Sam and Dean Winchester, two brothers, two hunters of the Supernatural world, were seated in a bar, celebrating. They had recently figured out how to rid the eldest of the two brothers of the Mark of Cain, and both were feeling pretty good at the moment, outside of Dean having an ache in his side that he was hiding from his brother... but emotionally, he felt great. They were drinking and playing pool in a tournament, and Dean was hoping they'd win a few extra dollars to cover expenses.
They were on the final competition in the tournament. It was Sam's turn. The only ball left was the black eight ball. Until this turn, they'd been trailing behind, making their opposition think it would be an easy play. The younger, taller of the brothers had knocked four balls in on this turn, and Dean had made a come back on their last turn, knocking three in.
The older of the two was watching with keen interest. He and Sam both knew how to shark pool, and really, until the last turn they'd had, they'd been goofing off. The younger of the two wasn't too into sharking, and hadn't been two interested in the money, Dean having been doing most of the pocketing during the contest. Now, he was making up for every missed shot he'd made.
Sam pointed at a pocket with the pool cue, a smile on his face.
“He'll never make that shot,” one of their opponents said. “He can barely shoot.”
“I wouldn't count on that, he's the one winning this game, not me,” Dean replied, amused.
“You've carried him through this entire competition,” the other opponent said, smirking. “That prize money is ours.”
“You want to make a bet? The team that finishes in second place has to pay the first place team their winnings.”
“Ha! It'll be like taking candy from a baby.”
“Sammy, come on man, you can do this,” Dean yelled as his brother lined up the shot. The eight ball was right up against one of the sides of the table, and the cue ball was on the other side.
“No he can't, no one can make that shot. The ball will bank against the side of the table instead of going in the pocket.”
Finally Sam pulled the cue back and then slammed the tip against the white ball. The eight ball didn't bounce, but brushed the side of the table for a second on its way to the corner pocket.
“Well gentlemen, it looks like you owe us the second place winnings.”
Sam looked at his brother, and eyebrow raised. “Dean... don't you think that we're making enough on the bets and the first place winnings?”
“No one bets against my brother and gets away with it.”
The brothers looked from each other to the crowd, seeing to waitresses coming over, carrying two trophies. In each trophy was cash. After they each took a victory shot, the blond, elder brother held up the first place trophy, grinning. He turned to the second place team a few moments later, eyebrows raised. “A bet is a bet, gentlemen. Time to pony up.”
One of them made a move but his teammate stopped him, shaking his head. Reluctantly, they handed over the cash which Dean gathered up, placing it into his jacket. Dejected and embarrassed, the two men left the bar. They had been the winners for six years running.
After a few more victory drinks, the Winchester brothers left the bar. Dean was drunkenly singing Carry On My Wayward Son, and Sam was critiquing and laughing at him, the previous fussing over the money long forgotten.
“Well gentlemen, we meet again,” a voice said in the darkness.
Sam and Dean both stopped and looked at each other before looking into the shadows from where they stood in a lamp's light. A figure emerged, and they heard a gun cock.
“Easy there,” Sam said as they both quickly sobered up. “We'll be more than happy to give you your winnings back.”
“No, I want it all.”
“Okay, just be careful with that thing. I'm going to reach into my jacket now and get the money, and then we can put this whole thing behind us.”
“You think we can just put this whole thing behind us? You embarrassed us with your sloppy playing. We were the champions for six years, and then for you two, two playboys who make a joke of the game, come in and get lucky, winning the game?”
“Just calm down.”
“Shut your pie hole,” the man said, pointing the gun at Sam. “Now, we're going to take a walk, and if either of you tries to run, then the other will die.”
“Harold, what are you doing,” another voice asked as a car pulled up. He climbed out and stared at his gaming partner, and then at the Winchesters.
With the gunman distracted, Sam made a move to tackle the man. Dean made a move to help, but it was too late. The gun went off and the long haired man went still, being pushed off the man they'd played pool against.
“Sammy!”
“Dean,” he said weakly, blood pooling beneath him. He tried to say something more, but couldn't, his eyes shutting. His breathing stopped not even five seconds later.
He hit his knees, moving closer to his brother, putting his hands against the wound to try to stop the bleeding. “C'mon Sammy, don't do this, please don't do -” A blow came to his head, making him collapse on Sam's motionless body.
“Are you crazy!?”
“Shut up, Jeff, and help me put the blond in the trunk so we can make him pay properly.”
“Dude, you just killed his brother.”
“And?” He pulled the gun on his gaming partner. “I said help me.”
“No, you've lost it.” Jeff turned and started to get back in his car, but nothing could have prepared him for the bullet he took to the head.
Harold placed both Jeff and Dean in the spacious trunk of the Cadillac Coupe de Ville and took off toward parts unknown.
