![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faye_dartmouthA/N: Sorry I didn’t get this up sooner. I would give you a good excuse if I had one, but somehow my life just seems busy sometimes :) To ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pinkphoenix1985 and sendintheklowns , thanks for making LJ posts worth it. Things are going to get a bit more confusing possibly as the Deans start talking to one another, but I hope it’s not too complicated to follow. Other notes and whatnot in chapter one. Previous parts here.
CHAPTER FIVE
East, west, north, south. Running, walking, skipping, sleeping. None of it freakin’ mattered anymore. None of it. Because they had Dean.
They had Dean and it was all Sam’s fault and they had him and Sam was cold and sick and tired and terrified. He hadn’t been scared when they jumped him--though maybe he should have been. He hadn’t been scared when they kicked him around and tied him to a chair, jerk-offs that they were. But outside the cabin, free but screwed, he was downright scared senseless at the idea of his brother at the wrong end of a gun.
Though Sam had to admit, he wasn’t sure how reliable he was anymore. After all, he did just see himself get rescued by his brother, who then proceeded to get caught, and then to top it all off, he watched himself get shot.
He might have chalked the whole thing up to one really bad hallucination or maybe some fevered dream that he was having in a pile of wet leaves somewhere, but for the gunshot. That gunshot was real--he knew that sound--and so was the anguished desperation in his brother’s voice--not for his own pain, but for Sam’s.
Or not-Sam’s. Or whoever it was that Dean was rescuing.
Not-Sam was a problem Sam had to make sense of eventually, but his focus was on his brother. Limping, he kept low and discreet, trying to maintain a clear eye on the action, but careful not to give away his presence until he had this figured out. Dean was straining under the weight of the bleeding not-Sam, hoisting him awkwardly to the back room, which Sam vaguely recognized as the place of his own captivity. Sam watched, crouched below a window, as the bigger guy--who was far too fond of punching and kicking prone victims, as Sam could not forget--closed the door and locked it, smirking as he did.
They’d let Sam get away and the guy still probably had a knot on the side of his head to prove it. But they weren’t going to let Dean get away. And Dean wasn’t going to be able to get away with not-Sam weighing him down.
Flattening himself against the back of the house, Sam closed his eyes and tried to think. Think beyond his aching body and the pervasive desire to sleep and even beyond his brother’s life in jeopardy. Think like a Winchester. Think like plans and rescue and big damn hero stuff.
Or just think like what the hell is going on?
Dean had come to the cabin, that much made sense. Sam had counted on that, believed in it and clung to it. It was why he hadn’t been afraid and why’d he’d come back here.
So Dean made sense.
And the lumbering oaf certainly made sense. Wielding guns and planting ambushes--again, Sam had expected as much.
But there were a few key things to keep in mind. First, there was only one lumbering oaf in the cabin. There were two of them, but only one had taken part in the ambush, which left one lumbering oaf unaccounted for. While he had suspected this second lumbering oaf to be somewhat of a softy, he also did not figure that lumbering oaf number one would let lumbering oaf number two just disappear and go his merry way. Not even for takeout, though they did seem rather fond of the stuff.
So, no, lumbering oaf number two’s absence was significant. And likely related to the second thing Sam had to keep in mind.
His dad.
His dad would never be uninvolved in Sam’s rescue. Even with Sam’s sometimes contrary nature or incessant need to know why, their dad was almost irrationally and loyally protective. He would never send Dean to do a job that he considered that important by himself, which meant that good old John Winchester had a role in this.
That left number three: the entire thing had been a setup from the beginning, that much had always been clear. But the setup was for John, it was for revenge, for murder. Sam knew that his father would figure that much out. But would he have figured out all the ins and outs? Was Dean getting captured part of the plan? Was his father hiding around here somewhere? Maybe taking out lumbering oaf number two?
Or was it possible that the lumbering oafs, for all their lumbering and oafishness, had managed to find some success with their plan? After all, there had been actual gunfire involved and a very limp looking not-Sam.
So what if Dean had expected to save Sam without consequence and his dad was hoping to take out the lumbering oafs and what if they screwed up?
That thought permeated the pain more then the rest, settling in the pit of his stomach like a bowling ball and running through his addled consciousness like a runaway train.
What if they screwed up?
What if Dean wasn’t supposed to get captured? What if dad wasn’t lurking in the wings? What if lumbering oaf number two actually got his crap together and managed to take out John Winchester?
Because the entire thing was a setup. Sam had been a setup and not-Sam was apparently a set-up because these two lumbering oafs actually went out of their way to find a not-Sam.
So points four, five, six, and seven: Sam needed to get Dean out of there, he needed to get Dean out of there now, and they both needed to get to wherever their dad was. And figure out who on Earth not-Sam was.
Sam was pretty sure that was seven points.
Or was it eight?
Or technically seven since a few were kind of similar?
