Summary: The reader follows Dean in the middle of a snow storm.
Warnings: Smut, injury, hurt/comfort, Supernatural level violence, swearing, protected sex (Cuz apparently a few writers have had complaints for not warning about this? Wrap it before you tap it, fam.)
A/N: This is a continuation of my series that began with Whiskey Burns and Sparks Fly. I still don’t have a title for the series. If you think of one, shoot me an ask. This all came to be because we got a snow storm last week and I started thinking about being stuck with Dean in a cabin. Such a fun trope. I’m using the @spnfanficpond‘s tag list (which I hope to be added to shortly) for the first time, so if you get tagged and you’re like, “who the hell is this person?” I found you from the tag list, and message me if this totally isn’t your thing!
Your hair was windblown and speckled with flakes. The damp of melting snow made it curl against your face. Your boots sank into the foot of snow, and slid as ice formed from the packing down of the fluffy bits of white. Sounds were muted, and the field you were crossing felt like a scene on a Christmas card. The evergreens edging the open space were weighed down, their branches brushing the ground. The fence posts were topped with little blobs, like whipped cream.
You crested a small rise, and you caught sight of the small cabin you were hiking towards. You also noticed the footprints you were tracking showed signs of a struggle. Another set of prints had come from the evergreens. You readjusted your pack on your shoulders, and examined the ground. The two sets of prints seemed to dance around the field, then the impressions of two bodies rolling in the snow followed a few feet beyond. A scarlet splatter marred the pristine white ground.
You knew Dean shouldn’t have gone alone.
Your legs were tired from wading through snow for the past two hours, but you tried to break through the drifts faster. You worked your way down the hill, and the cabin dipped out of sight again. A trail of blood droplets led off in its direction. Only one set of prints went that way, the other having veered off to the woods again. The accumulating snow had covered up any possibility of seeing which trail was Dean’s and which was the mystery assailant. You pulled your gun from your holster and flicked the safety off. The cabin was home to a small pack of werewolves, so you continued towards it.
Your hair was now plastered to your cheeks, and you could smell the lanolin from your wool hat as the flakes melted into the yarn. Your fingertips of your gun hand were beginning to numb, and you covered it with your other still mittened hand. The wind had picked up as you inched closer to the cabin, and you squinted against the blowing snow. Up ahead, you saw another splash of crimson across the ground, and the prints of someone who had fallen. Your stomach clenched. You took a deep breath and headed off in an awkward galloping sprint.
Instead of climbing the next hill, you skirted around to the woods. You knew a werewolf or two might be sitting in wait in either direction, but at least the trees would provide a bit of cover. A wide open field wasn’t a bright idea. You wished you had a spell to hide your tracks, but at least it would be harder to follow you in the trees.
The trees cast blue and grey light, but your eyes were free from the blowing snow. You kept near the edge, and soon you saw the cabin up ahead. From a distance, you couldn’t see lights or smoke, but as you got closer, you could see a glow in the windows and a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. There were multiple tracks in and out of the front door, but only one trail of blood went inside. You squatted in the trees, watching for movement inside. Minutes ticked by, and nothing. You decided to make your move.
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