Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.

~o0o~

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The Aspen Spirit

Chapter One

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"You stay right here son, y'hear me?"

John levelled a hard stare at his eldest from under lowered brows; the sort of stare that made Dean straighten his shoulders and tense the muscles in his jaw, unwilling to let his father see the tremble of cold that would make him appear weak.

"Won't take me more'n two, three days. Shouldn't be nothin' stirring up here for another week at least."

"But Dad! You're soaked!" The protest was out of his mouth before he really thought about it. It was dismissed with a sharp gesture and a look of disappointment. Winchesters did not put personal comfort before the job.

"Been worse. I can shower when I get to town."

John unlatched the cabin door, pausing in the doorway to eye his mud splattered and drenched son.

"Look after Sammy. Keep the stove burnin' and get yourself cleaned up."

Winchester speak for 'I trust you, love you both.'

"Yes Sir." 'Love you too.'

Dean was left, water dripping off his clothes and pooling around his boots as he watched the truck's tail lights bounce away down the rough track. It wasn't like they could get the Impala out of here in this weather anyway, he thought bitterly.

"Dean! Shut the door will ya. It's freezing!" Sam's voice, coming from behind a ragged blanket strung up across the far corner of the cabin, was full of righteous teenage anger.

Dean slammed the heavy wooden door, bolted it and then laid down a salt line, reflecting sourly that the amount of wind and rain coming underneath would just wash it away in a few minutes anyway.

"Is there any more hot water?" Sam sounded miserable. "Why have we got to stay here anyway; why can't Dad drop us off in a motel in town?"

"You know why, Sammy. We need to be here, set up, ready for when this friggin' forest spirit shows up." 'And because there's no money for a motel,' Dean thought, 'not with all the credit cards maxed.'

"No, we don't. It's because we're poor, Dean. Because Dad hasn't got a proper job, like a regular, normal person."

Dean ground his teeth; the sharpness of Sam's perception was matched only by the cut of his tongue. He pulled the cuff of his leather jacket over his hand and dragged the pan off the struggling woodstove; it was one of life's little pokes in the eye that a pan handle could nearly glow with heat long before the pan contents became more than slightly warm.

He ripped back the old blanket curtain, discontented scowl fading rapidly as he took in the sight of his brother. Knees drawn up to his chin, Sam sat in an old tin tub, in a few inches of dirty-looking water, shivering.

Dean sighed. "'M sorry Sam," he muttered, stepping forwards and pouring the warm water slowly over his brother's head. "You deserve better than this."

Sam rubbed vigorously at the grit in his bangs.

"So do you, Dean."

The acknowledgement was surprising in its maturity, reminding Dean that underneath the teenage angst his little brother was growing up fast. He shoved the small towel towards Sam.

"Get dry," he said gruffly. "There's some clean clothes on your bunk."

"Th, thanks Dean." Sam's teeth chattered as he snatched the towel and stood up, drying himself vigorously as his brother retreated to the stove.

Dean re-stacked the small pile of damp logs, moving them closer to the heat seeping through the sides of the stove. They would dry out there gradually. There was enough wood until morning and he really couldn't face going out into the torrential rain again, not unless it was absolutely necessary.

He pulled his jacket off slowly, the wet leather sticking to his shirt sleeves and making it a ridiculously difficult task that made his back ache even more than before. He shook it out, freeing a spray of water from the leather to hiss and skitter across the hot metal surface of the stove top, then hung it over the back of a wooden chair.

Sam scooted out from behind the curtain, teeth chattering. He dragged on his dry clothes and dived under the blanket on his bunk, pulling it right up to his nose as Dean dropped another blanket on top of him and jammed a woolly hat down over the wet thatch of hair. He smirked at Sam's wide eyes.

"Get warm sasquatch," he said fondly. "I'm gonna get cleaned up."

That was easier said than done. The water in the old tub was now tepid at best. Dean toed off his boots and peeled off his sodden layers of clothing until he stood naked and shivering, eyeing up the dirty scum on the muddy water without enthusiasm.

