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GG/SPN Crossover: One of a Kind 4/8

A/N:  So I know the last chapters was not the most exciting, but the action definitely steps it up a notch here.  Continued thanks to Tyranusfan, sendintheklowns , and the one person who seems to be reading this here :)  Other notes in chapter one, other parts here.


West wasn’t any better.

The rutted ground still rose and fell beneath his numb feet and the sharp chill of the air only intensified as the sun descended.  The woods looked bleaker, somehow, the farther he went. Bleaker and colder and if he never saw another tree, he’d be so happy.

Sam supposed the bright side was that he was cold enough that he couldn’t really feel the pain anymore.  Sure, it hurt, but all the pain was blurring together.  His head and his arm and his wrist and his ankle--when did he hurt his ankle again?
He couldn’t remember.  In fact, his mind was blinking in and out, and for terrifying seconds he forgot where he was altogether.

Running west.  He was running west.  Running back to the cabin.  The cabin where he’d been taken.  Where he’d been held hostage.

Revenge.  They wanted revenge.  That was just good deduction skills.  They’d said it.  They’d said that and a whole lot more.

“Watch it, kid.  This isn’t about you necessarily, but that can work for you or against you.”

“Crap, but you don’t have hit him, do you?”

“This is about Winchester.  John damn-them-all-to-hell Winchester.”

“But the kid, Kenny, you don’t have to hurt the kid.”

“Winchester’s as good as dead anyway, so long as I get that, I don’t care about the kid.”

The memory came so suddenly that his breath caught in his throat.  With a sudden need for air, he panicked, stumbling as he grappled for something to prop himself up.

“You act like we’re not doing something wrong.  We kidnapped him, Ry-no.  Kidnapping.  You do realize that’s illegal, don’t you?  A felony?”

“But murder--murder’s different.”

“He has it coming to him.  And we’ll use his own son to get him here.”

That was the conversation he’d heard, the last one.  Why he’d run away.  It was why he was running back.

“Won’t he see through it?”

“Maybe.  But that’ll be his last mistake.  He’ll underestimate us, he’ll think he can use the other boy and get the drop on us, which is exactly how we’ll get the drop on them.  Because we’re not idiots, Ry-no.  And we’re going to win this one.”

Sam swore, panting through the ache in his chest that threatened to suffocate him.

That was it--that sinking feeling, what he couldn’t remember.  That was the backdrop to his pain-filled, haphazard escape preparations.  That was why he’d nearly taken his shoulders out of joint, why he’d nearly broken his thumb, why he rubbed his wrists raw.  He was a pawn to get his father.  A pawn to kill his father, and Dean would undoubtedly be somewhere in the crossfire.

His family would come for him and might get killed.  For him.

Sam couldn’t let that happen.  Getting away, going back--it wasn’t just for him.  Dean called him a selfish SOB from time to time, but this wasn’t selfish.  This was about not being the bait to trap his family and about preempting an ambush on them before it happened.  He never could have done that tied to a chair or going east.

With new vigor, Sam stood, moving with a renewed energy and purpose.  What was a headache, a sprained wrist, blood loss?  What was any of it when his family was in danger--because of him.  Because he’d been stupid and gotten picked up off the street.  This was his fault and he was going to fix it.

He had to fix it.  He did.  His dad was coming for him, Dean was, and whether he was in that cabin or not, they would be.  They would be with guns and a plan and the intent to kill.

Sam didn’t want to die out here in the woods, but he wanted his family to die even less.

He had to stop it.  He had to get back there, stop it, prevent it, foil it, anything.

The scenery flew by and Sam nearly ran into the pile of wood before he saw it.

Not logs.  Not a tree.  Wood.  Chopped.

The cabin.

He came to an abrupt stop, dropping quickly and low, letting the woodpile serve as a shield until he could figure out just where he was and what was going on.

