mellaithwen

Summary: Dark Angel/Supernatural Crossover. Ames White grinned as he saw the Impala drive past him. He had finally found 494

I think I now like owe

pixel_0 my first born or something, 'cause she read over it TWICE -- rocks the kasbah greatly

Back to Chapter 2

Chapter 3

“What are you doing, Alec?” a singsong voice called out towards the double of Dean’s and from where Sam perched behind crates and boxes, quietly watching, it seemed Alec tensed slightly. Sam heard the name, almost glad that it hadn’t been his brother’s. Glad that this meant Dean was not pretending, and not hiding in alleyways with packages in his hands...

“Max,” Alec greeted simply, nodding his head slightly.

The girl pointed to the box under his right arm with an eyebrow quirked up.

“Hey it isn’t mine,” he said, lifting his left arm in defence.

“Then who the hell’s is it?” she asked, angry.

“A…friend’s,” Alec answered lamely. “Look, its good money, all I gotta do is get the package through, that’s all.” Subconsciously, Sam began to connect the similarities between the unknown stranger and his brother.

“And you think the Steelheads are gonna be okay with this?”

Sam frowned in confusion at the name, not a clue what Steelheads were.

“It’s not Andi, and like I care what they think.” Andi? But the attitude was right to fit this stranger’s face, in comparison to Dean’s own devil-may-care-wham-bam-thank you-ma’am response to not giving a rat’s ass.

“So, what? You’re gonna fight them on your own? You heard what Logan said, they’ve tripled in size. Not to mention since the last time you encountered them, over fifty shipments of armoured-limbs have gone missing!”

“Armoured limbs?” Sam mouthed to himself, all the more confused.

“Hell, we can both take ‘em!” Alec said happily.

“Yeah, well if you’re so good, why are we still being watched?” Max asked, her arms flying towards the crouching figure. Suddenly, Sam was jerked forward, grabbed by his shirt and thrown to the floor.

“Who are you?” the female asked coldly, a foot at Sam’s throat, who didn’t answer. She recognized the face, but there was no point in assuming anything. She pressed harder, and the man was forced to speak.

“Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His real name spouted from his mouth before it occurred to him to use a fake identity. In any other circumstance, he would have expected no release from the hold, yet in this case the foot was gone as soon as he said his name. A hand was held out, ready to help him up.

“Anyone wanna fill me in, here?” Alec asked, slightly disturbed by the way this Sam was staring at him, as if, in awe?

Sam took the offered hand warily, gazing confused at the both of them, but just as he let the woman help him up, a voice, definitely British, came over to them.

“Well look who it is,” the cockney voice said as a blonde, face covered in piercings, stepped out of his hiding place, causing Sam to shudder as he wondered why the bad guys were always British...

“Eddie!” Alec said, in mock happiness, looking over at Max with his eyes telling her simply that this was gonna get ugly.

“Well, if it isn’t Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men,” Eddie said. He grinned, leaving all the people around him, who weren’t high on god-knows-what and twitching from the effects of circuit drives in their brains, feeling the urge to drive something very sharp through his groin as he continued to speak in the forced dialect.

“Well if it isn’t the wanker and his little sods,” Alec replied, trying to keep a straight face as he relished in the chance to put on his own English accent and mock them as much as possible. Though his comeback left a little to be desired, it still did its work, and Eddie fumed. While the two men flanking him stood, with no idea what a wankerindeed was.

The fight began quickly. Eddie launched himself, and his two men did the same. Alec and Max fought with the grace that being a trained killing machine gave you, blocking punches and dealing many of their own. For the most part, Sam was smart enough to stay out of the way, but once spotted, there was no use in hiding. He fought, using all of his training and forcing as much power as he could behind each blow. He was good, but was lacking when a cybernetic arm pushed him backwards with enough force to no doubt leave bruising on his chest.

He landed hard on the ground, his ribs jarred and winding him. The Steelhead was about to kick him while he was down when the Brit’s voice called for help against Max.

From his painful position on the ground Sam could see it all. There were more bad guys--what had he heard the others call them? Steelheads?--Alec and Max were fending off two of their own, but Alec it seemed, was getting dazed from the number of times he had been hit in the head. Sam looked on in dismay as his brother—or rather, his brother’s clone, double, whatever--was thrown backwards.

He tried to get up, but the pain laced up his side. His hands numbly went to it, before looking back at Alec, seeing the Steelhead advance on the fallen, while Max too was trying to get to him, as she fought the remaining attackers.

It must have been adrenaline coupled with the fear for the man’s well-being, but he found his body launching himself off of the ground as he saw the glint of the weapon being prepared to lunge on Alec. He ran forward with great agility and threw himself against the burly attacker’s body. He barely budged as Sam fell to the floor, but it gained the attention of the Steelhead, who left Alec and turned on Sam, and Max made sure to quicken her pace when it came to fighting to help in any way possible.

The Steelhead went to grab Sam, but found the underestimated victim’s foot from earlier in his groin, and then suddenly the girl’s foot was on his chest, launching him far away.

Sam panted on the ground. He was happy to see Alec on his feet, who grinned at having hurt the man where it hurt and was pleased to have ducked in time to avoid Max’s blow causing the Steelhead to hurtle into him. Thankfully missing him.

