Snatched, Part 2

They could see the black billows of smoke from their motel room. Dean lay on his bed; the white towel wrapped around his thigh was spattered with red. Sam mainlined a bottle of water by the window.

"I don't think I should take it out, man. I can't hold a pen right now, much less take a bullet out of your leg."

"Give yourself a few minutes… there's some cold pizza on the counter from last night."

"Dean, I'm not pulling it out. The bone isn't broken, it didn't hit an artery and it doesn't look like it fragmented. I don't think it was from the rifle… it would have been a lot messier if it was. We'll clean it up, but that bullet's staying in there. I'm gonna rip you up if I try to fish it out. You want some ice to slow down the bleeding?"

"That would be lovely," Dean gritted. One thing. He asked Sammy to do one thing. Sam came back with the ice and laid the packs around Dean's leg. "You know, we could just hightail it out of town."

"They probably have the exits blocked. No one gets out, remember?"

"It'd be worth a shot."

"And what would we did when we got out, huh? Go to Salt Lake City and inform the governor that an alien invasion was happening in Eli, Nevada? We'd be thrown in a little white room faster than you could say 'Pod People'. We're screwed, Sam."

"It's not the first time and it certainly won't be the last." The microwave beeped and Sam pulled out the bowl of water he was trying to sterilize. "You feel good enough to do this in the bathroom? You can stay there, but it's gonna make a mess."

"Oh, so I get a choice in the matter now? How about you take that goddamn chunk of lead out of my fucking leg, Sam? That would be ideal."

"Take your jeans off and get into the bathroom. Unless you want me to cut 'em off. I've got another fifteen minutes or so before I crash and it's not going to be pretty."

Dean sat in stony silence for a moment and then halfheartedly wriggled out of his jeans, gasping in sharp pain as the heavy fabric danced across the wound. Sam came back from setting up in the bathroom and dragged Dean's arm across his shoulder to help him off the bed when Dean let out a muffled whimper.

"Woah. What was that?"

"Put me down, man. Put me down," Dean wheezed, slumping back against his pillows. "I… oh crap… I had a little run-in with a pile of sand bags in the back room. It's nothin'—I just need a sec."

Without waiting for approval, Sam tilted Dean forward and pulled up the back of his shirt. Dean flailed and squirmed, but not before Sam could look at his back. He'd seen bruised plums that looked better. From neck to ass, it was red, with angry purple and blue splotches developing. "Dude, you know you're human, right? Drop ya, and you'll bruise."

"Yeah, I been trying to find a way around that – not workin' so well."

Sam gingerly helped Dean off the bed and into the bathroom, setting him carefully on top of the toilet, a sea of towels in the surrounding area. Dean focused on his breathing as Sam methodically washed his hands and filled up the irrigation syringe with the sterile water. "You want something to hold on to?"

"Just do it." Sam crouched down and delicately removed the bits of fabric in the wound -- doing his best to control his shaking hands -- before gently releasing the contents of the syringe back and forth into the injury.

Dean wanted to scream. High level of pain-toleration my ass. Focus on something else. A nice, big, juicy cheeseburger would be awesome when all of this is said and done. A little on the rare side—Dean made the mistake of looking down at the wound as Sam started on the second syringe – Nevermind. Not really in the mood for ground beef right now.

"You doin' okay, Dean? Hangin' in there?" Sam's voice was on edge, quivering in his throat.

"Just dandy." The agony seemed to last for hours, not minutes. Dean's heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Sam go for the familiar brown bottle. "Aw, hell no."

"I'm not mixing it with acetone, Dean. No explosives necessary right now."

"You understand I can't pass out from this, right? Because then I go Pod Person."

"Well, what am I going to do when your wonderful little caffeine cocktail wears off? Huh?" Dean didn't even get a warning as Sam poured the clear liquid on the bullet entry and it sizzled. A strangled cry died in Dean's throat as the edges of his vision went black.

