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Hello! This is the second of my Sweet Charity fics, written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
astolat, who wanted more of the Wolfpack 'verse. Two things she wanted that jumped out at me were someone seeing an 'intimate' moment, when the boys are feeling safe, and FBI Agent Victor Henricksen. I hope that this is something like what you wanted, bay-bee!! Thank you so much for donating.
And many, many thanks todarkhavens for the beta and sweptawaybayou for the read-throughs and encouragement! *smoooch*
On summer morn or winter's night,
Their hearts will kindle for the fight,
Reading a snatch of soldier-song,
Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;
'Songbooks of the War' by Siegfried Sassoon
"Okay, I've got black, two sugars?"
"That's me." Agent Victor Henricksen lifted his hand a little and the gopher with the coffees edged around the sprawl of chairs and agents, passing the cup to the first hand that reached out for it.
"Right – two creams, three sugars...?"
"Jesus. Might as well drink hot chocolate." Opposite Victor at the table, Agent Richard Mason shook his head, making a disgusted face. His own cup had something in it not unlike what was found in the La Brea tar pits.
"Listen to who's talkin' – the man who drinks motor oil." Victor rubbed his eyes – took a wary sip of his coffee. It was scalding hot, bitter-sweet and completely disgusting. "Jesus, this is some bad damn coffee. And I was at the Pentagon." 'At the Pentagon' was shorthand for the weeks of chaos and misery that had followed the 9/11 attacks on that particular building. The vats of coffee brewed for the swarm of government officials that had all but camped there were legendary in their vileness.
"Now that's some bad coffee," Dick said. He sipped at his own and made a face. "Does coffee go bad?"
"Fuck, okay." Victor pushed his paper cup aside and rubbed his eyes again – picked up his list. For five days they'd been trapped in this room, going over papers seized from a busted weapons' dealer. Some guy out in Montana selling everything under the sun to anybody with a pulse and a full wallet. He'd probably still be in business except for Dick's hard work. Dick had been working undercover for a year and a half, following a nigh-invisible trace backwards from some anti-American group that had attempted to blow up the capital building in Springfield, Illinois.
Victor was on page who-fucking-knows of one of the most meticulous log books he'd ever seen. Every half-assed survivalist and wanna-be Unabomber the guy'd ever sold to had been alphabetized and cross-indexed to a fare-thee-well. If half of those guys had known that Earnest Pile had kept such perfect track of them – and everything they'd bought – he'd have been executed years ago.
"Okay, I'm at...a new page." Victor turned the page over – squinted at the penciled names. "Damn, this goes back to the early eighties. I've got – the Winchesters. John, Dean and –"
"Sam," Dick interrupted softly. "The Wolfpack."
"What?" Victor looked up at Dick, who was looking off into space, frowning a little. "Whaddya mean, 'wolfpack'?"
"That's what ole' Ernie called 'em. The Winchester Wolfpack. And man..." Dick took an absentminded sip of his coffee and grimaced again – looked up at Victor with pale, troubled eyes. "Those three were the scariest motherfuckers I've ever met. Hands down."
"Huh." Victor scanned the log book. The Winchester entry went on for an astonishing fourteen pages. Those boys had packed some ordinance. "What the hell, man? How come I've never heard of these guys? They've bought enough stuff over the years to equip a small army – what the hell are they doing with it?"
"I dunno, man. Ernie didn't know, either. Said they were into some freaky shit. Always had rosaries and pentagrams and stuff – these old books full'a Latin."
"Did you ever talk to them?" Victor was tracing the last few buys the Winchesters had made and – Jesus. It fit – he'd just bet it fit... He grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling notes.
"A couple times. John – that's the dad – he was in the Marines. Did a couple tours in 'Nam. The wife died early on, Ernie said. Those boys..." Dick's voice trailed off and Victor looked up from his notes.
"Yeah, what?"
"They were... Ernie knew a little bit about them. Said they'd started coming in there when the youngest was about five, the oldest about nine or something. Said those kids were like little soldiers. Didn't ever whine or run around... And both of 'em could handle guns, knives – pretty much anything. All John had to do was show 'em once and they had it. Ernie said..." Dick hunched forward, lacing his fingers together, and Victor watched his eyes track sightlessly over the spread of papers and ledgers and photocopies in front of him.
"Ernie said they were trying out an experimental load one day – shootin' targets in the back. He had a kind of gallery set up back there, some paper targets and pop-up ones, some junk, you know. Bottles and cans and shit. Winchester was back there, looking at a new gun for his boy, that Dean. Kid was about ten. Handed over this fuckin' .44 Magnum, kid could hold it for all of two minutes but man... That kid hit every single target. Every one. Center of the bull, every time. The little one, Sam, he did just about that good and Winchester, he acted like it was nothing. Ernie said that Dean boy told him he never missed, not even a moving target." Dick's mouth made a little twitchy move that might have been a smile, but Victor knew it wasn't.
"So he was some kind of survivalist, huh? Anti-government, anti-American whatever?"
"I dunno. He didn't care about the government much. Never talked about stuff like that. He wasn't a neo-Nazi or a Skinhead or anything. He talked about Hell – talked about the end of days, sometimes, about demons and shit. Ernie was pretty sure he had a church or something somewhere, but he never really knew."
"They ever talk about why they needed all that God damn ordinance?" Victor pulled out his cell and scrolled through his numbers – hit the one for Headquarters back in D.C.
"They talked about 'the job' but Ernie never really had a clear picture of what they were doing. I saw 'em last about...a year ago. They were making their own frangible loads and needed some special iron or something."
"Yeah? Hang on a sec. Harry? It's Vic. Listen, can you fax me the particulars on that mess in Oregon, that town that blew up...? Rivergrove, right. Yeah. You got the number? Okay, thanks." Victor flipped his phone shut and met Dick's interested stare. "These boys – this 'wolfpack' – they bought some very specific things from ole' Ernie back in November. I think they were the ones that destroyed that little town in Oregon. You remember?"
Dick thought about it, pursing his lips, and Victor got up and stood by the fax machine, watching as it eventually spit out page after page of documentation and forensic evidence. Specifically, the make up of the explosives that had been used to level the Rivergrove High School. Victor shuffled the pages together and sat back down, checking one list against another. The background hum of voices and paper shuffling receded as he read.
