Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or LOST.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Dean shouted, slamming the last of the overhead compartments shut. He balled up his fists, breathing slowly in and out in an effort to keep his fury at bay. "Screw that," he muttered as he stalked forward, stopping at one of the airline chairs and letting loose. He grinned as his efforts dislocated the headrest, sending it flying in an arc across the battered fuselage.

He let out a deep breath of air as he collapsed into the chair next to his make-shift punching bag, wishing he had a beer to calm down the buzzing from his head to his toes. This was supposed to have been part of a very simple plan, initiated after watching the determined way that Charlie, Jack and Kate had strode into the same jungle that contained the sounds that were keeping him out. Find their bags.

There was no way in hell that Dean planned on traipsing into the territory of something he couldn't identify without the few weapons he and Sam had managed to get past customs. No way was he attempting to go into that jungle without combing through his dad's journal in hopes that the growling could be identified. And…honestly, a fresh change of clothes wouldn't hurt either.

"Alright Plan B…anytime now," Dean sing-songed into the empty fuselage as he massaged his aching temples. He rolled his eyes as he reached out for the last two bags he had found and opened them up. With the hours since the crash piling up and the injured people still injured, he knew that the need for medicine was climbing and he doubted anyone would mind sharing. He grinned at the white plastic bottle lying underneath some clothes, pulling it out with a chuckle as he read the label. "Viagra. Good for you, Don Aubrey."

He pulled out anything else that could be of use without it being an invasion of privacy and added it to the smaller bag he had been using to collect what he found. Opening the bags in the first place was an invasion of privacy, he thought. Just think of who could have your bags and be playing with your weapons right now.

He grimaced as the thought made him sick to his stomach. There could be someone out there right now, reading his dad's journal and trying to make sense of a stash of guns and knives. He shook the thought aside, standing and hoping to busy himself enough to keep his mind quiet. "Might as well check the rest of this place before I move on," he murmured, knowing that not many people would endure the smell to find their belongings.

He stretched high, grunting as his body gave way to popping in various places just as the natural light from the sun vanished, washing the cabin in darkness. "What the hell…" Dean's attention shot to the ceiling as his ears picked up the sound of heavy rain slamming into the metal construction. "Oh no, go right ahead mother nature. The smell of dead bodies wasn't really doing it for me. Might as well add damp to them."

Dean put his hand up in front of his face, what he guessed was about six inches away as he squinted his eyes, trying to make out the shape before dropping it back down and surrendering to the darkness. There was no way he'd be able to navigate through the debris and dead bodies let alone find anything useful. "Is this my punishment for that waitress in Des Moines?" Dean asked at the ceiling.

He collapsed back down in his seat, glad that the darkness was hiding that fact that he was pouting. I'm not sure what else can happen to slow down my search for Sam, Dean thought, leaning forward and rubbing his temples again, hoping to alleviate some of the tension. Thank god Dad doesn't know that I've lost Sammy.

Dean stopped rubbing as his back arched up ramrod straight, his breathing becoming slightly labored as a new thought assaulted his mind. Dad doesn't know where we are. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down as the panic he already had for Sam spiked as he thought of his father. "Oh god. Neither of us called him before we boarded the plane in Los Angeles," Dean told himself.

It had already been months since Dean had seen or heard from their dad. How long would it take before John decided to come out of hiding? How long before there was a hunt complex enough that he called Dean for help. A week? A month? A year?

"Ok, it'll take about two days of me not returning his calls before he completely freaks out," Dean admitted to himself. From there, John's first step would probably be calling every resource they'd ever made as hunters. "After that fails," Dean snorted, "he'll probably start checking through all of our Postage Boxes." Which one was the credit card statement with the plane tickets going to? Dean wondered in exasperation. "Well, it's a damn good thing that the crash didn't kill me…wouldn't want to deprive dad when he finally does find us."


Sam walked through the trees not far from the beach, marking his path with pieces of his overshirt. So far, he hadn't been able to find his bag and couldn't determine which direction their part of the plane had come from.

