Chapter Text
"Where is all the snow coming from?" Sammy pressed his nose against the cold window, gazing out through the fogged-up glass. Dean looked at him from out of the corner of his eyes, not wanting to give his grandpa the impression that he wasn't paying attention to his reading. Dean, in all of his eight-year-old wisdom, knew the answer to Sammy's question. He simply wondered what Mommy would tell him.
"That's all of Frau Holle's doing. She's very busy this winter, isn't she?"
"Who's she?" Sammy asked and Dean had to bite back a snort. His little brother knew nothing, he was just a baby after all. Mommy looked away from her notebook to smile at him.
"She's the one who makes it snow," she said. "She always has, for as long as there's been snow. She shakes out her bed and the feathers that fall out of her blankets and pillows turn to snow." Sammy looked at his mother with wide eyes, then he turned back to the window.
"Snow is fallen feathers," he whispered, awed.
"You paying attention, Dean?" Dean gave a start and guiltily looked up at his grandfather.
"I'm sorry, but I've read the page twice. I think I have the sigils memorized," he promised but grandpa nodded his head towards Mommy and Sammy.
"I mean to the story about Frau Holle."
"I know that already," Dean said, puffing out his chest in pride and his grandfather reached out to ruffle his hair. "But why is it important?"
"Every legend is important to us. It tells you not only what people believe, but also what to look out for when doing research. A Man of Letters always has to pay attention, you understand?"
"Yes, grandpa," Dean promised earnestly and his grandfather smiled down at him. Dean turned the page and started reading. But he couldn't resist looking over his shoulder once again at the window to see the snow piling up.
Dean didn't know where his body took the energy to still shiver. He was exhausted, the fingers clutching his gun to his chest were numb, feeling frozen in place. It hurt, hurt, hurt. He knew that he wasn’t going to die from his wounds, but maybe his attempt to get home would do him in. And wouldn't that just be fantastic? To have survived the front, the final ambush, to drag himself through the stained earth and snow, leaving behind a trail of blood, just to die in a ditch? He'd probably be covered in snow, leaving his body to be preserved for some poor bastard to stumble over him come spring. He just hoped it wasn't a kid.
"Frau Holle's not doing us any favors here," Victor words rang in his ears. It felt like ages ago, but it probably had just been yesterday. Dean didn't remember what he had said in return, too busy dismantling hex bags and letting the runners know how to defend against the curses and hexes flung their way. He just knew that he had spat something biting.
"Just snow, man. Don't you think that if Frau Holle existed, that'd she have mercy?" he remembered Benny saying, reloading his gun.
"Maybe she's a witch," someone else had whispered fearfully and silence fell. And the snow continued.
Maybe she was a witch, Dean thought to himself, trying to burrow deeper into his blankets. Maybe she was out to get Dean for destroying the Grand Coven.
Something touched Dean's shoulder and his eyes snapped open. It burned to move but he didn't want to be eaten by a random monster either. But as his blankets fell away he didn't see a monster staring at him, but an old woman. A shawl was wrapped around her head, white, unruly hair spilling around her face. And she looked old, so old that Dean feared that the weight of his incredulous stare alone would be enough to make her crumble apart.
"Sir, please. A morsel to eat?" she croaked and Dean stared some more, as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue. Her frail hand patted at his shoulder and Dean sprang into action. He bit back a hiss when he moved. He had some rations left. He took one of his two blankets and held it out to the woman. He shivered right away but the woman looked like she'd be blown over by the flurry of snow. He found his tin and gave it a shake. There was still water in it. He handed that to the old woman, then he found wrapped stale bread that hadn't gone totally hard yet and dried apples.
"It's no feast," he said apologetically and the old woman pulled everything into her lap.
"Thank you," the woman whispered, picking up the food with her frail fingers. Her nails were painted a muddy color. Surprising, Dean mused to himself, that the polish wasn't chipped. Dean studied her and wondered where she had come from. A woman as frail as her surely couldn't have walked a lot. Maybe she had been displaced during the war, lots of civilians had to be evacuated.
"Is there a village close by?" Dean asked and the woman put another slice of apple into her thin mouth. Dean didn't even know if she still had teeth.
"On the other side of the field and behind the woods. Not far," the old woman told him, her voice hard to hear over the wind. Dean watched her and wondered if he could scratch together enough energy to go there. He couldn't run off though and leave this woman all alone. "You're a soldier?"
"Not anymore. The war is over. I'm just trying to get home. My family must think I'm dead," he answered and let his head fall forwards, exposing his neck to the cold. He was tired. He wondered if he'd ever see his family again. He was so far away from home. The woman looked at him, her face thrown into shadows by her shawl.
"They're waiting for you?" the woman said. "Your family? You love them?" Dean was a bit surprised by the question, but he felt drowsy, the wound in his side and the scratches in his arms pounding with his heart beat. He found it hard to think.
"Yeah… Yeah," he said and felt his eyes sting. "I just wanna go home," he said with a shaky voice. His vision was filled with snow. It was better than what he'd seen on the battlefield, but he felt like the snow was piling around him, ready to put him to sleep, wrap around him. A cushion of snow, a blanket of snow.
"The snow is feathers," he muttered to himself, sorrow spreading in his hurting chest.
Dean woke with a gasp, pain shooting down into his lungs with the sudden gulp of cold air. He coughed into his arm, then he squeezed his eyes together, trying to get his breathing back under control. When he moved, powdery snow fluttered down his shoulder and hat. He slowly opened his eyes, just to close them again when he was blinded by bright light. He tried again, carefully, until he was blinking into a crisp, sunny morning. He was still lying in a ditch by the side of the road, he was still hurting and cold, but he was alive. It wasn't snowing anymore and it felt warmer without clouds blocking the sun. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the winter sun on his cheeks. For just a moment he allowed himself to breathe and be. Not worrying about the next ambush, about his men, about all the horrible ways to die when hell itself had spat out your enemies.
Only slowly the memory of the old woman came back to him. He looked around, dreading to find her frozen to death, but she wasn't here anymore. The blanket she had used was wrapped around Dean. She must have gone on. Good. Dean sighed in relief.
He turned his head to look over the field. The village wasn't far away. With a pained groan he rose to his feet, everything aching in protest. A clinking noise made him look down to his feet. Two small items had fallen out of the folds of the blanket and were now lying on Dean's bag. He bent down to lift them.
Gold coins.
Dean started at the coins in his palm with surprise. He straightened and looked around. Had the old woman left this for him? Dean was sure that she needed it much more than him. There was no way to figure out which way she had gone, her tracks long covered in snow. Dean wrapped his stiff fingers around the coins.
"Thank you," he said to the sky.
It wasn't going to snow today. Maybe Dean would even make it home.