"Yeah, I remember," Dick said finally, making Victor jump a little. "About half the town died in the explosion, the rest of 'em were either dead on the ground or just – gone. Right?"
"Exactly."
"And you think the Winchesters had something to do with it?"
Victor made another tick-mark on the fax and looked up, feeling a vulpine grin stretch his mouth. "I fucking know they did. Dick, you've got to introduce us."
Dick sighed, his hands curled together and tucked under his chin, elbows wide on the table. "Vic...I dunno."
Victor put his pen and the papers down, laying his hands flat on them. "What don't you know?" he asked softly, and Dick looked up, fast.
"Don't even, man. It's got nothing to do with – anything. Politics...hell, you know I don't give a flying fuck about who gets the extra cookie." Dick's gaze – bloodshot and weary – was steady on Vic's and Victor sighed a little – nodded.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I know that. It's just – sometimes –"
"Sometimes you wanna punch people. I know. Listen, lemme tell you about these boys, okay?"
"Sure. You tell me." Victor sat back, automatically picking up his coffee and sipping it and then putting it back down in disgust.
"Okay. Like I said, it was about a year ago. End of March. I was working at Ernie's and they came in. Restocking some ammo, just general kind of stuff. All three of 'em. And there was this one old coot in there, real ball-buster type. Had an opinion about everybody and everything. Name was Jessup..."
"And that Got-damn bitch in Noo York, that Clinton bitch, she thinks she's gonna be president? Makes me fuckin' sick, I tell ya."
"She's got some balls," Dick says, refolding the BDU pants that the midday rush had left in a tangled heap.
"Balls, my ass. I tell ya, boys –" Jessup pauses to lift his dingy Styrofoam cup to his lips and spit, brown flecks of tobacco caked on the edge. "Never trust anything that can bleed for five days and live!" Jessup breaks into a wheezy cackle, tickled at his own wit and Dick smiles tiredly and moves on to the mess of olive-drab t-shirts. Ernie's behind the counter, making notes in his log book and three or four guys – local boys in mud-encrusted work boots and wash-faded denim – are perusing the aisles, stretching out their lunch breaks. One of them is Jessup's son, newly returned from Iraq.
The little dinger attached to the door goes off and Dick looks up, seeing three men walking back toward the counter. Three big men that move like cats, silent in their worn boots. The tallest one seems to be the youngest, and his cool, accessing stare makes Dick almost reach for the gun he carries. Almost. He stops himself with the merest twitch and the kid notices. His lips move, saying something to his companions and all three gazes are suddenly fastened on Dick and he feels...
Jesus, he feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Feels like a mouse under the stoop of a hawk. He can feel sweat break out, sudden and rank, under his arms and across his back and he lifts his hands from the t-shirts he forgot he was folding and holds them up.
Doesn't breathe until those hot, hungry gazes move off him.
Behind the counter, Ernie closes up his log book and stows it away out of sight, his lips twisting in a faint, nervous smile. "Winchester," he says, and it takes Dick a minute to realize that's a name. The name of these men and these are the Wolfpack that Ernie's talked about a couple times.
"Ernie," the oldest one says, and his voice is low and a little rough, like he's a smoker. John. "We're making up some special loads; need that iron we talked about."
"Oh, sure. I got it."
"Course you do," Winchester says, in a tone that says 'you'd have it or you'd suffer'. "Need a couple cases of the usual, too and about a pound of powder. An' we wouldn't say no to some more of those MREs."
"Except not the Chicken Chow Mein," the middle one says. Ruined voice, and Dick can see the scar across his throat – the grin on his face. "Those're like roadkill in a bag."
"No Chow Mein, then," Ernie says. He's pulling a pad of paper toward him, jotting down a list that the oldest Winchester leans over to see, adding things with little stabs of a finger. The other two stand just behind him, shoulder to shoulder, backs toward each other and toward the older man. It takes Dick a moment to see, but they're watching the rest of the store – checking the aisles, noting the positions of the other customers. Casing the place like they're gonna rob it or open fire any minute. Or like they think someone else might. It's a little unnerving and Dick goes back to folding shirts, but they're sloppy and uneven. Sam and Dean, Dick finally remembers. That's what Ernie said the boys were called.
Jessup, of course, is oblivious to the tension – can't keep his fool mouth shut and he goes and leans on the counter near the Winchesters, setting his cup down and digging into his hair like he's got lice or fleas or something. "So, you boys look fit," he says, and the 'boys' – both over 21, at least – give him a flick of a glance that takes him in and dismisses him in about three seconds. "Haven't got any flat feet, do ya? Wet the bed?"
The youngest – Sam – lifts an eyebrow at his brother, lips quirking in a little grin, and then he turns to Jessup. "Fuck did you say?"
Jessup hitches at his pants and sniffs, hard. "I assed if there was somethin' wrong with you boys. Here you are, big as life and twice as ugly and I don't see a uniform on either of ya."
The two look at each other for a moment, clearly baffled. It's the father that lifts his head – that looks over at Jessup with a flat, predatory gaze that's just this side of inhuman. It makes Dick go cold all over.
"You know, I did my time over in 'Nam. Gave four years of my life to this country." John looks over his shoulder at his boys and something flickers there. Pride, but something else, too. Possession – obsession. "I gave enough," John says, and his voice drops to a rumbling growl. "The mill won't grind my boys."
"Ah, bullshit," Jessup snaps, and John all but snarls. His head goes down and his shoulders round a little, as if at any moment he's going to pounce. Dick starts edging backward. Out of range, he later figures, but at that moment he's simply overcome with the need to get the fuck away.
"John here, he was in the – the Marines, right? Semper Fi!" Ernie says, nervous little laugh. The boys have also gone stiff with tension, moving subtly to form a human wall in front of their father. The air seems to crackle from their combined, intense stares. Stares that are fixed on Jessup, who continues to be utterly ignorant of just what it is he's stirring up.
"Marines. Bunch'a pansy-asses. I was a 101st Airborne in the war – Pathfinder! We dropped down behind those fuckin' Nazis – wasted those bastards." Jessup gropes for his cup and spits again, wiping his lips on the back of his wrist. His coat is stained there, dark with saliva and tobacco juice.
"Heard there were misdrops all over," John says, and Jessup puffs like a tom turkey.
