Take Out The Gunman

16

Detectives Winchester and Fitzgerald were returning to the office after half a day of pursuing leads on a case that had come across their desks that morning. They hadn't even made it to their desks when Garth's phone chimed, indicating he had a text.

"Weird."

Dean raised his eyes to his partner at Garth's mumbled comment.

"What's weird? Besides you?"

"Bess just sent me a text that said she's just now getting a chance to text me, that something's up," the other man answered. A frown creased his normally cheerful features, "Doesn't say what, though."

"Winchester! Fitzgerald! Get in here!"

Dean and Garth exchanged glances before putting their coffee cups on their desks and heading toward Captain Singer's office. They heard the voices even before entering – their Captain sounded agitated, and they could see through the office window that he was running a hand through his gray hair.

Dean opened the door and entered first: he noticed immediately that District Attorney Crowley and the Assistant DA was present, also. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Bela Talbot. The usually collected ADA looked ruffled, eyes shifting between their Captain and her own boss, as she chewed a thumbnail.

His guard went up immediately. Something was wrong, obviously, and it showed in the stances of the three people waiting for him and Garth. "What's up, Cap?" he asked, glancing at Garth as his partner entered behind him and closed the door.

Dean's eyes flicked to Crowley as the DA asked abruptly, "Where's your boy?"

"My --? "

Shit. Sam.

"What's going on, Bobby?" Dean demanded of his Captain, his eyes shifting between his boss and the District Attorney. It was Crowley who answered the question,

"John Winchester escaped several hours ago."

Dean stared at him for half a second, stunned, before demanding, "What the hell do you mean, he escaped?" He jerked his cell phone out of his pocket and opened the message screen even as he instructed, "Keep talking."

As Crowley relayed what little information they had, currently, regarding the escape, he sent a quick message to Castiel:

"Winchester escaped. Sam might be in trouble."

Less than thirty seconds had passed before he had a response from his best friend:
I'm on my way to your place.

"Be careful, I'll meet you there."

Dean pocketed his phone and turned to head out the office door.

"Dean!" Bobby called, "Where you going?"

"I'm going to get Sam."

"We need you here!"

Every muscle in his body was tense as he turned and shot back, "He needs me there!" He would be damned if he would remain in this room while there was the possibility that Sam was in danger. The room was silent for approximately ten seconds before Bobby nodded in agreement and said, "Go. Backup will be right behind you."

The Detective dialed his house phone as he maneuvered through traffic, emergency grill lights flashing and maintaining a speed well above the speed limit for most of the drive. "Come on, Sammy," he muttered, weaving around a line of cars that were waiting for a light to change; he tapped the brake long enough to make certain he had a clear path through on-coming traffic before slamming his foot down on the gas again.

He wasn't getting an answer on the house phone. Maybe Sam was in the shower, or maybe he still wasn't comfortable answering the phone (as he had mentioned to Dean only several days before, claiming he felt it was an invasion of Dean's privacy). Dean's number would show up on the caller ID, though, and –

"Fuck!"

The unpleasant feeling that something was wrong, that Sam was in trouble, was building in his chest.

When Dean reached his apartment complex, he had barely killed the engine before he was out of the car and heading for the building. His eyes fell on Castiel's car sitting several parking spots down, but he didn't see any sign of the other man. Nor had he received any texts or calls from him. He paused only for several seconds to jerk his cell phone from his pocket and hit the button to silence it. The last thing he needed was a stray text message or phone call distracting him or giving away his position. Once that was done, he made his way through the halls and to his apartment quietly, gun drawn.

Dean was several feet from his apartment when he saw that the door was cracked open slightly. That in itself was a sign of trouble: Sam always kept the door locked. Castiel had his own key, so perhaps it was him with Sam right now. That gut feeling that screamed trouble told him otherwise, however. Cas might be in there with Sam, but Dean had the feeling that they weren't alone. He halted, exhaling quietly to calm himself, and tilted his head to listen for noise or voices from the apartment.

He heard them after several moments of silence. It was Castiel's voice that carried to him, muffled somewhat: "You don't have to do this. No one has to get hurt here." Dean fought down his building rage at the words, at the thought of someone endangering the people he held most dear, and placed a hand carefully against the apartment door. He listened again – his rage upped a notch as he heard what sounded like flesh striking flesh and a grunt of pain.

"No, please! Don't hurt him!" Sam's voice, traced with fear.

Dean couldn't make out the deep-voiced murmur that was a response to Sam's plea. He shoved open the apartment door silently, allowing himself a better view inside, his gun raised and ready.

He cursed beneath his breath as that same deep voice called,

"Is that you, Detective Winchester? We've been waiting for you." The man – one John Winchester – sounded inordinately cheerful. It made the detective want to knock his teeth down his throat.

"How about you come on out and we'll talk, then," he called back, teeth gritted as his grip on his gun tightened. The man laughed at the suggestion: yeah, he really wanted to knock his teeth down his throat.

"Come in, Detective," the invitation was almost cajoling, "It is your home, after all. I promise I'm not going to shoot you. I don't even have a gun."

Dean hesitated – walking in without knowing exactly what he was facing was not a good idea. "Cas? You and Sam okay?"

"They're fine," Winchester's answer only pissed him off more, and he ground his teeth to bite back his suggestion that the man go screw himself. He relaxed marginally when Castiel answered,

"We are. He has a knife, I haven't seen a gun."

"Tsk," he heard John chuckle, "Tattletale. I told him I didn't."

Enough of this bullshit. If he was going to go down, he was going to do it protecting his own, damnit. 

Dean took a breath and pushed the door wider before stepping into the apartment, gun in hand. Several rapid glances told him the situation: Three people in the open space between the kitchen and the living area. Sam was tied to a kitchen chair; Winchester was standing behind him, using him as a shield and holding the point of a knife to the base of his throat; Castiel was sitting on the floor next to Sam's chair, bleeding from the temple and the side. His eyes met his best friend's blue gaze for a split second, and he saw the regret and the apology in Cas's eyes.

Dean's green gaze focused on John as the man shot him that eerily calm smile of his and greeted, 

"Hello, Detective. As you can see, I've come back for the boy."