What was going on?  Besides the pain and the cold and how hard it was to breathe and see and--

He couldn’t be sure about the cabin.  For the most part, he’d been on the insides of the place.  The two times he’d been outside of it--well, the first he’d been unconscious.  The second he’d been running a little too fast and bleeding a little too much to pay attention.

Squinting through the crevices in the pile, he studied the place.  It was getting dark now, dusk was falling, but Sam could still make it out.  Nondescript.  Small.  Wood.  Could be it.  Could be any cabin.  Could be a hallucination, for all he knew.  Or a dream.

No, a dream wouldn’t hurt this much.  Not even one of his.

He had to get closer.  He had to see inside.  He had to think.  What the hell would he do if it was the cabin?  Would they still be there?  Would Sam be in any shape whatsoever to do anything worthwhile?

The crunching of leaves made him freeze, made him go still so fast and so completely that he was pretty sure he stopped breathing.

The crunching continued, slow paced and stealthy and farther away than Sam had first thought.  Not behind him, but--

His eyes strained to focus, and then he saw it.  A flash of movement.

The figure was approaching from the backside of the cabin, avoiding being in the line of sight for any doors or windows.  So not one of the kidnappers.

No, not a kidnapper.  Not with that leather jacket and that gait.  No, that was Dean.

It seemed so unlikely that Sam didn’t believe it.  After all this, after all he’d been through, that was Dean.

His brother was carrying a gun, at least one visible and he was running his fingers along a window in the back.

It was Dean.  He wasn’t dreaming.  Or even if he was, it didn’t change the fact that Sam needed to stop him, needed to go to him, needed to--

A strong wave of vertigo washed over him and he realized he’d been crouched too long.  He couldn’t breathe and apparently his body had a problem with that.

His eyesight dimmed and his legs collapsed, sending him pitching forward.  He didn’t quite fall, but came close, and by the time his head had cleared, it was too late.

Dean had jimmied the window open and had gone inside.

To an empty cabin?  Sam could hope.

But it wasn’t likely.  Not with the plans of kidnapping and trapping and murder.

With another breath, he felt steadier, and growing sense of uncertainty taking hold in his stomach.  Shaky steps took him quickly across the yard until he was at the same window his brother had disappeared into.  Peeking in, the room looked unfamiliar to Sam.  Simple and used, it hadn’t been one Sam had been in.  The door was open and through it Sam made out a sight that had him wondering about his sanity once again.

Because his brother was there, gun out, moving cautiously through the opening and beyond that Sam could see a figure tied to a chair.

A figure with dark brown hair and a long, lean build.

A figure that looked a little like him.

No, a lot like him.

His head wound had to be worse than he thought. 

To make the whole thing even weirder, Dean had rushed forward to the figure, and even from outside, Sam could hear his brother’s voice, “Sammy!”

Before Sam could reply, before he could even make sense of any of it, he saw the man with the gun to his brother’s back and wished he was dreaming after all.


Dean almost wished they’d knocked him out.

Because time passed slowly, painfully.  He had no way to gauge the passage of any time, no more than he had the ability to do anything.  At all.

All he could do was sit and watch and tried to wiggle his fingers to make sure they were really still there.

Watching as Kenny puttered around the cabin, checking doors and windows, prepping equipment, cleaning his gun.  The man grin at him from time to time, even whistled a cheery tune that just made Dean want to throw up.

Of course, breathing made Dean want to throw up, too, so it wasn’t like it took much.

It occurred to him finally that Kenny was preparing.  There had been enough talk of John Winchester and the great and final showdown and watching Kenny set the cabin up just so made him realize with acute clarity that Dean was going to have a front row seat to whatever endgame Kenny had in mind.

No, scratch that, Dean was at the center of it.  Dean was it.  The bait, the pawn, the everything and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

He had lost all feeling in his arms and an ache had worked through his legs before they, too, went numb.  His skin felt bruised where the rope bite painfully into his chest, keeping him erect, even when his tired shoulders simply wanted to slouch. 

