Twenty Degrees of Solitude

2

Sam Winchester paused in his trek through the snow to raise his eyes to the skies. There was a gray overcast to them, clouds gathering in the distance, and the temperature had dropped the last few hours. It was going to snow again, and soon.

Sam tucked a strand of stray hair which had slipped loose from his coat's thick hood back up under it, then continued his walk. He was still a good mile from his cabin, which was nestled high in the Odakota Mountains, but the snowstorm wasn't so close that he was concerned he wouldn't make it back before it hit.

The big man paused as he heard suddenly a sound nearby, and glanced around. His eyes shifted over the snow, looking for anything out of place, but found nothing. He had just started forward again when the sound, carried on the wind, reached his ears again. He stopped and shoved back his hood, listening: his eyes shifted to the cliff face that was 30 or 40 yards to his left, which stretched a good 150 feet high. He ran his eyes down the cliff's side, his gaze resting at the base.

Sam squinted against the bright snow – even with his sunglasses on, the morning sun cast a glare over the acres of white. His brow furrowed as he spotted something dark, lying at the base of the cliff. He tilted his head, studying it, but it remained unmoving. Probably a rock which had fallen off the cliff, then, or a half-buried log. He was about to renew his trek toward his cabin, but paused, eyes shifting back to the cliff.

Something was off. Though he couldn't see anything, he had the niggling feeling that something was wrong. It had to do with whatever was lying in the snow at the cliff's base. He shook his head, mentally scolding himself; still, he couldn't keep from glancing in that direction yet again. He squinted at whatever was lying in the distance, and his brows shot up suddenly. Had he just seen movement?

Sam turned and headed in that direction. Even if he hadn't, he was curious now and wanted to know what kept drawing his gaze.

He was 20 yards from the thing on the ground, at the cliff's bottom, when realization hit him like a ton of snow: there was a person lying on the ground. His sharp, hazel eyes could see the shape; even half-buried in the snow, there was no mistaking it. He quickened his pace to an almost-run, moving as fast as he could through the snow, which was deeper here, shaded by the cliff's face and piled in drifts from the wind.

Sam reached the figure lying on the ground minutes later and found that it was, indeed, a human being. Snow had drifted over the person, half-burying him or her. A backpack which appeared to be filled with supplies laid nearby, one strap broken. Sam moved forward cautiously, thoughts touching on the large knife he had strapped to his thigh. He discarded the thought that he would need it as he surveyed the downed figure. The man - he saw that it was a man as he drew closer – was unmoving. Sam frowned, eyes shifting up the cliff towering over them. He could see a scattering of loose rocks and broken branches near them, and surmised the man had fallen. He was, in all likelihood, dead.

Sam reached the figure and saw the blood covering the downed man's temple, streaking down from beneath the hood still covering his head. Frozen clumps of blood decorated the snow around his head, which made a slightly eerie picture. Sam was kneeling to search for a pulse when he heard a soft moan escape the downed person's lips, saw a slight puff of air, fogged from the cold, escape the other's mouth. He hesitated only a moment, doing a visual survey of the man on the ground; his eyes fell on the man's left leg, which was bent at a slightly odd angle. Broken, if he had to make an immediate guess.

Sam steeled himself, drawing a steady breath, before leaning forward to run his hands over the unknown man, doing a cursory search for more serious injuries. He didn't feel anymore breaks, beyond the left leg, but it was difficult to tell with the thick layers the other was wearing. He leaned back, running a gloved hand over his mouth: after a moment, he came to a decision.

He couldn't leave this stranger out here to die in the cold, from injuries or hypothermia.

Seconds later, he had one arm beneath the man's back and the other beneath his knees. He stood carefully, lifting the unconscious man, and started back toward the direction from which he had come, walking in his previously made tracks to make movement easier in the snow. He paused long enough to reach down and catch the strap of the man's pack, which he managed to shift onto his own shoulder without dropping the other, then continued his journey back to his cabin.

"Guess it's your lucky day," he muttered to the unconscious man, fog puffing out with the words, "if you don't die before I get you back to the cabin."