This is my entry for the December/January prompt challenge over at Writer's Guild. The prompt word is cold. As of this moment, I think this is going to be a two-shot story.

Disclaimer: Neither the boys nor anything related to Supernatural belongs to me. I'm just playing around with Eric Kripke's masterpiece of creation.

That Deadly Dull Shade of Blue

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"Blech!"

Sam Winchester looked up from stirring cream into his coffee. "What?"

"My coffee's cold," Dean eyed his brother across the chipped Formica table, "How's yours?"

The younger man raised his mug and took a sip, shrugging before setting the drink back down. "Mine's fine."

"Well, mine's not," Dean craned his neck, gaze roaming around the sparsely populated diner. "Where's the waitress?"

"She just went into the kitchen. She'll probably be out in a second."

Dean focused on the swinging doors dividing the kitchen from the dining area intently, waving his hand to garner her attention the second he saw her. He watched the gaunt, sour-faced woman saunter toward their table, speaking as she drew near. "My coffee's cold. Can I get another cup?"

"Cold? But I just poured that for you not more 'en two minutes ago." If possible, her expression soured even more.

Seeing the green-eyed man's implacable expression, she reached out and grabbed his mug, only to retract her fingers the second they touched the ceramic. She scowled. "It's not cold," she rasped in a three-pack-a-day smoker's drawl, "What is this—play mind games with the waitress hour?"

Seeing his stubborn brother take a breath to escalate the argument, Sam broke in, earnestly donning his puppy-dog face. "Look…uh…" his gaze flickered to the nametag above her almost nonexistent right breast, "Harriet…my brother's just a little picky about his coffee. Likes it piping hot. Could you just humor him and bring another cup?" Sam picked up Dean's cup and handed it to the waitress.

The woman's mouth pinched in exasperation. "Fine. I'll be right back."

The green-eyed hunter watched her walk away. "Damn. Talk about cold! She's about as friendly as an iceberg." He shuddered for effect.

"What was that all about?" Sam leaned forward.

"What?"

"The coffee."

"What about it? It was cold."

"Dude, I just touched the cup. It was warm."

"Don't know what to tell you, Sam," Dean's expression was open and honest, "it tasted cold to me."

A few minutes later, Harriet returned with not only another coffee for Dean but their food. She plunked everything down on the table without a word and walked away.

Sam watched his brother's eyes light up as he took in the mound of scrambled eggs and home fries with sausage links nestled alongside. He turned his attention to his own breakfast—blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon—with enthusiasm. Foregoing syrup, he ran the side of his fork through the stack and shoveled a huge bite into his mouth. He just managed to swallow when he heard his brother's fork slam against his plate, accompanied by a muffled curse. He looked across the table.

"What?"

Dean grimaced and swallowed the food in his mouth, resisting the urge to spit it out. "It's cold. Everything—the eggs, the potatoes, the sausage—it's all cold. Dammit, what the hell kinda restaurant is this? I bet she did it on purpose."

While Dean looked around yet again for their waitress, Sam surreptitiously speared a sausage link, lifted it from the plate, and took a bite. It was hot. His brow pinched with worry, he called, "Dean—"

Exasperated, Dean swiveled his head, fixing his attention once more on his younger brother. "What!"

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Huh—yeah—yeah, I'm fine. Just pissed I can't seem to get a decent meal around this place."

"Dean, there's nothing wrong with your food. It's perfectly fine."

"Are you nuts? It's cold!"

"No, it's not. I just tasted it. Dude, you sure you're not sick?"

Dean's brow crinkled. "No. I'm okay." Even as he spoke, a violent shiver rippled through his tall, lean frame.

"I think we need to head back to the motel," Sam started to slide out of the booth, "Maybe you're just still cold from traipsing around in the woods half the night." A firm hand on his arm halted his exit.

"No, wait, Sam. You finish your food first."

The young hunter started to shake his head no, but Dean pointed a finger at his plate in silent command. He acquiesced but with a caveat of his own. "Only if you eat some of yours too."

"But…"

"I know. You've eaten worse though, right? And if I need it, you need it."

Dean frowned but nodded. Picking up his fork, he stabbed a hunk of crispy potato and shoved it into his mouth.

Sam ate his pancakes quickly, keeping a close eye on his brother who occasionally took a bite but mostly pushed the food around on his plate. His internal alarm bells clanged just a bit louder.

He stuffed the last bite into his mouth and slid from the booth while still chewing. "I'm ready."

Without hesitation, Dean shoved out from between the table and padded seat, dropping money on the table to cover both food and tip. The brothers exited the diner to find fat, fluffy snowflakes swirling steadily from the iron gray sky.

