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do i dare or do i dare? [userpic]

GG/SPN fic: One of a Kind 6/8

A/N:  I'm a little slow on the posting here, but I hope it's worth the wait :)  We're reaching the climax here, so the action should be about at its peak.  Thanks for the continued kind words!  Previous parts here.


CHAPTER SIX

His dad was really some kind of freak.  All the training and the guns and the psychotic journal keeping, yeah, his dad was pretty well whacked.  He was dark and broody and knew far too much about how to kill things and had the dates people had died in terrible and awful ways in a journal that he carried from place to place.  Sure, Sam was used to that--used to the waking at five AM to run two miles and used to the weekly honing of the weapons arsenal that would make a cop all itchy with anticipation.  Sam was used to it and he supposed for them it was really pretty normal, but Sam wasn’t oblivious.  He realized just how freakish it all was.

His dad was like Rocky and Rambo and Yoda all at once.

Which was really quite the mental image.  Even worse than that time he’d accidentally walked in on Dean when he was with the little redhead in Tulsa.

That was making him sick, now that he thought about it.

Nope, that would be the head injury, yet again.

It wasn’t just that his dad was a freak; it was that his dad was a damn brilliant freak and even though a lot of the time Sam wanted nothing to do with his dad, right now he just needed to think like him.  Military and plotting and ruthless and no possibility of failure.

So, think like Dad.  Do some planning, some recon, some whatever the hell they did when prepping for a hunt.  His brother ate this terminology up and his dad spoke it like everyone talked like that but it all gave Sam a headache.

Fortunately for him, he’d already been inside the structure in question.  He’d been in the two main rooms and seen in another one, which meant that he was fairly aware of the entrances and exits in the place (and the cut in his arm still throbbed from his choice of one last time).
On the downside, even with his foreknowledge of the cabin, there weren’t any easy ins and outs, because he wasn’t really keen on breaking through another window.

But since when did Sam want to do anything the easy way?  Easy was overrated.  Easy was too, well, easy, and Winchesters didn’t do easy things.

He shook his head, clearing it.  He really needed a long nap after this.

First things first, getting Dean out of there.  And not-Sam, too, who Sam had to assume was more than a figment of his imagine for now.

The good thing was that Dean was okay.  His brother had been unharmed as he’d been ushered into the closet.  Granted, his brother was likely unarmed by this point, too, but his brother didn’t need to be armed.  His brother was good, with or without weapons.  All his brother needed was a distraction, something to capitalize on.

And Sam could do that.  He wasn’t sure how much beyond that he could do, but he could do that much.  Because he hadn’t been training every day since he was ten years old for nothing.  He hated the lifestyle, but he’d have to be part-dead to not learn some of this stuff.  His dad was so going to tell him I told you so but in a very dad way that meant fifty extra sit ups and a smug look on his face.

If Sam got out of this alive, Sam might just oblige him, might even do that extra fifty without a single complaint.

So.  Distraction.  He’d prefer something real and manly, some kind of kamikaze mission his brother could then taken advantage of and thus prevent the actual kamikaze part of it. 

Keep it simple.  Go in, confront lumbering oaf number one, put up a fight and hope that Dean busted his way out in time.  Dean was good at that.  Some kind of weird big brother sense.

Kamikaze or not, Sam needed to be armed in some form.  He was, after all, not feeling so good.

He let his eyes wander, taking in his surroundings.  It was sort of getting hard to see, and at first Sam wondered if that was because the swelling around his eyes was increasing, but then it occurred to him that it was dusk, rapidly approaching dark. 

More reason to move.  He didn’t want to be out here by himself when it got dark.

But a weapon.  Where would there be a weapon?  There was woods and trees and the cabin and--the wood pile.  He was hiding behind a wood pile.  What better weapon for the logically impaired than a hunk of wood?   

Sitting up, he grabbed a piece that was big enough to do damage but small enough that he could still carry without wanting to fall over from exertion, which might kind of make his distraction more laughable than successful.

Acceptable piece in hand, he took a cleansing breath.  It didn’t do any good.  His head felt dizzy and his arm was almost so painful that it was numb.  His ankle tweaked and he felt sick. 

All things considered, this was about as good as he’d felt in two days.  Or three days.  Or--

What did it matter?  What did any of it matter?  This wasn’t even about him anymore--it was about Dean, it was about his brother, and Sam couldn’t let anything happen to him.

It was time to move.