"This is frickin hopeless," he muttered, collapsing onto the foliage and wiping away at the beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Dean's gone, I have nothing to hunt with and our group is being targeted by hostiles. Either our plane was cursed or I'm getting what I deserve for not doing anything to save Jessica."

Ever since the attack from the previous night, the survivors had been growing panicky and restless. Plane crash survivors was one thing, but having them all divided by one issue was quite another. It seemed like it was almost exactly half that wanted to stay put and keep feeding the signal fire, and the other half that wanted to leave and find shelter or the other parts of the plane.

He was all for both actions, which really frustrated him. On the one hand, he knew his brother was somewhere on this island and he wanted nothing more than to leave and make finding him the number one priority. On the other hand, as much as he hated it, he had been raised by John Winchester and, even now, his father's voice was booming in his head about how the best chance of survival was staying put.


"Alright, class. The state has prepared and sent in a survey to each school district for completion by the students. While this will not count as a grade, it will act as a means to gauge your reaction in a situation requiring the use of survival skills in a life threatening situation," the teacher informed the class.

Sam groaned, wondering for a tiny moment if his father had something to do with this "state survey." It wouldn't shock him to discover that John Winchester had found a way to keep his youngest son training while he was in school. Sam's only escape.

"Right now, I'm passing out your scenario and a list of items that your party has managed to collect. Please read along with me."

Sam looked down at the paper in front of him, breathing out in relief as he read through the first few lines. No way in hell was his father responsible for such a ridiculous scenario, even if the end goal was to teach him a lesson.

You have just crash-landed in the woods of North Minnesota. It is 11:32 AM in mid-January. The small plane in which you were traveling was completely destroyed except for the frame. The pilot and co-pilot have been killed, but no one else is seriously injured. The crash came suddenly before the pilot had time to radio for help or inform anyone of your position. Since your pilot was trying to avoid a storm, you know the plane was considerably off course. The pilot announced shortly before the crash that you were 80 miles northwest of a small town that is the nearest known habitation. You are in a wilderness area made up of thick woods broken by many lakes and rivers. The last weather report indicated that the temperature would reach minus 25 degrees in the daytime and minus 40 at night. You are dressed in winter clothing appropriate for city wear—suits, casual clothes, street shoes, and overcoats.

While escaping from the plane your group salvaged the fifteen items listed below. Your objective is two things. First, decide if your party should stay and wait for help to arrive or if your party should venture to rescue. Second, rank the following items according to their importance to your survival and why you think the first ranked thing(aka chocolate bar) is more important to survival than the next ranked thing(aka a pistol).

-compress kit (with 28 feet of 2" gauze)
-ball of steel wool
-cigarette lighter without fluid
-loaded .45 caliber pistol
-newspaper (one per person)
-compass
-two ski poles
-knife
-sectional air map made of plastic
-30 feet of rope
-family-sized chocolate bar, one per person
-flashlight with batteries
-quart of 85-proof whiskey
-extra shirt and pants for each person
-can of shortening

Sam chuckled as he finished reading. This plane crashed so badly that it was completely destroyed except for the frame and only the pilot and co-pilot were killed? That wasn't even the most ridiculous part about the survey. "Why the hell is there a can of shortening on this flight?" He muttered to himself.

"Hey, Winchester. Mrs. Parks said we're partners on this one," he heard above him. He looked up and groaned at the pretty blonde girl wearing a large letterman jacket standing before him. She rolled her eyes as she took the seat in front of him and pulled out her sheet of paper.

"First things first. We obviously don't need to stay and wait for rescue, we should just hike out and find rescue," she told him, a haughty smile on her face.

Sam snorted, holding back his laughter as his father's voice in his head told him to do the contrary. "How do you figure, Rutherford?"

She scoffed at him, her smile disappearing as annoyance at being questioned spread over her features. "Look, Winchester, everyone knows it's smarter to actually do something rather than wait for something to happen, alright? Control the situation." She rolled her eyes again before writing that they would leave to find rescue on top of their shared paper in pen.

