May 2, 2006 2/3
"DEAN!" Sam screeched, watching his brother hit the pavement and not get up. He saw two men race from the restaurant and another run to the door.
"I'm calling an ambulance!" that man gasped, going to his knees beside Dean and pulling out his cell.
"Good! Thanks!" Then Sam was on his feet and racing after the men. As he ran, he jerked his Taurus from his waistband and thumbed the safety off.
His fingers brushed the ID wallet still in his back pocket as he did so, and he heard himself bellow:
"FBI! FREEZE!"
One of the fleers stumbled at that. The other turned and raised his gun, aiming it at Sam.
Without another second's hesitation, Sam shot twice.
The first blast struck the outstretched arm. The hand spasmed open, and the gun hit the ground and spun harmlessly away.
The second blast hit him full in the chest. It was only rock salt, but it had enough force and velocity behind it to knock him off his feet.
The other surrendered on the spot. Supporting his swearing, aching partner, they marched back to the restaurant at the end of Sam's Taurus.
Police and paramedics had arrived. Sam clicked his safety on and shoved it back into his waistband, abandoning the would-be robbers to the police and going to see about his brother.
Dean's eyes were open and glazed with pain. He pulled the oxygen mask down and rasped, "Get 'em?"
"Got 'em," Sam replied. "You focus on getting better, okay?"
Dean nodded, eyes slowly closing. He was loaded into the ambulance, and Sam turned to the Impala, to follow.
He was stopped by the policeman. "How did you get them? What was that?"
"Salt shells. Prototype of non-lethal armament," Sam said curtly, opening the door.
"I heard you say you're FBI. Is he your partner?"
"No," Sam said, closing the door and turning the engine over. "He's my brother. We were just going out for my damned birthday."
And he drove away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The phone rang and rang, and then it was scooped up. "FBI. Willis."
The words on the other end sent a jolt through him. "Agent Willis, this is Sheriff Bonner from Newbury Port, Wisconsin. I'm doing a courtesy call for one of your agents -- a Sam Warner."
His hand tightened on the receiver. "Go ahead...." What had those idjits gotten into now?
"Agent Warner's brother -- Dan?"
"Dean," he corrected. "Yes, I'm aware of his brother -- what's happened?"
"The agent's brother was shot in an armed robber less than an hour ago. I asked if I could call anyone, and he gave me this number."
"You did well, Sheriff. I'll see that the family is notified and I'll see that my agent is taken care of as well."
"Thank you, Agent Willis. They sure are lucky to have a boss like you." The sheriff hung up.
As he lay the phone in its cradle, Bobby Singer took a deep breath and let it out in a soft curse. He clawed his cell out of his pocket and dialed.
And blinked. "You son of a gun! I can't believe you actually answered! -- No, don't hang up! I just got a call from a sheriff in Newbury Port, Wisconsin -- Dean's been shot!"
Then he looked at the buzzing phone in his hand and snarled, "You're welcome."