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The gag had chapped his lips, left them dried and painful and giving his mouth a lingering taste of dry cotton.  The side of his face alternated between throbbing and aching and the dried blood made it feel stretched and cracked. 

And he couldn’t talk.  He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t go to the bathroom--he couldn’t do anything.  He was completely helpless.  Helpless to stop Kenny, helpless to stop Winchester or whoever was supposed to be coming, helpless to save himself.

There was rage and desperation.  There was denial and hope.  There was giving up and clinging to anything.  There was just time, indefinable, endless time.  Time that Rory was going to Chilton.  Time that some other stock boy was filling the shelves of the market.  Time where the car he was working on was sitting in the garage just waiting for him.

Waiting for him.  Surely it was waiting for him.  Surely the car and his parents and Clara and Rory and even Taylor or his friends or someone or anyone would come for him.  Someone besides John Winchester, who wasn’t coming for him at all.

And that hurt.  It did.  He wasn’t sure why.  But he wanted something more to cling to than that.  He didn’t want to be a pawn, he didn’t want to be kidnapped, he just wanted home and safe and normal and to feel like a person again.

Sometimes they didn’t find the bodies.  Sometimes people disappeared without a trace and ended up on the back of milk cartons and the family boarded up the room and has to move on with life never knowing.  Clara would finally get to play her music as loud as she wanted to and Derek could get his starting position on the hockey team and Chris could get his job at the market and Rory could take comfort in Jess.

“Never met a boy who liked to cry as much as you,” Kenny said, interrupting his thought.

Dean looked up at him, and could feel the tears on his face.  He didn’t care.

“Well, now that is a kicked puppy look if I ever saw one,” the man continued.  “But that’s neither here nor there.  I’m about ready here, so it’s going to get real quiet before the action starts.  I mean, you can yell if you want to, but you and I both know the good that’ll do.  If I knew for sure how this would go down, I’d tell you, but I don’t.  I suspect it might get a little bloody but you should know that it is all for a just cause.”

With that, Kenny pocketed one gun and kept another in his hand before disappearing behind Dean.  The shift in atmosphere was subtle, but Dean could feel it.  Kenny was hiding.  Waiting and hiding.  Watching.

Dean’s eyes roamed the room again, finding nothing new.  His mind searched for some kind of hope, for some kind of rationalization, and came up blank.

Kenny was hiding with a gun and John Winchester was coming and Dean was tied to a chair.

And, oh, it wasn’t personal.

When there was a noise some time later, Dean thought he was hallucinating.  Maybe dreaming.  The sound was soft and subtle, a creak of floorboards and a squeak of a hinge and then Dean saw someone.

Not Kenny, not Ryan.

No, a different guy.  Older than Dean but not as old as Dean had suspected John Winchester to be.  The guy had a gun and wide careful eyes.  The guy’s face lit up when he saw Dean.

This was the other kid, Dean realized dimly.  Not the kidnapped one who was dying in the woods, but the other one.  Winchester’s other son.

And it was pretty clear that this guy hadn’t caught on to the ruse yet.

Dean hadn’t seen how bad he looked, but if the pain was any indication, he’d suspected it was bad.  And with this guy looking at him like he was his long lost brother--well, score one for Kenny and Ryan and their perfectly set trap with the perfectly chosen bait.

This was a trap.  This guy was walking into a trap.  He’d swept the room, given it a visual once-over, but Dean could see it in his eyes.  He was too focused on the rescue, on finding his brother.  He wasn’t looking hard enough, this was going to end badly--

Dean shook his head, frantic, eyes wide and he screamed against the gag.

Kenny was right.  It didn’t do much good.

“Sammy!” the guy said, and his rush forward was as unexpected as getting kidnapped in the first place.

The guy was at him, looking in his face, fingers in his hair.  “What did they do to you?” he was asking.

And Dean wanted to be happy and grateful and relieved because this was rescue, and it felt good, but this was someone else’s rescue.  This was Sammy’s rescue.