"Bullshit! Pathfinders helped win that war – went in first everywhere! In before any Got-damned jar heads, that's for damn sure." Jessup takes a couple fast, shuffling steps and stares up at the older boy. Much too fucking close, but Jessup is immune to Dean's basilisk stare. It's making the hairs on the back of Dick's neck rise.
"Both you boys oughtta be in the Got-damned Army! Instead'a runnin' around in the woods like some kinda draft-dodgin' hippies. Yes sir, in the Army like my boy!" And he reaches out and drives the heel of his hand into the oldest boy's shoulder.
Faster than a snake, the older one's hand flashes out – grabs Jessup's wrist, twist and bend. It makes a grotesque crunching noise and Jessup sags, his face going a sick greenish-white. The air wheezes out of his lungs in a strangled squeal, and Dick can see his tobacco-stained teeth behind his lips.
"Don't touch me," Dean says, deadly quiet. All three of them practically vibrating with poorly-leashed tension and Dick thinks that if they had wolf's ears, they'd be laid back. If they had muzzles, they'd be crinkling in toothy snarls.
"Hey – hey! Get the fuck away from him!" Jessup's son – who's been idling back by the rifle display – is suddenly running up the aisle. He's got a rifle in his hands, price-tag dangling, and Dick opens his mouth to yell. To tell him to drop the fucking gun, to get down but it's much too late.
A knife suddenly sprouts from his chest. No, it really didn't, Dick thinks, a little hysterically. It just looked like it did. Jessup's kid – and he's pushing thirty – stumbles to a standstill, staring down at the slim, black handle that's protruding from his ribs. Staring, face white, and then his shaking hands drop the rifle and he sits down hard.
"Oh, shit, shit, shit," Ernie's chanting, and Dick just stays where he is, frozen. Sam has another knife in his hand and Dean's got Jessup pinned by his broken wrist, gun out and leveled at the man on the floor. John has a gun in his hand, too, and he holds it casually on the two men who're stupid enough to run up from other parts of the store. They skid to a stop, staring, and Dick wonders if he could clear his own weapon and take out one of them before they shot him dead.
"Ernie," John says, and Dick swears he hears amusement in that basso rumble,"... we're gonna go get something to eat. We'll be back at sundown. I expect you'll have that order together by then."
Ernie starts and blinks, staring at Jessup's kid – flinching when John turns to look at him. "Uh...sure. Yeah, sure, I'll...I'll have it..."
"That's what I thought. Boys." John lifts his gun, muzzle pointed to the ceiling and Dean does the same, letting go of Jessup, who crumples to his knees. Sam stalks forward, rolling gait of the prowling wolf. He goes down on one knee beside Jessup's kid, who's just sitting there, legs sprawled out like a toddler, eyes glassy. He puts his hand on the knife-hilt and Dick flinches all over.
"Fuck – d-don't, don't do that, it'll – hey, please – don't –" Dick can't get the words out fast enough. If Sam pulls that knife out, Jessup's kid – and Dick can't think of his name, just fucking can't – will bleed to death before they can get help.
Sam looks up at him and his eyes are cat-tilted, coldly assessing. "I missed his heart. Anybody that was in the Army knows how to deal with a sucking chest wound. Ain't that right, old man? They taught you how to fix that in the field, didn't they?"
"Do-oon't hurt my boy," Jessup wheezes, and his voice has gone cracked and shaky. He's cradling his broken wrist and his hand is already swelling, skin purpling. "You leave my boy be, Got-damn you, you fucker –"
"Better get a plastic bag," Sam says, and then his long fingers pluck the knife out. Jessup's kid groans in agony and Dick can plainly hear the gurgling hiss of blood and air leaking out of the wound. His lung will collapse in moments if they don't do something.
Sam wipes the knife on the wounded man's thigh – stands and slides the blade away so fast Dick doesn't even see where or how. Then all three of them are fading back – out – Dean's green eyes snapping with excitement and John's lips twisted in a satisfied little grin. It's a long, long moment before anyone moves.
"And they came back for the order?"
"Hell yeah," Dick said, rubbing his hand along the underside of his jaw, stubble rasping under his fingers. "Cool as you please, walked in, got their stuff and paid cash. Didn't turn a hair. Ernie said they'd kill him if the police were involved, and not one of us doubted it."
"Jee-sus Christ. Did that guy make it?"
"Oh, yeah. He did. Got pneumonia in the hospital and was down for a long fucking time. Jessup, he was never really the same after that. He died about a year later."
Victor looked down at his scribbled notes – at the fax from HQ. "Dick – I know you don't like it but...if the Winchesters took out that town... If they're responsible for that – we've got to bring them in. We've got to get those bastards."
Dick sighed, but he was nodding – reaching for his phone and Victor knew he'd do it. Knew he'd set something up. All Victor needed to do was get close. There was DNA at the scene – there was evidence that was easy to trace and track and match up if you had your source. If you had the vehicle or the clothes or, hell – anything. They just needed one fucking break...and maybe they could find the miserable sons of bitches who'd killed almost three thousand innocent men, women and children.
It took a while. Took a few months, since the bad guys were all spooked by Ernie going down. Spooked by whatever the fuck had happened out in Kansas – sink hole or comet or fucking underground nuclear testing, who knew? Victor had stood on the crumbling lip of destruction, looking out over a vast, pocked crater that still smoked and heaved, weeks later. No ideas, no clues, and no way to know how many had died.
In his down-time, he assembled a file. Wolfpack file. It was disappointingly slim, but growing. John Winchester, born in 1954. Average man, son and grandson of veterans – military brat who moved here and there across the country. Ended up in Lawrence, Kansas when his father died and got his grieving mother to sign him up a year early for the service. Two tours in Vietnam, earned himself some medals – got into some trouble.
Discharged in the spring of '74, an OTH or 'other than honorable' discharge. Apparently, he'd attacked a fellow Marine – nearly killed him. Refused to say why, even under threat of jail-time. The other guy hadn't pressed charges, for some reason, and he'd killed himself a year later.
After that, John had gone back to Lawrence – met a girl and married her, got himself a partnership in a garage. Normal Joe until the winter of nineteen eighty-three, when his house had burned and his wife had died. Nothing suspicious – faulty wiring, they'd said. But three days after the funeral John Winchester, four-year-old Dean and infant Sam had simply...vanished.
