Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasperkynipples) wrote2010-03-17 02:23 am
hasperkynipples) wrote2010-03-17 02:23 am
Entry tags:
[caracas] In which the Winchesters are in need of back-up.
[Goddamn stupid Winchesters. Dean wouldn't shut up about this, so here it is. Sam is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
imnot_likeyou but anyone else is an NPC.]
Venezuela had a way of making you sweat bullets.
It was disgusting. It was the kind of heat that got under your skin, made you feel like you were melting, and made Sam smell like a goddamn garbage truck, but that was okay really. Most of the Venezuelan jungle smelled like a goddamn garbage truck, so Sam blended right in. Unless you were standing right next to him, which was what Dean was doing a lot of the time because someone had to watch his ass. Kid was a walking target. It came with being a bajillion feet tall.
Anyway.
Middle of the night heat was better than middle of the day heat, but it was still humid as hell. The kind of humidity that if you weren’t used to it, it made you feel like you couldn’t breathe, and unfortunately for Dean, he had to say he was used to it. And it was less humid considering they were outside in the brush as oppose to trapped in the shack that they’d been in earlier, but given all the gear they were covered in, it wasn’t making much of a difference. They were still sweating to death. It was how Dean justified eating the way he did, so he certainly wasn’t going to complain.
Much.
“Come on already,” Dean groaned, pulling at the black material wrapped around his neck. “I’m friggin’ drownin’ in my own sweat here.”
“Shut up, man.” Sam pulled his eye away from the scope of the rifle and giving his brother a look. “You’re gonna blow our cover.”
Dean grumbled softly to himself, letting his eyes continue wander over the scope of the terrain in front of them. At this point, they had learned the jungle like the back of their hands. Being in the trenches made you learn a place fast, and the Winchesters had been there for six months at this point, giving whatever help they could to the revolution. It wasn’t easy work, and they definitely had more bullet and knife wounds they had had walking in, but it was satisfying work, and the pay definitely didn’t suck either.
Contrary to popular belief, the Winchester brothers had never been in the military. Their dad had, and he trained them as such, but they had never actually served their country. They were too busy serving other people’s. After the death of his wife at the hands of a double agent, John Winchester abandoned the CIA, and America for that matter, to track him down and wipe him out. The government was against this, wanting to bring the man in for questioning as oppose to When a man like John Winchester decided he wanted to disappear, he disappeared, and his children did too. Not completely—placing them in a small, out of the way town where no one would look with a retired agent that was one of the few people he trusted resulted in his boys growing up as Dean and Sam Singer as oppose to Dean and Sam Winchester, but it kept them safe and that was what mattered.
Getting revenge on the guy wasn’t easy. Finding him took time, and in that time John made contacts. Contacts came with favors, and favors soon came with John earning himself the name as one of the most dangerous mercenaries in Latin America. He bounced from country to country, working with whatever group offered him information on the man he was looking for, as well as for a price. It wasn’t an ideal set up, but by the time he was killed in action on a job, Winchester was an underground name, and his sons were more than capable of taking up his mantle.
It wasn’t like they got offers from places other than Latin America, but there was a small problem. Dean would never, ever, get on a plane. He could drive all over North and South America without a problem, but put him thirty thousand feet in the air, and he had panic attacks. The jungles of Latin America became like home and while they bounced around from country to country, looking for whoever had a cause they could get behind, and offering their muscle where they could. It wasn’t the kind of work that turned them into rich men, but they were happy in it, and that was what mattered. Which is, long story short, how they wound up in Venezuela, hiding in the coverage of the greenery in the middle of the night, watching a meeting between one of their associates and a possible bad guy through the scope of sniper rifles.
Dean shifted so that he was resting his chin on top of his hand, shifting his focus to survey the terrain for a moment. Sometimes if you focused too much on a problem, you missed all the smaller things that could make a problem bigger. It was only a quick sweep, but he was bored enough to talk as he did it.
“I don’t even know why they wanted us on this gig. This guy was supposed to be a friend, right?”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t mean that Ernesto doesn’t have something that Guillermo wants to steal,” Sam sighed, before nudging his scope to the side slightly. “Apparently he’s got some kind of tech that he wants me to look at.”
Dean made a face. He wasn’t really a fan of technology, and Sam wasn’t exactly hacker extraordinaire, but he knew his technology well enough to get by. He had always been the nerd while Dean had always been the muscle, and even as they got older and Sam developed more muscle than Dean did. Dean would always throw himself in the line of fire for his brother. Always.