Or--
What did it matter? He needed to focus and plan. Because he could be the wild card here. The presence of not-Sam meant something pretty telling: the lumbering oafs had counted him out of the game. They weren’t chasing him, so they didn’t consider him a threat. They’d replaced him with someone else to get his brother and dad there, which meant they weren’t counting on Sam coming back.
Which, given the Sam’s current state, maybe wasn’t such a dumb conclusion.
But they forgot one thing. One very important thing.
Sam was a Winchester.
And today he was going to live up to that--no matter what.
-o-
Dean wasn’t a morning person necessarily, but he’d never really given himself any other options. After all, school was in the morning, chores were in the morning, work was in the morning--there was always something he had to do, and sleeping in only prolonged the inevitable or worse, made it difficult to complete the inevitable. His mother hadn’t tolerated laziness and Taylor paid well enough to make getting out of bed a worthwhile experience.
And Rory. He liked texting her in the morning, hearing her voice on morning phone calls, meeting her for breakfast at Luke’s before school.
So morning person or not, getting up wasn’t something he dreaded, not really, because he’d always sort of figured that being awake was better than being asleep, that he had more to look forward to than to dread in any given day.
But today?
He really, really, really did not want to wake up. At all. Ever again.
Okay, scratch that. He may like to wake up again. Just maybe someplace familiar and warm and pain-free.
He wasn’t even fully awake this time when he knew he’d have no such luck on that front. He willed himself back into oblivion but Dean’s luck was still stuck on horrifically awful.
“Hey,” someone said. “Hey, you with me?”
Dean had to assume that this guy was talking to him but it wasn’t much incentive to open his eyes because he was tired of people.
“Come on, wake up,” the voice said again.
It occurred to Dean that this was someone different, someone knew. Someone not Kenny or Ryan, which might be a good thing, but it might not, but maybe it was a paramedic or something, but wouldn’t they be doing something about the pain?
“Seriously, just wake up,” the guy said.
That came across a bit pleading, a bit like an order, and Dean was just plain sick of taking orders, of being told what to do, of having no say in anything.
The guy laughed. “For not being Sammy, you sure do sulk like him.”
Who was Sammy? Who was this guy? Why did it hurt?
Just like the rest of his life, then, it was the inevitability of it that got him to just give in. Squinting, his eyelids fluttered a little before focusing on the scene around him.
The same clapboard walls. But different. More closed in. No windows--artificial lights. And no chair--where was the chair? And no ropes. No chair and no ropes and no Kenny and--
He’d seen this new guy. From before. Coming to the rescue. Winchester’s kid?
This new guy was staring at Dean, eyebrows raised, his face drawn and a little weary. “How are you feeling?”
Just the question made Dean wince. He felt awful--worse than before. Everything hurt, and he felt weak, very weak, and there was a low burn in his side. He wanted to ask what happened but when he opened his mouth, it felt parched and strained and there wasn’t a gag anymore.
“Yeah, your voice is going to be a little off for awhile,” the guy said. “That gag was in pretty tight and it looks like you were screaming for awhile”
Dean remembered that--vaguely. The incoherent, desperation of not even being able to express himself.
The pain flared in his side anew, so searing that it ripped across his entire abdomen with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach turn.
“Easy,” the guy said, putting a restraining hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got some pressure on it but the bullet’s still in there.”
Dean’s eyes went wide and his heart skipped a beat. The bullet’s still in there? What did that really mean?
“Hey, hey, hey,” the guy said, seeming to sense Dean’s panic. “It’s got to hurt like hell, I’m sure, but you’re okay for now, okay? Just take it easy and try not to move and it’ll be okay.”
It’ll be okay? Dean didn’t see how it would be okay. Nothing would be okay. He was still kidnapped and his head hurt and his mouth felt like it might never function again and his side was in flames and he wanted to throw up and sleep and he was hot and cold and whatever rescue was supposed to be coming for him didn’t seem to be panning out and this guy wanted to tell him it was okay.
“Yeah, I know,” the guy said. “It doesn’t seem okay, but trust me. I’ve been through worse. And my dad’s coming. So, yeah, it’ll be okay.”
It would be nice to take his word for it, but Dean was a little short up on trust.
The guy’s face went serious for a second and he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “So what’s your name?” he asked finally.
He may not trust that things were going to be okay, but he had no reason to not trust this guy. Or not reason to doubt that talking to him would do anything worse. He struggled to get saliva in his mouth, swallowing. “Dean,” he said.
The guy just looked confused. “How do you know who I am?”
And this just kept getting better and better. He shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked, disturbed by the scratchiness of his own voice.
“I’m Dean,” the guy said emphatically.
Maybe he was still dreaming. At any minute, Lorelai would eat her way out of a giant meatball and down a pot of coffee while Rory serenaded the event and Taylor sold tickets and everyone walked around with name tags that said Dean.
He closed his eyes, swallowing again. “No, I’m Dean,” he said. He opened his eyes and it was all the same. “Dean of Dean and Rory. Bag boy. Stock boy. Dean Forester.” And why did it sound like he was slurring?