"Fuuuuck, Sammy," he hissed.

"Sorry, man. Worst of it's over. Promise." And then the liar kept pouring it.

"SonofaBITCH." Dean pinched his eyes shut as Sam wrapped a fresh layer of gauze around his leg. Tried to stop his shoulders from quivering as Sam hoisted him back to his bed. Failed miserably. Grudgingly accepted the three brown pills his brother offered. Sank back in the pillows and stared at the ceiling as he desperately fought the downward pull on his eyelids.

"No way in hell you're leaving me here alone," Sam hissed, poking Dean in the ribs as he settled down next to him.

"I wasn't gonna sleep," mumbled Dean, painfully aware that his words were beginning to slur together.

"Bullshit." Sam passed his bottle of water over and Dean took a cautious sip.

"So. Pod People."

"Yeah. Hate to say I told you so."

"What are we gonna do, Dean? Blowing up a couple of pods and the local Wal-Mart helped, but they've gotta have multiple locations."

"We couldn't save 'er, Sammy."

"What?"

"The schoolteacher. Found the body with the pods." Dean watched Sam's jaw go rigid and the muscles in his throat contract. He swallowed hard. "No one gets out."

"Stop saying that. We're gonna figure out a way around this." Sam's voice had gone low as he peered at Dean through hooded eyes.

Dean wrestled what little energy he had left to jab Sam playfully in the ribs. "Not leaving me alone, are ya Sammy?"

"Nah. But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do not ever crush caffeine pills under my tongue again. I nearly lost it."

"Dude, you nearly lose it after five tequila shooters. Remember that bar in Phoenix?"

"The one after the jackalope hunt?"

"Heh. Amazing you remember that after all. Remember anything except prayin' to the porcelain god half the night?"

"I remember you givin' me hell for three months after that about blowing up 'innocent lil' bunnies.' Killer bunnies with really sharp teeth if I recall correctly."

"You killed Thumper, dude."

"Shut up. I know about Bambi a week later in Vegas."

"… Wait, what?"

"Bambi?" Sam smirked as he watched the color rise to Dean's cheeks. "Heh. She wasn't exactly what you were expecting, was she? Get a lil' extra surprise?"

"Dude, the bar was dark. I thought she was just athletic."

"So when did you figure it out? When—"

"Hush. We're not talking about this."

"Oh, but Dean, I'm sure—"

"End of conversation. How do we stop the Pod Person invasion? Just kill as many sons of bitches as we can and hope neither of us falls asleep before we get through with them?"

"We could call Bobby."

"Yeah… but is he gonna get here before one of us crashes? Probably not." Dean idly toyed with his silver ring. "What would Dad do?"

"It doesn't matter. What are you, delirious from blood loss or something? You talk about him like he's still here." Silence. "He'd probably tell us to man up and go take down those bastards."

"Yeah. Typical."

"Dean…"

"What?" Sam's head was slowly migrating towards his chest. Dean poked him.

"Ow. Sorry. Um, did Dad… did he ever tell you where?"

"Where what?"

"Where he heard… what he told you."

Aw, fuck. We're back to that. "No."

"I was just thinkin'…"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"Dude, you do not get to pull that."

"Oh, don't give me that. You're the one who went how many months without telling me?" Sam's lip was beginning to curl up the way it tended to when he was getting ready for a particularly venomous exchange.

"What you don't know can't hurt you."

"Bullshit. Dean, how do we even know that Darkside stuff is legit? Where did Dad get it from?"

"Look, the man used his last minutes to tell me that. He wouldn't have bothered if he didn't think it was legit."

Sam's voice was getting louder now. "Why didn't he tell you where he got it? Then we would have at least had a tiny chance to tracing it back and maybe stopping it—"

"He told me how to stop it. He said I had to keep you safe."

"That's real specific."

"I don't even know why we're talking about this right now," sighed Dean, sinking deeper into his pillow. We got a Pod People invasion goin' on, and he's worried about this Darkside shit? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, eliciting a poke in the ribs from his brother.