“Thanks,” Alec said, holding his hand out to Sam. “But that was pretty stupid.”

Sam fought the urge to glare and fall into familiarity, reminding himself that this was not his brother.

“Come on, we should go,” Max said, jerking her head in Sam’s direction, but before the man could protest, Alec did so for an entirely different reason.

“What about my packages?”

“Alec, I swear to God you better come with me to see Logan, or I will kick your ass.”

“Woah, wait, Logan Cale?” Sam asked, unbelieving that it had been that easy.

“Yeah, you know him?” Max asked, cautiously, eyes recalling the picture Logan had shown her of the missing man and his brother as she kept them trained on the tall man.

“It’s who I’ve been looking for.”

*-*-*

Dean’s head was pounding, drums beating, banging against his head, and his lower back was throbbing, hurting even more ever since he was forced back into a sitting position. His hands were clasped to the back legs of the chair where manacles were welded onto the metal braces, hit wrists encircled within. He had already tried to free himself to no avail and attempting to slip out only made his wrists hurt more.

He didn’t understand what was going on, one minute he and Sam had been in the woods, the next...

God, he hoped Sam was all right. He hadn’t seen him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here as well, but Dean just couldn’t work out what was happening. What did they want with him? They acted like federal officers, but at the same time, he could easily speak out about police brutality. If they ever got rid of the gag in his mouth, choking him, that was.

Just then the door creaked open, allowing a little more light into the room. Two men came in, one, whose skin was darker and black hair slicked back, while the other’s smile was almost engraved into Dean’s mind; after all, his kidnapper wore it enough.

“494,” he said. The numbers had been spoken to Dean more than once, though he had no clue of their significance. He made no response to show he had so much as heard the man and instead kept his head bowed. Eyes now closed, he attempted to ward off the migraine and suck enough air in through his nose to ensure his lungs would keep working until the gag was removed.

His chest heaved, and as he dared swallow the saliva in his mouth, he tasted the foul material and swallowed the bile that immediately rose up, making him taste the gag once more, producing more bile, until it was an endless cycle of absolute disgust. Dean tensed as the smiling, egotistical man edged closer, and he pressed himself back as much as possible as the hands came outstretched and pulled away the gag. Dean sucked in breath after breath of cool air as he tried to regain composure and failed.

He had been knocked out in so many days. The first time, he had woken up in a cellar, stuck in a town after leaving Sam by the side of the road, and he had been offered up to a scarecrow as a sacrifice. Now, the second time, he had been alone when he first awoke, fastened to a chair, his ribs burning, eyes attempting to adjust to the varying darkness before he was joined by his captors. He had been addressed, but had been too out of it to reply. And to the men in front of him, whoever they were (because Dean had already worked out that they were indeed human or as close to human as they could be) he assumed that his groggy reception had been seen as overly rude. Rude enough to warrant a beating.

The first punch had made his nose bleed, and brought on anger. How the hell was he supposed to defend himself tied to a chair? It wasn’t fair in the slightest, and he had no real way of avoiding the punches especially when they came from the side, eliciting stars to shine indoors to his eyes only. And when hitting him only made him wince, they brought in the tazers.

It was then, Dean realised, that they hadn’t actually asked him anything yet. Nothing important enough for him to remember; they hadn’t asked him who he was, or anything to do with information only he was privy to, which worried him. That meant they either knew everything they needed to know, or they would feel happier if he was a little bloodier before the true interrogation could commence.

To Dean, the smirking man before him screamed slimy. He was sneering, licking his teeth, and letting his mouth hang open as he waited to speak. Dean felt himself itching to kick him for merely standing there, dwarfing him, as he sat tied.

“Where’s your barcode?” the man asked, walking around his captive, pushing Dean’s head forward and inspecting his neck roughly.

“Now then, 494, we can do this the hard way.” He powered up the tazer, the zing it made as he did so forced Dean to cringe. The kidnapper stood in front of his captive once more, before crouching down in a patronising manner, hands on his knees as though he were talking to a child. “Or the easy way,” he said with a shrug, waiting for his answer, still holding the dirty rag that had been in Dean’s mouth only moments before, in his fist.

“Go to hell,” Dean spat at him, and White stood up straight. Looking at the tazer, as though contemplating—

Dean cried out as it was thrust into his side beneath his rib. Bolts of electricity flying through his skin, as his body twitched against the restraints, before the tazer was retracted. White looked him up and down, as Dean tried to regain his breath, which was almost lost to him. His head hung, chin on his chest, and he took in lungful gasps of air. The weapon was held high once more and brought down on Dean as he was held tightly by the manacles. He twitched once more as the current returned and raced right through him. His eyes stayed closed, his head bowed against his chest, and his breathing laboured.

“Where’s your barcode? Where is it?” White asked for the umpteenth time, and once again, receiving nothing more than the steady glare from his captive, whose head rolled in an attempt to control the pain he was no doubt feeling.

Something was off, and White knew it, and though there were other means of finding out information, Ames had long since learnt that pain brought on more answers than simplicity and manners ever could.

TBC

On to Chapter 4