The guy frowned, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. “You’ve got a fever,” he said absently, pulling his hand away. “And you’re Dean Forester?”
He said it like he knew him or knew of him, which added another nice layer to the surreal factor. “Like anyone around here cares,” he muttered. “It’s just Winchester. All the time Winchester.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” the guy said. “I have a feeling this has nothing to do with you.”
Sure, he was kidnapped and beaten and shot. “It’s not personal,” he said.
The guy looked concerned. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of a long story.”
At one point, Dean might have cared. Might have truly, honestly, completely cared. But he was so past caring, he was way past caring. No more caring. Done with it entirely. Why wasn’t Rory here. Rory could make him care, make him interested again. She could make CSPAN interesting, she could make hours of book shopping interesting, so she could surely make a kidnapping interesting.
“So we never actually went over how you’re feeling,” the guy prompted.
Dean just glared at him because he didn’t really wan to talk about that. Not that there was much to talk about because this guy had eyes so surely he could see, especially since this guy seemed to know more about all this mess than he did.
Which, really seemed just his luck. Dean had bad luck. He did. Bad luck because he always had to work on Friday nights when he had a date with Rory and he had to babysit Clara when he wanted to hang out with his friends and he didn’t bring enough money so Jess could buy Rory’s basket and Rory didn’t love him and the entire town blames him.
“Kid,” the guy said, more insistent now, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
Dean glared again, and sort of wished he hadn’t because his head hurt. “It hurts,” he said.
The guy raised his eyebrows at that. “Yeah, I can imagine,” he said. “But once we get you out of here, things are going to be better.”
Dean laughed at that a little, and he realized he felt hysterical. “I just wanted to go home,” he said. “Why didn’t they just let me go home?”
Because this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t and he was tired.
The guy drew his eyebrows together, lips pursed. “Look, kid, I know this is probably pretty messed up for you,” he said.
Scoffing, Dean rolled his eyes. Understatement of the year. Maybe the century. Or millennia. Or ever.
“So, hey,” the guy said. “I don’t suppose you saw another kid, did you?”
Another kid? Ever? Like he didn’t exist in the real world with an entire population of kids. Rory and Lane and Kyle and Josh and even Jess. Jess was a kid, right? Even sarcastic, self-absorbed, screwed up jerks could be kids, couldn’t they?
“Here, I mean,” the guy was saying. “Did you see another kid here?”
This guy really wanted an answer, an honest to God answer. “No,” he said. “They took me off the street and I woke up here. Here. Tied up and gagged and they talked and they hit me and then they shot me, I think. I mean, that’s what you said.”
“No, yeah,” the guy said. “I mean, I’m sorry. It’s just---well, I came for my brother. His name’s Sam.”
Insult to injury. Literally. Finding Dean was just an accident. A disappointment. Gets me shot, and the guy just wants to know about his brother.
Well, Dean just wanted to know what Rory saw in Jess and why Clara suddenly started hiding pictures of cute boys under her bed when she thought no one was looking. And he wanted to know why Taylor thought that people wanted to buy so much honey. Every week, more shipments of honey. What was with all the honey?
“I haven’t seen your brother,” Dean said, closing his eyes. “I don’t know your brother. I don’t know you. I don’t even have a brother. I have a sister. Two sisters. And a girlfriend. She doesn’t have a brother either.”
The cool hand was on his face again. “Hey, kid. Come on.”
“It’s Dean,” he said, trying to roll his head away. “My name is Dean.”
“Well coincidentally, that’s mine, too.”
That got Dean to open his eyes. “You’re Dean?”
“I’d say the one and only but present company would make that a lie.”
Did that make any sense whatsoever? This guy didn’t talk as fast as Rory but he wasn’t as pretty to look at either. His hair wasn’t as nice.
The guy’s face went from confident and cocky to hedging again. Then he looked down, fiddling at something at Dean’s side, and the pain blossomed anew.
His visioned darkened, pain buzzing loudly in his ears, and his heart thudded painfully against his chest and his throat tightened.
Then the hands again, on his face, on his shoulder, assuring, comforting. “Just take it easy,” the guy said. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”
Dean wasn’t sure if he really believed it, but the way this guy said it was so sure and so certain that Dean couldn’t help but trust him.
“Breathe through it,” the guy soothed. “Keep breathing.”
Dean tried, he did, but it was hard and it hurt and he wanted to sleep and all he could think was this Sam Winchester was a pretty lucky guy.
-o-
The kid was in bad shape.
He hadn’t been in great shape when Dean had found him but now--well, the bullet wound hadn’t exactly made things better and to make matters worse, the kid seemed to be developing a bit of a fever.
As if Dean didn’t feel bad enough as it was.
This was, after all, partially his fault. No, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, or even been the one to kidnap the kid, but he’d been the one to walk into the setup and he’d been the one to try to get out of it rather unsuccessfully which had ended up with this kid getting a bullet in the gut.
And to make things even worse? This kid wasn’t Sam.
This kid was just a kid. Dean Forester. Dean Forester. Of all the names. Dean. Forester--
The name clicked.
