lest you be consumed 1/2

[twilightshours.livejournal.com]

Title: lest you be consumed
Author: twilightshours 
Genre: Gen. Takes place vaguely in between Abandon All Hope and Sam, Interrupted.
Characters:  Sam, Dean, Castiel
Word count: 2,200
Summary: "Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed." For the Sam-focused h/c fic challenge - maerhys 's prompt: Sam has a case of hypothermia that may leave him with a bad case of frost bite. I hope I did it justice! 
Spoilers: General stuff for season 5.
Warnings: Language. Bad writing, haha.
Disclaimer: Yeahhhh, no.
Author's note: My first multi-chap fic~ Next piece will be up soon.They're not long, but I felt it should be separated. Title and some content taken from the famous sermon, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. Inspiration also taken from Florence & the Machine's songs Blinding, I'm Not Calling You a Liar, and Heavy in Your Arms.
Part Two

 

"Oh, sinner!" Dean shouts behind you. That's the beginning, you think, but looking back you're not so sure. The beginning is usually something you're able to distinguish; the end is not so clear.

Dean punches you as soon as you whirl around, before you're even able to figure out what exactly is going on. Pain blossoms like lavender flowers. You're sent stumbling a few steps to the side, farther away from your brother, since you were in front of him to begin with. You're suddenly, slightly irrationally worried, because he's not wearing gloves.

It probably started a few of Dean's sentences earlier. The cold tends to blend things together like a blizzard—

You're thinking desperately for a plan of action even as you're recovering. It's not like either of you are unprepared, of course, so you grab the opening to your duffel. Pretty hard to get it unfastened when you're wearing two pairs of gloves. God, what are you doing? There's nothing in your duffel you can use that won't hurt Dean. Dean, who's got the salt and holy water. Dean, who's smirking at you, and he's got this wrong look on his face...

"You've an evil aura about you," Dean had said a minute earlier, and you didn't think anything of it because you didn't actually hear what he said, the wind was blowing too hard, but he kept going, "it's practically festering. You must have committed some terrible acts, and I've seen a lot of sinners in these woods. Edwards' sermon is perfect for you."

"What?" You had asked, yelled back to him. "I can't hear you, Dean. The wind is too loud."

Cold is a pathetic excuse for an understatement. It's... God, you don't even know what state you're in. Somewhere close to Canada. Montana, you remember— a few miles north of Wurtz Airport. It's mid-January, and the whole upper part of the state is undergoing some freak storm that's been stated multiple times on the news as apocalyptic. And they're not far off. Not far at all.

You and Dean end up on a case here, somehow. Hilariously, you both had considered it a break, from chasing after the Devil and his Horsemen. Funny how freezing snowstorms is the definition of a break. (Though it's not snowing now, but it will.) You want to cry, it's so damn cold.

The victims were in pairs, though not always close to each other. Once it was two teenagers. Then two siblings, college students. Two park rangers were even found a day after they went out to survey the area. All frozen to death, some beaten and bloody as well. You hadn't been sure what it was— maybe some old-fashioned demon, maybe a nymph. You never found out.

The truth is, you and Dean should never have walked into the forest.

"Dean?" You gasp out, momentarily abandoning the duffel and rubbing your cheek. Your breath comes out in little, restless clouds of alabaster. Briefly, you wonder if your soul looks like that—

You're dressed efficiently. You and Dean. A set of long-underwear, a spandex shirt and pants, three pairs of socks, some calf-high rubber boots, jeans, two long-sleeved shirts and two jackets. Gloves and beanies. It might not be the best, but you went with what you had. It makes you clumsy and awkward and uncoordinated but you're warm. (Sort of. The chill always manages to crawl its way through every layer.) You can handle it. You've got sharp reflexes, anyway.

Not where Dean is concerned. There's always a little hesitation when it comes to your brother— no matter the circumstance. You can't afford screw-ups, but here you are, with another fist in your face and a hard boot in your ribs.

"The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked," Dean's yelling and yelling, and suddenly his bare hands are ripping off your beanie and pulling your hair and clutching your jaw and you're looking dazedly into some cold being that is not your brother. "You useless pain in the ass," he hisses, and you think, that isn't Jonathan Edwards.

You also think that his words shouldn't hurt you so much, but they do. They cause an ache stronger than a punch to the face or the intrusive cold. You know they're not true (do you?) but you can't help but flinch. It's not Dean. It can't be Dean.

There's a spot on his chest where normally you'd see a dim gold face hanging from a thin black cord. Castiel may have it now, but you think under any other circumstance, he had never willingly taken it off— he never would. You've been secretly craving for the angel to come back and hold out his hand, to watch Dean take it and slip it around his neck.

You know Dean's waiting for that day too, and that's what erases any uncertainty in your mind. You start to fight back.

Your legs bend in, and then you're kicking against Dean, struggling to stand as he's forced away from you. Your duffel abandoned, your legs finally find some stability again and you're up. Whatever's got Dean is pretty resilient, though, because he's already charging at you again with some more religious crap spewing out of his mouth like fire.

"Consider the fearful danger you are in," he screams, and you truly consider it. And the trouble Dean is in— he can't stay out much longer or he'll get frostbite in his hands. You don't want that to happen on your watch. You don't know what you'll do if it does.

You put up your arms to block, trying to shield the only part of you left uncovered. He still manages to get a few more hits in, leaving you more than dazed, so you lash out yourself. You're clumsy and slow, compared to Dean, and his head barely moves when your gloved fists collide with his cheek. When you get another chance—

"Were it not for the sovereign pleasure of God, the earth would not bear you one moment; for you are a burden to it—"

—you opt instead for kicking, and you bring a boot up to send him flying back. His head hits the trunk of a tree and he's down momentarily— for a split second you jerk, wanting to run to him, but you cast the notion aside. However, what you see next causes another minute's pause.