"God, you can be such a pain in the ass sometimes," Sam hissed.

"Look who's talking."

Sam slid off the bed and stretched his shoulders. The walls were back up -- he seemed to have picked up a few things from his brother since they'd been back on the road together. "I am beyond tired… I think the pills wore off."

"Want some coffee?"

"Not funny. I'm gonna go grab a coke out of the vending machine."

"Fine. But don't fall asleep out there."

"Right back atcha." The door clicked shut and Dean closed his eyes. No, he wasn't going to fall asleep. But the light from the bedside table was blinding and the room had slowly begun to spin. Blood loss -- what a bitch. His leg was still throbbing, but at least it stopped bleeding.

Drifting somewhere between consciousness and sweet, liberating delirium, Dean heard the door open again and the squeak of the bedsprings as from Sam's weight. "I wasn't gonna fall asleep," Dean muttered.

"Shhh. You can sleep now. Everything's safe." The cold hand on his shoulder caused Dean's eyes to snap open. Sam was staring back at him, wide-eyed and concerned.

"What?"

"You just told me to sleep."

"Dean, I think the blood loss is going to your head. Here, lemme get you something to drink."

"Thanks." Dean shook his head and blinked. Musta been hearing things.

Sam returned with a glass of water. "So, what next?"

"We try to find the other pod-stations. There's no way that was the only one." The water tasted a little sweet. Dean put it down. "Where's your coke?"

"The machine was out."

Dean pursed his lips and stared down at his glass. Get a grip, Winchester. "Sammy… can you run out to the car and grab my phone? I think I left it in the back seat."

"Sure." Sam palmed the keys to the Impala and shot Dean a look before heading out the door. "Don't pass out on me, now."

"You have my word." As soon as the door closed, Dean slid off the bed and hobbled over to his jacket, breath hitching as his leg told him, quite loudly, no thanks, I'd like to stay on the bed for the next couple hours. He grasped the gun from his pocket and limped back onto his bed, careful to rearrange himself exactly as he had been with gun stored strategically under the pillow next to him. Prayed he was just being paranoid. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for emphasis just before the door rattled ajar. Dean cracked an eye open at his brother – or was it? – as he tossed Dean's phone on his bed.

"Took you long enough; you stop for lunch on the way back?" Not even a flicker of annoyance. No. Not again.

I can't. I'd rather die.

No, you'll live.

You'd be doing me a favor.

You couldn't save your dad and, deep down, you know you can't save your brother.

I fucked up, Sammy. I'm so sorry.

"No. You figure out what we're doing?" Sam was studying his face intently.

Let's find out.

"I – sonofabitch," winced Dean, collapsing over in mock agony.

"What's wrong?"

"Fuckin' muscle cramp… leg. C'mere."

Sam was next to him in an instant. Dean leaned back and moaned as his brother – no, not his brother – bent down to attend to his leg, leaving the back of his neck exposed. Dean winced as he brought the butt of his gun down on the vulnerable ridge where the skull met the spine. Sam – not Sam – dropped to the ground with a cringeworthy thud.

He moved as quickly as his aching body would allow him, disarming the thing that looked like his brother before he could regain his senses. Gun tucked in the waistband. Blade strapped to his ankle. Just like Sammy. Gave the body on the floor a friendly little nudge with his foot as it began to twitch. Gun leveled. "Where the fuck is Sammy, you alien son of a bitch?"

Sammy's hazel eyes blinked harmlessly as he tried to regain focus. "Right here, Dean. What's wrong with you?"

"Heh. Ironic."

"Dean, it's me! Sam! Your brother." His face twisted into a contortion of hurt and betrayal. Dean met his eyes… not Sam's eyes. Dead eyes. Empty.

There was no emotion. None. Just the pretense of it. The words, the gesture, the tone of voice, everything else was the same, but not the feeling.

