Snatched, Part 1/2

Rating: PG-13 for language and a bit of whumpage

Notes: Takes place between Tall Tales and Roadkill.

Summary:"Pod People, Sam. Betcha twenty bucks. The end of the world starts right here in Bumfuck, Nevada."

A/N: This is my first foray into SPN fanfic. It started out as sort of a crack-ilicious result of being forced to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers (the 1956 version) in one of my classes and turned into something else. But there's still a little bit of crack in there. Enjoy!


"Love, desire, ambition, faith… without them, life is so much simpler."

"You can say that again, Sparky."

Closing the door to the motel room, Sam was greeted by the sight of his brother sprawled out on the lumpy mattress, paper plate of pizza resting on his chest, domestic beer in his left hand and TV remote in the right.

Sam set the brown paper bag he was carrying on the bed and crossed over to the bathroom. "What are you watching?"

"Who'd have known, Sammy? Even Bumfuck, Nevada has cable." Dean took another swig of his beer and burrowed deeper into the pillows as the shrill strings coming from the television set grew louder.

"Apparently it had honorable knights too," grumbled Sam, flopping down on his own bed, rattling the gaudy coat of arms above the headboard. "It also has a gas station. There's more beer in the bag."

"Amazing. Now shhh. He's about to bust through the door and kick some alien ass."

"They aren't aliens, Dean. They're Commies."

"What?"

"The Pod People. They're metaphorical representations of Communists."

"Bullshit. They're alien life-forms hell-bent on world domination."

"So were Commies in the fifties. You've seen this movie like a hundred times. Why are we still watching it?"

"Because it's this or Spanish-language infomercials for gluten-free nutritional supplements. And before you ask, there's no porn channel. I already checked."

"You're not gonna let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope. Toss me another beer."

"I hope it hits you in the head," mumbled Sam as he launched the bottle in Dean's direction.

"Ain't gonna happen, Sammy. I've got reflexes like a cat. Much more useful than random trivia about Communist Pod-People. Now shut up and watch the movie." The pffft of the beer bottle put an end to the conversation.

Another drink later, Dean was feeling the warm embrace of the beer and food creeping over him. He rearranged his pillows, the cool steel of his knife comforting him as the television flickered on and Sammy snoring softly on the other side of the room.

"You're next! You're next! You're next…"

- - -

"Short stack looks good."

Sam chuckled and looked at Dean pointedly over his menu. The diner was busy – Sunday morning – and the dead elk head on the opposite wall seemed to be staring him down. The vinyl seats were strangely sticky too.

"What?"

"Short stack?"

"Shut up, Gigantor."

"Dude, you set yourself up for that one."

"What'll it be?" The waitress' name-tag claimed "Flo." A blank look plastered her face.

Dean flashed her a smile when he ordered his flapjacks, but it might as well have bounced right off her and died on the sticky floor. Sam placed his order for eggs and bacon and Flo walked off towards the kitchen.

"She's not getting a tip," muttered Dean.

"Oooh, the Winchester charm strikes out. Don't try to be too bitter, Dean. It happens to the best of us."

"Good god, you're in rare form today. Someone's been eating their Wheaties."

Sam leaned back in the booth and tapped his fingers on the table. "Just restless, I guess. We need to find a gig, Dean."

"Well, I hear there's a Ghost Train 'round here…"

"Tourist traps don't count."

"Tourist trap? More like this place's entire economy. Whatever you're lookin' for, Sam, you're not gonna find it here. We'll just keep movin' west."

"I heard there were some copper mines just out of town – bound to be some Tommyknockers or something in there."

"Chill out, Rambo. What's your hurry? I'm in no rush." Dean shifted his left shoulder uncomfortably and hoped that Sam got the point. The guilty look on Sam's face indicated success. "We'll hang out here another day; I gotta change the Impala's oil anyway and I know how much you love our motel—"

"There's just something inherently wrong about a Cavalry Inn located in the middle of Nevada."

"I think it's quaint." Dean's studied gaze processed his fidgety brother across the table. Since Oregon, he'd watched him change, subtly. More easily annoyed perhaps, but he'd lost some weight, the hints of dark circles developing under his eyes. That goddamn haunted look, the cautious way he held his weapon.

Damn it, Dad.

It always came back to that, didn't it? Goddamn Dad and his goddamn secrets. Some days, Dean wondered how he could have done that. How he could have cursed Dean with the responsibility of that knowledge and then just up and left. Save him or kill him, Dean. Where the hell did he get that, anyway? How long had he known? Was he right?

And then, some days, he understood. He couldn't explain it, but it had been the right thing to do.

"Dean."

"What?"

"You've been zoned out the last five minutes. Need some more coffee?"

"Yeah. Sure." Sure, Sammy. Because coffee fixes everything. Hold still for a second while I pour a pot of it all over you; that should stop you from going Darkside, right? Problem solved. While you're at it, toss a little bit of it on this shoulder of mine. Because it still hurts like a bitch.