There were traces, here and there. A speeding ticket, a purchase of a gun. Notations from crime scenes where his fingerprints had been found, matched to his Army file. Nothing had ever come of those – not enough evidence or suspicion to make him a number-one suspect. Scraps of things. A transitory and hidden life. Nothing whatsoever on the boys. Not one report card or hospital visit – no crimes, no handouts. It was as if they'd never existed.
It gave Victor a chill, really – leafing through the scant pages that marked three human lives and seeing...nothing.
Almost four months after the mess in Kansas, Dick finally called. He had a meeting set up – had a guy who could give them some information on the Wolfpack. Somebody Dick had run into once, branching vine from the trunk of contacts he'd cultivated at Ernie's. Victor flew out to Omaha and met Dick at the field office there. They both got on board a little puddle-jumper of a Cherokee and flew out to Broken Bow, two hundred miles or so of Nebraska emptiness passing under their wings, weathering toward a grey and gold October.
While they flew, Dick told Victor everything he knew. This guy they were meeting – Gordon Walker – was a little nuts. Seems he and the Winchesters had some kind of running feud, and he was more than happy to pass on any info. In fact, he probably knew that Dick was somehow connected to the government, and he didn't care.
"He's got a hard-on the size of a fuckin' donkey for these guys," Dick said, leafing through another sparse folder of papers. Another man who lived so far off the grid it was scary. Gordon had dropped out of sight after his sister had been kidnapped – possibly murdered. They'd never found her body – never found him. "He wants us to meet him here –" Dick turned a creased map toward Victor and Victor squinted down at the little red X near the town of Rose.
"What the hell is 'here'?"
"Bar – roadhouse. Kind of a...home base. He says. Listen, Victor..." Dick tapped his fingers on the map, looking agitated. He was wearing faded BDU pants and a thermal shirt – old flannel and barn coat draped over the seat back. Grungy boots and gimme hat, everything showing wear and tear. 'In character', so to speak. "The people who use this place are...hell, they're crazy. Some of the stuff Gordon told me... You're just gonna have to be super low-profile, man. I mean...like some kind of mutant mole." Dick's pale gaze was filled with concern – possibly outright fear and Victor frowned. Felt that tight little shiver of tension go through him that he always got when a situation started going south.
"Dick, if this is gonna blow your cover... Do you think these people would...come after you?"
"These people'd come after God himself if they thought they could. They're on a whole different plane of reality, man, just..." Dick pushed his hat back, scrubbing his fingers through his thinning, light-brown hair. "They're not crazy like Unabomber crazy; they're a whole 'nother kind of crazy altogether. So we gotta be careful."
"Then we'll be careful. You tell me what I need to know and we'll be slick as grease through a goose." Victor grinned and after a moment Dick grinned back. They spent the next forty minutes in the air – and the subsequent hundred miles of driving – discussing their cover, their reasons for finding the Winchesters – everything. Dick had a hold-all of worn-out clothes for Victor to change into at the Rose Phillips 66 and when they arrived just at dusk at the roadhouse, Victor felt comfortably settled into his personae. Felt damn good in the canvas pants and tee, flannel and old Army field jacket. He even had his gun, tucked into a shoulder holster, and a long knife at his waist. Standard for this place, Dick insisted, and worried that they should have brought more.
The shock-sprung old Ford truck Dick had secured lurched into a pocked dirt parking lot outside a ramshackle building. Harvelle's Roadhouse across the front. Other trucks and cars – a couple campers – shared the lot with them, all of them road-worn and nondescript. Splashed with mud and showing their age. A shiny red El Camino sat in pride of place off to one side and Dick nodded toward it.
"That's Gordon's rig. You wouldn't believe what he's packin' in there. All of these vehicles – traveling damn arsenals."
Victor watched a heavy-set man in camo BDU's and a stocking cap stumble down the stairs and climb into a Jeep – take off with a roar and a spit of muddy gravel. "Why'd it have to be a fuckin' bar?" he muttered, stepping down out of the truck and following Dick inside. Bars were trouble, no matter what. Alcohol and firearms and crazy people – Victor's worst nightmare.
In the doorway Dick paused for a moment and every head turned toward them. Instant – fleeting – and Victor felt that shiver of tension again. Attention was something he'd been taught to avoid. But every stare had been frankly assessing and utterly unselfconscious and Victor knew that this wasn't a place where you went unseen. The atmosphere was subdued, for a bar. Click of pool balls from off to the left – murmured conversation and the twangy chords of some kind of Southern rock. A few small knots of men at the tables, a few more men – and a couple women – alone at the bar. Dark wood, dark corners – a spooky place.
Dick guided them through the tables to one near the back – to a man who stood up to greet them. Tall black man with a fanatic's gaze and a tight, close-lipped smile. The empty left sleeve of his denim work-shirt was pinned up to his side. The man – had to be Gordon – gestured toward the empty seats across from him. Lifted his hand and a moment later an older blonde woman brought over three beers. She gave Gordon a nod – shot a long look at Victor and then gave them all a tight little smile.
A pretty woman, Victor thought. Pretty and tough as old oak.
"Gentlemen, you're here on Gordon's say-so, but this is my place, and I'll send you on your way if you don't behave. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am," Dick said, touching the brim of his hat, and Victor echoed him. The woman's dark eyes stayed on him for a moment longer and then she was walking away, voice lifted in a friendlier greeting to someone else.
"Ellen tells it like it is," Gordon said, picking up his beer and taking a long swallow. "And she doesn't like me much. So..." Gordon looked straight at Victor, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He had a scar down his cheek – down his neck. Had grey in the tight-curled hair of his head. "So you want to know where to find the Winchesters. Sam and Dean."
"And John," Dick said, and Gordon's gaze flickered over to him and then back to Victor.
"John's dead. Down in Kansas."
"I'd heard rumors, but..." Dick took a sip of his own beer and Victor followed suit. It was some pale piss-water – he'd have preferred a shot.
"And this time, the rumors are true. Guess John was just a man...just like the rest of us." Gordon gave a little, private laugh – put down his beer and rubbed at the jut of flesh and bone where his shoulder ended. "Vulnerable, like the rest of us. Let me tell you what I know..."
