A/N I—Muffy: This story started as a nebulous idea of who the Winchesters are and what it means for them (and the world) to be together. My beta Abni and I are writing this together, I am writing Dean and she is writing Sam. Lots of hurt to come folks. Lots and lots. And yes, we promise very regular updates! Thanks everyone in advance for reading and reviewing!

A/N II - Abni: To everyone waiting for a sequel for my story Hitting Walls and Getting Scars – I haven't forgotten it, but life's been a little crazy lately, leaving me very little time for fanfic. I'm working on a few ideas and hope to start posting one or more stories soon. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this story – thank you in advance for hits, reviews, favs and alerts!

Cold Wind to Valhalla

Chapter One

Midnight lonely whisper cries,
We're getting a bit short on heroes lately.''—Jethro Tull

Part One

Dean

It was a cold night, the wind had whipped up a storm that was creating havoc for travelers. What had started as rain in Seattle had drifted across the Cascades as slush, then sleet and finally snow was beginning to threaten the highways. The restaurant in George was packed. People were moving between tables in the crowded room looking for someplace to sit. Many were sharing with strangers, brief, odd moments of acquaintance springing up around the diner.

Dean was finishing his coffee watching people in the busy truck stop. Nothing like a cold crappy night to make people congregate. The coffee wasn't all that bad, the burger had been good. He was debating whether or not he wanted to drive the rest of the way into Spokane or just find a place in George and stay there. It wasn't a great night for travel.

He idly watched as a tall guy came out of the restroom. They'd been sharing the same itinerary for awhile. Dean had seen him in Seattle and Portland. He seemed to be hitchhiking in the same direction that Dean was traveling. The guy looked a little worse for wear. He was half tempted to offer him a ride into Spokane. He was surprised when the guy headed over to his table.

"Sorry, I didn't know anyone was sitting here." He picked up a laptop case and backpack from the other side of the booth, looking a little sheepish.

"It's ok, I didn't see your stuff," Dean said. He watched him walk out of the café and down the road. I wonder if I should offer him a ride. Dean tossed some cash on the table and headed out to his car. The rain had turned into sleet. It was miserable. It'll probably start snowing tonight, I'd better keep going.

He was on his way to Montana, hunting something. He pulled out onto the road, a little sigh escaping his lips as he cranked the stereo. Montana seemed a long way off. Hunting was a rough gig, he had to admit that—the pay sucked, nobody said thank you, death was always a possibility, and it was lonely. Dean didn't mind being alone most of the time, most of his adult life he'd been alone. Oh, sure, he and his father had hunted together sometimes, but the year before he'd been killed his father had pretty much been MIA. After the accident, the road just seemed a little longer than it had before. Somehow knowing that someone was out there made it easier to keep going. Now there was no one.

Of course, I have been hunting alone for a long time, with very few exceptions. And this is a nasty son of a bitch I'm after, I think.He wasn't quite sure what it was—it could be a demon, it could be something worse. He knew it had been causing trouble up and down the west coast, there had been a trail of bloody bodies left from San Francisco to Seattle—then east towards the Rockies. Of course the worst part is it seems to be hunting us, the hunters. People I know are dying. And it is getting harder and harder to track. I wonder who's next on the list of happy meals for whatever it is? Dean had been chasing it for awhile. He'd had a couple of near misses with it, and one close call before he had finally discovered a possible origin spot near Wisdom, Montana. He was on his way there to end its mischief once and for all.

Near misses. That's a nice way to put it. Nearly dead? Better. He rolled his shoulder, evidence of a recent run in with the thing. The wound was still healing. The stitches pulled occasionally. He'd been keeping an eye on it for infection, he managed to get some antibiotics at the clinic. But really, what do I expect when I stop by a vet to get stitched up?At least it wasn't as bad as the first time, that was a little too damn close.I think I was in bad shape there for a day or two. A memory unfolded, vague, of waking briefly in the hospital. I thought dad was there, holding my hand. Unlike him, but I thought for a minute he was there. Someone was there. Someone for me. And I swear I heard someone say my name…?

The hospital had been in Eagle Point, Oregon. He'd set out from there again as soon as he could, the reports of hunters dying reaching him on the road. And then there was Jack. Poor Jack…The memory of the man he'd been hunting with played in his head, the mangled body lying on the wet ground. With the lovely view of Mount St. Helen's as a backdrop. He might appreciate being burned there, though. He talked about it a lot.

