Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet

Author: Silverkit

Part: 3 of 5

Pairings: None

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.

Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one

Author's Note: A large pile of thanks and well-wishes to all of you that reviewed! You're beautiful people. I'm a little nervous about this chapter. It was a pain to get out. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3-Dean Winchester, Firefighter

Dean Winchester was the son of John Winchester, an ex-marine who was extremely proud of the time he'd spent in the service of his country. The fireman had an entire store of fond memories that involved being allowed to stay up late to watch whatever war movie that his father could find on television. They would curl up on the floor, Dean, Sammy, his dad and a bowl of popcorn, usually falling asleep with the ratatata sound of a machine gun blasting out of the speakers. His dad had been obsessed with Band of Brothers, and kept a running countdown of the days until Saving Private Ryan had come out on DVD. However, both of his parents had made it very clear that if either he or Sam wanted to mess around with guns they were quite welcome to do so once they'd been old enough to join the police force or the marines (not the army, not the navy, not the air force, the marines). Dean had never had a problem with the rule. He'd been in a grand total of three fights in his life, and each of those times his fists had been all he needed. He'd never been interested in hunting down anything except girl's phone numbers, and he would much rather used his hands to mess around with whatever engine parts he could find than in loading up a .45 (or whatever).

There was exactly one gun in the firehouse. A handgun, given to his superior a few years ago when the Village had attempted to merge the fire and police departments together. A doomed plan, but one they'd been forced to attempt anyway. While he himself hadn't been issued a gun, he had been taught the basics. Flip off safety, point here, shoot that, clip goes here, the basics. He hadn't been a crack shot like Martha who vacationed in the Canadian woods whenever she could to hunt elk, or as accurate as Jeffery who thought the whole idea was idiotic anyway, but he'd been ok. The firehouse gun had been entrusted to his captain, but the man had been raised a Quaker, and having never seen the need for it in the first place, hadn't ever taken the weapon out of the box. Instead, he'd put the ammo in a locked cabinet on the second floor, and tucked the gun into the bottom drawer of his desk.

Only moments after Dean had darted back into the firehouse, the image of the Impala roaring down the city streets and away from him burned into his eyes, Jeffery had grabbed him.

"What's going on?"

"It took Sammy," were the only words Dean had managed to choke out.

Jeffery had been the first to move, running back up the stairs to the phone, calling over his shoulder about the police and getting Martha, who wasn't suppose to have her shift for a few more days, to the station.

"You're in no shape to go chasing after fires," Jeffery had shouted.

Watching his co-worker's retreating back, Dean had silently agreed. Fires would have to wait.

He had waited until the other man was out of sight before breaking into his superior's office and stealing the gun. Retrieving the clips from the second floor while Jeffery's calm voice spoke with the 911 operator had been done on silent feet, and with no small amount of guilt he'd snagged his co-worker's car keys, lifting them out of the man's coat pocket before heading for the door. He was half way down the stairs when he noticed the map. The thing was brand new, the paper stiff and crisp under his fingers. The jagged hand-drawn line was purple, and it only took a few seconds for Dean to see where the endpoint lay.

The Beaver Caves were a two hour drive from Lawrence, and a part of a larger forest preserve. Dean had taken Sam there numerous times when the younger man had been in high school busting his ass in AP biology. His mom had taken them spelunking when they were kids, and it had been the site of an annual field trip when Dean had been in elementary school. As a kid it had seemed like such an adventure to climb around the trees and crawl deep into the caves that seemed to go on forever. Now all he could think was that this thing had a forty-five minute head start on him, and if he brought Sam into those caves or those woods it could be days before Dean was able to find him. If he found him at all.

The gun felt cold and alien in Dean's hands, and he'd been glad to let it rest on the seat next to him as he drove so that he didn't have to touch it. Now though, with the sound of Sam's frantic confession of "Dean he's got a gun" still ringing in his ears he found himself pulling the car onto the side of the road and picking the object up.

Holding it in his hands felt wrong on more levels that Dean had the time or patience to identify. His entire life had been spent saving people, protecting them, and here he was cradling a gun on the side of the Kansas' highway. His mom would be furious, and rightly so. But Dean's last contact with Sam had left a taste of bile in the back of his throat, and a violent mix of anger, terror and helplessness all fighting for dominance. Locking his jaw, he set the weapon onto the passenger seat and pulled back onto the road.

The Beaver Caves' parking lot was large and, at first glance, empty. Dean steered Jeffery's car around a number of unlit lamp posts, paying no mind to the neatly created parking lanes. It was during one such maneuver that the headlights caught sight of the Impala waiting patiently in the middle of the lot, stretched over three parking spaces, and illuminated with the light of a single lamp post that glowed brightly against the dark snowy evening. Killing the engine, Dean hesitated for a moment before grabbing the gun out of its holster.

The cold slammed into him the minute he stepped outside. There was a wind in this area, coming in across the plains. Dean wrapped his arms around his body, grateful that he'd remembered to grab his coat before getting on the road. Breaking into a jog, he crossed the lot. When he spotted the broken back window, and then the shaggy brown head that was in the passenger seat, but not moving, his jog became a sprint.

The door was locked, and Sam was blindfolded. At the sound of the jiggling door handle Sam's head turned in his direction.

"Sammy," Dean called. "It's me, hang on. Ok?"

Making his way to the other side, Dean reached into the backseat via the broken window and unlocked the car. Running back to Sam he flung the door open and kneeled down to get a better look at his brother. The younger man's hands were bound, as well as his ankles and the checkered blanket he always kept in the backseat had been spread out over his lap. The thoughtful gesture had done little to keep the cold at bay since the younger man's teeth were chattering, his body shivering. A piece of the blanket had been torn off and fastened around his younger brother's eyes.