"Hey, Shannon, wait. I didn't agree to that." Sam exclaimed, yanking the paper out of her hands. He looked back up at her, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Too late," she smiled at him before inspecting her nails. She looked back up at him, her smile vanishing at the look of pure rage on her partner's face before she recovered with an incredulous scowl of her own. "Calm down, Sam. It's not like it matters, anyways. This doesn't even count as a grade."


Sam smiled as he remembered the look on that girl's face as their teacher had informed the class that the best course of action, according to the state, would be to stay put and wait for rescue. If he remembered correctly, she had been so incensed at being wrong that she'd told her jock boyfriend some story about him. The next day he arrived at school to stares and pointing, only to find out that he was the number one topic in the student rumor mill due to the bulls-eye on his back for daring to mess with a football player's girlfriend. Not that it had mattered. Dean had gotten wind of that rumor and shut that jock down before he could even mess with Sam, earning Dean a week long suspension. Two weeks after that little incident, Dad had finally found and killed the spirit he was hunting and they were on their way to the next hunt.

"Maybe it would be for the best if we stayed on the beach," he muttered to himself, not wanting to contradict his freshman counterpart. He thought back to that morning on the beach, to his mind finally letting him remember seeing that monster on the plane. "How can I even know if that was real or not?"

How could it not be? He had seen that man smile directly at him before his eyes turned yellow. The plane had barely even hit some turbulence at that point, so it couldn't have been a stress-induced hallucination. Maybe he was just losing his mind. "Or, maybe that thing was on the plane too, which means the thing that killed mom and Jess could be somewhere on this island."


"Stupid redneck jackass," Dean heard from outside the fuselage. He looked up and squinted against the sunlight that was pouring back into the fuselage. "When the hell did the rain stop?" He asked aloud.

Dean watched as the light from outside was obstructed by someone in front of the cabin opening, hunching as they scanned the surroundings before stopping at Dean. "Dude, why are you sitting in the middle of the Land of the Dead?"

"Hurley?" Dean asked, ignoring his question as he shielded his eyes from the rest of the sun coming in.

"That's the name they gave me."

Dean chuckled as he stood up from his seat and stretched out his kinked muscles, wondering how long he'd been sitting when his neck popped. "Man, I wasn't kidding when I told you it was ripe in here," Hurley said, plugging his nose in disgust.

Dean smiled as he pointed to the piece of his overshirt he had torn off and tied around his nasal passages and mouth. "Eh, you get used to it. Besides, I'm pretty desperate to find my bag."

"Hey, I wanna find my stuff too, but not this badly."

Dean shrugged as he walked towards the opening, waiting as Hurley followed him out before removing his bandana and taking a deep breath of the clean ocean air. "If you're that freaked out by the makeshift crypt, then why'd you go in there?"

"Just wanted to get away from that jerk, Sawyer," Hurley told him, his brow furrowing in anger. At Dean's confused look Hurley's face softened and he pointed back up the beach. "Guy with the southern accent that thinks he owns the entire beach. I mean, first he picks a fight with Sayid and then…"

"Wait, what?" Dean cut him off.

"Oh yeah, you were in there," Hurley remembered, pointing at the fuselage. "You see, Sawyer was convinced that it was Sayid that wrecked the plane, probably because of the whole 9-11 thing. Then, before you know it they're full on Obi-Wan and Vader," Hurley explained to him.

"They had lightsabers?" Dean asked.

"No," Hurley answered, a wistful look on his face. "But that would have been so cool."

Dean chuckled, shaking his head at Hurley's enthusiasm. "Please, just tell me someone stopped them," Dean requested, surprised he hadn't even heard a fight going on.

"Oh yeah, no worries. Jack pulled Sawyer off of Sayid right when they were getting back."

"They're back?"

"Yup, found a transceiver or something, but it's not working. Sayid's trying to see if he can fix it. Did you know that dude was a communications officer for the Republican Guard?"

