Title: Winchester Luck

Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: PG
Pairing: None

Summary: It’s snowing out, but Sam and Dean are on a hunt.
Notes: Snow Drabble written January 6, 2015 on a snow day.



Winchester Luck


“Please don’t be a ghost. Please don’t be a ghost. Please don’t be a ghost,” Dean muttered to himself on repeat as they trudged up to the abandoned house through four feet of snow with the help of a shovel and windshield ice scraper.


Sam’s refrain was somewhat different. “hahh-Nxxshhhh! Hahh-Ingshhhhh! Sniff, sniff… ehhhh-Nggshthhhh!


Dean looked over his shoulder warily. “You sure you—“


It was difficult to tell that Sam was nodding, what with the knit hat with its earflaps and the plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, chin, and mouth. But Sam cleared his throat and answered his brother, “Sure. You’re dot doig this alode.”




Sam kicked at the snow along the skinny path they were making, the heavy boot barely making a dent in the tightly-packed snow. “Cad we argue idside?”


Dean sighed and hacked away at the snow again, using the weight of his body to help push through the deep snow. He practically threw himself onto the stairs leading up to the rickety covered porch, then reached back to help Sam up them.


With a look of annoyance at his brother, Sam headed up the stairs on his own. He might be sick, but he could walk up stairs all right. As Dean picked the lock on the door, Sam shoved his gloves into his pockets and stomped his boots on the wood, shaking off as much of the snow as possible, but it was stuck to his boots, jeans, jacket, and gloves. “hehhhh-Ingshhhhh!” Sam sneezed as he made his way through the door and into the house.


It wasn’t any warmer than outside, but at least they were out of the snow. He took a deep breath and rubbed at his nose, readying himself for the rest of the argument.


But that never came. Dean’s flashlight flickered and both men shivered with chills.


Down through the ceiling came a glowing figure, a man with an expression of rage on his face and an axe in his hand.


Just in time, Dean pushed Sam out of the way, and Sam lost his footing, falling to the dusty wooden floor. Dean dodged out of the way, slamming into an armoire.  Sam’s already sensitive nose twitched, but he managed to roll onto his side, raise his sawed-off, and fire a shot of rock salt.


The ghost screamed and vanished for the moment, but Sam’s head snapped downward, nostrils flaring and breath hitching uncontrollably. “hahhh-IHPTschhh! hihKShhhhh! Heh-INGshhhh! H’NGshhhh! Hahshhhhh!” Finally he raised his head again. “Sorry… looks like a ghost.”


“Just our luck.” Dean rubbed the side of his neck and sighed. “The ground’s going to be frozen. Digging up a body’s going to be impossible in this weather.”


Sam nodded, not at all looking forward to being out in the snow one second more. Spending all night in the snow and cold while already sick was going to be brutal. “I…” And, as if just thinking about it, he already felt the urge to sneeze. “hahhh… hah…” He braced himself, a palm flat on the floor with his other hand cupped to his face. “hahhhhh-IXXSchhhhh! Hehhh-Ingshhhhh! HahhKSchhhh! Nggschhhh! Hahhhh… hahh… HAHXXShhhhhttttt!


With the last one, his hand went straight down through the floor. Sam yelled in pain, his hand scraped open, splinters stabbing him. He pulled it back at once and was about to scramble away from the damaged area so that none of the other rotted floorboards would give way, when he caught sight of something. Careful to distribute his weight evenly, as if he were laying himself down on ice, he pressed his face to the hole. Through the layers of floor, past a pipe running lengthwise across the room, around tufts of insulation, Sam could see down into the basement. He couldn’t see much; it was too dark. “Dead… I deed your flashlight.”


“You need a bandage,” Dean was already digging his bandana out to tie around Sam’s hand. As Dean held it out, Sam grabbed his brother’s flashlight instead and shone it down into the hole. He pinched his nose closed and peered down after the light.


“Looks like we don’t have to… to dig…” He pulled away, breath catching. “hahhh-AHSchhuhhh! Huh-NGxttshhhh! Ehgeshhhhhh! KShehhhhh!“ He pointed down at the hole, even as Dean walked over and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady him. “There’s a body id the cellar. Cad’t see a face, but it looks like what the ghost was wearig.”


“Looks like we’re in luck.”


Sam shoved the flashlight back at Dean and grabbed the bandana, not for his hand but for his nose. “hahh-Ah-inshmphhhhh! Hahxxxshmphhh! ehhhKShuphh! Sniff! You’re lucky…” He wiped dust off his face, brushed dust off his coat. “I’b just sdeezy. Add tired. Add cold.”


“You’re in luck, then.” He took out his lighter and a small ziplock of salt. “Because there’s going to be a nice, warm fire in the basement pretty soon. C’mon, Sammy. Good thing it was just a ghost, huh?” He led the way around the damaged boards, across the room, and toward the cellar stairs.


Sam followed behind with the same bout of sneeziness. “hahhh-HahhhhScchhhh! Hengshhhh! Ihgishhhh!