The missing kid from that dinky town. He worked at the market, never showed up for work. He should have paid more attention--two missing teens was coincidental and the Winchesters didn’t believe in coincidence.
Sloppy. Just like his rescue.
Well, at least one mystery solved. Not the mystery he had wanted to solve, not even a mystery he’d been trying to solve, but he couldn’t help but be relieved.
He swore, dropping his head into his hands. Dean was relieved. Dean was relieved not because he’d found the missing kid, but that this wasn’t Sam. That it wasn’t Sam lying here, bleeding to death. That this was some other kid, some innocent kid, some kid who worked in a market in a small town with a girlfriend and sisters.
Lifting his head, he looked at the kid again. Dean Forester. Beneath the bruises and the blood, the kid looked so damn young. Younger than Sam. This kid didn’t deserve this.
The similarities were still there between this kid in his brother, but this kid? His face looked younger, even with the swelling. He wasn’t as well built, but then again he didn’t need to be. This kid didn’t need to train, he didn’t hunt, he just worked at a market and probably babysat his sister and took his girlfriend on dates. He probably went to school and studied and played baseball or something equally stereotypically American.
The life Sam wanted. The life Sam always brooded over, fought for, and wanted.
The life he had wanted for Sam.
It was the reason he’d lied to Sam for half his life--not just to follow orders, but to protect Sam, to give Sam every chance at normal and innocent as he could. Because Sam, even when he didn’t know it, had never had it. He hadn’t even had four years of a mother and a father and a permanent address. And that--that was a feeling every kid deserved.
It was the reason he’d tried to protect Sam, to keep Sam safe because Sam deserved that stuff. His kid brother was freakishly smart, athletic, friendly. He could be a golden boy. He should have been a golden boy. Hell, the things Sammy managed to do while changing schools so many times in a year was remarkable. To think of Sam settled--
If Dean was honest, he knew that the reason Sam fought so hard sometimes, the reason he was so sullen, so sulky, is because Sam knew what he was capable of, too. Sam knew there was something he was missing out on, something more he could achieve. And Sam didn’t want to settle for less.
Dean didn’t want to lose his brother, but sometimes he didn’t want Sam to settle either.
It wasn’t an option though. Not for Sam. Not yet. But for this kid--
Well, he couldn’t screw it up for this kid by getting him killed.
So he’d just have to save his life.
Which would be a whole lot easier were they not trapped in some closet with some idiot with a gun lurking on the other side.
And if he wasn’t so worried about Sam. Because Sam was supposed to be here. And while he was more than happy not to have his little brother bleeding, that still raised the ever-so-important question of where his brother actually was.
Given the likeness between this wee Dean (who wasn’t really so wee--the kid had the quasi-Sasquatch-in-training thing going on himself), it was pretty clear that this was meant to be Sam’s replacement. Which meant they’d had Sam, but they didn’t anymore. Which meant Sam could have gotten the way. The kid was resourceful, Dean was sure of that, so Sam could have escaped and could be on his way back to civilization as Dean sat there.
Or...
There wasn’t an or. Dean wouldn’t even entertain an or.
No, Sam had gotten away. Sam was fine and he’d be waiting for Dean, shaking his head, telling Dean was a moron he was for getting himself caught.
And wee Dean would be okay, he’d be fine, and they’d get out of here and the kid would go to the hospital and get all fixed up and go back to his apple pie life and forget this whole thing had ever happened.
His dad would be coming--because no doubt the exchange had been an ambush, too, but his dad wouldn’t fall for that crap. His dad wouldn’t have fallen for this crap. His dad would have checked the entire cabin, Sam or no Sam, secured it, made sure. He would have pulled off the shot, would have stopped the guy from firing.
His dad was going to rip him a new one. Dean felt crappy enough that he’d take every word of it. Almost with relish. Hell, he might do an extra rep of all his nightly training as a self-inflicted punishment for being so damn stupid--his dad wouldn’t be able to tell him anything Dean wasn’t already berating himself for.
In the meantime, Dean needed to be ready.
Checking the kid again, wee Dean was still out cold, shivering now with a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. The makeshift bandage was mostly soaked through, but still in place. There wasn’t much more he could do for the kid.
Standing, he walked the small lengths of the room, feeling along the walls, looking for a weakness, for a crack, for anything.
The room was small and the walls bare and even though the place looked old, but sturdy. The walls weren’t going anywhere. No windows. The door was thick and solid and the lock was strong. Nothing on the floors--not a piece of furniture, not even a piece of trash or a freakin’ spider to keep him company.
There was no way out.
Sighing, Dean sunk back to the floor.
No way out.
Which meant waiting. Being ready. That whole be prepared, Boy Scout crap. Because there would be a chance, an opportunity. Whether it was a moment of weakness from Jim-Bob with a gun out there or when his dad came or anything else, there would be a chance.
His eye lingered on the kid again. The wee Dean living Sam’s life bleeding to death on the floor.
