Set somewhere in the early seasons; probably season two.

Disclaimer: I think we all know by now that if any of us had any claim on them, we wouldn't need fanfiction! :P

This story is (more or less) complete and will be updated weekly. So I won't be posting two chapters and then going AWOL, like I did on a certain other story...

Posted in honor of Supernatural Thursday; something of a holiday even between seasons ;)

Hope you enjoy!


"Drop it." The gun clicked in metallic threat as the man cocked the weapon. "Drop it right now, or I swear, Winchester, I'll blow his brains out."

Not that they weren't already leaking out of the back of his head. The sight of the blood oozing down Sam's neck made Dean's blood run cold with fear.

"I ain't gonna ask again." The man said. "Drop. It."

Sam practically hung in the man's grip. He was upright only by some miracle, conscious only by some fluke. His eyes, shadowed by blood-streaked bangs and sagging eyelids, focused sluggishly on Dean.

I'm right here, man, Dean desperately tried to tell him. I gotcha. I'm not gonna let him do it—

There was a small squelch as the man pushed the gun barrel against Sam's skull. Sam let out a moan, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His legs crumpled, body going limp in the man's arms.

"NO!" Dean yelled. His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger—anyone hurts Sammy, they die—but didn't shoot. He couldn't, because the man just hoisted Sam back up and kept right on using him to shield himself.

"Now look what you made me do," he drawled indifferently. "You gonna make me pull the trigger, too? Huh? Whaddya say, Winchester? Feel like moppin' up little bro's grey matter?"

Dean's teeth were close to cracking, his jaw was clenched so hard. He pinned the man with his deadliest stare, but they both knew there was nothing Dean could do.

"I thought not." A smug, lazy grin. "Now, you know what I want. Put the gun down, Sammy here lives, and you and I can talk—nice and civil."

In his mind, Dean had already crossed the space between them and killed the man a thousand times over—strangled him, pounded his head against the pavement, beaten him bloody. But Dean knew he couldn't do it. All he could see was his little brother, slumping, pale, with a gun to his head.

He had no choice. Dean's muscles vibrated with tension and protest, but he slowly lowered his weapon.

A look of triumph crossed the man's face. "Good. You made the right decision here, Winchester."

Dean's reply was a growl. "Just give me my brother back, you son of a—"

"Oh, you'll get him back all right, I promise you." The man gave a twisted grin. "Just not quite yet."

Dean scowled. "What the hell are you—"

Footsteps scuffed behind him, and before he could even begin to turn, he felt the winter-cold prick of a needle entering his neck, the burning spike of something as it slipped into his veins. His vision immediately went dark.

"What…what did you…" The question wouldn't form. Dean's legs gave out; his head hit the ground. The next and last thing he was aware of was the sickening thump of his brother's body being dumped beside him, and then there was nothing but darkness.