-o-

When his parents told him that he was moving to some nowhere town, some place far, far away from Chicago, he’d been angry.  He’d been so angry and upset and hurt because Chicago was home, the little brownstone in Wrigley Town was his home.  His room had been small and Audrey and Clara had fought like cats and dogs but his friend Jimmy had lived in an apartment building with a view of the stadium and there was a park with a ball diamond right down the street from him.  His dad had let him sit in the garage on Saturdays and his grandfather was already talking about letting him work there next summer.  And his girlfriend, he’d had a girlfriend, and she was cute and sweet and she made him feel giddy inside just thinking about her. 

It had been home and he’d been happy and he hadn’t wanted to leave and who lived in a town called Stars Hollow, anyway?

True, when he’d moved there, he’d hated it.  He’d even hated his room with its big window looking out over a big yard on a big street with big houses and big trees and everything was big except the town and the school and the things that mattered. 

There were a couple of guys who were okay, and there was actually a pretty decent salvage yard, and it was nice to have a room he could stretch out in to do push-ups.  But it wasn’t home, it wasn’t quite right, until her.

Until Rory Gilmore.

One look, and he was smitten.  One look and Connecticut and small towns and working in a grocery store was all worthwhile.  It was home.

And the lesson?

That sometimes things happened for a reason.  That sometimes even bad things could be good things, that sometimes life was meant to be.

But, sometimes, bad things were just bad things.  Sometimes even the perfect girl was attracted to the wrong guy and all Dean had was a girl who he loved but kept looking at someone else and a room and a job in a town he wasn’t even sure he liked.

Or worse.  Sometimes, apparently, he got kidnapped and no one wanted to look for him and no one probably missed him and Jess probably could comfort Rory and that just made him nauseous--

He was going to throw up.  Not as part of this depressingly nostalgic dream, but really. 

The gagging motion brought him to full awareness in time to turn his head to the side.

Someone was swearing in the background and for a second, Dean thought maybe it was his subconscious, which was kind of weird, but not out of the realm of possibility, but then he felt someone rolling him.

Someone--the guy.  The Dean guy.

That was about all the time he had for coherent thought before his stomach twisted again and more bile came forth.

Strong hands braced him, holding him up enough so he didn’t collapse to the ground. 

“You’re okay,” the guy was saying.  “You’re okay.”

Dean wanted to believe him, but didn’t know how to believe anything.  He heaved again, tears springing to his eyes.

When he was finished, he sagged, and would have collapsed were it not for the guy holding him.  He could barely think and couldn’t resist as the guy turned him back on his back, relaxing him against the floorboards.

For long moments, he focused on breathing, in and out, ignoring the pain flaring in his side.  It had to get better--it had to, didn’t it?  It couldn’t get worse.

“How are you feeling?”

That question.  That question was so unbelievably ridiculously stupid and Rory would have had the self-awareness to at least realize the utter ridiculousness of the question even if she subjected him to it.  Opening his eyes, he glared up at the guy.

“Okay, then,” the guy said with a wry quirk to his lips.  “So I take it that means not so good.” 

Panting, Dean closed his eyes again, trying to turn away.  He didn’t want to deal with this.  Denial was his friend.  It was working okay when it came to the annoyance that was Jess, so maybe it would work here.

“Hey, come on,” the guy said, jabbing him gently in the shoulder.  “Maybe you should stay awake for a bit.”

Apparently this guy didn’t really believe in the art of denial.  “’m tired,” he said, because it was all he could think about suddenly.

The guy sighed.  “Yeah, I think it’s the fever.  And the blood loss.  And, okay, the concussion.”

Was this guy trying to make this worse?  “Go ‘way,” he muttered.  Not even Rory was this tenacious when she wanted to talk him into watching some idiotic chick flick for the fiftieth time.

“We’re going go get out of here, you know,” the guy said conversationally.  “You’ll be back home in no time.”

Home.  Stars Hollow and his parents and Clara and Rory.  He wondered if his mother ever did the dishes without him.

Why was he thinking about dishes?  What was wrong with him?  Was this what it was like to be a Gilmore?  Lorelai said he was one, but Lorelai said a lot of things so maybe she wasn’t the most reliable source, though she seemed to be right when it counted.

Someone jostled his shoulder again.  Not someone.  The Dean guy.  Dean...Winchester?

He opened his eyes, but it was like looking through gauze.  Not that he had ever looked through gauze but that was what it reminded him of.  Though it was sort of a weird saying now that he thought about it.  He could probably use some gauze right now.