He would just have to hope that the kid would still be alive by the time Dean saw his chance to move.
Next
pinkphoenix1985 and sendintheklowns , thanks for making LJ posts worth it. Things are going to get a bit more confusing possibly as the Deans start talking to one another, but I hope it’s not too complicated to follow. Other notes and whatnot in chapter one. Previous parts here.CHAPTER FIVE
East, west, north, south. Running, walking, skipping, sleeping. None of it freakin’ mattered anymore. None of it. Because they had Dean.
They had Dean and it was all Sam’s fault and they had him and Sam was cold and sick and tired and terrified. He hadn’t been scared when they jumped him--though maybe he should have been. He hadn’t been scared when they kicked him around and tied him to a chair, jerk-offs that they were. But outside the cabin, free but screwed, he was downright scared senseless at the idea of his brother at the wrong end of a gun.
Though Sam had to admit, he wasn’t sure how reliable he was anymore. After all, he did just see himself get rescued by his brother, who then proceeded to get caught, and then to top it all off, he watched himself get shot.
He might have chalked the whole thing up to one really bad hallucination or maybe some fevered dream that he was having in a pile of wet leaves somewhere, but for the gunshot. That gunshot was real--he knew that sound--and so was the anguished desperation in his brother’s voice--not for his own pain, but for Sam’s.
Or not-Sam’s. Or whoever it was that Dean was rescuing.
Not-Sam was a problem Sam had to make sense of eventually, but his focus was on his brother. Limping, he kept low and discreet, trying to maintain a clear eye on the action, but careful not to give away his presence until he had this figured out. Dean was straining under the weight of the bleeding not-Sam, hoisting him awkwardly to the back room, which Sam vaguely recognized as the place of his own captivity. Sam watched, crouched below a window, as the bigger guy--who was far too fond of punching and kicking prone victims, as Sam could not forget--closed the door and locked it, smirking as he did.
They’d let Sam get away and the guy still probably had a knot on the side of his head to prove it. But they weren’t going to let Dean get away. And Dean wasn’t going to be able to get away with not-Sam weighing him down.
Flattening himself against the back of the house, Sam closed his eyes and tried to think. Think beyond his aching body and the pervasive desire to sleep and even beyond his brother’s life in jeopardy. Think like a Winchester. Think like plans and rescue and big damn hero stuff.
Or just think like what the hell is going on?
Dean had come to the cabin, that much made sense. Sam had counted on that, believed in it and clung to it. It was why he hadn’t been afraid and why’d he’d come back here.
So Dean made sense.
And the lumbering oaf certainly made sense. Wielding guns and planting ambushes--again, Sam had expected as much.
But there were a few key things to keep in mind. First, there was only one lumbering oaf in the cabin. There were two of them, but only one had taken part in the ambush, which left one lumbering oaf unaccounted for. While he had suspected this second lumbering oaf to be somewhat of a softy, he also did not figure that lumbering oaf number one would let lumbering oaf number two just disappear and go his merry way. Not even for takeout, though they did seem rather fond of the stuff.
So, no, lumbering oaf number two’s absence was significant. And likely related to the second thing Sam had to keep in mind.
His dad.
His dad would never be uninvolved in Sam’s rescue. Even with Sam’s sometimes contrary nature or incessant need to know why, their dad was almost irrationally and loyally protective. He would never send Dean to do a job that he considered that important by himself, which meant that good old John Winchester had a role in this.
That left number three: the entire thing had been a setup from the beginning, that much had always been clear. But the setup was for John, it was for revenge, for murder. Sam knew that his father would figure that much out. But would he have figured out all the ins and outs? Was Dean getting captured part of the plan? Was his father hiding around here somewhere? Maybe taking out lumbering oaf number two?
Or was it possible that the lumbering oafs, for all their lumbering and oafishness, had managed to find some success with their plan? After all, there had been actual gunfire involved and a very limp looking not-Sam.
So what if Dean had expected to save Sam without consequence and his dad was hoping to take out the lumbering oafs and what if they screwed up?
That thought permeated the pain more then the rest, settling in the pit of his stomach like a bowling ball and running through his addled consciousness like a runaway train.
What if they screwed up?
What if Dean wasn’t supposed to get captured? What if dad wasn’t lurking in the wings? What if lumbering oaf number two actually got his crap together and managed to take out John Winchester?
Because the entire thing was a setup. Sam had been a setup and not-Sam was apparently a set-up because these two lumbering oafs actually went out of their way to find a not-Sam.
So points four, five, six, and seven: Sam needed to get Dean out of there, he needed to get Dean out of there now, and they both needed to get to wherever their dad was. And figure out who on Earth not-Sam was.
Sam was pretty sure that was seven points.
Or was it eight?
Or technically seven since a few were kind of similar?
Or--
What did it matter? He needed to focus and plan. Because he could be the wild card here. The presence of not-Sam meant something pretty telling: the lumbering oafs had counted him out of the game. They weren’t chasing him, so they didn’t consider him a threat. They’d replaced him with someone else to get his brother and dad there, which meant they weren’t counting on Sam coming back.