"Liar. Hands up against the wall."

"You're not gonna shoot me, Dean." Dean saw Sam – not Sam – stand up, drawing himself to his full height. Dean saw Lucky Charms in the motel room, bullet-ridden empty cans on a split-rail fence, sticky soda on the Impala's back seat, stacks of books on unmade beds, the retreating shadow of a hooded sweatshirt attached to a duffle bag bound for California, the bottomless in the back seat, the empty bed, the apartment in Palo Alto, the burning bed, the dirty laundry in the trunk, the box of fake ids in the glove box, the wood floor of the cabin outside Jefferson City, the burning pyre, the anemic clinic walls in River Grove and the towers of paper in Bobby's living room. But Dean didn't see his brother.

"I wouldn't count on it." The crack of the gunshot echoed in the tiny room. "Where's my brother, motherfucker?"

Sam… not Sam. The body snatcher. The body snatcher looked up at Dean, then down at its bloody kneecap. Then back up at Dean. The pretense of a smile crossed its face. "He's gone. Just like the rest of them. And you're next, Dean."

"Like hell I am." The second bullet hit its mark and with a violent tremor, the body slumped to the floor. Dean turned his head away as the sticky black pool began to spread out over the floor, away from his brother's – not his brother's – head. Felt the vomit welling up in his throat and leaned over the other side of the bed. He let it go.

- - -

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala as his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The world was sliding away. His eyelids were heavy. The ache in his chest was more than just a couple bruises.

Lucky Charms and cans and soda and books…

And yet the anger burned deep. Gonna hunt down every single one of those sons of bitches and make 'em pay. Suffer. Beg for mercy.

Maybe Sammy's still alive. Not everyone… no. Damn it. Keep him safe. Safe from what? From this? When, where, why… damn it, Dad. Maybe they could bring him back, I could make a trade – no. Virginia had been quite dead. No coming back from there. Can't do this alone. It's too much. I can't – no. Sammy would have wanted it this way. So vengeance it is.

A sudden knock on his window nearly made Dean jump out of his skin. A small boy stood outside, his face pressed up against the glass. Against his better judgment, Dean rolled the window down halfway.

"You're next, Dean." The dead eyes stared back at him.

He punched the accelerator, leaving the child standing in a fog of burned rubber and exhaust. He didn't know where he was going anymore, only that he had to be anywhere else but here. Bumfuck, Nevada. End of the world. End of his world.

Houses and fenceposts whipped by as Dean sped down the main drag, heading for the flats of Utah. If he could just get out of here… maybe Salt Lake City. Call Bobby. Hell, even Ellen would do in a pinch. Round up as much firepower as humanly possible and obliterate the town – it was lost already. No one left to save. No one worth saving.

The Impala complained loudly as her tires met the gravel on the side of the road. Dean yanked the wheel to the left as his vision swam. So fuckin' tired. He glanced down at his leg and noticed the wet patch of red spreading across his jeans. Not gonna make it to Salt Lake.

Slammed on the brakes. Cranked the wheel hard to the left. He'd spotted a clinic in the downtown area – if you could even call it downtown. More like a tiny climax of rural civilization. If he could get into the clinic, he could stock up on supplies that would get him to the middle of Utah.

The sign outside the clinic proclaimed "Dr. Arthur, M.D. Eli Medical Clinic." But it looked more like a run-down booze store, paint peeling, stained lace curtains flapping lazily in the windows. Dean stumbled out of the Impala, clutching his firearm close to his stomach. The street was dead, a ghost town. Dean chuckled morbidly at the irony as he tried the door. Locked. A well-placed kick to the glass granted him entrance.

The place was small, but it would do. Dean could barely walk a straight line anymore as reality kept flashing in front of his eyes, a deathly dance of dark and light. His leg burned, his limbs felt light lead weights and the image of the empty circle in the middle of his brother's head tormented him. It wouldn't go away.