“Hey, you awake enough to talk?”

“I don’ wanna,” Dean muttered, frowning against the pain, and he wished he could actually talk without sounding drunk.  Not that he’d been drunk, but it seemed like it.

“Look, you need to focus for me, okay?  I just need to know if you know anything else--anything that can help us get out of here.”

Great.  So he was just good for information.  He was good for luring other people’s fathers and brothers and for pumping for information.  Did he have no value in and of himself anymore?  He was just Rory’s boyfriend and Taylor’s stock boy and this Dean guy’s way to figure out what happened to his brother.  “Jus’ stuff,” he said.  He blinked hard, swallowing and finding himself clearer.  “They said it wasn’t personal.”

That perked the guy up, and he straightened, leaning forward.  “With you?  It wasn’t personal with you?”

Too many questions.  “They wanted Winchester,” he said. 

“Did they say why?”

The question.  Always the questions.  Rory asked questions, too, but hers were funny, cute, quirky.  These were just annoying.  And Dean tried to remember, he really did, because he was like that.  People wanted him to do things, so he did them.  Taylor wanted him to open the store with him, so he did.  Rory wanted him to read a book, so he did.  His mother wanted him to watch Clara, so he did.  He just did and he  usually didn’t think about it, usually didn’t even mind, but today?  Today he was just plain tired of being someone else’s go-to man when it had nothing to do with him at all.  

“Revenge,” he said, because being a good kid was something he just couldn’t stop.  It must have been some glitch in his genetic makeup.  “Their dad.  Somethin’ about their dad.”

“But did they say what they were going to do?  I mean, why?” the guy’s voice was edgy, nervous, persistent.  Very persistent.  “You have to give me something here, kid, so I know just what I’m dealing with.” 

He wasn’t the one conducting the kidnapping.  He really had nothing to do with the kidnapping.  So why ask him?  Why was he here at all?  “I don’ remember,” he said, because there was information in there, but it was buried in his mind somewhere, behind the concussion maybe.  Or the gunshot.  That didn’t make sense.  It didn’t have to make sense.  He didn’t care anymore. 

And hey, wasn’t it his turn to ask questions?  When was it ever his turn?  The gag was gone.  He squinted, trying to get a good look at the guy, who looked worried or perplexed or both or something.

“Why?” Dean asked. 

This made the guy cock his head.  “Why what?”

Dean sighed, blinking slowly, trying to keep focused on the conversation at hand.  “Why me?”

It was the guy who sighed this time.  He leaned his head back and laughed a little.  “Man, kid, they told the truth about that much.  It’s so not personal, as far as I can tell.”

Dean groaned.  Again and again.  He was bleeding and maybe dying and it wasn’t personal just didn’t cut it.  “I wanna know why,” Dean said, and he was whining.  He really was.  Like Clara did when she wanted to watch her favorite TV program.  Or Rory when she was trying to get him to do something she knew he didn’t want to do, like drive to Hartford for a book signing by some journalist Dean had never heard of or going to the Indian place that made Rory’s breath smell funny and gave him gas.

“They took my brother,” the guy said finally.  “My brother, Sam.  And I don’t know--they must have--lost him or something.  But, they still wanted to get my dad’s attention, so they took you.”

That was it?  That was the entire story?  The one he’d been trying to figure out since this whole thing began?  Explained away so quickly, so pointlessly?  Dean felt insulted and incredulous and indisposed.  Indisposed? 

Maybe he’d been spending too much time with Rory.

“I got to tell you, kid,” the guy continued.  “It’s just bad luck for you.  You’re a dead ringer for my little bro.”

And that just made it even worse.  He’d been picked as bait for someone else’s father because he looked like some other kid.

This was like a bad movie--really, it was.  If he wasn’t bleeding to death, maybe it’d be funny.  If he wasn’t probably going to end up as a corpse on the five o’clock news then, hey, it might be hilarious.  Funny, ha-ha, and hey, at least there’d be some guy here so if he survived, they might find the body.  Unless they died together, then maybe their bones would get mixed together and it’d be even harder to identify them when some dog dug them up in five years.

