Chapter Text
The present
One would think, Dean reflects resentfully, as he pauses beside the last fencepost to knock snow off his boots, that as an angel Cas would know better than to go careening off solo like this. After all, he'd spent the greater part of his angelic existence obeying orders from On High—you'd think he could follow a simple suggestion to freaking sit tight.
And okay, so maybe that isn't really fair to Cas, who certainly isn't Dean's to command, and who can take care of himself, and who's badass and competent and lethal and an angel and a damn force to be reckoned with. It's just—well, Cas isn't the only supernatural force of nature they might be dealing with, here, and so can you blame Dean for being worried?
He sighs and trudges on, over and around the gently mounded shapes to which the snowfall has reduced the topography. He doesn't think he's ever seen a moon this bright. The sky seems almost to glow, and maybe the snow is helping, reflecting all that light back so that the whole world is lit up in sharp-edged clarity.
He's left the last silent farmhouse back in the distance, and all around him there's nothing marring the perfect colorlessness of the world, the juxtaposition of the white winter earth and black sky. His footsteps are a trail of dark smudges, like fingerprints on paper.
Except—
There's a shape smeared across the nearest snowbank, an irregular polygon a little dimmer than the white slope it's draped over, and his heart stops when he gets closer and sees that it's a coat.
***
Earlier
The snowstorm had whipped up suddenly, blowing through the rural town and surrounding fields like an angry spirit—which, after all, it might well have been. Some of the signs pointed to the culprit being a yokai, a Japanese nature spirit, angry about something and manifesting as the sudden cold snap, the unusually high snowfall, and the two unfortunate victims.
At least, that was Sam's working theory. Dean was still in favor of a witch with a chip on her shoulder and a thing for winter spells. Cas had seemed doubtful of both theories ("this feels much more primordial than a witch, Dean") and hesitant to label whatever-it-was as malevolent ("yokai are peaceful spirits unless provoked, Sam") but that was Cas for you.
And even Cas couldn't argue with the frozen body of the man who had, until three days prior, been a member of the town council and a long-time basketball coach at the local high school. You could almost have assumed he'd simply wandered outside in one of the earlier storms and frozen to death—except for the fist-sized hole punched clean through the center of his chest. And, as the weary sheriff had informed them, the fact that every cell beneath the first few layers of the dermis had individually ruptured in a burst of now-melted ice crystals. He'd been frozen from the inside out.
Interviews had been less than helpful—no clear enemies, nobody with any reason to hold a grudge. Surprising for someone involved in local government. To be fair, nobody had really seemed to like the late Mr. John Laddon either, for unspecific reasons that were conveyed more through tone than through actual complaints. Off-putting personality, was all Dean could gather. Nevertheless, the man had been a respected pillar of the community, and he'd had money—not a lot, but enough that he was clearly spending his free time coaching out of preference rather than necessity.
The second victim, fourteen-year-old Luna Nakahata, hadn't yet been found, but her disappearance the previous morning had her parents nearly in tears. Her older sister Clare, home from college for the holidays, had been more subdued, placing a comforting hand on her mother's shoulder while unease flickered over her face.
It was while they'd been at the Nakahatas' house that the blizzard had sprung up. Which, frankly, might be a sign that they're on the right track.
"Maybe the witch is spooked," Dean had suggested to Sam, as Mrs. Nakahata went to make sure all the windows were securely closed.
"Why would she care if we're talking to the families?"
"Because we're getting close! Or, I don't know, maybe it is a yoki—"
"Yokai, Dean—"
"—and this is just a weird spirit thing."
"I dunno," Sam had said uneasily, looking around at the pristine Nakahata home, the tasteful landscape prints hung on the walls, the sports and academic trophies lining the mantelpiece. Out the windows, everything had become a dark blur, and the howling of the wind wasn't quite obscured by the soft piano and guitar notes from the stereo in the corner. "Something's not right."
And Dean had felt the same way, actually—as if they were missing some piece of the puzzle, some reason the yokai (if it even was a yokai) had manifested, some reason it had targeted these two specifically. And Clare—he'd had the feeling she knew something, because she wasn't quite meeting their eyes. And hey, people change when they go to college, maybe she'd changed for the worse, maybe she'd gotten cozy with a book of witchcraft or an actual witch.
Cas had texted then—Be careful, it's snowing heavily.
Yeah thanks sherlock, Dean had snipped back. Then, feeling bad, he'd typed stay safe k, and sent it before he could change his mind.
Of course, Cas had texted. Followed by—of all the fucking things—a penguin emoji. Whatever.
Like the other freak blizzards that had been barraging the town over the past week, this one hadn't lasted long. They'd spent an uncomfortable hour making strained small talk with the distraught parents, trying to ignore the twinkling Christmas tree set up in the corner. Christmas wasn't for another couple of days, but clearly the family had gotten started early, which had to be beyond painful for them now. Clare had disappeared into her room, and Dean figured it'd be better to come back in the morning rather than stay and stretch the family's hospitality even thinner.