Continued in part two.
astolat, who wanted more of the Wolfpack 'verse. Two things she wanted that jumped out at me were someone seeing an 'intimate' moment, when the boys are feeling safe, and FBI Agent Victor Henricksen. I hope that this is something like what you wanted, bay-bee!! Thank you so much for donating.And many, many thanks to
darkhavens for the beta and sweptawaybayou for the read-throughs and encouragement! *smoooch*On summer morn or winter's night,
Their hearts will kindle for the fight,
Reading a snatch of soldier-song,
Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;
'Songbooks of the War' by Siegfried Sassoon
"Okay, I've got black, two sugars?"
"That's me." Agent Victor Henricksen lifted his hand a little and the gopher with the coffees edged around the sprawl of chairs and agents, passing the cup to the first hand that reached out for it.
"Right – two creams, three sugars...?"
"Jesus. Might as well drink hot chocolate." Opposite Victor at the table, Agent Richard Mason shook his head, making a disgusted face. His own cup had something in it not unlike what was found in the La Brea tar pits.
"Listen to who's talkin' – the man who drinks motor oil." Victor rubbed his eyes – took a wary sip of his coffee. It was scalding hot, bitter-sweet and completely disgusting. "Jesus, this is some bad damn coffee. And I was at the Pentagon." 'At the Pentagon' was shorthand for the weeks of chaos and misery that had followed the 9/11 attacks on that particular building. The vats of coffee brewed for the swarm of government officials that had all but camped there were legendary in their vileness.
"Now that's some bad coffee," Dick said. He sipped at his own and made a face. "Does coffee go bad?"
"Fuck, okay." Victor pushed his paper cup aside and rubbed his eyes again – picked up his list. For five days they'd been trapped in this room, going over papers seized from a busted weapons' dealer. Some guy out in Montana selling everything under the sun to anybody with a pulse and a full wallet. He'd probably still be in business except for Dick's hard work. Dick had been working undercover for a year and a half, following a nigh-invisible trace backwards from some anti-American group that had attempted to blow up the capital building in Springfield, Illinois.
Victor was on page who-fucking-knows of one of the most meticulous log books he'd ever seen. Every half-assed survivalist and wanna-be Unabomber the guy'd ever sold to had been alphabetized and cross-indexed to a fare-thee-well. If half of those guys had known that Earnest Pile had kept such perfect track of them – and everything they'd bought – he'd have been executed years ago.
"Okay, I'm at...a new page." Victor turned the page over – squinted at the penciled names. "Damn, this goes back to the early eighties. I've got – the Winchesters. John, Dean and –"
"Sam," Dick interrupted softly. "The Wolfpack."
"What?" Victor looked up at Dick, who was looking off into space, frowning a little. "Whaddya mean, 'wolfpack'?"
"That's what ole' Ernie called 'em. The Winchester Wolfpack. And man..." Dick took an absentminded sip of his coffee and grimaced again – looked up at Victor with pale, troubled eyes. "Those three were the scariest motherfuckers I've ever met. Hands down."
"Huh." Victor scanned the log book. The Winchester entry went on for an astonishing fourteen pages. Those boys had packed some ordinance. "What the hell, man? How come I've never heard of these guys? They've bought enough stuff over the years to equip a small army – what the hell are they doing with it?"
"I dunno, man. Ernie didn't know, either. Said they were into some freaky shit. Always had rosaries and pentagrams and stuff – these old books full'a Latin."
"Did you ever talk to them?" Victor was tracing the last few buys the Winchesters had made and – Jesus. It fit – he'd just bet it fit... He grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling notes.
"A couple times. John – that's the dad – he was in the Marines. Did a couple tours in 'Nam. The wife died early on, Ernie said. Those boys..." Dick's voice trailed off and Victor looked up from his notes.
"Yeah, what?"
"They were... Ernie knew a little bit about them. Said they'd started coming in there when the youngest was about five, the oldest about nine or something. Said those kids were like little soldiers. Didn't ever whine or run around... And both of 'em could handle guns, knives – pretty much anything. All John had to do was show 'em once and they had it. Ernie said..." Dick hunched forward, lacing his fingers together, and Victor watched his eyes track sightlessly over the spread of papers and ledgers and photocopies in front of him.
"Ernie said they were trying out an experimental load one day – shootin' targets in the back. He had a kind of gallery set up back there, some paper targets and pop-up ones, some junk, you know. Bottles and cans and shit. Winchester was back there, looking at a new gun for his boy, that Dean. Kid was about ten. Handed over this fuckin' .44 Magnum, kid could hold it for all of two minutes but man... That kid hit every single target. Every one. Center of the bull, every time. The little one, Sam, he did just about that good and Winchester, he acted like it was nothing. Ernie said that Dean boy told him he never missed, not even a moving target." Dick's mouth made a little twitchy move that might have been a smile, but Victor knew it wasn't.
"So he was some kind of survivalist, huh? Anti-government, anti-American whatever?"
"I dunno. He didn't care about the government much. Never talked about stuff like that. He wasn't a neo-Nazi or a Skinhead or anything. He talked about Hell – talked about the end of days, sometimes, about demons and shit. Ernie was pretty sure he had a church or something somewhere, but he never really knew."
"They ever talk about why they needed all that God damn ordinance?" Victor pulled out his cell and scrolled through his numbers – hit the one for Headquarters back in D.C.
"They talked about 'the job' but Ernie never really had a clear picture of what they were doing. I saw 'em last about...a year ago. They were making their own frangible loads and needed some special iron or something."
"Yeah? Hang on a sec. Harry? It's Vic. Listen, can you fax me the particulars on that mess in Oregon, that town that blew up...? Rivergrove, right. Yeah. You got the number? Okay, thanks." Victor flipped his phone shut and met Dick's interested stare. "These boys – this 'wolfpack' – they bought some very specific things from ole' Ernie back in November. I think they were the ones that destroyed that little town in Oregon. You remember?"
Dick thought about it, pursing his lips, and Victor got up and stood by the fax machine, watching as it eventually spit out page after page of documentation and forensic evidence. Specifically, the make up of the explosives that had been used to level the Rivergrove High School. Victor shuffled the pages together and sat back down, checking one list against another. The background hum of voices and paper shuffling receded as he read.