Sam used his arm to clean off the resultant accumulation on the front and back windows as Dean started the Impala. The wind, which had picked up a bit since they'd gone inside, merrily tossed fistfuls of frosty flakes in his face, where they clung to his brows, lashes, and small amount of fringy bangs poking from beneath his hood. He finished in a hurry and gratefully flung himself into the passenger seat.

The ride back to the Easy Living Motel was quiet. Sam, however, was well aware that his brother's shivering had picked up in frequency. As soon as the car stopped, he was out and opening the door, entering the room well in front of Dean.

By the time the older Winchester trudged into the motel room, Sam had the thermometer in his hand.

"What'd you have that out for?" grumbled Dean as he shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over the back of a chair.

"I wanna check and see if you're sick."

"Told ya I was fine." Dean sat on the edge of his bed.

"Uh huh. Your definition of fine and mine are two totally different things."

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever."

Taking that as permission, Sam pressed the thermometer in Dean's ear. When it beeped, he pulled it out and studied the display. "Huh."

"Lemme guess, 98.6, right?"

"Close. It's 98 even."

"So—normal."

"Yeah."

"See—told ya I wasn't sick." Dean rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Just tired. And cold. Probably 'cause we were up at two in the morning hiking through the snow." He pulled off his boots, wiggling his toes inside his damp socks before removing them as well.

"Well, we aren't doing anything. I'm just gonna do some more research on this hunt on the computer. Why don't you go back to sleep for awhile?"

"You know what, Sammy, that sounds like a plan." He shoved up off the bed. "Right after I hit the head."

While Dean went to the restroom, the younger Winchester sat down at the round table and flicked the switch to boot up his laptop. Over the ping and whirl of the activated computer, Sam heard a couple of choice swear words from the bathroom and looked up when the door was flung open.

"Hope you're not planning on showering anytime soon, bro. There's no hot water in the bathroom."

Sam started to turn back to his computer but something about his brother caught his attention. He jumped up. "What'd you do to your hands?"

The hunter threw his younger brother an odd look. "Nothing. I just washed 'em after I took a piss."

Sam grabbed his brother's wrists and pulled his hands toward him. "Dean, they're bright red! In fact, they look almost scalded!"

Dean glanced down, noticing the redness for the first time. He wiggled his fingers and shrugged. "Nah. The water was cold." The hunter shivered and shuffled over to his bed, stretching out with a sigh.

"You'd be warmer if you got under the covers."

"Hmm?"

"I said you'd be warmer if you got under the covers."

"'kay." Dean agreed, but didn't move or open his eyes.

With a small huff, Sam strode to his own bed, pulled off the green-and-gold swirled comforter, and draped it over his prone sibling. Returning to the small table, he slumped down in the chair in front of the computer, but uneasiness continued to prickle at the back of his neck. Sam waited until Dean's breathing deepened, signaling he'd dropped off to sleep, before retrieving the thermometer once more. He carefully inserted the tip into Dean's ear. Just before it was due to beep, he withdrew the apparatus and peered at the display, brow creasing in puzzlement. Ninety-seven point four. Lower even than a few minutes ago. Definitely no fever.

Silently vowing to keep an eye on his ailing-but-in-denial older sibling, Sam returned to the computer to continue his research into Claxton Lake and dead ice fishermen. The room descended into quiet save the tap-tap-tap at the keyboard and the rhythmic inhale and exhale of the hunter atop the bed.

More than an hour later, Sam sat back with a disgruntled sigh. With a full bladder screaming for relief, he stood and stretched, his gaze automatically locking on his sleeping sibling. Dean had curled onto his side and pulled the comforter tightly around himself, but Sam could see he was still shivering. Yanking the remaining covers off his bed, the younger man piled them on top of the trembling form. His brother moaned, mumbled, and rolled to his other side. Sam couldn't resist resting his palm on Dean's forehead for a second. Still no sign of fever. On the way to the restroom, Sam paused and turned the thermostat up a tick.

Finishing his business with a sigh of relief, Sam washed his hands and splashed some water on his face to chase away his own cobwebs of weariness. For a brief moment, he considered jumping in the shower for a brisk pick-me-up, but discarded the idea as soon as it entered his mind. Deciding a pot of coffee might do a better job anyway; he dried his hands on the small white towel hanging over the sink then pulled open the door.

A waft of bitter air stalled him just across the threshold and his gaze quickly searched out its origin. The motel room door stood wide open. Senses on full alert, Sam's eyes darted toward the nearest bed where his brother lay sleeping. Only he wasn't.

The bed was empty. The blankets a tangled heap on the floor.

And Dean was gone.

TBC…