Finally the storm had died away, the wind dropping into silence as quickly as it had arrived, and they'd finally been able to leave. The moon was just a day away from full, and the snow had been piled everywhere in immaculate, glittering drifts. It had taken them ten minutes to clear the Impala, and even then there was no way they were driving it home through the buried streets.
So they had dug some backup outerwear out of the far recesses of the trunk and set off on foot. The sky had stayed miraculously clear for the half-hour walk back to the motel, and the world was all kinds of beautiful, actually, Dean had thought, even if no one was texting him back and Sam was too lost in thought—eyes distant, gigantic fivehead furrowed in concentration—to make small talk.
And then, upon arrival, they'd found the door to their room swinging wide open, snow lying in white heaps on the furniture and bedcovers, and Cas nowhere to be seen.
***
Slightly later
The motel was at the edge of the small town, and they'd tracked Cas's phone past that edge through the snow-coated pastures and dark-windowed farmhouses beyond. The phone they found after fifteen chilly minutes, lying undamaged atop the crust of snow beside a faded wooden signpost. The screen flickered when Dean picked it up. Though the device was still steadily sending out its beacon, no angel accompanied it, nor, actually, was there any sign that anyone at all had ever passed through the immediate vicinity.
"Go that way," Dean had said quietly to Sam, nodding his head toward the leftmost path. What was left of the lettering on the signpost indicated that there was an old church a mile on.
"Are you sure we should split up?"
"We don't know which way he might have gone. Faster if we cover both directions."
"Yeah, but the witch, or the yokai, or whatever it is, could still be out there—"
"We're just going to have to take that chance, okay?" He'd ignored Sam's exasperated expression. "We need to find him, Sam, we just—"
Sam had sighed. "Alright. Just keep texting, let me know what you find. Or don't find."
"Right." Dean had resolutely suppressed the faint whispers of dread inside him.
***
Currently
Dean straightens and looks around, turning the trench coat over in his hands. There are no footprints anywhere, except his own. The coat might as well have been air-dropped from the luminous sky.
"Cas?" he calls, without much optimism; there's no place nearby for anyone to be hiding.
Well, actually, there's a building some ways away, starkly outlined against the snow. It's perhaps a quarter of a mile away, but there's nothing obstructing the view. This was flat country, or mostly flat anyway—a few gently rolling hills, now accentuated by the uneven drifts of snow. In the very far distance he can see the dark mass of the forest, a long, low-lying streak the color of charcoal.
He starts trudging toward the structure. Some kind of barn, he guesses. The large heaps of snow dotting the field he's now crossing might be hay bales, buried during the storm. He eyes them dubiously, trying to evaluate the likelihood that one contains an angel. Don't people sometimes hide in haystacks, during blizzards? Though why Cas would need shelter, he isn't sure. It's not like the guy can freeze to death.
The barn first, he decides.
He checks his phone, texts Sam.
No luck at the church, the reply comes. Gonna do a wider loop and then check the graveyard.
Dean snorts, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket alongside Cas's. Great. That's just what he needs, Sam falling into an open grave or getting clocked by a literal ghost of Christmas past.
Although (not that he's going to let appearances fool him) if there was any night when he'd think all ghosts would be resting where they belonged, it'd be this one. The silence, the blazing moonlight, the soft crunch of snow underfoot—it's almost ridiculously peaceful, in sharp contrast to the growing worry about Cas that's stirring uneasily in his gut.
Something else stirs, too; a faint throb of power in the air, a low hum that seems to shake the snow. Dean stumbles, though the ground hasn't moved. The hum grows louder, unbearably loud, becoming more of a roar, now, really. A jangling, crashing sound, like a thousand glasses shattering. And then, on top of it, the wind suddenly howling in his ears, loud and cold and fast in a way that he assumes must be like racing along an empty highway in the dead of winter. In Alaska. With the windows down. And the roof missing.
"The fuck?" he mutters, and then, "Shit," because what's happening might be inexplicable, but it's pretty clear that it's also dangerous. The wind is like a knife against his face, whipping up clouds of the powdery snow so that all of a sudden he can barely see. And as if all the rest of it weren't enough to clue him in to the fact that this isn't normal, the sky directly above him is still clear and bright and glossy as an inkwell.
He starts to stumble forward in the direction of the barn, leaning into the wind, trying to shield his face with one arm.
He's almost made it, the dark shape of the structure looming up through the swirling snow, when the wind cuts out so suddenly that for a second he thinks he's gone half-deaf. His vision clears as the snow settles.
He looks around, fumbling for his gun, the roar of power still slamming like waves against the edge of his hearing, and sees it. Or, her: The yokai, the spirit, whatever—one glance is enough for him to decide that witch is probably inaccurate.