Had he heard something while Sam, his Sam, was outside? Surely he could have done something. Anything. Where was his brother's body? Probably rotting next to the empty pod of his doppelganger. All the shit they'd gone through in the last couple years, all the agony and hand-wringing over evil fates. All that ended here. Like this.

It was wrong. All wrong.

Dean pulled open a drawer full of gauze and started patching up his leg; the blood wasn't congealing anymore. A flicker of worry rattled his empty stomach. What if it'd nicked an artery? He might not make it to Salt Lake. He padded the wound and wrapped an elastic bandage around the leg as tightly as he could, hoping to slow down the blood flow. The glass cabinet containing a plethora of little clear vials was smashed to bits as Dean looked for the one marked "Epinephrine." Victory.

He managed to locate a syringe and needle. It was getting harder to co-ordinate his movements now as he tore of his jacket and searched for a vein. Grimaced as he stuck it in the wrong place. Went in again and – yes. Sweet absolution.

His limbs felt lighter than air as he snagged a few more vials and needles for his car trip and floated across the floor to the door. But… no. A figure blocking his escape route.

"No one leaves, Dean."

Squeezed off two shots. The figure crumpled and Dean stepped over it. He didn't even remember opening the door to the Impala, or starting the engine, but next thing he knew he was speeding down the road again. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, breath quickened. The world lay out before him, crystal clear. And yet, he felt strangely detached from it. Like a condemned man watching his death from an ivory tower.

Dean met no resistance on the road; he sighted not a single person as he sped towards the open, sprawling flats of Utah. A shaft of sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the valley ahead. The Promised Land. He thought he was home free.

Until he hit the roadblock. Half of Bumfuck's population appeared to be stretched across the road in front of him. Armed to the teeth, too. Dean slowed to a stop and idled the engine. His eyes drifted to the empty seat next to him. Lucky Charms and cans and books and Sammy's grin –a void of hurt and remorse andkeep on keepin' on.Ain't gonna leave you alone…

Dean turned up the radio and exited the vehicle, gun heavy in his right hand. The steady, biting breeze that had been hounding him ever since he got into town had died down and the sun shone warmly on his back. His body was a feather; weightless and hollow. Couldn't feel his leg anymore and even that dull pain in his shoulder – the one that'd been bothering him since Duluth – was gone. He felt his lips curl into a snarl, jaw tense.

"End of the line, it seems," Dean growled. He could see the road beyond the roadblock, stretched out for miles, painfully straight. It called to him. Dean…

"Dean Winchester." A man in a crisply pressed suit stepped forward. "We've been waiting for you."

"I'm here."

"Dean. You know we can't let you leave."

"That's what I keep hearing."

"Sam went quietly. You'd be wise to follow his example."

"Don't talk about him like that."

"What, like he's gone? He is, Dean. There's no changing that fact."

"Shut your goddamn mouth."

"Oh, Dean. I'd expected more of you. And yet, here you are. Letting emotion get in the way of your better judgment."

"I'm human. That's kinda what we do."

"Humanity's overrated. Come on, Dean. You've seen it happen – no 'aliens' necessary. Humanity can just drain away, slowly but surely. People harden their hearts and grow callous. Surely you know what I'm talking about."

"Haven't a clue."

"Humanity is just a word. In the end, you're all just animals. Plenty of men are as cruel and inhuman as you imagine my kind to be. The capacity for evil is consistent. You've got nothing to fear. Come on, Dean. Get some rest. Let it go."

"Not today." Dean leveled his gun at the suit and squeezed off another two shots. The suit gasped, observed the gaping holes in its chest and looked back up at Dean, blankly.

"Bad move, Dean."

Dean slid back behind the steering wheel and gripped the well-worn leather reassuringly. Let his gaze linger for a moment on the empty seat beside him. Lucky charms and cans… he turned his eyes back to the roadblock.

"Yipee-ki-yay, motherfuckers."