He spotted the guy from the café trudging up the road. He drove past him. What the hell, I should stop. What's the worst that can happen? He could turn out to be a serial killer and carve me into little pieces. But really, that might at least make an interesting drive. He drove on a bit further, then decided that a little company on the road would make up for the guy turning out to be a serial killer. He swung the Impala around and headed back. He pulled up behind the guy and rolled down the window.

"Hey, where're you headed?" He looks miserable.

The guy turned around with a "are you talking to me" look on his face. "Spokane."

"Want a lift?" Dean said. Is this stupid?

"Sure," the guy headed over and opened the back door. He threw his bags in back, pulling out a thermos from one of them and climbed in the front seat. "Thanks, the weather kind of sucks."

"Not even fun driving—it'll probably start snowing before Moses Lake."

"I was thinking about heading back into town. Thanks again for the lift." He smiled. "I have coffee," he said, holding up the thermos. "Want some?"

"Sure," Dean said, easing the Impala back onto the road. He took the cup the guy offered him and took a sip. Not bad, well, actually, free coffee is a good thing, always a good thing. He took another sip, the guy was watching him. Weird, maybe a serial killer after all. "Good coffee," he said with a smile.

"Thanks. I'm Sam, by the way," the guy said.

"Dean."

Part Two

Sam

The first shaft of pain tore through his brain the second he stepped out of the stall in the restroom. He knew at once what it was and braced himself for the increasing blinding pain that always accompanied his visions. Dammit, I thought I was done with them, I thought they'd stopped for good after the demon died. Why are they back now?

The pain brought him to his knees. He leaned against the wall as images started flashing in front of his eyes.

A young woman burning up on the ceiling, calling his name.

A woman leaning out the upper-storey window of a house, screaming for help.

A man getting shot right in the forehead, his brain and blood splattering the walls behind him before he slumped to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

A dark shape standing over a cradle, turning as a dark-haired woman entered the room.

The images started attacking him more rapidly, each one assaulting his eyes and mind with the force of lighting, making it increasingly hard for him to make sense of them. He struggled to focus, to make sense of the images, to recognise the people in them, but the relentlessness of the vision tore his mind apart.

A man shooting another man in a gun store.

A woman setting herself on fire, turning into a walking funeral pyre.

A woman jumping from a dam.

A man sitting in a chair, begging for his life, then the sound of gunshots.

The red splash of blood on his hands when he cuts a man's throat.

Someone hunting him through a warehouse, then himself shooting the man, feeling a stab of satisfaction – joy? – when he disappears into the water.

A man – no, a demon – taunting him, telling him that he's the best of his generation, that he's the leader. The same demon letting drops of blood drip into the mouth of an infant boy.

The image of hundreds of demons exploding from the gates of hell. The demon smiling at him, saying "I'm proud of you. I knew you had it in you!"

A heavy weight on his shoulders, the man's blood flowing down Sam's neck, soaking through his shirt. A sense of panic when he realises the man had stopped breathing.

He opened his eyes with a gasp, trying to make sense of the myriad of images assaulting him. The images were blurred, more like flashes of emotions and pain than clear pictures of people and places. He thought he recognised some of the people and events, but others remained unclear, out of reach. Dammit, it's never been like this before. I know some of these were memories, but are they all or were some of them visions? Did I actually kill those people? The feel of blood on his hands came unbidden to his mind, and he struggled to rise and frantically started washing his hands as if the blood were still there.

I did. I killed them. But why? And those others… Are they… are they someone I'm going to kill? It's all a blur. I'm not a killer. Am I? What did the demon say? He has… had… plans for me. Have I already carried out those plans? Was that… what happened in the cemetery… Did I do that? Did I open that gate? No… No, it can't be. I'd never do that… But he… it… said… it said it was proud of me… But then someone killed it…

He frowned in confusion, his memories blending with the vision he'd just had. Or were they all memories, I wonder? It felt like a vision, though.

He splashed some cold water onto his face hoping that would help him clear his mind. Then he slowly raised his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Am I a killer? No. I'm a hunter. If I killed those people… They probably weren't even people, they may have been shapeshifters, or maybe they were possessed. He straightened his shoulders at that thought, wiped the water from his hands and face and walked out the restroom.