No, this was Kenny’s trap.

Dean heard the cock of the gun a second before the guy did.  Through blurry vision Dean could see Kenny and the gun, poised to kill.

The guy stiffened, his hand tensing on his own gun, and Dean could hear the brush of a curse under his breath.

“Stand up nice and slow,” Kenny ordered.  “Or little brother there gets it.”

The guy didn’t even hesitate.  He put the gun on the floor and stood, hands up.  Making eye contact with Dean, his face was grim and set and reassuring all at once.

Then there was a flash of a smirk on his face, of confidence that Dean couldn’t quite place.

Until he saw the gun tucked into his jeans.

He was going to use it.

Dean’s eyes went from the gun to the guy’s face to Kenny’s gun and it was all going to happen way too fast and Dean knew it wasn’t going to be good but he couldn’t stop it.  He was the only one who knew this whole thing was a mistake and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do anything.

The gun was out from the waistband faster than Dean could blink, and the guy was spinning and firing, and the gunfire was louder than Dean expected, louder and more painful and resounding and--

Oh, God.

Dean’s breath caught in his chest, and pain exploded across his abdomen.

The guy wasn’t the only one who had fired.

And Kenny was many things, but apparently a liar wasn’t one of them.

There was blood.  A lot of blood.  A lot of Dean’s blood.

“Sam?” the guy was asking.  “Sammy?”

Dean blinked slowly, and tried to look up.  Tried to do something but there was nothing to do.  Nothing but sit there and bleed.

He was vaguely aware of a tussle, of curses and grunts and mocking and threats and it didn’t matter anymore.  Dean was tied to a chair, kidnapped and shot, and it wasn’t personal and that was about all Dean’s body and self-esteem and morale could take for one day before his mind just shut off.


It was all so simple.  A simple plan, a simple execution, one, two, three, and they’d have Sam back and leave Connecticut no worse for wear.

It was simple to find the cabin, simple to get inside.  Simple to get to Sam, simple to untie him.  Simple to walk into the oldest damn trap in the book.

And simple to get his little brother shot.

Most idiots with guns were too soft to pull the trigger, even hunters and even kidnappers.  Hell, Dean hadn’t been sure if he could shoot to kill when he pulled his own.  Even more idiots were slower than he was with far less accurate aim.  Dean had been banking on that.

Dean had put all his money on the wrong horse and now Sam was bleeding from a gunshot wound.

He was on his knees, trying to see the thing--defensive position didn’t mean crap now.  His shot had gone wide and the perp’s had found its mark and Dean’s slim window of opportunity was long gone.

“Sam?  Sammy?” he asked, pulling at the layers of clothing.

There was something wrong, though--something even more wrong than his mess up and Sam’s gunshot.  Something about the way Sam had looked at him, something about the fear and confusion on his face, the tears in his eyes.

The clothes.  The clothes Dean didn’t recognize.  Too trendy, too new, too--

“I suggest you step away from the little brother,” the guy said.

Dean felt himself stiffen, his jaw hardening. 

Tentatively, he glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t stand up.  “Just let me help him.”

“You two aren’t the ones I want anyway,” the guy said.

Dean barked a humorless laugh.  “You really think he’ll fall for any trap you set up?”

The guy grinned.  “Both of you did.”

“My dad has a bit more experience than we do,” Dean said.

Eyes cold, the guy’s mouth flattened.  “It’s not going to do him a bit of good,” he said.  “Just like it didn’t do my dad any good.”

“So you are Jeremiah’s boys?”

“Good man, my dad,” he said.  “And John Winchester let him die like he was nothing.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Were you there?” the guy snapped.

Dean bristled a little.  “No.  But neither were you.”