Setting the gun by his feet, Dean quickly undid the knot that kept the blindfold secure.

"You alright?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't respond. His eyes flickered to Dean's bruised nose, his unbloodied temple, his clean fleece jacket.

"Dean?" he asked.

Dean grinned at him. "The one and only." He paused. "Well…"

Sam's face crumbled.

"Oh, god Dean," he said, his voice wavering between a moan and a sob.

"It's cool, Sam," Dean reassured, his eyes checking his brother for bruises and cuts, his hands ghosting through Sam's hair in search of lumps. "It's completely fine. Did it hurt you?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he answered his voice once again under control. "I'm alright. In fact I think I broke its nose."

"That's my boy," Dean said, pulling his jacket off and draping it across his brother's shoulders. Lifting up the bound hands, Dean frowned at the tight knot that held the rope together. "I've got a knife in the trunk."

"You're such a freaking Boy Scout, Dean," Sam said, giving him a weak impersonation of a grin.

"Hey," Dean reprimanded. "Eagle Scout, Sammy. Give credit where credit is due."

"And you call me a geek," the younger man responded. His head swerved in the direction of the woods and caves. "Hurry. I don't know how long it will be until he gets back."

The trunk release was on the driver's side, underneath the steering wheel and next to the parking break. Bending over the seat, he had just pulled the lever when he heard Sam's warning shout. His head shot up, and came in contact with something hard. He weaved, stumbling out of the car and into the parking lot. His stolen face, now even more identical due to the nose jobs they'd both received that day, scowled back at him. He'd left the gun by Sam's feet. He was in trouble.

Dean lunged, throwing the first punch. The doppelganger dodged, and Dean gagged as a fist met his stomach sending whatever he'd had for dinner onto the pavement.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Sam shouting.

Twisting away, Dean pivoted on his heels and threw himself forward. Wrapping his arms around the other man's midsection his momentum sent them crashing to the ground. Dean's elbow came down hard on the other man's shoulder, but he was unprepared for the strength of the monster as he was grabbed by the shirt and flipped onto his back.

"Sorry man," his doppelganger said before throwing a punch that hurtled him into darkness.

He woke up with a ringing in his ears, a coppery taste in his mouth and the knowledge that he was sitting up. Keeping his eyes closed Dean swallowed the moan that wanted to slip between his lips, and started to take inventory of his many aches. His nose, which had been a dull throbbing companion during his drive was just the tip of the iceberg, and in fact must have been a very generous injury since it had decided to share the throbbing with his head. His hands were behind his back and tied together. The same had been done to his ankles. Still able to move his fingers, he brushed them up and down the smooth interior that he would have recognized anywhere as the leather of his Impala. There was something else over his chest, and allowing his eyes to open into tiny slits he allowed himself a quick glance. His seat belt had been buckled.

Raising his head, he found that he was in the backseat. His doppelganger was in the driver's seat twisted so that he was face-to-face with his brother. The monster had a firm grip on Sam's chin, making the younger Winchester face him as well. When the doppelganger leaned in, Dean felt his stomach drop into his shoes.

"Hey!" he snapped. "Hey!"

"You're awake?" the doppelganger said, surprised.

"Don't touch my brother," Dean hissed, his attention on the hands that were on Sam.

His double blinked at him, and his head pin-balled from Sam's face to Dean's and then to his hands. Understanding, accompanied by a slight blush, blossomed over the other man's face.

"I wasn't going to-! Why the hell would you think I-? Incest once removed isn't really my thing, ok!" His double snapped, embarrassment and frustration coloring his tone. "Do I have the word 'pervert' tattooed on my forehead or something? He hit his head on the steering wheel trying to get to your dumb ass." The doppelganger held up the first aid kit in his free hand and shook it. "I cleaned it, and am now bandaging it so that he won't bleed all over the car."

Dean wonder if the sudden dizziness he felt was a result of the head injuries.

"There," the doppelganger said, carefully pressing a butterfly bandage across Sam's temple. "All done."

Twisting in his seat, the doppelganger buckled his belt and turned the key. The slow hiss of the heater filled the now silent car, and the Impala growled from underneath them. Dean noticed a torn part of what had once been his checkered blanket duck tapped over the broken back window.

"Where are you taking us?" Dean asked as the car crept across the empty parking lot.

"Back to the firehouse," the doppelganger answered. "I got what I needed, and now I'm going home."

"Where's home?" Sam asked curiously.

"Somewhere around the ninth layer of hell, right?" Dean grumbled. He flexed his wrists several times, hoping to loosen the rope that held him.

The doppelganger shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror. "Home's pretty far from here."

"Then why the firehouse? What's there?" Sam asked.

"Sammy," Dean warned, not sure if these questions were going to piss this thing off and get it to do bodily harm to anything Dean happened to love.

"Only one way to get home. I've got to go back the same way I came in,"' the doppelganger responded. "Through the closet in the kitchen."

There was a sound from the passenger seat. The noise started as a low chuckle, and then slowly built upon itself until Sam was laughing so hard he was in tears.

The doppelganger raised an eyebrow. "Um, ok?"

"Sammy?" Dean asked with concern. The laughter sounded like it was bordering on hysterical.

"What? What do you do?" Sam snorted, trying to get his words to fit around the bubbles of laughter that were cutting through the tension that hung about the car. "Head straight past the spaghetti sauce then take a left at Narnia?"

Both the doppelganger and Dean stared back at the younger man with blank faces.

"Narnia?" Sam said, still choking on his snickers and wheezy laughter. "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? C.S. Lewis? Talking beavers? Aslan? The White Witch?"

Dean wondered if Sam was going to be on the receiving end of a punch in the near future, and the thought made his rope loosening effort double. The doppelganger, however, chose to do something far worse. It smiled. The sight of it had Dean's hair standing on edge.