But Rory would laugh at this movie, she really would.  Her mom and her would sit with a bowl of popcorn laced with M&M’s and cheese curls and remind everyone how utterly pathetic it was that this kid on screen couldn’t even be worth enough to kidnap on his own behalf, that he had to look like someone else, and how this would only feed feelings of self-doubt and a lack of self-worth that would persist into adulthood, had he survived the ordeal, of course.  And Lorelai would snarf a piece of pizza and comment that it was sort of like Shakespeare, with all that dramatic comedy and the irony, or maybe not the irony, because what was irony after all?  But even Shakespeare wrote about mistaken identity and how wearing a mask could change anyone’s identity, so maybe these kidnappers weren’t stupid, maybe they were just channeling Shakespeare, which would, of course, make them the opposite of stupid.

Rory would ask why only smart people liked Shakespeare.

And Lorelai would just say that anyone else would just be in it for the tights.

At that point, Dean might have said something, to Lorelai or the guy, he wasn’t sure, but the guy might have said something, too, but it was hard to hear, what with Lorelai stuck in his head and all.  Really hard to hear and hard to think, hard to think logically anyway, and breathing.  He had to breathe.

“Hey, did you hear that?” the guy was saying, and he was moving, too, standing, pressed against the wall.

No, Dean didn’t hear that, and even if he did, he just didn’t care. 

Then he did hear it, a thump and a yell and a commotion and Dean might have cared, could have cared, but it was too late to care, too late for it to matter at all.

So Dean just closed his eyes and let it all drift away.

-o-

Really, in the grand scheme of things, on the Winchester scale of screwed over, this wasn’t all that bad.  Not that it was ideal, with Dean locked in a closet with some innocent kid bleeding to death that looked an awful lot like Sammy, but they’d been through worse.  They’d survived worse.

Well, he and Sammy had...this kid was way out of his league, though.

Still, he could fix things for this kid.  After all, Dean had three things going for him: his dad, who had to be showing up here sooner or later, Sam, who could be out there right now for all he knew, and Dean, himself.  Locked away and unarmed, Dean was hardly useless when given the opportunity.

And he’d get the opportunity.

He looked at the kid again, nibbling at the inside of his lip.  This time he wouldn’t blow it.

Engaging the kid in conversation had been a pretty pointless venture.  Dean didn’t know enough to appease the kid’s questions, and wee Dean was almost too out of it to say anything rational, anyway.  The kid was holding on, but he looked worse by the minute, and the lack of coherency wasn’t a good sign.  At all.

If Dean were the despairing type of guy, he might let himself wallowing in it right about then.

But Dean wasn’t the despairing kind of guy.  Couldn’t be.  Despair wouldn’t help him get out of here, wouldn’t help him get wee Dean out of here.  He had to be ready, to--

Then he heard it.

At first a thump, soft and quiet, almost indiscernible.

Then again.

He glanced at the kid, who was still looking at him, kind of, with a glassy-eyed stare.

“You hear that?” he asked, pushing tentatively to his feet.

Wee Dean’s eyes roamed a bit, confused and bleary.

Then he heard it again, a louder noise, and a yell, two yells, the voice of the guy with the gun and--

Sam.

Everything else forgotten, Dean pressed himself against the wall, desperate to hear more, to know what was going on.

The clatter increased.  Dean could hear the scrap of chairs, wood furniture creaking, breaking.  Flesh hit flesh and bodies seemed to roll.

Then the report of gunfire and an unabashed curse before the scuffle started again.

Dean couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.  He had to get out, had to help Sam, had to do something.

Sam cried out, and Dean kicked himself into overdrive, slamming his body hard against the door, ignoring the spike of pain it sent through his arm.

More hits, the sound of shattering glass, and Dean threw himself into the door again, harder this time, more desperate.

He couldn’t sit here, he couldn’t be locked in some damn closet while his brother was out there, while Sam was out there--

A pause, long and terrifying.  Then, a laugh.  Deep and cold.

Dean pounded harder, screaming, “Sammy!”

“I figured you were dead, kid,” a voice permeated the walls.

“No!” Dean screamed again.  “No, don’t you touch him, you don’t touch him, you son of a bitch!”

Behind him, the kid was groaning, but Dean didn’t have time for that--not now, not when--

Another scuffle, frantic and desperate and sudden.

Another report of gunfire that hit Dean hard, rendered him shocked and immobile.

Then silence.

Deep and erie, penetrating all of Dean’s senses.  Nothing moved, just the sound of his own heart in his ears and the kid’s harsh breathing.

His attempts at escape were frozen, stuck in limbo, waiting for a sound, for a sign, for--

Movement.

Slight and quiet.  A groan.

But whose?