“How old are you, kid?  Nineteen, twenty?  Let me tell you something about hunters.  The reason so many of them hunt alone is because everyone knows you can’t trust someone else on the hunt.  Because out there--when it’s all going to hell--you’ll always choose yourself.  Unless you’re family.  Everyone knows there’s only three things John Winchester cares about: you two boys and some damn vendetta that can probably never be solved.  Well, I get that.  I really do.  Which is why I’m sorry it had to come to this.  There’s nothing personal when it comes to you two.  But I’m willing to get a little blood on my hands to teach that selfish son of a bitch that he can’t double cross us.”

It was everything he and his dad had theorized--almost to a point.  So why it was so hard to hear?  Dean wasn’t sure.

Maybe the fact that Sam was quite possibly bleeding to death right next to him had something to do with it.

“Come on,” the guy said, motioning with the gun.  “Untie him and get him up.  You can do whatever you want once I get you secured in the back room.”

Usually Dean only took orders from his father and under any other circumstances he’d tell this guy to shove it where the sun don’t shine, but not this time  Not when Sam was bleeding and it was all his fault.

Swallowing hard, Dean turned his attention back to Sam, though all too aware of the gun still pointed at his back.  But there was no time for that now--no time for self recriminations.  Just Sam.

His kid brother was limp now, head dipped forward, held upright by the ropes across his chest,  Even with the mop of hair obscuring Sam’s face, Dean could see the bruises.

With a steadying breath, he forced himself to move past the injuries, both superficial and serious, and set to the task of untying his younger brother.  Deftly, he took to the hands first, fingers picking at the knot until it frayed and came lose, releasing his brother’s hands so they fell loose to his sides.  Next he tackled the feet, which took a little longer, until they, too, were free.

Sitting up again, Dean carefully worked at the cords around his brother’s chest, unwrapping them and positioning himself carefully as the last one came undone and Sam slumped against him.

The weight was less than Dean expected, but warmer than he’d hoped.  He could feel wetness already against his shirt.

“Okay, now get him up and go to the back of the cabin, the door right over there.”

With difficulty, Dean maneuvered Sam back in the chair, angling himself under his brother.  With careful movements, he pulled Sam over his shoulder, then pushed himself to stand, meeting the kidnapper’s eyes with a deadly gaze.

“To the back,” he said again, nodding to something behind Dean.  “Come on.”

Lips pursed, Dean moved, Sam’s arms flopping against his back.

Dean saw the door and waited as the guy came around, gun still trained on him, and opened it. 

“Now inside,” he said.

The room was small and narrow--nothing more than a walk-in closet.  No windows, thick plank walls.  A simple bare light bulb hung, illuminated from the ceiling.  An apt enough cell.

The gun poked him.  “Come on,” the guy hissed.  “I told you this isn’t about you, but don’t think I won’t finish you and your brother where you stand.  I don’t need you two alive for what I’ve got planned for your dad.”

Sam was a dead weight on his shoulder and he felt stupid and scared and just so stupid but there was nothing else he could do.  Nothing else.

Carefully, he put Sam down, mindful that the kid had not had a good couple of days.  As he shifted, he felt the gun still stuffed in his pants, the knife strapped to his calf.

It might be worth it.

It only took one good shot, one good stab.  And the guy might not see it coming.

At worst, the guy would shoot him--Sam was clear of the fire.

At best, he might get them the hell out of this.

“Take out your other gun and your knife and whatever weapons you’ve got on you,” the guy said.  “Real nice and slow.  Put them on the ground and push them back before you move an inch.”

So much for that plan.

Getting himself killed wouldn’t help Sam.

With a sigh, he pulled out the gun.  Then, eyes on Sam’s lax face, he pushed it back.  A few more fluid movements and he removed the knife, sliding it back as well.

“Is that everything?”

“You’re the one with the gun.”

“I don’t want to search you.”

“Then take my word for it.”

“I’ll take your brother’s life for it if you’re lying.”

He knew his leverage.  And Dean hated him for it.  Hated him, but couldn’t deny it.  “I’ll need bandages,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.  “Can I get bandages and water?”

The guy just laughed, short and mocking.  “I’ll check on you in a bit,” he said.  “Holler if the kid dies.”