In contrast to the vermilion running down your battered face, Dean has ebony leaking out his nose like tar. Possessed, Dean's possessed. By a pretty powerful ghost from the looks of it, which worries you. The simple punches are most likely child's play, and it can do much worse. You've no idea where your or Dean's duffels are, long lost in snow. You need—you need help.

"—the creation groans with you; the creature is made subject to the bondage of your corruption, not willingly; the sun does not willingly shine upon you to give you light to serve sin and Satan—"

Dean's voice is rising higher as he rises, making it hard to concentrate. You take a quick glance at your surroundings, noting the dreadful sameness of everything, how far you've gone off the trail, how everything is covered in snow like sheets, begging you to lay down and just sleep.

Your face and ears are burning from the cold, damp like your hair is from the snow.

You had just gone in to do a little scouting of the woods, a few miles away from where the last victims were found. You hadn't even gone far in, had just decided to stay close to the edge of the woods and familiarize yourself with the area as well as look for any hints as to what might be preying on civilians. It had been almost three o' clock when you and Dean set out. Both of you didn't want to stay for too long, but it's already dark now.

You stave off Dean's attacks when he comes at you again, your mind racing through possible options and situations. When his fist catches your jaw again, you're hit back against a tree, and you let him grab your hair again—

"You've always been a fucking burden, you know that?"

—and slam your skull into the bark. You feel your skin split, but you use the move to your advantage and sweep your leg out, knocking him off balance again. And then you run.

You can't lead Dean out of the forest because you don't know where you are. No one will be able to find you in time, not even Bobby, because the storm would set them back at least an extra hour.

You stumble, trip, feel nauseous, but keep running. You can't hear Dean.

Staying here is not an option. Even with all the layers you have on, you won't be able to last the night. You don't want Dean running around possessed by some damn minister obsessed with old-fashioned Puritan sermons— there were always two victims, you remind yourself.

You stop, leaning against a thick and icy tree trunk. Besides your own noise, the forest is quiet. The snow smothers every living thing, every sound, and puts the world on mute; silent violence. Murder comes without a price here.

But, no. You do hear something: a faint roar. Like a river. However, it sounds far, far away.

Castiel. You could get him to come— help you, take Dean. Your phone, you need your phone.

A lone curse finds its way out of your mouth. Your phone is in your pocket underneath both your jackets.

Your eyes scrunch shut, then open before the lashes freeze together. You place a hand between your thighs and start to pull off your gloves.

"There is hell's wide gaping mouth open; and you have nothing to stand upon..." Dean bellows somewhere behind you and further to the left. His voice is loud, but low, like a warning. He draws out the last word for what seems like minutes. He's getting closer, you know.

You pull off the gloves on your left hand with your bare fingers, and then you're on the move again, zipping down the first jacket as you jog. Your hands tremble frantically, and you realize it's not from the cold.

You're scared. You can feel it coursing through your veins.

You shrug out of the jacket hurriedly and throw it to your right, seeing if you can steer Dean off your trail a little. He won't be easily deceived, though, unless you cover the heavy foot prints you leave in the snow. It's not too high, but already your jeans are soaked through from the knees down. The river, you think. It's closer.

"You can't run forever!" His brother shrieks. It sounds almost right next to you, and it makes your heart leap. Your fingers are numbing from the cold; you can't imagine how worse off Dean's are. You struggle with the buttons on your second jacket like a drunk man.

"You selfish son of a bitch," you hear from behind you, and you wonder if Dean's possessed by two ghosts or just some crazy-ass schizo, and you don't want to believe there's another option, "I'm through with cleaning up your messes."

You don't have time to look— there's a heavy click, then a blast.

Pain peppers your back and thighs, giving you more momentum as you sprint ahead. Dean must have gone back to his duffel to grab the shotgun. You try to ignore the dull ache forming, lucky you still have more than a few layers on your torso.

The gun fires again, and you dodge around a tree, watching the spray of rock salt hammer trees in front of and beside you. Another blast, and your shoulders and neck sting furiously.

You keep running.

After a few more misses and hits, it goes silent again, except for a loud curse. Must have ran out of ammo. You finally manage to tear off your jacket, and, abandoning any pretense of concealment you might have had, you stop and get out your phone.

You can't call Castiel. You can't— you're too damn afraid. Of Dean. You have to be quiet.

You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with icy air and trying hard to remember what the coordinates were on the map you had studied before leaving the Impala. You steady your hands and open your phone. Finding the angel's number in your contacts, you send a text message.

48.94
-114.41
Stuff dean w/salt

Right as you're pressing the send button, you hear that deep, chilly voice of the thing using your brother's vocal chords.

"That world of misery, that lake of burning brimstone, is extended abroad under you."

There's a smaller click this time, and you spin around, seeing black ooze from Dean's nose and over his lips, as well as down his neck from his ears. He's holding his pistol with silver rounds. He's pointing it right at you.

You see him smirk and pull the trigger, you hear the shot, and then there's nothing at all.

 

Comments

[cece-away.livejournal.com]

You can't leave it there. I need the rest of this NOW! Dean shot Sam!

[4422shini.livejournal.com]

oh noes!!! I am loving this!! Please continue :D

[lazy-8s.livejournal.com]

So chilling! Will Castiel find them?? Can't wait for the next chapter.

[kassidy62.livejournal.com]

bring us MORE. =P

[glimmerella.livejournal.com]

Oh. My. God!

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