When he set out for the table where he'd left his backpack and laptop, he noticed a guy sitting in the booth. He had seen the guy before, in the last couple of cities he'd been through. The guy was hard to miss, or rather his car was, the memory of the beautiful 1967 Chevy Impala bringing a slight smile to his face. Who wouldn't want to drive a thing like that. I wish Dad hadn't sold his to buy the truck.

The memory of his father brought him a different kind of pain. He still regretted the years wasted while he was at Stanford; years in which he hadn't spoken to his father. After the death of his girlfriend, Sam had set out on a search for his father in the hope that together they might be able to find the demon who had killed both Jessica and Sam's mother. They had only just met up and started talking again when John had died, leaving Sam alone in the world with nothing but a bag full of weapons and a smouldering need for revenge. Revenge on the demon and on anything supernatural that dared to cross his path – or whose path he came across during his endless research.

That need for revenge had brought him here to George, Washington. He'd been following a bloody trail of bodies from San Francisco to Seattle and then eastwards towards Wisdom, Montana, where the whole thing might have started. He didn't know yet what the thing was, he only knew that it was supernatural, and it was killing people. And that was enough for him.

He stopped his train of thoughts when he reached the table. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was sitting here," he said, picking up his bags from the bench across from the Impala guy. "It's ok, I didn't see your stuff," the guy answered. For a second, Sam considered sitting down and ordering a cup of coffee before heading out into the rain. It had been a while since he'd had company, and a few minutes' talk would be nice. Then he noticed how the rain had turned to sleet and realised that he'd have to take off before it got worse to have any chance of hitching a ride towards Spokane, so instead he headed out of the café and started down the road.

Great night for hitchhiking. With my luck, there'll be no one out and about for hours, and this weather sucks. Big time. He pulled his coat a little closer to him, trying to hunch his 6 foot 4 frame against the sleet. Why couldn't the freaking thing just have stayed down in San Francisco instead of heading up here? He sighed. Oh well. No way around it, I need to get to Wisdom before that thing kills again. No matter how bad the weather is.

He was so lost in thoughts that he didn't hear the approaching car before it had already driven past him. He recognised the taillights as those of an Impala and realised it was the guy from the café.He keeps haunting me, it seems. He felt himself tense instinctively at the thought that the man might actually be following him. Shit. What if he's possessed? I've had enough demons on my ass to last a lifetime. I'll check him out if I run into him again. Maybe even make a few calls and run his plates in a couple of databases, see if a name comes up.

He trudged on, then paused when he noticed the red glare of brake lights up ahead. He stood still and watched suspiciously while the car turned around and head back towards him. Soon after, the black Impala stopped beside him, and the guy rolled down his window.

"Hey, where're you headed?" the guy said.

Sam looked at him warily. "Spokane." What business is that of his? Who is that guy?

"Want a lift?"

Is this wise? But it would be nice to get out of this sleet. And I've got a bottle of holy water in my pocket, not to mention my .45 with silver bullets, so even if the worst happens and he turns out to be a demon or some other creature, he won't get the drop on me.

"Sure," Sam said, then headed over to the back door. He opened it and tossed his bags inside, then grabbed his backpack and pulled out a thermos.Nice hot coffee. Great in this weather. Oh and with a little added holy water. Coffee sanctus, anyone? Wonder if I might convince Starbucks to sell the stuff. That would make my life so much easier, I could just sit there and wait for people to start smoking out of their mouths.

He walked to the passenger seat and got into the car. "Thanks, the weather kind of sucks."

"Not even fun driving – it'll probably start snowing before Moses Lake."

"I was thinking about heading back into town. Thanks again for the lift." Sam smiled at the guy. Have to act friendly; I'm not suspicious at all. Nope. Would you like a coffee sanctus, sir? "I have coffee," he said. "Want some?"

"Sure," the guy said as he pulled the car back onto the road, "Back in Black" blaring from the speakers. He took the cup of coffee that Sam offered him and took a sip at once. Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, trying to do it surreptitiously. No reaction from the guy. Guess he's not a demon after all. Nope, there, he took another sip, no smoke. Sam relaxed slightly and screwed the cap back onto the thermos.

"Good coffee," the guy said, frowning slightly but smiling all the same.

"Thanks. I'm Sam, by the way." Guess he saw me watching him after all. Oh well. Doesn't hurt to make him a little suspicious of me too, that way he'll keep his distance. I don't want him looking too closely at my things.

"Dean."

To Be Continued