Dean cut the Impala's engine, and steam wafted up from the hood into the frigid Montana night. You and the brothers were looking for a creature that was freezing its victims' hearts. Sam and Dean had never seen anything like it.

The three of you slid of out of the car, the door slams echoing across the empty snowy fields. "Well, this is it," said Sam quietly. "When I looked at the areas around the body finds, this was the only overlapping territory. Whatever it is, it probably lives up here somewhere."

You stamp your booted feet, the cold prickling painfully against your legs and exposed face. Sam and Dean didn't seem to be affected by the cold yet, their greater body mass keeping them warm. The three of you set off across the fields towards the distant tree line, ice and snow crunching underfoot. By the time you reach the tree-line, your fingers and toes are completely numb, no longer feeling the tingling of the far below zero temperature. Dean and Sam crunched on. You followed Dean, trying to put your feet in the prints he had already created-Sam was too tall to even attempt it.

The world seemed almost eerily peaceful around you- the snow reflected the light of the clear night sky, the dark, bare trees reached up to the navy heavens, and everything else seemed to be asleep.

Sam reached over, knocking his gloved hand against Dean's arm. "Check this out," he said, pointing. Two of the trees ahead had intricate frost reaching about a foot up the tree; the patterns in the ice delicate and lacy. "That doesn't look natural."

"So what, we're after an ice artist?" Dean asked. "Why couldn't it be one of those chainsaw sculptors?" He mimed using a chainsaw until he saw the look on your face. He stopped, looking sheepish. "Right. Okay, so what could this be?"

They all walked on, the frost patterns on trees becoming larger and more intricate as you walked deeper into the forest. It started to snow, the large flakes slowly floating their way to land. The trees began to thin as the snow picked up, tiny flakes stinging the skin as they drove through the air. You feel yourself tiring, the cold stealing away the warmth you had built up from your brisk walk.

Dean and Sam proceed you into a clearing, staring at something. When you make it between the brothers, you gasp. In front of you is a cottage that appeared to be made entirely of ice. It glittered faintly.

"Oh, god," bitched Dean. "If anybody starts singing a show-tune, I am out of here."

"Dean… did you just make a Frozen reference?" you gape.

"I have no idea what this could be," said Sam, on task as usual. The three of you stand thinking, breaths condensing in great silver puffs.

"Jack Frost," you say quietly. "The ice crystals on the trees, the people dying from exposure, the ice cottage… it makes sense."

Sam nods slowly. "It does fit. Although I have never heard of him killing people before."

You shrug through all your layers, which was difficult to do. "In the older stories he's mentioned in, he freezes those who insult him."

"Great. How do we kill it?" Dean asks, checking all of the weapons he has stashed on his person.

"Wouldn't he be considered some kind of demi-god?" questions Sam. "We would need to stake him." The brother's clothing rustles as they pull stakes out of pockets and holsters.

Dean passes one to you. "Stick up under his breastbone and twist. You've got to mean it."

"I always mean it, Dean" you huff. The three of you approach the cottage; it glinting ominously. Dean gestures for you to follow him around back. Sam nods sharply as the two of you crunch away.

Dean walked to the back door; it swung smoothly open. This gives monochromatic a new meaning you think to yourself as you step in. It looked like a typical kitchen and living room, except entirely made out of bluish ice. Dean walks before you into the hallway, but before you can join him a sheet of ice forms in front of you.

You can hear Dean yelling your name as you turn to look around. There, sprawled carelessly over the countertop, is a man with white-blonde hair, a navy pinstriped suit, and empty silver eyes. "Hello," he says quietly, his voice chiming like a distant bell. "Come calling?" He slid off the counter, walking towards you.

"Jack Frost," you say, shifting to keep him in front of you. "Why did you kill those people?"

He walked closer, herding you towards the ice-chair. "Can't you write it off as a whim of the gods?" When you shake your head, he smiles. "Ah, little hunter. Needs all the answers."

The back of your knees hit the armchair and you fall into it, the cold leeching into your legs. You shiver a little, and Jack pats your knee. "You won't notice the cold soon enough," he says consolingly. "Won't hurt a bit."

"The W-w-w-winchesters," you stutter between chattering teeth. "'b-b-b-out them?"

"No, sweetpea, it's about you. I wanted a feisty little hunter to share eternity with. You freeze until you heart stops beating, and then you become mine. I knew you would tag along with those hunter brothers. You truly are worthy of being the Winter Queen."

"F-f-f-f-fucker. Ever heard of a d-d-d-dating app?"

Jack ignores your question, tapping an index finger against your bottom lip. "Ah, love, blue is a good color for you. You're even more beautiful."

You tuck your arms into your coat, and vaguely note that the stake is still tucked in there. Weakly, you wrap your fingers around it. You don't feel cold anymore; you don't feel much of anything. Your breathing shallows out, and Jack leans closer.

Your heart flutters, and you stop breathing. Jack Frost lays his lips against yours.