With that, the door closed with a finality that made Dean feel cold.

Cursing to himself, Dean sighed.  “We got ourselves in a mess this time, didn’t we, Sammy?”

Sam remained unmoving, crumpled on his side.  Tie to focus, prioritize.  See how bad Sam was, see how well Dean could treat the injuries before his dad got here.

Because his dad would get here.  For him and Sam.

And hey, at least Sam wasn’t missing anymore.

Gently, he arranged Sam flat on his back, positioning the gangly limbs more comfortably.  Then, carefully, he pried at Sam’s clothes, pulling up the t-shirt and the sweater to get a better look at the gunshot.

At first, all he could see was blood--lots of it, smeared over the area and drenching the top of Sam’s jeans.  Wiping away the blood, Dean tried to get a good look at it.

He’d seen wounds before, but usually when he shot things, he wasn’t interested in patching them up afterwards.  He had basic first aid, but truthfully, he was much more trained in cuts and slices than this kind of thing.

The wound was small and puckered, in the taut flesh of Sam’s side. It was hard to tell, and Dean had never cared much for biology in school, but he knew enough about anatomy to know the wound didn’t look like it had hit anything vital.  Maybe the edge of the intestines, maybe a kidney, but it looked like a flesh wound.  A bloody one--maybe hit an artery or a vein, Dean wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure.

Still, pressure was the way to go.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulled off his flannel shirt, pushing it hard into Sam’s side.

The action made his brother groan, shifting slightly, and Dean turned his attention to his brother’s face.  “Hey, Sammy,” he said, brushing the bangs away from Sam’s bruised face.  “You with me?”

Sam groaned again, his head moving, and something was wrong.  Something wasn’t right.  Something more than the bullet wound and the head injury and--

These weren’t Sam’s clothes.

Sam had never had clothes like that.

Why would the kidnappers change Sam’s clothes?

Unless, Dean peered closer, smoothing away the blood from Sam’s face to get a good look at it.

The features looked similar, familiar, but--the nose was longer, finer.  The face thinner.  The body skinnier, less muscle mass. 

Dean didn’t know whether to be relieved or freaked, because this wasn’t his brother.



Posted by: sendintheclowns (sendintheklowns)
Posted at: April 15th, 2009 01:20 am (UTC)
no words

Sammy to the rescue!

Cute!Dean just can't catch a break. Is it bad of me to be happy about that?

And Dean. He muffed the rescue and played a part in Sam who is not Sam getting shot.

This is such a page turner! More please and faster :)

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: April 19th, 2009 10:54 pm (UTC)
the way we were

I love how you exhibit such enthusiasm even when you already know what's going to happen. It makes me smile. Which, some days, I need.


Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: April 15th, 2009 10:34 am (UTC)

this is brilliant! I just loved that Sam noticed Dean and poor cute!Dean *cuddles*

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: April 19th, 2009 10:55 pm (UTC)
dean rory loved

I have to admit it was so much fun throwing these three together. And I will also admit, I had more fun toward the end :)


Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: April 20th, 2009 06:30 am (UTC)

I can definitely tell that you're having fun with it! :D

I can't to see if Sam comes to the rescue! that should be very funny to watch how Dean is totally confused- there's his brother and a clone of him!

Posted by: ChristianGateFan (cgf_kat)
Posted at: July 4th, 2009 02:57 pm (UTC)

Awww. I love GG Dean. I always wanted something to happen to him, but Gilmore Girls just isn't a whump show. *sigh* This is working well to give me the fix I wanted, though! I love it. Hmm, now I wonder how Sam is going to help the Deans what with all of his injuries...

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: July 9th, 2009 08:42 pm (UTC)
bruised sam

GG is not a whump show, which is very sad, though they did whump on Logan a bit in later seasons, but he just wasn't the guy I wanted to see in a hospital bed, you know?

My penchant for h/c is a bit disturbing--I'm glad other people get it :)


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