"Short stack?" Flo interrupted, a polite smile crossing her face.

"Over there," Sammy grinned. Dean kicked him underneath the table and vowed to stick his red t-shirt in Sam's next load of whites.

- - -

Dean watched Sam through the window of the auto parts store. The breeze had picked up and Sam was pulling his jacket closer around his body. Who'd have thought it'd be so freakin' cold in the middle of the desert? The snow-capped range that rose up behind the main strip mocked him. I told you so.

"That'll be $31.78," the man behind the counter drawled.

"What a ripoff," muttered Dean under his breath as he pulled out his wallet. Getting low on cash – time to head to the pool table.

"Pardon?"

"I said 'Know a good place for stroganoff?" Dean tossed down two twenties and waited for the clerk to give him his change. He's certainly got the blithering idiot look down.

"Uh… no."

"How about a good game of pool?" Dean asked, stuffing the bills back into his wallet.

"Ol' Rusty Saloon's got a good game," the clerk smiled blankly at him.

"Um, okay. Thanks." With a jingle, Dean slammed the door behind him and tugged on Sammy's jacket. "Well, we won't have to worry about rogue Ely-ians taking over the world."

"Huh?"

"Idiots."

"Ha. Says the man who's wearing something less than a down parka in frickin' twenty degree weather. Can we please stop loitering here and get back to the car? It's time to test out that heater."

"Come on, man – woah, bogey at one o' clock." Two bogies, actually. A pair of Ely's finest headed right towards them.

"Dean, that's borderline jailbait right there—"

"Shut up and smile, Sammy. Excuse me, you from around here?" asked Dean. Cue pleading smile.

"Yes," replied the blonde one, vacant eyes staring back at Dean. Her brunette companion might as well have been looking straight through Sam.

"Oh, great. I was wondering if you could give me directions to the Rusty Saloon. My brother seems to have gotten us lost again." Dean could feel Sammy's laser-like glare boring into his back and fought the urge to laugh.

"Two blocks down on the left," replied Blondie. Dean leaned back against the Impala and flashed her a brilliant smile. "Thanks, ladies. Say, I was thinkin'—" but they were already headed back down the street. Dean turned to Sam, mouth agape. "What the hell?"

"Maybe they prefer the sweet, sensitive type?" ventured Sam.

"No. Something ain't right here."

"What, two girls blow you off and suddenly there's something wrong? C'mon, Dean."

"That's not it. Something freaky."

"Look, if you want to stay here for a few more days, just say so. You don't have to start making stuff up."

"Quit the armchair psychiatrist stuff, dude. This is our kind of wrong."

Six hours later, Sam agreed. Dean had been in the bathroom, scrubbing the oil off his hands when a frantic pounding on the door shattered the peaceful drone of the television.

"You call for pizza?" asked Sam, slamming his laptop closed.

"No…"

Through the reflection in the mirror, Dean saw Sam reach under his pillow to retrieve his pistol. Dean palmed his own gun as he leaned casually against the doorframe, waiting for Sam to open the front door. The pounding grew more distraught as Sam placed one hand on the handle and hid the gun behind his back with the other. He cracked the door open. Dean saw his body language immediately relax, sliding the gun into its familiar place in his waistband.

"Woah woah woah, slow down," Dean heard him say, the door swinging open. He scrambled to find a towel to hide his firearm.

"I'm sorry, I just…" the sounds of a woman's breathless plea reached Dean's ears. She stumbled into the motel room, half-clinging to Sam's arm. Probably in her thirties, brown hair piled messily into a bun, her face torn with a haggard expression.

"Sit down," Sam soothed, steering her gently towards his bed. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"No, I… I just haven't had much sleep lately. I—I thought you might be able to help me. Or get help. Or do something…"

Sam gave Dean a wary look. "Ma'am, I'm a little confused; we're just driving through town—"

"You won't make it out. No one does."

"What?" Dean stepped forward and the woman looked up, seeing him for the first time.

"Hold on. Let's start from the beginning. What's your name."

"Virginia. I—I teach at the elementary school."

"Okay, Virginia. You're safe here. Now tell me what's going on."

"It started about a week ago. I didn't think anything of it to begin with. But people started acting… strange."

"Define strange."

"I can't. It's almost… imperceptible. They're my family members, my friends, my students, but… they're not." She dropped her head into her hands. "There's no… emotion. None. Just the pretense of it. The -- the words, the gesture, the tone of voice, everything else is the same, but… but not the feeling."

Dean glared at Sam, the innocuous I told you so on his lips. Sam averted his stare.

"Virginia, I think you need to get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"NO!" she shouted, tumbling off the bed. She was at the door in an instant, grappling with the dead-bolt. "You're one of them too!" she sobbed as her voice cracked.