"Yeah, I remember," Dick said finally, making Victor jump a little. "About half the town died in the explosion, the rest of 'em were either dead on the ground or just – gone. Right?"
"Exactly."
"And you think the Winchesters had something to do with it?"
Victor made another tick-mark on the fax and looked up, feeling a vulpine grin stretch his mouth. "I fucking know they did. Dick, you've got to introduce us."
Dick sighed, his hands curled together and tucked under his chin, elbows wide on the table. "Vic...I dunno."
Victor put his pen and the papers down, laying his hands flat on them. "What don't you know?" he asked softly, and Dick looked up, fast.
"Don't even, man. It's got nothing to do with – anything. Politics...hell, you know I don't give a flying fuck about who gets the extra cookie." Dick's gaze – bloodshot and weary – was steady on Vic's and Victor sighed a little – nodded.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I know that. It's just – sometimes –"
"Sometimes you wanna punch people. I know. Listen, lemme tell you about these boys, okay?"
"Sure. You tell me." Victor sat back, automatically picking up his coffee and sipping it and then putting it back down in disgust.
"Okay. Like I said, it was about a year ago. End of March. I was working at Ernie's and they came in. Restocking some ammo, just general kind of stuff. All three of 'em. And there was this one old coot in there, real ball-buster type. Had an opinion about everybody and everything. Name was Jessup..."
"And that Got-damn bitch in Noo York, that Clinton bitch, she thinks she's gonna be president? Makes me fuckin' sick, I tell ya."
"She's got some balls," Dick says, refolding the BDU pants that the midday rush had left in a tangled heap.
"Balls, my ass. I tell ya, boys –" Jessup pauses to lift his dingy Styrofoam cup to his lips and spit, brown flecks of tobacco caked on the edge. "Never trust anything that can bleed for five days and live!" Jessup breaks into a wheezy cackle, tickled at his own wit and Dick smiles tiredly and moves on to the mess of olive-drab t-shirts. Ernie's behind the counter, making notes in his log book and three or four guys – local boys in mud-encrusted work boots and wash-faded denim – are perusing the aisles, stretching out their lunch breaks. One of them is Jessup's son, newly returned from Iraq.
The little dinger attached to the door goes off and Dick looks up, seeing three men walking back toward the counter. Three big men that move like cats, silent in their worn boots. The tallest one seems to be the youngest, and his cool, accessing stare makes Dick almost reach for the gun he carries. Almost. He stops himself with the merest twitch and the kid notices. His lips move, saying something to his companions and all three gazes are suddenly fastened on Dick and he feels...
Jesus, he feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Feels like a mouse under the stoop of a hawk. He can feel sweat break out, sudden and rank, under his arms and across his back and he lifts his hands from the t-shirts he forgot he was folding and holds them up.
Doesn't breathe until those hot, hungry gazes move off him.
Behind the counter, Ernie closes up his log book and stows it away out of sight, his lips twisting in a faint, nervous smile. "Winchester," he says, and it takes Dick a minute to realize that's a name. The name of these men and these are the Wolfpack that Ernie's talked about a couple times.
"Ernie," the oldest one says, and his voice is low and a little rough, like he's a smoker. John. "We're making up some special loads; need that iron we talked about."
"Oh, sure. I got it."
"Course you do," Winchester says, in a tone that says 'you'd have it or you'd suffer'. "Need a couple cases of the usual, too and about a pound of powder. An' we wouldn't say no to some more of those MREs."
"Except not the Chicken Chow Mein," the middle one says. Ruined voice, and Dick can see the scar across his throat – the grin on his face. "Those're like roadkill in a bag."
"No Chow Mein, then," Ernie says. He's pulling a pad of paper toward him, jotting down a list that the oldest Winchester leans over to see, adding things with little stabs of a finger. The other two stand just behind him, shoulder to shoulder, backs toward each other and toward the older man. It takes Dick a moment to see, but they're watching the rest of the store – checking the aisles, noting the positions of the other customers. Casing the place like they're gonna rob it or open fire any minute. Or like they think someone else might. It's a little unnerving and Dick goes back to folding shirts, but they're sloppy and uneven. Sam and Dean, Dick finally remembers. That's what Ernie said the boys were called.
Jessup, of course, is oblivious to the tension – can't keep his fool mouth shut and he goes and leans on the counter near the Winchesters, setting his cup down and digging into his hair like he's got lice or fleas or something. "So, you boys look fit," he says, and the 'boys' – both over 21, at least – give him a flick of a glance that takes him in and dismisses him in about three seconds. "Haven't got any flat feet, do ya? Wet the bed?"
The youngest – Sam – lifts an eyebrow at his brother, lips quirking in a little grin, and then he turns to Jessup. "Fuck did you say?"
Jessup hitches at his pants and sniffs, hard. "I assed if there was somethin' wrong with you boys. Here you are, big as life and twice as ugly and I don't see a uniform on either of ya."
The two look at each other for a moment, clearly baffled. It's the father that lifts his head – that looks over at Jessup with a flat, predatory gaze that's just this side of inhuman. It makes Dick go cold all over.
"You know, I did my time over in 'Nam. Gave four years of my life to this country." John looks over his shoulder at his boys and something flickers there. Pride, but something else, too. Possession – obsession. "I gave enough," John says, and his voice drops to a rumbling growl. "The mill won't grind my boys."
"Ah, bullshit," Jessup snaps, and John all but snarls. His head goes down and his shoulders round a little, as if at any moment he's going to pounce. Dick starts edging backward. Out of range, he later figures, but at that moment he's simply overcome with the need to get the fuck away.
"John here, he was in the – the Marines, right? Semper Fi!" Ernie says, nervous little laugh. The boys have also gone stiff with tension, moving subtly to form a human wall in front of their father. The air seems to crackle from their combined, intense stares. Stares that are fixed on Jessup, who continues to be utterly ignorant of just what it is he's stirring up.
"Marines. Bunch'a pansy-asses. I was a 101st Airborne in the war – Pathfinder! We dropped down behind those fuckin' Nazis – wasted those bastards." Jessup gropes for his cup and spits again, wiping his lips on the back of his wrist. His coat is stained there, dark with saliva and tobacco juice.
"Heard there were misdrops all over," John says, and Jessup puffs like a tom turkey.