The stake thuds into his chest cavity, grinding against Jack's sternum. His mouth gapes open, gasping for air, a fish away from its element. He falls back, his face flickering blue before going slack.

Now your breathing slows in actuality, and you can feel your senses faltering. Jack was right, it didn't hurt. You weren't cold or in pain; you didn't feel much of anything. Everything just gently faded away.

You stood in a non-descript room- blank walls, grey floor. A woman in a smart black suit stood in front of you. "You my reaper?" you ask, expecting this.

"Yes. It is your turn to come with me." She inclined her head.

You look behind you. "But… but what about Sam and Dean? I really freeze to death?" You'd always expected to die gory in the middle of a hunt. Not as a popsicle. You back up a few steps from the reaper. She sighed.

"You can avoid me," she said, "but you, of all people, know how that ends. It doesn't end-"

Suddenly, everything hurts, it's almost enough to make you yearn for the darkness. "She's coming around, Sam. Sam!" you hear. If feels like you're being carried from the way your head is jolting. Struggling against the weights on your eyelids, you get a glimpse of Dean's jawline.

"You hang on, you hear me?" he commands, shifting his grip to hold you more tightly. The rest of the walk back to the Impala passed in broken segments for you. Sam carried you for a while, murmuring praises every time he saw your eyes flutter open.

Finally the jolting stopped. Curious to see what was happening, you forced your eyes open again. You were in the backseat of the Impala, curled between Dean's outstretched legs as he leaned against the door. Sam was tucking a blanket around you and then running around the front to start the car. It roared to life and Sam popped it in gear; the Impala growled down the highway.

"She's not shivering, so that's good, right?" Dean's voice was tinged with panic usually reserved for Sam.

"No, that's bad Dean. You need to keep her awake."

He patted your cheek, shaking you. "Stay with me. Open your eyes, dammit!"

You get them open, your head lolling back over his forearm. "You listen to me now; just focus on my voice. We're going to get you back and fixed up; it's gonna be okay. It ain't your time, not here and not like this. No no no, you get those eyes open!" He smacked you, a little harder this time. Startled, you looked up at him again.

After more of this, you arrived back at the crummy motel. Dean scooped you up and carried you through the door Sam was holding open. You were still clutched in his arms when he turned to Sam, asking, "What do we do Sam? What are we supposed to do? How come I know how to fix a gun wound and not this?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "We have to warm her up, but I think we have to do it slowly, otherwise she could go into shock."

Your teeth begin to chatter, Dean's body heat and warmth from the old radiator finally reaching you. "Hurts" you get out from between your rattling jaws.

"We're gonna get you fixed up honey, it's all gonna be okay."

"Let's get her in the bath, Dean," suggests Sam. He ducks into the bathroom and you hear water running. Dean gently puts you on the bed and fumbles your boots off, followed by your coat and jacket and sweater. He strips you down, fingers frantically pulling clothing off and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. He toes off his own boots and strips down to just his jeans.

Picking you back up, he carries you into the bathroom, the warm skin of his chest against yours; heat radiating from him like a massive engine. He steps into the tub. "Jesus, Sammy, it's cold! What are you trying to do?"

"It probably won't feel cold to her, Dean; look at her feet." He glances at your feet, pink tinged with an ugly yellowish color.

Dean sighs and sits down in the hip-deep water, holding you mostly out of it. Sam was right, when your feet and legs his the water it feels torturously hot; you yelp and try to hold yourself away. Dean shushes you, running his warm calloused hand up and down your spine, his other hand chafing over your arm. You whimper as the pins and needles in your feet and legs increase, seeming to go down to the bone. You start to shiver, hard, uncontrollable tremors wracking through your body. Dean just pulls you against his body and holds you tightly, rocking gently. He nodded sharply at Sam, who turned the spigots, warmer water flooding into the bath.

You hiss at the contact, water now up to your waist. Tears slide down your cheeks and you cling to Dean. Things continue on in that vein, with you shivering and crying and hanging on to Dean's neck- he never faltered, and Sam never left. Eventually, the water was hot and you didn't shake any more. Every muscle was sore, and you drifted between consciousness and sleep, savoring the warmth of the steam and the solidness of Dean's body beneath you.

Eventually he stood up, passing you to Sam, who wrapped you in a couple towels and lay you down on the bed while Dean dried himself off and changed pants. Dean returned to you with one of his worn flannels, which he buttoned you into. He tucked you under the covers and lay down on top of them, watching to make sure you really were okay.

Sam got into his own bed and flicked off the light. Dean wrapped his fingers around your own, squeezing gently. "Thank you," you mumble to him; you know just how pitiful that offering is in the face of all he had done. "Thank you so much."

"Of course." He shifts so that his head is on the next pillow, eyes towards you. "Family doesn't give up, right?"

You fall asleep, finally warm and reassured by Dean's solid weight in the bed next to you, feeling safe for the first time in years.