Which, given the Sam’s current state, maybe wasn’t such a dumb conclusion.
But they forgot one thing. One very important thing.
Sam was a Winchester.
And today he was going to live up to that--no matter what.
-o-
Dean wasn’t a morning person necessarily, but he’d never really given himself any other options. After all, school was in the morning, chores were in the morning, work was in the morning--there was always something he had to do, and sleeping in only prolonged the inevitable or worse, made it difficult to complete the inevitable. His mother hadn’t tolerated laziness and Taylor paid well enough to make getting out of bed a worthwhile experience.
And Rory. He liked texting her in the morning, hearing her voice on morning phone calls, meeting her for breakfast at Luke’s before school.
So morning person or not, getting up wasn’t something he dreaded, not really, because he’d always sort of figured that being awake was better than being asleep, that he had more to look forward to than to dread in any given day.
But today?
He really, really, really did not want to wake up. At all. Ever again.
Okay, scratch that. He may like to wake up again. Just maybe someplace familiar and warm and pain-free.
He wasn’t even fully awake this time when he knew he’d have no such luck on that front. He willed himself back into oblivion but Dean’s luck was still stuck on horrifically awful.
“Hey,” someone said. “Hey, you with me?”
Dean had to assume that this guy was talking to him but it wasn’t much incentive to open his eyes because he was tired of people.
“Come on, wake up,” the voice said again.
It occurred to Dean that this was someone different, someone knew. Someone not Kenny or Ryan, which might be a good thing, but it might not, but maybe it was a paramedic or something, but wouldn’t they be doing something about the pain?
“Seriously, just wake up,” the guy said.
That came across a bit pleading, a bit like an order, and Dean was just plain sick of taking orders, of being told what to do, of having no say in anything.
The guy laughed. “For not being Sammy, you sure do sulk like him.”
Who was Sammy? Who was this guy? Why did it hurt?
Just like the rest of his life, then, it was the inevitability of it that got him to just give in. Squinting, his eyelids fluttered a little before focusing on the scene around him.
The same clapboard walls. But different. More closed in. No windows--artificial lights. And no chair--where was the chair? And no ropes. No chair and no ropes and no Kenny and--
He’d seen this new guy. From before. Coming to the rescue. Winchester’s kid?
This new guy was staring at Dean, eyebrows raised, his face drawn and a little weary. “How are you feeling?”
Just the question made Dean wince. He felt awful--worse than before. Everything hurt, and he felt weak, very weak, and there was a low burn in his side. He wanted to ask what happened but when he opened his mouth, it felt parched and strained and there wasn’t a gag anymore.
“Yeah, your voice is going to be a little off for awhile,” the guy said. “That gag was in pretty tight and it looks like you were screaming for awhile”
Dean remembered that--vaguely. The incoherent, desperation of not even being able to express himself.
The pain flared in his side anew, so searing that it ripped across his entire abdomen with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach turn.
“Easy,” the guy said, putting a restraining hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got some pressure on it but the bullet’s still in there.”
Dean’s eyes went wide and his heart skipped a beat. The bullet’s still in there? What did that really mean?
“Hey, hey, hey,” the guy said, seeming to sense Dean’s panic. “It’s got to hurt like hell, I’m sure, but you’re okay for now, okay? Just take it easy and try not to move and it’ll be okay.”
It’ll be okay? Dean didn’t see how it would be okay. Nothing would be okay. He was still kidnapped and his head hurt and his mouth felt like it might never function again and his side was in flames and he wanted to throw up and sleep and he was hot and cold and whatever rescue was supposed to be coming for him didn’t seem to be panning out and this guy wanted to tell him it was okay.
“Yeah, I know,” the guy said. “It doesn’t seem okay, but trust me. I’ve been through worse. And my dad’s coming. So, yeah, it’ll be okay.”
It would be nice to take his word for it, but Dean was a little short up on trust.
The guy’s face went serious for a second and he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “So what’s your name?” he asked finally.
He may not trust that things were going to be okay, but he had no reason to not trust this guy. Or not reason to doubt that talking to him would do anything worse. He struggled to get saliva in his mouth, swallowing. “Dean,” he said.
The guy just looked confused. “How do you know who I am?”
And this just kept getting better and better. He shook his head. “Who are you?” he asked, disturbed by the scratchiness of his own voice.
“I’m Dean,” the guy said emphatically.
Maybe he was still dreaming. At any minute, Lorelai would eat her way out of a giant meatball and down a pot of coffee while Rory serenaded the event and Taylor sold tickets and everyone walked around with name tags that said Dean.
He closed his eyes, swallowing again. “No, I’m Dean,” he said. He opened his eyes and it was all the same. “Dean of Dean and Rory. Bag boy. Stock boy. Dean Forester.” And why did it sound like he was slurring?
The guy frowned, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. “You’ve got a fever,” he said absently, pulling his hand away. “And you’re Dean Forester?”