"What? One of them? No! Stop—"

But she was gone.

Dean threw up his hands in frustration. "What the hell, man?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sam's bewildered gaze was fixated on the door.

"You don't tell them to sleep – that's when the Body Snatchers get you!"

"Bodywhat?"

"Body Snatchers!"

Sam stared at him like he'd grown a third nipple. "Like the movie you were watching last night?!"

"Yes! C'mon dude, her family looks like her family, but they aren't? She hasn't slept in days because that's how the Pod People get you!"

"Dean, Pod People are ridiculous. They're aliens. For all we know – assuming Virginia's not some sort of nutjob - they could be some sort of shape-shifter, the kids could be changelings -- hell, we could have a large scale demon-infestation on our hands…"

"Pod People, Sam. Betcha twenty bucks. The end of the world starts right here in Bumfuck, Nevada."

"Would you stop it with the drama? We figure out what they are and then we kill them."

"Pod people!"

The satisfying clunk of the remote smack in the middle of Dean's back almost made him shut up. Almost.

- - -

They didn't know where to start. All they had was a hysterical schoolteacher and a gut feeling that something was very, very wrong. So when Dean suggested they look for the pods, Sam didn't protest. In a town this small, even a fool's errand might result in something constructive.

So… they ended up at Wal-Mart.

The shining diamond of consumerism in a barren sea of windswept dust and sagebrush was host to the only nursery in town, and Dean was convinced that was where the pods were residing.

"They were in a greenhouse in the movie," he'd pointed out.

"Dean, for the last time, life is not mimicking art. They could be anywhere."

"The pods are like plants! They'd never survive anywhere else in this godforsaken town. You got any better ideas?"

Nope. Walking down the aisles was akin to a high noon shootout; the aisles were devoid of any activity, the gigantic warehouse eerily quiet. Their cloaking devices – noise, chaos, anonymity – were absent, leaving Dean feeling somewhat naked as they entered the nursery department. The single sales clerk zeroed in on them with a suspicious glare. Hello, I'd like one pod person. Please. No, I don't need help out to my car.

"Distraction, please," hissed Dean. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said in a voice loud enough for the clerk to hear, "Come find me when you find whatever flora and fauna shit you're lookin' for."

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked under the guise of customer service. Dean tried not to bust out laughing at the sight of the gigantic bitchface his brother shot him before making up something about burnt tulips and alkali water while Dean slipped down an aisle, headed straight for the back room.

The back room stank of decomposing plants, fertilizer, and probably some bat guano mixed in there too. Dean poked and prodded around the pallets of fifty pound soil, turned over a pot or two, but when five minutes of sleuthing produced nothing, he began to wonder how long the Boy Encyclopedia could hold out.

A glow coming from the door marked "Office" caught his eye. He jiggled the door handle experimentally. Locked. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Dean pulled out his familiar pick and had the old lock open in seconds.

Vindication. Sweet, creepy, disturbing vindication. The pods were there, lining the office walls, in different stages of development. They looked like a giant cross between a seed and a sea turtle, some of them spilling a thick milky substance from their massive cavities. A chill ran down Dean's spine as he caught sight of a porcelain human arm sticking out from the muck. Disgusting. He pulled his gun and approached cautiously, poked it.

No response.

Off to the right, a face. All the pieces in the right place, but blank. Featureless. Dean backed away slowly. He had to get back to Sam, plan an attack on the warehouse. Get rid of the pods, stop the disease from spreading. Over by the desk, a tented white sheet caught his eye. Against his better judgment, he peered underneath and nearly gagged.

Virginia. The poor, haggard, innocent school teacher. Her head had been bashed in, the thick red stain of blood covering her face. But she looked strangely at peace. Must have been killed just coming out of the motel.

"No one gets out."

Dean whipped around, pistol leveled at the sales clerk who Sam had been talking to. He was now blocking the exit. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"You don't have any choice, Dean," the clerk said flatly, "It's guaranteed. You're not getting out of town. Not before you have to close your eyes. And then it'll all be over. You'll be at peace."

"I'll pass, thanks. Not that thrilled with this place to stick around anyway. It's fucking cold."

"Like I said, it's out of your hands. It's a natural progression." Dean was suddenly aware of the injection gun in the clerk's hands.Crap.

The crack of the gunshot reverberated throughout the warehouse. The clerk looked confused for a moment as the blood pooled around the small hole in his forehead before dropping to the ground. Dean lowered his gun. Deep breaths. It would be moments before someone came to investigate the noise; there had to be other people here, at ground zero for the cultivation of the pods. Grabbing the injection gun, Dean scrambled back into the storage area, securing a couple canisters of lawn mower gasoline and a bag of fertilizer. Seconds later, he was running like hell in the other direction.

