It is cold, cold and biting and it is all he can think about. He crawls out of the hole he made when he fell through the frozen lake, fingernails scraping against ice and snow, and it is cold. He cuts his knee on the edge of the ice, drags himself onto the surface with exhausting breaths, and it is cold. On hands and knees, on knees, on his feet, finally standing and finally stable and it is cold.
He drags his feet along the ice, hands tucked underneath his arms crossed at his chest, and he watches the slide of snow that his boots push across. He watches each and every step, because if he falls again he won't get back out.
The solid ground underneath his feet as he steps off of the frozen lake is surreal, almost an immediate rush to his senses, but there's only so many of those left now. He knows it's worse when he stops shivering, knows it's worse when he stops feeling as cold, and he forces himself to keep shaking - forces his body to keep working as he trudges forward.
The Impala is up the hill where he left it, but each step is longer and longer. He swears at himself for telling Sam to stay at the motel, swears at himself for assuming this would be a simple scouting venture, swears at himself for fucking himself over again.
His feet slide along in the snow, too heavy to lift, and when his foot gets caught on an upturned stone it takes him down without hesitation. He lands on his hands and knees again, bare fingers and wet jeans digging into snow, but he doesn't feel it - doesn't feel anything.
The forest is so quiet, so unearthly quiet, and it aches in every bone. He wants to scream, but he's too tired, lips too numb to move.
He sits back on his heels, palms flat against his knees, and he can't move any further.
A heavy weight settles on his shoulders and it burns, burns so intense and so harsh that he opens eyes he hadn't known were closed and he's too cold to speak, but he gasps. It seeps through his wet shirt like an iron, wrenches itself around his bones and skin and sears itself so hard that he swears he can feel the marks.
It takes the last of his energy to try and pull away, but the weights are hands, warm and strong, and they grip his shoulders and hold him in place. He stares blankly ahead, at the indecipherable look on Castiel's face, and he inhales slowly.
Castiel's hands move along his shoulders, down his upper arms, thumbs trailing along muscle and cloth. His hands are an alien warmth and it radiates like a fire, like something uncontrollable that just is. It's almost too much, almost too severe, but it is so inviting.
Dean is shaking when he leans forward and presses his face into the bare skin at Castiel's neck, arms sliding underneath the trench coat to cling at his sides. The feeling is sharp, like touching a flame. Castiel's skin is boiling against his face, against eyes and lips and nose, and the burning settles into his lungs until he can breathe.
The feeling returning hurts the most, when his fingers start burning with cold and heat and he flexes them continuously to ease the pain, curls them around Castiel's slender waist and holds on. The angel stills against him, movements of his hands halted, body and muscles tense and uncertain, but he doesn't pull away. He stays where he is, hands around Dean's upper arms, and he doesn't move.
Dean's skin stings like it's thawing, like the press of his body into Castiel's is the only thing that will bring the feeling back into his limbs.
Castiel moves slowly, slides his hands around to press against his back, to pull him into the warmth he's trying so desperately to take.
And Dean exhales a single ragged breath against the skin his lips are pressed into, but he doesn't miss the shiver that Castiel can't suppress.
Yay! Thanks for filling this prompt! I actually felt cold while reading it, your descriptions were so spot-on. And I adore the final line, sheer perfection!
It is cold, cold and biting and it is all he can think about. He crawls out of the hole he made when he fell through the frozen lake, fingernails scraping against ice and snow, and it is cold. He cuts his knee on the edge of the ice, drags himself onto the surface with exhausting breaths, and it is cold. On hands and knees, on knees, on his feet, finally standing and finally stable and it is cold.
He drags his feet along the ice, hands tucked underneath his arms crossed at his chest, and he watches the slide of snow that his boots push across. He watches each and every step, because if he falls again he won't get back out.
The solid ground underneath his feet as he steps off of the frozen lake is surreal, almost an immediate rush to his senses, but there's only so many of those left now. He knows it's worse when he stops shivering, knows it's worse when he stops feeling as cold, and he forces himself to keep shaking - forces his body to keep working as he trudges forward.
The Impala is up the hill where he left it, but each step is longer and longer. He swears at himself for telling Sam to stay at the motel, swears at himself for assuming this would be a simple scouting venture, swears at himself for fucking himself over again.
His feet slide along in the snow, too heavy to lift, and when his foot gets caught on an upturned stone it takes him down without hesitation. He lands on his hands and knees again, bare fingers and wet jeans digging into snow, but he doesn't feel it - doesn't feel anything.
The forest is so quiet, so unearthly quiet, and it aches in every bone. He wants to scream, but he's too tired, lips too numb to move.
He sits back on his heels, palms flat against his knees, and he can't move any further.
A heavy weight settles on his shoulders and it burns, burns so intense and so harsh that he opens eyes he hadn't known were closed and he's too cold to speak, but he gasps. It seeps through his wet shirt like an iron, wrenches itself around his bones and skin and sears itself so hard that he swears he can feel the marks.
It takes the last of his energy to try and pull away, but the weights are hands, warm and strong, and they grip his shoulders and hold him in place. He stares blankly ahead, at the indecipherable look on Castiel's face, and he inhales slowly.
Castiel's hands move along his shoulders, down his upper arms, thumbs trailing along muscle and cloth. His hands are an alien warmth and it radiates like a fire, like something uncontrollable that just is. It's almost too much, almost too severe, but it is so inviting.
Dean is shaking when he leans forward and presses his face into the bare skin at Castiel's neck, arms sliding underneath the trench coat to cling at his sides. The feeling is sharp, like touching a flame. Castiel's skin is boiling against his face, against eyes and lips and nose, and the burning settles into his lungs until he can breathe.
The feeling returning hurts the most, when his fingers start burning with cold and heat and he flexes them continuously to ease the pain, curls them around Castiel's slender waist and holds on. The angel stills against him, movements of his hands halted, body and muscles tense and uncertain, but he doesn't pull away. He stays where he is, hands around Dean's upper arms, and he doesn't move.
Dean's skin stings like it's thawing, like the press of his body into Castiel's is the only thing that will bring the feeling back into his limbs.
Castiel moves slowly, slides his hands around to press against his back, to pull him into the warmth he's trying so desperately to take.
And Dean exhales a single ragged breath against the skin his lips are pressed into, but he doesn't miss the shiver that Castiel can't suppress.
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