Dean groaned as he ran a tired hand through his hair. "You know, as much as I like Sayid, he probably shouldn't volunteer that information to a bunch of paranoid American plane crash survivors," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Any idea where Jack went to?"

"I think he's checking on that guy with the shrapnel," Hurley told him, pointing to his stomach.

"Alright, thanks, man." Dean gave him one last smile before heading back to the smaller bag he'd left by his seat. He shouldered it and headed away from the fuselage towards the bushes where he remembered Jack taking the unconscious man.

Thinking about the shard of metal Jack had been forced to keep lodged in that man's midsection, Dean winced. "That guy is either the most unlucky bastard on the planet, or he's got a mother curse on him." He stumbled as he collided with a woman as she rushed by him, throwing a 'sorry' over her shoulder before continuing on.

"Ok then," he nodded at her retreating form before continuing around the foliage until he entered the clearing. He watched as Jack knelt over the unconscious man, checking the shrapnel with a small flashlight. Another involuntary shudder went through him as he wondered if this man would even survive. "Hey, doc."

Jack looked up, his face grim as he nodded in his direction before standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. "Hey, um…"

"Dean," he answered him, putting a hand on his chest.

"Yeah, that's right. Dean. How can I help you?"

"More like how can I help you," he answered, throwing him the small bag. Jack looked up at him in confusion before pulling the zipper open, his eyes going wide. "Where'd you find all of this?"

"Well, while you three were off looking for any chance at rescue, I got it in my head to find my bags," he explained to him. "So, I spent the last several hours in the fuselage going through what was in there. I'll admit I had to open a few suitcases to find some of those medications, but we're all in this together, right?"

"You may very well be the hero of this plane crash," Jack told him, looking like a kid on Christmas. "Too bad you didn't happen to find a scalpel with all of this."

Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out an old pocket knife, opening it up to reveal the blade. "Not a scalpel, but I never go anywhere without this. It's sharpened too," he said, handing it over to Jack. Jack gingerly placed his thumb on the blade, smiling at the feel of the sharpened metal. "Alright, you've just been upgraded from hero to godsend."


After leaving Jack with the few tools he'd been able to find that might assist him in helping any of the injured people, Dean had left to resume the search for his bags. After all, Jack was more than capable and had the proper help in the form of the eager brother of Shannon. That thought was pushed aside, though, as Dean watched Boone leaving with the rest of the people in the new hiking party.

"Why the hell is Jack's nursemaid leaving right when he's getting ready to work on that guy with the shrapnel," Dean asked out loud.

"Oh, you mean Boone? I think he's just going to make sure his sister stays out of trouble," a voice spoke up behind him. Dean turned around to see the pregnant woman seated with her arm draped over her belly. "I think Jack asked Hurley to help him."

"Hurley? Jack asked the guy that couldn't stomach the smell from the fuselage to assist with a surgery?"

"Yeah, I think so," she told him with a wry smile and a shrug.

Dean groaned before falling into a dead sprint all the way to the clearing, not at all shocked by the sight that greeted him. Hurley was passed out on top of Jack's patient while Jack was trying his hardest to reach a bundle of rags that had been placed too far away.

"Dean, thank god. I need those rags," Jack begged, nodding to the stack he was reaching towards in vain.

Dean grabbed a bundle and handed them over, watching as Jack applied the first one and removed it within minutes as it soaked through with blood. "Man, is he supposed to be losing that much blood?" Dean asked as he rolled Hurley off of the injured man.

"No, he's not. I couldn't leave the metal in, though, or he would have died. I'm trying to do what I can, but…"

"Don't beat yourself up, man. We all know the situation sucks," Dean told him. He looked down at the man on the ground, noticing that his eyes were closed and his facial features very still. "Did you knock him out or anything?"

Jack continued to work on the wound, shaking his head as he did. "We didn't have anything that would be strong enough. I was kinda just hoping that he wouldn't wake up."