"Peachy," he groaned, manning up and stepping into the luke-warm water with a shudder. There was a momentary impression of warmth; even the temperature of the water was warmer than his freezing feet and legs. He sat down cautiously, cringing at the feel of grit and cold tin under the cheeks of his ass. His body's reaction to the cold made the old mug quiver in his fingers as he used it to scoop water over his head and torso, sluicing away the worst of the mud with small frigid floods that set his teeth chattering.

Wind whistled through the minute gaps between the old logs, setting cobwebs swinging in the guttering light of the oil lamp and chilling the flesh on Dean's wet face and body. He scrubbed frantically at his skin with his palms, teeth now chattering uncontrollably.

"Jeez, Dean. I can hear your teeth from here." Sam sounded sleepy, amused.

Dean allowed himself a stiff grin and stepped out of the tub onto the slimy boards to rub miserably at his wet limbs. The only towel was wet and cold now and did little other than move the moisture around on his clammy skin. He'd found clean socks and boxers in Sam's bag but had to settle for the same damp t-shirt. Somehow in the excitement of their rapid exit after their last job, his duffle had ended up in John's truck. It was still in John's truck.

Minutes later he was scrunched on his bunk, wrapped in the ragged curtain blanket and with his wet jeans and boots spread out by the stove. Maybe they'd be dry by morning, he thought, without much hope. At least Sam had stopped shivering, his face a little pink now in the lamplight as he snored softly.

Dean shuddered, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around his chest, too cold to sleep and too tired to sit up. 'It's okay,' he told himself. 'Dad'll be back soon and we can get the job done. Then mebbe we can get back to town, get a hot shower, burger, somethin' for this friggin' sore throat.' He rubbed his hands up and down the bumps of cold on his arms. 'Why not California,' he thought. 'Or Florida. Why do these freaks always live where it's cold an' wet?'

Eventually, exhausted with shivering, he dozed off, to be woken a few hours later by Sam's plaintive, "Dean... The stove's gone out."

"Awesome." Dean rolled off the bunk, feeling like roadkill, his muscles surprisingly stiff and sore as he dragged wet jeans up over his thighs. Feet crammed back into soggy boots, he slipped into the clammy cold of his damp leather jacket and headed outside for logs; he was desperate for a piss anyway.

"Get the fire goin' again, Sam. I'm gonna look for more fuel."

Sam huffed behind him, already clattering around with the remaining pieces of wood and kindling. "On it, Dean. 'M not completely useless."

"I never… never mind."

Too tired to argue, Dean shut the door behind him and headed around the side of the cabin. It was still raining, although the chill wind had now picked up to a feisty blow, throwing the icy needles sideways and driving the wet through to his skin immediately. Dean shuddered, pissing a painful stream that was torn away by the wind before he could see if it was still blood-tinged. He ducked inside the log store, zipping his fly and rubbing at his back with a grimace. It was two weeks since he'd taken a boot to the kidneys; two weeks of keeping his bruised back hidden from Sam's inquisitive gaze, two weeks of not wincing when sometimes the pain had been so sharp he wanted to fall to his knees, two weeks of pissing when no-one was around to see the streaks of blood. He leaned on the log wall for a minute, feeling pale and dizzy, then grabbed the last armful of cut logs and trudged back around the cabin. There were more logs to chop, but right now he was too tired, too sore.

The wind hit him full in the face as he rounded the corner, trying to drive the rain right up into his nostrils. He blinked, squinted, coughing as he pushed open the door. Sam pulled him inside hastily and slammed it shut, bitching about the draft but pushing Dean next to the warmth of the stove in teenage contradiction. He tumbled the logs out of Dean's grip and piled them by the fire to dry off.

"You're cold." Sam's voice was concerned.

Dean shrugged it off, clamping his jaw to stop his teeth rattling. "Don't go wearing out that IQ dude."

"You look like shit." Sam persisted, hovering, anxiety now creasing the skin between his eyes.

Dean waved him off, stitching a smirk onto his face. "I'm fine."

His little brother regarded him with suspicion, eyes narrowing. Not arguing, yet, but not letting it go either.

AN. Thanks for reading! I had a sudden urge to write a pre-series Supernatural fic… second chapter soon. Love to hear what you think so far!

Supernatural/Dark Angel crossover, 'Seeing Double' will also be updated shortly.