying to think of anyone he knows who matches the 'big and bearded' description. He's almost to the door when he hears someone clearing her throat behind him, trying to get his attention. Sam turns to see a waitress, towel still in hand from wiping down a table.

"I overheard you talking," she says quietly. Sam walks toward her, cocking his head to hear, surprised when she shakes her head, throwing a nervous look toward the bartender. Sam stops, frowning. "I'm on break in ten minutes. Meet me across the street in the coffee shop."

"Okay," Sam says, tone low. "Thanks."

He nearly drives himself crazy in the coffee shop waiting to see if the waitress will come. After fifteen minutes he's just about ready to storm back to the bar when he sees her walk in, purse clutched in one hand.

"Hi," Sam says, standing quickly and holding out a hand. "I'm Sam."

"Melissa," the waitress says, shaking his hand firmly. She's probably in her mid-forties and petite, not even coming to Sam's shoulder.

"I, uh, got you a coffee," he says, pushing the cup across the table to her as they sit down.

"Thanks," Melissa says, accepting the drink. "Listen, I don't have a whole lot of time."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Sam says. "What did you want to tell me?"

"The bar I work at isn't the most reputable place around," Melissa says, "and Walt – the bartender – knows that if we start blabbing about the shit that goes on there, we'll lose half our customers."

Sam nods and swallows thickly.

"Normally I wouldn't say anything," Melissa says, her voice dropping low, "but I know what it looks like when someone is drugged, and I'd bet a month's wages that those sons of bitches roofied your brother."

"They – what?" Sam asks, mind reeling. The implications of Melissa's words make his stomach ache.

"I'm sorry," Melissa says. "And maybe I'm wrong, but I didn't see your brother drinking enough to warrant how unsteady and drowsy he was."

"No," Sam says, "you're probably right." But damn how he wishes she isn't. He feels the blood draining from his face and Melissa must notice, because she presses a hand down over Sam's and asks if he's okay.

It takes him a moment to even formulate a response. "Yeah," he says finally, "I'm okay."

"I'll tell you everything I know, okay?" Melissa says, her voice soothing. It reminds Sam of the way he used to imagine mothers sounding.

"That'd be great," Sam says.

"There were two of them," Melissa says, and Sam starts writing. "One was tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than you, but much bulkier. He had a scar through one of his eyebrows – the left? – and blonde hair. The other was a bit shorter, probably six foot. He had brown hair and a bushy beard."

"Got it," Sam says. "Anything else?"

"They had Southern accents," she adds, "and they were real bastards."

"I'm going to find them," Sam says. He isn't very surprised to see that he's been writing so firmly that he's ripped through the paper.

"Good," Melissa says. She reaches forward and takes Sam's notebook and pen, scribbling her number in the corner. "If you think of any other way I can help, call me."

"I will," Sam says. "Thanks."

Melissa stands and puts a small hand on Sam's shoulder. "Good luck. I hope you find your brother."

"I will," Sam repeats, his voice harder this time. He watches Melissa leave and takes a deep breath, clutching his notebook tightly. He will.

xxxx

Dean wakes up, which is something of a surprise, actually. He thinks it should probably be a good surprise, (congratulations, you're not dead!) but he's so cold and everything hurts so much that for a second he thinks it might have been nicer to just stay asleep.

He shakes his head and groans. He can't think like that, not with Sammy on his own and hunters after them. The hunters were dumbasses, sure, but they'd also managed to kidnap him. He's still a bit fuzzy on how that happened, actually, but the point is that if they could get to him then they can get to Sam.

That thought reinvigorates him enough that Dean takes a deep breath (and ouch, ribs) and pushes himself up with his good arm. Blinking, he takes what might be his first rational look at his surroundings, and where before he just saw white, he can now make out blurry shapes in the distance that resemble trees. They seem to be roughly in a line, so maybe they're near a road.