- - - - -
The first thing he became aware of was a stench in the pitch blackness. There was no telling how long he'd been unconscious for, but he was becoming aware that it was considerably warmer in the trunk of the car than it had been when he'd seen his brother shot in front of his eyes. He estimated they'd traveled a good distance for the heat he felt.
He moved around and felt another body in the trunk of the car and froze. Immediately, he felt around in his pockets for a flash light. He didn't find one, but the body was cold. He knew the person was dead. Tears pooled in his eyes as he remembered his brother being shot in front of him.
Dean swallowed and felt around some more, looking for some sort of emergency release door handle for the trunk. As he looked, he had the wind knocked out of him. The car had struck something on the road, and he hit his head on the lid. He felt it roll twice before coming to a rest. It stayed that way for a few seconds before being struck again, possibly by oncoming traffic.
The car was struck a few more times before he found the emergency release for the trunk, popping it open. Painfully, he pulled himself out of the car, falling into the soft mud of the highway median and laid there for several minutes. It was when he smelled gasoline that he got up, testing his body's ability to hold him. He could tell he had some broken ribs, and possibly a concussion, among other injuries.
He stood up, grabbing his side. The pain that had been there for a day or so before was back full force, and he felt sick. Dean took a few deep breaths, finding it impossible to straighten himself. Hearing, rather than seeing the sparks, he took off walking as fast as he could toward the treeline. Traffic was completely stopped in both directions due to a pileup in both directions.
He walked into the woods, and rather than see the explosion that happened next, he heard it. The blond man continued walking, taking an occasional break to lean against a tree. He was still holding his side, the pain becoming worse as time went on.
Finally, he came to a fence line. Following it in hopes of finding civilization, he walked for about another ten minutes before he collapsed in the scorching heat.
- - - - -
Dean Winchester groaned as he came to sometime later. The pain in his side was gone, and he was aware he was in a much cooler environment.
He heard a page being turned and the beeping of machines. One sounded like a heart monitor, but he couldn't place the other.
Finally, Dean opened his eyes, realizing he was in a hospital... and he wasn't alone. There was a man in military fatigues sitting in the chair next to him. “We weren't sure if you'd pull through or not, a ruptured appendix is nothing to shake a stick at, with a concussion and internal bleeding on top of it,” he heard the man say.
“Should've let me die,” he replied.
“That is not something I would have expected out of one of the infamous Winchester brothers. I'm surprised we didn't pick your brother up nearby.”
“Sam's dead.”
“Do you want to tell me what exactly happened?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, let me tell you what we know already: Your name is Dean Winchester. You have a younger brother named Sam Winchester. You two have been near inseparable since his girlfriend died in 2005. We know you were in a vehicular accident on the interstate, a major 40 car pileup caused by the driver of the car you were in driving too fast for the foggy conditions yesterday morning. It caused a rig to jack knife, and it was a cascade after that. There were two bodies in that first vehicle, both burned beyond recognition. One was in the trunk with a gunshot wound, dead before the accident.” The man paused an adjusted his glasses for a moment, studying him. “You were covered in blood when you were brought in. Your car was found in a parking lot in Wisconsin and has been moved to a secure location, which we believe it was from that bar that you were abducted. From the information you have already provided, it is my belief that your brother was the body found in the trunk.”
Dean's eyes wouldn't focus as tears came to them. “You don't know anything about me, or my brother.”
“I know enough.”
. “Who in the hell are you anyway?”
“I am Lieutenant Thomas Duncan of the US Marines. I've been following your story for sometime now. I run a special black ops division, and we want you on board.
“What does this special black ops division do?”
“We do recognizance work and decoding. We basically spy on our allies.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulling a piece of paper out. He slid it across to Dean to look at. “You are one of the best I've found for slipping into and out of situations, running under the radar, and one of the best grifters the FBI has hunted.”
The blond man in the hospital bed picked it up and looked at it for several minutes, his eyebrows furling. “This is... it's papers of pardon for my crimes.” He looked at the Marine in confusion. “Is this ligit?”
“Yes. Yours if you agree to join the Marines and my unit. One will be applied to your brother so you may bury him in peace, without different states vying for custody of his remains.”
Dean took a shaky breath. “I...” he swallowed. “I'll do it for Sam. He deserves a hunter's funeral, poor guy.”
The Lieutenant nodded, sliding another paper across the table. He also offered Dean a pen. “Just fill out the enlistment papers... and do not worry about your age. I can push it through because you'll be joining my unit after basic and advanced training.”
“Yeah,” he said, adjusting the bed to sit up a little better. He filled out the paperwork and then winced. “What exactly were my injuries?”
“You had appendicitis, and it ruptured during the accident. You also had a rib that lacerated your liver, causing internal bleeding, and you had a concussion. You've been here a few days, and the doctor has said your brain is no longer showing evidence of injury, and everything else is healing well. You'll be given a few weeks to recover before your physical and then basic training. Any other questions?”
“Yeah, where the hell am I?”
“New Orleans, Louisiana.”