The first impression that she gives is one of power—unfettered, out-of-control power. It's in everything from the silvery glow of her blank eyes to the white and whirling aureole of her hair. She's slim and a good foot shorter than he is, and although she's taken human shape, there's hoarfrost creeping down her cheeks in delicate blue-green patterns and a spiny fringe of ice crystals hanging from her jawline and the curve of her breasts.
She staggers forward, each step crashing like thunder, like an iceberg calving. Her movements are uneven and slow; her mouth judders open in soundless pants.
"What the fuck are you?" Dean snaps. "Don't come any closer!" He registers vaguely that he's gripping the gun so tightly his knuckles, previously red with cold, have gone white.
She snarls at him. If there are words, he can't distinguish them from the crunch and thunder of her movements. Her skin is bone-white, glittering with frost, and it's unraveling around her joints, coming apart at her knees and elbows in pale shredded ribbons that expose the blue pulse of muscle beneath. As she lopes toward him, snow explodes beneath her feet—huge drifts shooting up at forty-five degree angles in the wake of her heels, freezing in ragged waves behind her.
Dean grits his teeth and fires, but the bullet doesn't even seem to reach her. Her hands fly out—the fingertips black and shriveled, a sharp contrast to the rest of her skin—and a gust of freezing, ice-sprinkled wind knocks him backwards. He goes staggering through the snow, barely keeping his footing. The gun skitters out of his hand; he barely manages to keep a grip on the trench coat.
The ice spirit makes another abortive hand gesture, and a second, stronger blast slams into him. This one lifts him bodily off the ground. His feet sweep through empty air for a minute, up and around, and everything falls out of his pockets a moment before he himself lands hard on his shoulder.
He struggles up, floundering in the snow.
She's advancing, cold and white and merciless under the unblinking moon. There's no time to fight, no time to strategize—there's barely time to breathe, in between the heavy blasts of snow and ice that surge up from the ground and toss him around as if he's a rag doll.
The barn. If he can get to the barn.
He backpedals frantically, trying to zigzag, and her approach changes—she stretches out one arm, flicking her wrist. A long ribbon of the air crystallizes, razor-sharp shards of ice whipping past his face to embed themselves in the snow beyond.
"Fuck," Dean gasps, as a bead of blood rolls down his scored cheek.
Another flick of her wrist—he throws himself at the ground, grunting in pain as the roll pulls on stiff joints that used to be supple. He struggles to his feet again, staring in dismay at the beautiful, spidery constructs of ice embedded in the snow right where he'd been standing.
She stops moving and stretches her arms out to the sides. Her hair flares out, taut like a halo of icicles, and shit, whatever she's about to do next can't be good.
But he's in the doorway of the barn now. He lunges to the left, reaching for the edge of the open door. The wood is damp and rough in his hands; he heaves on the door, dragging it through the snow, falling backwards as he pulls it shut. He barely slams the latch through before the whole structure seems to shake with a heavy impact. The dim line of light between the door and its frame is blotted out. Oh, fuck.
He can hear the ice spirit prowling around outside, a noise like cracking glaciers and trees falling. More thuds land heavily against the walls of the barn. He stays crouched by the door, breathing as quietly as he can.
After a long, long few minutes, the sounds slowly fade, as if she's retreated. He unlocks the door and tries to open it. It doesn't budge when he pushes, and it isn't built to swing inwards.
Fuck, he thinks again.
He checks the pockets of his jacket frantically, but this only confirms what he already knew: everything—keys, wallet, both phones—fell out during the fight. Though somehow he's still holding onto the damn coat.
"Crap. Come on," he hisses, rotating in a circle to survey the inside of the barn. It's a dim, one-story structure, bare except for a couple of neatly stacked bales of straw scattered around the floor. A few windows high up on the walls, letting in bright silvery patches of moonlight, but thank god, there are glass panes in them and no snow has fallen through to the interior.
He considers the wall, wondering if he could break through—but no, it's sturdy wood planks, and there are no tools here that he can see, and he's not carrying the Mark and its venomous gift of strength anymore.
"Crap," he repeats. He's going to have to wait for Sam to realize he's not responding and come looking. At least he won't freeze—it's still balls-cold in here, but it's out of the wind, and if he walks around he can probably keep his body temperature high enough. Probably.
But Cas—Cas is still out there, somewhere. And the ice spirit—Dean thinks of the effortless way she'd dispatched him, how much power had answered to her slight frame. Would Cas have survived an encounter with that thing? Or maybe he's hurt, somewhere, or the spirit's keeping him prisoner, or maybe he's—
Dean realizes he's clenching the trench coat, knotting the beige fabric in his hands. He forces his fingers to loosen. Forces himself to take deep breaths. Sam's still out there. Sam can find Cas. If Cas even needs to be found, because they don't even know what happened, or why the idiot decided to wander out into the blizzard, but point is, nothing bad necessarily happened, so there's still a good chance that Cas is just fine, right?
"You'd better be fine," he mutters out loud.
It's at that moment that a rough, pained voice emerges from the darkness near the back of the barn.
"Dean?"