"Badass," Dean muttered as he studied the wound. It didn't look good, even with the effort that Jack seemed to be putting into it. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Considering you haven't passed out yet, yes," Jack hissed, throwing a frustrated look at Hurley that softened almost immediately. "Look, I need you to hold him down in case he does wake up. Just make sure he doesn't panic and move around too much."

Dean nodded as he positioned himself where Hurley had been at the man's head before grasping his shoulders and pushing down. "Hate to say it, but this is the easiest job I've ever had."

Jack shook his head incredulously, a smirk growing on his features. "Yeah, remember it was you that said that if he actually wakes up and sees me messing around with the hole in his gut."

Dean's smile faded as he silently hoped that this guy would just stay unconscious. He wasn't particularly fond of having to comfort people when they were in pain, and that was generally of the emotional variety. Speaking of…"Shouldn't the pain be waking him up?"

"Actually, the pain is what's keeping him out. His injuries are severe enough that his body is keeping him unconscious to protect itself," Jack said. "I've never actually seen it before, but I've heard of it happening. Kind of like nature's anesthesia."

"Huh. Well, here's to small mira…" Dean jumped, his gaze popping up to Jack as the guy he was holding down let out a deep breath around a moan. Dean watched as all the blood drained from Jack's face as he shook his head incredulously.

"No," Jack murmured, as Dean pushed back down on the man's shoulders while he moaned. The man stilled slowly, his moaning tapering off as it looked like his thought processes were coming back to him. They both watched in shock as the man raised his arm and reached up to grab Jack by the front of his shirt.

"Where is she?" he rasped out.

Jack stared at him, his eyes wide as he tried to pry the man's hand off of his shirt. "Who?" Dean scooted next to Jack and began peeling the man's fingers away from Jack while pushing down on his chest in an effort to keep him still. "Whoa there, you need to stay still." The man struggled weakly against Dean's hand for a moment before stopping, exhaustion clear on his face as he looked up at his captor, his eyes widening in recognition.

"You," Dean looked down at him, the question clear on his features as he realized that this man recognized him. He couldn't even remember having seen him on the plane let alone recognizing him. "We know each other, pal?"

"It knew you. It was in me because of you."

"Maybe it's just me, but I really don't wanna know what was inside this guy. Especially if it was because of me," Dean mumbled to Jack.

"He's delirious, I have to get him closed up before he loses too much more blood," Jack said, snapping out of his daze and scooting forward to continue working on him.

Dean watched as the man groaned as he rolled onto his side slightly, trying to reach out to Dean. "Keep him still," Jack commanded.

"It wants your family. It wants the Winchesters."

Dean's eyes went wide as he looked over at Jack, shaking his head in disbelief. "There's no way in hell he'd know what my last name is. I've never met him before."

"Maybe he saw your name on your boarding pass or something," Jack reasoned.

Dean thought back to him and Sam scrambling around at the last second in Los Angeles to get tickets on the possessed plane. After digging around in his box of IDs, Dean had handed over the passports and credit card information for Dean Frost and Sam Hetfield to Sam. As far as any record in the whole of planet Earth, Sam and Dean Winchester had never even stepped on a flight to Australia, let alone one returning to America.

"Damnit, Dean, hold him down or he's going to bleed out." Jack shouted as Dean's grip slacked and the man grabbed weakly onto Dean's wrist.

"He's here," the man said, his breathing growing more and more ragged. "Yellow eyes…" he rasped out before falling back into unconsciousness.

Author's Note: Dun Dun Dun...the plot thickens. I am really sorry that this update took as long as it did. My computer crashed AGAIN and I had to write this during lunch breaks at work. However, next month I have already budgeted for a new laptop, so updates should happen more frequently. I have no plans to abandon this story, so just have some Locke sized faith and I'll do my part. Also, I want the generous people sticking with this story to know that it has already been planned out until the end. This story (more like series) will encompass the whole of LOST. All that needs doing now is to write down what I've thought up. Hope everyone enjoys this little filler chapter and gives me some love!