The Impala leapt forward as Dean touched the accelerator. A spiderweb of cracks danced across the windshield as she took out the first few lines of defenses, the satisfying thud of bodies against the steel was masked by the crack of gunfire. Then, suddenly, there was no more resistance. His foot nudged the accelerator onwards, the sweet whisper of freedom breathing through the shattered glass. He could almost see the straight, windblown road before him, ready to embrace him in its warm --

The sickening sound of steel was all too familiar. The tires squealed and burned on the asphalt as the Impala spun. He'd caught the front edge of a parked truck, or something. Things were happening too fast to react as the Impala slammed into something unfortunately solid. Dean felt the frame collapse in on him as the vehicle came to a dead stop.

Come on. We still have one bullet, we still have the Colt, we can start over—

Hazily, he tried to regain control of his surroundings. Tried to pry his eyes open despite the searing headache. A warm stream of blood trickled down his face – god, there was blood everywhere. His blood? He almost gagged when he thought about it. He tried to move his legs, but his stomach dropped when he realized he couldn't feel them. Pinned down in a metal coffin. Could barely breathe – ribs were probably broken, shoulder hurt like hell. Blood, blood and more blood, rivers of red.

The warm, smothering caress of sleep dragged him down into the depths as he clawed desperately at the surface. Helpless.

In the end, he didn't really have a choice.

Squeeze out a ragged breath, lean back against the seat familiar leather seat. Crowd's gathering gawking at the carnage. Bastards ain't gonna get me know. Close your eyes. Think of darkness and peace and Sam and Mom and Dad. Ain't gonna leave you alone. Fought the good fight and now the fight's over.

Get some rest, Dean.

Yes, sir.

- - -

"Dean."

He cracked an eye open. It couldn't be heaven – smelled too bad. And if this were heaven, then that would mean that Sammy was God.

Yeah, definitely Hell.

"Dude, Dean -- what the fuck? Put the knife down."

Hmm. Knife was under his pillow, just as it should have been. The recesses of sleep began to retreat from his mind. Sammy – Sammy? – was sitting on his bed, hair rumpled and eyes heavy with sleep. He squinted at Dean and shook his head before rolling over and pulling the covers up around his neck.

"Don't try'n pretend that anchovies don't give you nightmares. Quit thrashin' around. M'tryin' to sleep."

Lucky Charms and cans and books…

"Son of a bitch, Sammy. That was –" Dean looked at the TV, harmlessly staring back at him, blank. Bastard was mocking him. "Nevermind." He slid his knife back under his pillows and sunk deeper into the lumpy mattress. A dream. A fucked up, anchovie-induced dream, but still… not really. Sammy was still sitting next to him, breathing, smiling, maybe thinking of Jess. Things were as they should be. Not Darkside, not Snatched, just regular ol' Sam and Dean and their kickass car.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"What? Can it wait 'til morning?

"No. I hated Lucky Charms."

"Good for you. Now shut up and let me get some rest."

Notes:
[1 I'm not a doctor. Nor do I aspire to be one. Blood makes me queasy. So the bullet-in-the-leg scenario was brought to you by a little Google-fu. But really, you'd think there'd be more stuff online about how to remove a bullet from your body...
[2 Been to Eli. There's no Wal-Mart there. Nonetheless, no offense to any native Eli-ans, but I wasn't thrilled.
[3 The ending wasn't a cop-out per se... it was intended to mimic the ending of the movie (which, I suppose, in itself was a cop-out). But it's not supposed to be "Psyche! Not a Death!Fic." I pilfered some of the notable quotables from the movie too and integrated them into the dialog, etc. There's allusions and I'm not claiming them as my own. Oh wait. This is fanfic...
[4 Dean has a potty-mouth because I have a potty-mouth. Sorry.

Comments, criticism would be lovely. I've been working on a longer fic, but after eighty or so pages, it's sorta stagnated. This was half my attempt to work my way out of my block, so I'd love to know what you think.