The explosion was larger and quicker than he'd expected and the force of the blast tossed him like a rag doll into a stack of sand bags. He never really got used to sensation of getting the wind knocked out of him -- lungs suddenly became a void and the brain slowed to a crawl Lying on his back, Dean searched for his breath as the plants around him began to burn. Crap.

With a grunt, he righted himself and sprinted for the sales floor, ignoring his screaming muscles. Something was definitely bruised. But he had to find Sammy.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, canvassing the aisles of geraniums and stone toads. It couldn't be that hard to lose a six-foot-five dorkus maxiumus.

He was slumped against the checkout counter, hands bound behind his back as his head lolled sleepily onto his chest.

"Sammy!" Sam's eyes flickered in Dean's direction and his lips moved, but no sound escaped. "Crap. Sammy, you gotta stay with me, man. You can't fall asleep. You fall asleep and they win."

"Dmmfph," Sam garbled, head sinking lower into his chest.

"Snap out of it," Dean commanded, slapping Sam's cheek lightly with one hand as his knife slid through the plastic restraint. With a grunt, he lifted Sam's arm over his shoulder and hefted him up, nearly tottering over the checkout stand in the process. Little brother wasn't so little anymore. There was no way in hell he was getting them both all the way out to the car.

Yahtzee. Medicine aisle, twenty feet away.

"C'mon, champ," muttered Dean as he half-dragged Sam's semi-conscious body towards salvation amidst the crackling geraniums and flaming petunias. He found what he was looking for: the little white pills that Sam had brought home during finals week of his junior year of high school.

"You're gonna hate me for this." Dean crushed up three of the pills and slipped the white powder under Sam's tongue as a volley of gunshots crashed over their heads. Shit. Reinforcements.

Sam coughed, smacked his lips experimentally at the chalky mint taste. His eyes snapped open and his face went white. "Whatthefuck, Dean? …Oh god, I think I'm gonna puke."

"Sorry, Sammy. Wait until we get out of here." Dean was crawling down the aisle, weapon drawn. He spotted two not-so-cheery blue vests in the candy section, one of them had a fucking rifle pointed in his direction. Two shots – one hit the chick in the knee and the other sailed past the dude's hip. A bottle of vitamins exploded to Dean's left. To his right, the fire was starting to encroach upon the rest of the store, licking up an aisle of Barbies and headed towards the My Little Pony display.

Dean crawled back to Sam. His hands were shaking, pupils dilated. "Dean! What did you give me?! What the hell is going on over there? What did you—"

"Slow down. Breathe. I gave you some caffeine pills… the bastard sales clerk shot you up with a tranquilizer. The Pod People were gonna get you. Now, we have to get out of here, but two of his buddies have us pinned down. I need you to find me some hydrogen peroxide and nail polish remover. Hustle and don't get yourself shot." Dean snuck around to the next aisle to draw fire away from his brother, ignoring the look of shocked disbelief that was plastered on his face.

"Why are you fighting this, Dean?" called the female clerk from her prone position amongst the Hershey's Kisses. "We're offering you peace. Isn't that what you wanted?" Dean aimed at a clown-shaped piñata and squeezed off a succession of shots. Candy flew everywhere, spraying the clerks and Dean popped the dude in the shoulder. With an indifferent glance at the bullet wound, the clerk shifted his rifle to the other shoulder and put a shot through the massaging gel insert display Dean had been hiding behind only seconds before.

Sam came scrambling over, doing his best to fold his huge frame into a slightly smaller target. He dropped a handful of bottles at Dean's feet. "This good?"

"Perfect. Drain a little bit of peroxide out of one of those bottles and add the acetone."

"Dean, I don't think this is a high enough concentrate--"

"Shut up and do it. It's the only chance we've got right now." Dean guiltily watched his brother's hands quiver at the task. He was gonna feel like crap in about a half hour.

Three bottles were ready and Dean adjusted his position. "One, two, three."

One. Two. Three. Sam lobbed the bottles over to where the clerks were staked out. One, two. Crap. A burning sensation in the thigh. One, two. One, two, three. Dean poured the rest of his clip into the bottles as they rolled towards the two pod people.

"Exit, Sammy!" The explosion wasn't as big as the fertilizer had been, but the shrieks from the enemy told Dean it had done its job. Sam sprinted towards the door like he'd been shot from a cannon. Dean was in close pursuit, but his right leg was choosing to be unresponsive. The warm trickle of blood down the inside of his jean was not a good sign. Sam took out the elderly greeter blocking the exit with a quick sucker-punch and suddenly they were outside, in the bitter cold, wondering where they'd parked the car. No time to waste though, because it sounded like another set of reinforcements was on the way.

Reaching the Impala, Dean tossed the keys to Sam. "Drive." Sam caught sight of Dean's bloody leg. "Goddamn it, Dean."

"Shut up and drive. There's a battering ram of carts headed our way."