“I don’t know about this, dude. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“These things never feel right. Doesn’t stop us from doing them.”
“I’m serious. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”
“Uh—Dean?”
“It’s a gut feeling, you know? Like when you eat a bad burrito, and you can tell just by smelling it that something’s wrong with it?”
“Dean!”
“This bad feeling wouldn’t have something to do with the two guns pointed to your heads, now would it?”
Dean glanced in his brother’s direction, before his eyes rolled up and spotted the men standing above them, holding guns to their heads. How they’d managed to sneak up on them in the middle of the night—how’d they managed to find them in the middle of the night, for that matter, was another thing entirely.
“Dean and Sam Winchester. I think this just might be my lucky day.” The man standing over them said before smirking. “Any last words, boys?”
Sam’s eyes met his brother’s again, and gave a slight nod, before Dean turned back to them with a grin, cocking his weapon. “Sure do. Bite me, Chico.”
***
This night was really starting to suck.
Well, for one thing, he was bleeding. A lot. Far more than he or Sam particularly cared for at the moment, but that was irrelevant. Mostly because he was relatively sure he was going to be dead soon. He had maybe a couple hours tops, and there was no way they were going to manage to find actual medical attention without some serious back up. Which they didn’t have. At least, he was pretty sure he didn’t have it.
Gulliermo looked pretty dead when they last saw him. So back-up was probably a no.
“Sammy—”
“Dean, if you start with that last request bullshit, I’m going to smack you,” Sam stated evenly, putting his brother down on the cot in the shack they had set up as home for while they were in Caracas. It wasn’t a fancy place, by any means, but it did the job. He dropped the gear to the ground soon after him, and started rifling through their stuff, finding the first aid kit and doing the best he could to fix up the wound. That gave Dean a few bonus hours. The bleeding was still going, but at least it was sanitized, which wasn’t much but it was something. Sam draped his jacket over his brother, before plopping down on the chair next to him and giving him a look. “Don’t die.”
“Don’t really think it’s something I have control over, but I’ll try.” He watched as his brother popped open the computer and started to tap away at the keys before giving him a look. “What are you doing?”
“Sending out a SOS.” Sam sighed. “I’ve got someone who owes me a favor.”
1438 words
imnot_likeyou but anyone else is an NPC.]Venezuela had a way of making you sweat bullets.
It was disgusting. It was the kind of heat that got under your skin, made you feel like you were melting, and made Sam smell like a goddamn garbage truck, but that was okay really. Most of the Venezuelan jungle smelled like a goddamn garbage truck, so Sam blended right in. Unless you were standing right next to him, which was what Dean was doing a lot of the time because someone had to watch his ass. Kid was a walking target. It came with being a bajillion feet tall.
Anyway.
Middle of the night heat was better than middle of the day heat, but it was still humid as hell. The kind of humidity that if you weren’t used to it, it made you feel like you couldn’t breathe, and unfortunately for Dean, he had to say he was used to it. And it was less humid considering they were outside in the brush as oppose to trapped in the shack that they’d been in earlier, but given all the gear they were covered in, it wasn’t making much of a difference. They were still sweating to death. It was how Dean justified eating the way he did, so he certainly wasn’t going to complain.
Much.
“Come on already,” Dean groaned, pulling at the black material wrapped around his neck. “I’m friggin’ drownin’ in my own sweat here.”
“Shut up, man.” Sam pulled his eye away from the scope of the rifle and giving his brother a look. “You’re gonna blow our cover.”
Dean grumbled softly to himself, letting his eyes continue wander over the scope of the terrain in front of them. At this point, they had learned the jungle like the back of their hands. Being in the trenches made you learn a place fast, and the Winchesters had been there for six months at this point, giving whatever help they could to the revolution. It wasn’t easy work, and they definitely had more bullet and knife wounds they had had walking in, but it was satisfying work, and the pay definitely didn’t suck either.
Contrary to popular belief, the Winchester brothers had never been in the military. Their dad had, and he trained them as such, but they had never actually served their country. They were too busy serving other people’s. After the death of his wife at the hands of a double agent, John Winchester abandoned the CIA, and America for that matter, to track him down and wipe him out. The government was against this, wanting to bring the man in for questioning as oppose to When a man like John Winchester decided he wanted to disappear, he disappeared, and his children did too. Not completely—placing them in a small, out of the way town where no one would look with a retired agent that was one of the few people he trusted resulted in his boys growing up as Dean and Sam Singer as oppose to Dean and Sam Winchester, but it kept them safe and that was what mattered.