He said it like he knew him or knew of him, which added another nice layer to the surreal factor. “Like anyone around here cares,” he muttered. “It’s just Winchester. All the time Winchester.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” the guy said. “I have a feeling this has nothing to do with you.”
Sure, he was kidnapped and beaten and shot. “It’s not personal,” he said.
The guy looked concerned. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of a long story.”
At one point, Dean might have cared. Might have truly, honestly, completely cared. But he was so past caring, he was way past caring. No more caring. Done with it entirely. Why wasn’t Rory here. Rory could make him care, make him interested again. She could make CSPAN interesting, she could make hours of book shopping interesting, so she could surely make a kidnapping interesting.
“So we never actually went over how you’re feeling,” the guy prompted.
Dean just glared at him because he didn’t really wan to talk about that. Not that there was much to talk about because this guy had eyes so surely he could see, especially since this guy seemed to know more about all this mess than he did.
Which, really seemed just his luck. Dean had bad luck. He did. Bad luck because he always had to work on Friday nights when he had a date with Rory and he had to babysit Clara when he wanted to hang out with his friends and he didn’t bring enough money so Jess could buy Rory’s basket and Rory didn’t love him and the entire town blames him.
“Kid,” the guy said, more insistent now, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
Dean glared again, and sort of wished he hadn’t because his head hurt. “It hurts,” he said.
The guy raised his eyebrows at that. “Yeah, I can imagine,” he said. “But once we get you out of here, things are going to be better.”
Dean laughed at that a little, and he realized he felt hysterical. “I just wanted to go home,” he said. “Why didn’t they just let me go home?”
Because this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t and he was tired.
The guy drew his eyebrows together, lips pursed. “Look, kid, I know this is probably pretty messed up for you,” he said.
Scoffing, Dean rolled his eyes. Understatement of the year. Maybe the century. Or millennia. Or ever.
“So, hey,” the guy said. “I don’t suppose you saw another kid, did you?”
Another kid? Ever? Like he didn’t exist in the real world with an entire population of kids. Rory and Lane and Kyle and Josh and even Jess. Jess was a kid, right? Even sarcastic, self-absorbed, screwed up jerks could be kids, couldn’t they?
“Here, I mean,” the guy was saying. “Did you see another kid here?”
This guy really wanted an answer, an honest to God answer. “No,” he said. “They took me off the street and I woke up here. Here. Tied up and gagged and they talked and they hit me and then they shot me, I think. I mean, that’s what you said.”
“No, yeah,” the guy said. “I mean, I’m sorry. It’s just---well, I came for my brother. His name’s Sam.”
Insult to injury. Literally. Finding Dean was just an accident. A disappointment. Gets me shot, and the guy just wants to know about his brother.
Well, Dean just wanted to know what Rory saw in Jess and why Clara suddenly started hiding pictures of cute boys under her bed when she thought no one was looking. And he wanted to know why Taylor thought that people wanted to buy so much honey. Every week, more shipments of honey. What was with all the honey?
“I haven’t seen your brother,” Dean said, closing his eyes. “I don’t know your brother. I don’t know you. I don’t even have a brother. I have a sister. Two sisters. And a girlfriend. She doesn’t have a brother either.”
The cool hand was on his face again. “Hey, kid. Come on.”
“It’s Dean,” he said, trying to roll his head away. “My name is Dean.”
“Well coincidentally, that’s mine, too.”
That got Dean to open his eyes. “You’re Dean?”
“I’d say the one and only but present company would make that a lie.”
Did that make any sense whatsoever? This guy didn’t talk as fast as Rory but he wasn’t as pretty to look at either. His hair wasn’t as nice.
The guy’s face went from confident and cocky to hedging again. Then he looked down, fiddling at something at Dean’s side, and the pain blossomed anew.
His visioned darkened, pain buzzing loudly in his ears, and his heart thudded painfully against his chest and his throat tightened.
Then the hands again, on his face, on his shoulder, assuring, comforting. “Just take it easy,” the guy said. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”
Dean wasn’t sure if he really believed it, but the way this guy said it was so sure and so certain that Dean couldn’t help but trust him.
“Breathe through it,” the guy soothed. “Keep breathing.”
Dean tried, he did, but it was hard and it hurt and he wanted to sleep and all he could think was this Sam Winchester was a pretty lucky guy.
-o-
The kid was in bad shape.
He hadn’t been in great shape when Dean had found him but now--well, the bullet wound hadn’t exactly made things better and to make matters worse, the kid seemed to be developing a bit of a fever.
As if Dean didn’t feel bad enough as it was.
This was, after all, partially his fault. No, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, or even been the one to kidnap the kid, but he’d been the one to walk into the setup and he’d been the one to try to get out of it rather unsuccessfully which had ended up with this kid getting a bullet in the gut.
And to make things even worse? This kid wasn’t Sam.
This kid was just a kid. Dean Forester. Dean Forester. Of all the names. Dean. Forester--
The name clicked.