Dean wanted to call out, to know more--but he couldn’t.  He just--couldn’t.  Because he knew his brother was good, he did, but these guys had the guns.  These guys had kidnapped Sam and Sam could have been hurt already and--Dean didn’t know if he really wanted to know.  If he wanted to be sure, in case of--

Footsteps, slow, moving across the floor, closer and closer, until they stopped.

Dean stepped back, more afraid now than he’d been this entire time, keeping one hand steadily on the wall as if it would help him discern, help him prepare for whatever was about to happen.

Surely Sam wouldn’t have been taken out by that guy.  Not his kid brother.  Not like that.  Sam was stronger than that, he was, Dean had made sure of it. 

But Sam would say something, wouldn’t he?  Call out?  Make sure Dean was okay? 

Unless Sam wasn’t okay.  With the beating this kid had taken and the fact that the guy had shot him, it was clear that they weren’t afraid of using force.  So there was a chance, a strong chance that Sam wasn’t in good shape, either.

But Sam had escaped.  Escaped and come back and so he had to be okay.

Someone was fumbling with the lock and Dean found himself trembling. 

It had to be Sam, it had to be.  Because if it wasn’t--

He hadn’t come to rescue his brother, just to get him killed in a reverse rescue.  He hadn’t, it couldn’t happen--

Then the doorknob turned, the door jerking open slightly before easing the rest of the way.

And there, framed in the doorway, bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut, and listing heavily to one side, was his kid brother.  Not a close approximation, but Sam. 

The blood rushed into his head as he released a breath he couldn’t remember holding.  A grin spread across his face.  “Took you long enough,” he said finally.

Sam’s forehead creased a little, and he smiled and winced all at once.  “Dude,” he said.  Then his smile faded into a grimace, his face twisting into a serious expression.  “You suck at rescue missions,” he said.

Dean was about to say something snarky, something incredibly brilliant in return, but Sam’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the ground before Dean even had a chance to move.

Next


Comments

Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: April 30th, 2009 06:45 pm (UTC)

wow, Faye!

Sam- I love this side of Sam, I really do!

cute!Dean- I know that it's for the sake of the C/O but I pity him for being mistaken for Sam! because they're too totally different people!

Dean- I just love this Dean, I miss this in the Show at the moment. I understand that the wonderful brotherly relationship has got to suffer but I never thought that Show would take it this far and I'm terrified that they won't fix it!

Poor Dean with Sam and Cute!Dean both not at their best

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: May 4th, 2009 08:12 pm (UTC)
adorable dean

I think I love all sides of Sam, even when he's an addict, I can't help but want to hug him because he's so far gone with good intentions. I'm hopeless.

I enjoyed writing the Sam/cuteDean contrast. Similar boys in looks and age, but so very different in terms of lives and personalities.

I miss this Dean, too. A lot. More than anything else. And I'm also freaked they won't fix it. That would just SUCK.

Thanks!

Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: May 4th, 2009 09:05 pm (UTC)

I think I love all sides of Sam, even when he's an addict, I can't help but want to hug him because he's so far gone with good intentions. I'm hopeless. HELL YEAH!!

Whenever I watch GG- I see that and it makes me sad :(

I'm totally freaked that they won't fix it- I know that it won't be this season but they have to next season! they have to!

:D

Posted by: sams1ra (sams1ra)
Posted at: May 13th, 2009 12:46 pm (UTC)

This is pretty good!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: July 9th, 2009 08:37 pm (UTC)
after school limp

I'm glad you think so. Thanks!

(Sorry for being slow to reply...I have no excuses except that I'm just slow!)

Posted by: ChristianGateFan (cgf_kat)
Posted at: July 4th, 2009 03:43 pm (UTC)
pic#89712014

Wow, I really hurt for GG Dean right now. The poor poor kid. I really really hurt for him from the moment Jess showed up in season two, until he left the show. I mean really, could his life have sucked any worse? It just wasn't fair. I know he still ends up breaking up with Rory later in season 3, but I hope there's some kind of temporarily happy ending for him here. *huggles him*

I love freaked!Dean, and you wrote it great when he was afraid Sam had been killed on the other side of that door. But Sam's still in terrible shape...oh no!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: July 9th, 2009 08:38 pm (UTC)
starry love

Poor cute!Dean really never caught a break. He was so good to Rory and she treated him like dirt. Sometimes I really dislike her.

And preseries Winchesters are a personal fave--it's so much nicer to write them caring about each other than the mess of S4.

Thanks!

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