Getting revenge on the guy wasn’t easy. Finding him took time, and in that time John made contacts. Contacts came with favors, and favors soon came with John earning himself the name as one of the most dangerous mercenaries in Latin America. He bounced from country to country, working with whatever group offered him information on the man he was looking for, as well as for a price. It wasn’t an ideal set up, but by the time he was killed in action on a job, Winchester was an underground name, and his sons were more than capable of taking up his mantle.
It wasn’t like they got offers from places other than Latin America, but there was a small problem. Dean would never, ever, get on a plane. He could drive all over North and South America without a problem, but put him thirty thousand feet in the air, and he had panic attacks. The jungles of Latin America became like home and while they bounced around from country to country, looking for whoever had a cause they could get behind, and offering their muscle where they could. It wasn’t the kind of work that turned them into rich men, but they were happy in it, and that was what mattered. Which is, long story short, how they wound up in Venezuela, hiding in the coverage of the greenery in the middle of the night, watching a meeting between one of their associates and a possible bad guy through the scope of sniper rifles.
Dean shifted so that he was resting his chin on top of his hand, shifting his focus to survey the terrain for a moment. Sometimes if you focused too much on a problem, you missed all the smaller things that could make a problem bigger. It was only a quick sweep, but he was bored enough to talk as he did it.
“I don’t even know why they wanted us on this gig. This guy was supposed to be a friend, right?”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t mean that Ernesto doesn’t have something that Guillermo wants to steal,” Sam sighed, before nudging his scope to the side slightly. “Apparently he’s got some kind of tech that he wants me to look at.”
Dean made a face. He wasn’t really a fan of technology, and Sam wasn’t exactly hacker extraordinaire, but he knew his technology well enough to get by. He had always been the nerd while Dean had always been the muscle, and even as they got older and Sam developed more muscle than Dean did. Dean would always throw himself in the line of fire for his brother. Always.
“I don’t know about this, dude. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“These things never feel right. Doesn’t stop us from doing them.”
“I’m serious. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”
“Uh—Dean?”
“It’s a gut feeling, you know? Like when you eat a bad burrito, and you can tell just by smelling it that something’s wrong with it?”
“Dean!”
“This bad feeling wouldn’t have something to do with the two guns pointed to your heads, now would it?”
Dean glanced in his brother’s direction, before his eyes rolled up and spotted the men standing above them, holding guns to their heads. How they’d managed to sneak up on them in the middle of the night—how’d they managed to find them in the middle of the night, for that matter, was another thing entirely.
“Dean and Sam Winchester. I think this just might be my lucky day.” The man standing over them said before smirking. “Any last words, boys?”
Sam’s eyes met his brother’s again, and gave a slight nod, before Dean turned back to them with a grin, cocking his weapon. “Sure do. Bite me, Chico.”
***
This night was really starting to suck.
Well, for one thing, he was bleeding. A lot. Far more than he or Sam particularly cared for at the moment, but that was irrelevant. Mostly because he was relatively sure he was going to be dead soon. He had maybe a couple hours tops, and there was no way they were going to manage to find actual medical attention without some serious back up. Which they didn’t have. At least, he was pretty sure he didn’t have it.
Gulliermo looked pretty dead when they last saw him. So back-up was probably a no.
“Sammy—”
“Dean, if you start with that last request bullshit, I’m going to smack you,” Sam stated evenly, putting his brother down on the cot in the shack they had set up as home for while they were in Caracas. It wasn’t a fancy place, by any means, but it did the job. He dropped the gear to the ground soon after him, and started rifling through their stuff, finding the first aid kit and doing the best he could to fix up the wound. That gave Dean a few bonus hours. The bleeding was still going, but at least it was sanitized, which wasn’t much but it was something. Sam draped his jacket over his brother, before plopping down on the chair next to him and giving him a look. “Don’t die.”
“Don’t really think it’s something I have control over, but I’ll try.” He watched as his brother popped open the computer and started to tap away at the keys before giving him a look. “What are you doing?”
“Sending out a SOS.” Sam sighed. “I’ve got someone who owes me a favor.”
1438 words
no subject
no subject
And yes, they really are character Lego pieces.]
no subject
no subject