The missing kid from that dinky town. He worked at the market, never showed up for work. He should have paid more attention--two missing teens was coincidental and the Winchesters didn’t believe in coincidence.
Sloppy. Just like his rescue.
Well, at least one mystery solved. Not the mystery he had wanted to solve, not even a mystery he’d been trying to solve, but he couldn’t help but be relieved.
He swore, dropping his head into his hands. Dean was relieved. Dean was relieved not because he’d found the missing kid, but that this wasn’t Sam. That it wasn’t Sam lying here, bleeding to death. That this was some other kid, some innocent kid, some kid who worked in a market in a small town with a girlfriend and sisters.
Lifting his head, he looked at the kid again. Dean Forester. Beneath the bruises and the blood, the kid looked so damn young. Younger than Sam. This kid didn’t deserve this.
The similarities were still there between this kid in his brother, but this kid? His face looked younger, even with the swelling. He wasn’t as well built, but then again he didn’t need to be. This kid didn’t need to train, he didn’t hunt, he just worked at a market and probably babysat his sister and took his girlfriend on dates. He probably went to school and studied and played baseball or something equally stereotypically American.
The life Sam wanted. The life Sam always brooded over, fought for, and wanted.
The life he had wanted for Sam.
It was the reason he’d lied to Sam for half his life--not just to follow orders, but to protect Sam, to give Sam every chance at normal and innocent as he could. Because Sam, even when he didn’t know it, had never had it. He hadn’t even had four years of a mother and a father and a permanent address. And that--that was a feeling every kid deserved.
It was the reason he’d tried to protect Sam, to keep Sam safe because Sam deserved that stuff. His kid brother was freakishly smart, athletic, friendly. He could be a golden boy. He should have been a golden boy. Hell, the things Sammy managed to do while changing schools so many times in a year was remarkable. To think of Sam settled--
If Dean was honest, he knew that the reason Sam fought so hard sometimes, the reason he was so sullen, so sulky, is because Sam knew what he was capable of, too. Sam knew there was something he was missing out on, something more he could achieve. And Sam didn’t want to settle for less.
Dean didn’t want to lose his brother, but sometimes he didn’t want Sam to settle either.
It wasn’t an option though. Not for Sam. Not yet. But for this kid--
Well, he couldn’t screw it up for this kid by getting him killed.
So he’d just have to save his life.
Which would be a whole lot easier were they not trapped in some closet with some idiot with a gun lurking on the other side.
And if he wasn’t so worried about Sam. Because Sam was supposed to be here. And while he was more than happy not to have his little brother bleeding, that still raised the ever-so-important question of where his brother actually was.
Given the likeness between this wee Dean (who wasn’t really so wee--the kid had the quasi-Sasquatch-in-training thing going on himself), it was pretty clear that this was meant to be Sam’s replacement. Which meant they’d had Sam, but they didn’t anymore. Which meant Sam could have gotten the way. The kid was resourceful, Dean was sure of that, so Sam could have escaped and could be on his way back to civilization as Dean sat there.
Or...
There wasn’t an or. Dean wouldn’t even entertain an or.
No, Sam had gotten away. Sam was fine and he’d be waiting for Dean, shaking his head, telling Dean was a moron he was for getting himself caught.
And wee Dean would be okay, he’d be fine, and they’d get out of here and the kid would go to the hospital and get all fixed up and go back to his apple pie life and forget this whole thing had ever happened.
His dad would be coming--because no doubt the exchange had been an ambush, too, but his dad wouldn’t fall for that crap. His dad wouldn’t have fallen for this crap. His dad would have checked the entire cabin, Sam or no Sam, secured it, made sure. He would have pulled off the shot, would have stopped the guy from firing.
His dad was going to rip him a new one. Dean felt crappy enough that he’d take every word of it. Almost with relish. Hell, he might do an extra rep of all his nightly training as a self-inflicted punishment for being so damn stupid--his dad wouldn’t be able to tell him anything Dean wasn’t already berating himself for.
In the meantime, Dean needed to be ready.
Checking the kid again, wee Dean was still out cold, shivering now with a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. The makeshift bandage was mostly soaked through, but still in place. There wasn’t much more he could do for the kid.
Standing, he walked the small lengths of the room, feeling along the walls, looking for a weakness, for a crack, for anything.
The room was small and the walls bare and even though the place looked old, but sturdy. The walls weren’t going anywhere. No windows. The door was thick and solid and the lock was strong. Nothing on the floors--not a piece of furniture, not even a piece of trash or a freakin’ spider to keep him company.
There was no way out.
Sighing, Dean sunk back to the floor.
No way out.
Which meant waiting. Being ready. That whole be prepared, Boy Scout crap. Because there would be a chance, an opportunity. Whether it was a moment of weakness from Jim-Bob with a gun out there or when his dad came or anything else, there would be a chance.
His eye lingered on the kid again. The wee Dean living Sam’s life bleeding to death on the floor.
He would just have to hope that the kid would still be alive by the time Dean saw his chance to move.
Next