"Bullshit! Pathfinders helped win that war – went in first everywhere! In before any Got-damned jar heads, that's for damn sure." Jessup takes a couple fast, shuffling steps and stares up at the older boy. Much too fucking close, but Jessup is immune to Dean's basilisk stare. It's making the hairs on the back of Dick's neck rise.
"Both you boys oughtta be in the Got-damned Army! Instead'a runnin' around in the woods like some kinda draft-dodgin' hippies. Yes sir, in the Army like my boy!" And he reaches out and drives the heel of his hand into the oldest boy's shoulder.
Faster than a snake, the older one's hand flashes out – grabs Jessup's wrist, twist and bend. It makes a grotesque crunching noise and Jessup sags, his face going a sick greenish-white. The air wheezes out of his lungs in a strangled squeal, and Dick can see his tobacco-stained teeth behind his lips.
"Don't touch me," Dean says, deadly quiet. All three of them practically vibrating with poorly-leashed tension and Dick thinks that if they had wolf's ears, they'd be laid back. If they had muzzles, they'd be crinkling in toothy snarls.
"Hey – hey! Get the fuck away from him!" Jessup's son – who's been idling back by the rifle display – is suddenly running up the aisle. He's got a rifle in his hands, price-tag dangling, and Dick opens his mouth to yell. To tell him to drop the fucking gun, to get down but it's much too late.
A knife suddenly sprouts from his chest. No, it really didn't, Dick thinks, a little hysterically. It just looked like it did. Jessup's kid – and he's pushing thirty – stumbles to a standstill, staring down at the slim, black handle that's protruding from his ribs. Staring, face white, and then his shaking hands drop the rifle and he sits down hard.
"Oh, shit, shit, shit," Ernie's chanting, and Dick just stays where he is, frozen. Sam has another knife in his hand and Dean's got Jessup pinned by his broken wrist, gun out and leveled at the man on the floor. John has a gun in his hand, too, and he holds it casually on the two men who're stupid enough to run up from other parts of the store. They skid to a stop, staring, and Dick wonders if he could clear his own weapon and take out one of them before they shot him dead.
"Ernie," John says, and Dick swears he hears amusement in that basso rumble,"... we're gonna go get something to eat. We'll be back at sundown. I expect you'll have that order together by then."
Ernie starts and blinks, staring at Jessup's kid – flinching when John turns to look at him. "Uh...sure. Yeah, sure, I'll...I'll have it..."
"That's what I thought. Boys." John lifts his gun, muzzle pointed to the ceiling and Dean does the same, letting go of Jessup, who crumples to his knees. Sam stalks forward, rolling gait of the prowling wolf. He goes down on one knee beside Jessup's kid, who's just sitting there, legs sprawled out like a toddler, eyes glassy. He puts his hand on the knife-hilt and Dick flinches all over.
"Fuck – d-don't, don't do that, it'll – hey, please – don't –" Dick can't get the words out fast enough. If Sam pulls that knife out, Jessup's kid – and Dick can't think of his name, just fucking can't – will bleed to death before they can get help.
Sam looks up at him and his eyes are cat-tilted, coldly assessing. "I missed his heart. Anybody that was in the Army knows how to deal with a sucking chest wound. Ain't that right, old man? They taught you how to fix that in the field, didn't they?"
"Do-oon't hurt my boy," Jessup wheezes, and his voice has gone cracked and shaky. He's cradling his broken wrist and his hand is already swelling, skin purpling. "You leave my boy be, Got-damn you, you fucker –"
"Better get a plastic bag," Sam says, and then his long fingers pluck the knife out. Jessup's kid groans in agony and Dick can plainly hear the gurgling hiss of blood and air leaking out of the wound. His lung will collapse in moments if they don't do something.
Sam wipes the knife on the wounded man's thigh – stands and slides the blade away so fast Dick doesn't even see where or how. Then all three of them are fading back – out – Dean's green eyes snapping with excitement and John's lips twisted in a satisfied little grin. It's a long, long moment before anyone moves.
"And they came back for the order?"
"Hell yeah," Dick said, rubbing his hand along the underside of his jaw, stubble rasping under his fingers. "Cool as you please, walked in, got their stuff and paid cash. Didn't turn a hair. Ernie said they'd kill him if the police were involved, and not one of us doubted it."
"Jee-sus Christ. Did that guy make it?"
"Oh, yeah. He did. Got pneumonia in the hospital and was down for a long fucking time. Jessup, he was never really the same after that. He died about a year later."
Victor looked down at his scribbled notes – at the fax from HQ. "Dick – I know you don't like it but...if the Winchesters took out that town... If they're responsible for that – we've got to bring them in. We've got to get those bastards."
Dick sighed, but he was nodding – reaching for his phone and Victor knew he'd do it. Knew he'd set something up. All Victor needed to do was get close. There was DNA at the scene – there was evidence that was easy to trace and track and match up if you had your source. If you had the vehicle or the clothes or, hell – anything. They just needed one fucking break...and maybe they could find the miserable sons of bitches who'd killed almost three thousand innocent men, women and children.
It took a while. Took a few months, since the bad guys were all spooked by Ernie going down. Spooked by whatever the fuck had happened out in Kansas – sink hole or comet or fucking underground nuclear testing, who knew? Victor had stood on the crumbling lip of destruction, looking out over a vast, pocked crater that still smoked and heaved, weeks later. No ideas, no clues, and no way to know how many had died.
In his down-time, he assembled a file. Wolfpack file. It was disappointingly slim, but growing. John Winchester, born in 1954. Average man, son and grandson of veterans – military brat who moved here and there across the country. Ended up in Lawrence, Kansas when his father died and got his grieving mother to sign him up a year early for the service. Two tours in Vietnam, earned himself some medals – got into some trouble.
Discharged in the spring of '74, an OTH or 'other than honorable' discharge. Apparently, he'd attacked a fellow Marine – nearly killed him. Refused to say why, even under threat of jail-time. The other guy hadn't pressed charges, for some reason, and he'd killed himself a year later.
After that, John had gone back to Lawrence – met a girl and married her, got himself a partnership in a garage. Normal Joe until the winter of nineteen eighty-three, when his house had burned and his wife had died. Nothing suspicious – faulty wiring, they'd said. But three days after the funeral John Winchester, four-year-old Dean and infant Sam had simply...vanished.