It's hardly a sure thing, but it's the best Dean's got, so he turns and starts trudging in the direction of the trees. He's cold, shivering harshly, and his fingers ache. He doesn't know how long he's been out here and suspects the men who took him kept him pretty drugged up. Typically it would be nice to be thinking clearly after so long in a fog, but it only serves to make his pain blindingly sharp.

He starts humming AC/DC under his breath and forces himself to walk. Memories of training exercises, of Dad shouting encouragement or chastisement as he and Sam ran past rise to his mind, reawakening a sharp pang of loss and sadness that has been lurking since Dad died. Dad's dead. It's been a few months (six months, fifteen days, but who's counting?) but there are times when it feels like it was just yesterday that he and Sam watched the body of their father burn.

Dean keeps walking. His father taught him to keep going even when he didn't want to, even when anybody else would give up, and Dean isn't going to let him down now just because he's dead.

You keep moving, son. We'll get you. We'll always get you. The wind sounds like Dad. Dean chokes on a sob and keeps moving.

xxxx

"I don't wanna run anymore! I'm tired!" Sam whines, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Dean bites back a smile at Sam's plea and shakes his head. His brother is such a wimp.

"Come on Sammy, we're almost there," Dean says. "Just a bit further."

They're out at Pastor Jim's place for the summer. It's usually their favorite place to go, with its sprawling hills and wooded land, but since Sam's started training the space has taken on a different meaning entirely. Now it just means that there's plenty of space for them to run.

"Come on Sam," Dean says, but Sam has stopped, chest heaving and hands on his knees. Dean can hear how he's trying not to cry.

"Dean," Sam says. His voice is broken and Dean almost breaks with it. "Dean, I can't."

"Hey," Dean says, stooping to look into his brother's face. "Hey. We can do it, okay? We'll take it slow. It's okay if it takes us a long time. Let's just finish it, huh?"

Sam nods and swipes at his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm such a baby."

"Kind of," Dean agrees, punching Sam lightly in the shoulder. "But that's okay. What's important is you keep going."

"Yeah," Sam says, looking up at Dean with red-rimmed eyes. For just a second Dean feels hot, searing anger that they have to train, that his little brother is being pushed through the woods of Minnesota instead of being allowed to just be a kid. But then he remembers the smell of smoke and the sound of fire and remembers that he would do anything to protect Sammy, even if it means making him grow up too soon.

That doesn't make it fair, though.

They keep going at maybe half the pace Dean had initially set, but eventually they finish. Dad is standing in front of the house with a frown on his face and he taps at his watch as they approach. Sam hangs his head and Dean grits his teeth.

"We finished," Dean says before Dad can say anything. "Sam did a good job. We finished. I'm proud of us."

Dad is quiet a moment, looking at Dean and at Sam before he takes a deep breath. "I used to hate running," he says eventually. Dean frowns in surprise and Sam looks up sharply. "Mary loved it, though. 'Just keep moving, John,' she'd say. 'I'm right here. Keep moving.'" Dad looks away for a second. Dean doesn't even know what to think. Dad's never talked about Mom before, not ever.

"I'm proud of you too," Dad says after a minute.

There's an awkward silence where none of them know what to say. Sam swallows thickly and sniffles and Dean puts a hand on his back. Sammy never even knew Mom. Sometimes Dean thinks that would be better than the patchy memories he has, but he knows he would never give up those prized images.

"Doesn't mean you've gotta go faster," Dad says, and the moment is over. "You're going to get hurt one of these days if you keep up like that."

"Yes sir," Dean says. Sam echoes him, his voice still wobbly.

"Good," Dad says. "Go inside, get cleaned up. Jim's got a lasagna in the oven."

Sam grins. Lasagna is his favorite.

"And he made peach pie," Dad adds.

"Awesome!" Dean says, then punches Sam in the shoulder. "Race you upstairs!"

Later when Sam's in the shower, Dean looks out the window. Dad is still standing outside alone, watching the sunset. Dean remembers the way he looks, sad but strong and determined, for a long time afterward.