There were traces, here and there. A speeding ticket, a purchase of a gun. Notations from crime scenes where his fingerprints had been found, matched to his Army file. Nothing had ever come of those – not enough evidence or suspicion to make him a number-one suspect. Scraps of things. A transitory and hidden life. Nothing whatsoever on the boys. Not one report card or hospital visit – no crimes, no handouts. It was as if they'd never existed.
It gave Victor a chill, really – leafing through the scant pages that marked three human lives and seeing...nothing.
Almost four months after the mess in Kansas, Dick finally called. He had a meeting set up – had a guy who could give them some information on the Wolfpack. Somebody Dick had run into once, branching vine from the trunk of contacts he'd cultivated at Ernie's. Victor flew out to Omaha and met Dick at the field office there. They both got on board a little puddle-jumper of a Cherokee and flew out to Broken Bow, two hundred miles or so of Nebraska emptiness passing under their wings, weathering toward a grey and gold October.
While they flew, Dick told Victor everything he knew. This guy they were meeting – Gordon Walker – was a little nuts. Seems he and the Winchesters had some kind of running feud, and he was more than happy to pass on any info. In fact, he probably knew that Dick was somehow connected to the government, and he didn't care.
"He's got a hard-on the size of a fuckin' donkey for these guys," Dick said, leafing through another sparse folder of papers. Another man who lived so far off the grid it was scary. Gordon had dropped out of sight after his sister had been kidnapped – possibly murdered. They'd never found her body – never found him. "He wants us to meet him here –" Dick turned a creased map toward Victor and Victor squinted down at the little red X near the town of Rose.
"What the hell is 'here'?"
"Bar – roadhouse. Kind of a...home base. He says. Listen, Victor..." Dick tapped his fingers on the map, looking agitated. He was wearing faded BDU pants and a thermal shirt – old flannel and barn coat draped over the seat back. Grungy boots and gimme hat, everything showing wear and tear. 'In character', so to speak. "The people who use this place are...hell, they're crazy. Some of the stuff Gordon told me... You're just gonna have to be super low-profile, man. I mean...like some kind of mutant mole." Dick's pale gaze was filled with concern – possibly outright fear and Victor frowned. Felt that tight little shiver of tension go through him that he always got when a situation started going south.
"Dick, if this is gonna blow your cover... Do you think these people would...come after you?"
"These people'd come after God himself if they thought they could. They're on a whole different plane of reality, man, just..." Dick pushed his hat back, scrubbing his fingers through his thinning, light-brown hair. "They're not crazy like Unabomber crazy; they're a whole 'nother kind of crazy altogether. So we gotta be careful."
"Then we'll be careful. You tell me what I need to know and we'll be slick as grease through a goose." Victor grinned and after a moment Dick grinned back. They spent the next forty minutes in the air – and the subsequent hundred miles of driving – discussing their cover, their reasons for finding the Winchesters – everything. Dick had a hold-all of worn-out clothes for Victor to change into at the Rose Phillips 66 and when they arrived just at dusk at the roadhouse, Victor felt comfortably settled into his personae. Felt damn good in the canvas pants and tee, flannel and old Army field jacket. He even had his gun, tucked into a shoulder holster, and a long knife at his waist. Standard for this place, Dick insisted, and worried that they should have brought more.
The shock-sprung old Ford truck Dick had secured lurched into a pocked dirt parking lot outside a ramshackle building. Harvelle's Roadhouse across the front. Other trucks and cars – a couple campers – shared the lot with them, all of them road-worn and nondescript. Splashed with mud and showing their age. A shiny red El Camino sat in pride of place off to one side and Dick nodded toward it.
"That's Gordon's rig. You wouldn't believe what he's packin' in there. All of these vehicles – traveling damn arsenals."
Victor watched a heavy-set man in camo BDU's and a stocking cap stumble down the stairs and climb into a Jeep – take off with a roar and a spit of muddy gravel. "Why'd it have to be a fuckin' bar?" he muttered, stepping down out of the truck and following Dick inside. Bars were trouble, no matter what. Alcohol and firearms and crazy people – Victor's worst nightmare.
In the doorway Dick paused for a moment and every head turned toward them. Instant – fleeting – and Victor felt that shiver of tension again. Attention was something he'd been taught to avoid. But every stare had been frankly assessing and utterly unselfconscious and Victor knew that this wasn't a place where you went unseen. The atmosphere was subdued, for a bar. Click of pool balls from off to the left – murmured conversation and the twangy chords of some kind of Southern rock. A few small knots of men at the tables, a few more men – and a couple women – alone at the bar. Dark wood, dark corners – a spooky place.
Dick guided them through the tables to one near the back – to a man who stood up to greet them. Tall black man with a fanatic's gaze and a tight, close-lipped smile. The empty left sleeve of his denim work-shirt was pinned up to his side. The man – had to be Gordon – gestured toward the empty seats across from him. Lifted his hand and a moment later an older blonde woman brought over three beers. She gave Gordon a nod – shot a long look at Victor and then gave them all a tight little smile.
A pretty woman, Victor thought. Pretty and tough as old oak.
"Gentlemen, you're here on Gordon's say-so, but this is my place, and I'll send you on your way if you don't behave. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am," Dick said, touching the brim of his hat, and Victor echoed him. The woman's dark eyes stayed on him for a moment longer and then she was walking away, voice lifted in a friendlier greeting to someone else.
"Ellen tells it like it is," Gordon said, picking up his beer and taking a long swallow. "And she doesn't like me much. So..." Gordon looked straight at Victor, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He had a scar down his cheek – down his neck. Had grey in the tight-curled hair of his head. "So you want to know where to find the Winchesters. Sam and Dean."
"And John," Dick said, and Gordon's gaze flickered over to him and then back to Victor.
"John's dead. Down in Kansas."
"I'd heard rumors, but..." Dick took a sip of his own beer and Victor followed suit. It was some pale piss-water – he'd have preferred a shot.
"And this time, the rumors are true. Guess John was just a man...just like the rest of us." Gordon gave a little, private laugh – put down his beer and rubbed at the jut of flesh and bone where his shoulder ended. "Vulnerable, like the rest of us. Let me tell you what I know..."
Continued in part two.