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Continued from part one.
"Place looks like a fucking whorehouse," Victor said, staring through the smeared windshield of the Ford.
"Used to be. Might still be, sometimes. Owner wasn't picky." Dick stared, too, rubbing his hands together. Two weeks of running around from here to there – meeting with this and that person, securing everything that could be nailed down and hoping to God it all worked out. Behind the building – miles away but still a sort of backyard – was the New Mexico Bluewater State Park and the Navajo and Zuni Indian reservations. A lot of land – a good place for two survivalist types to hide, if things went bad. It had made Victor edgy, all that trackless land.
But now, sitting outside the Piñon, it was all falling into place. The weathered, two-story building was a bar, trading post, and back-door gun dealership. Half a dozen rooms upstairs for private deals, and two falling-down cabins in back for overnight stays. One of which was, unofficially, property of the Wolfpack.
Or it had been, under the old owner. Fredrick Jinks had been into things that would have curled old Ernie's hair, but since his death his son Todd had gotten nervous. Had, in fact, parleyed some gun running and coke dealing into Witness Protection and a new life. Starting right after they had the Wolfpack behind bars.
"So – they'll be here some time tonight?" Victor rubbed his palm over his chin, the bristle of stubble rasping on his skin. Dick was similarly prickly and they'd both been living on coffee and gas station sandwiches for days.
"That's what Todd says. He said they're expected around midnight. Apparently, they called ahead – told him to 'air out the fucking cabin this time'. Guess they don't like mildew."
"Who does? So, eight hours. Let's...take a look." Against Todd's wishes, they'd set up surveillance and recording gear in the cabin – had it all tied into a little back office in the Piñon, a room Todd was fairly certain the Winchesters had never been into. Private to the owner and even they, it seemed, respected that.
Victor and Dick walked inside, nodding once to the hulking man behind the bar. Todd nodded back, looking constipated and sweaty and Victor hoped to fuck he wasn't going to blow it. A lot was riding on this bust. The office was through a half-hidden door and down a couple narrow halls that turned in and in, tight spiral. The room itself was directly behind the bar, one whole wall taken up with the one-way mirror that backed the bar and had given Jinks, senior the perfect spot to spy on his customers.
The cramped little room was already filled to overflowing with books and papers and junk. The big, scarred desk had been hastily cleared to make room for the tightly packed mass of FBI equipment. Sound and recording stuff, two monitors for the two different cameras, a computer to store every bit and byte of digitalized information. It was all up and running; the soft whir of hidden fans, little LEDs blinking here and there in the musty dimness.
Victor slumped down into a sprung office chair, grimacing as it shrieked under his weight. Dick was giving the equipment a slow once-over and Victor watched in silence for a few minutes. The interior of the cabin was on the screens in a flat sort of grey-blue. Spartan in their set-up, there were two iron-frame beds, a table and a scatter of chairs. A long, locked trunk against one wall and a corner with a two-burner stove and a small-size 'fridge. An old-fashioned pie safe served as pantry and dish cabinet and the bathroom 'walls' were long, milky curtains of plastic, shower and sink and toilet all sharing the same tiled corner, rusty drain in the middle.
"Christ, they got better facilities at fuckin' Leavenworth," Victor muttered, amazed that anyone would voluntarily live in such a bleak place.
"Guess they only come through here once or twice a year. Todd says they go out digging along the Divide, some little creek near Red Rock park. Getting agate."
"Agate? What's agate?" Victor asked.
"Some kind of rock? I dunno. Todd thinks they're crazy – you can buy the stuff in every gas station, apparently. It's not rare around here. But they always go get it themselves. Used to do it with their Dad, he said."
"Weird." Victor couldn't imagine trekking into the desert to dig up some kind of fucking rock, but – whatever got them here, he was happy. The door to the office opened and their tech came in. Weedy little guy in jeans and a couple layers of shirts, glasses and a buzz cut. "Hey, Thornton."
"Gentlemen," Thornton said. He looked suspiciously at Dick. "You didn't touch anything, did you?"
"Just gave it a once-over," Dick said, hands raised, and Thornton squeezed past him, muttering under his breath. Dick grinned over at Victor and Victor grinned back. They both watched for a moment as the tech double-checked everything Dick had looked at and tweaked things, thin fingers pale and nimble on the mass of cords and equipment.
The door opened again and it was Todd, sweating and looking sick, his bulky self blocking the door as he stared in at them. "Man, I really don't like this. If those boys ever find out I set them up –"
"You're gonna be living the anonymous high life in fucking Jersey or something, don't you worry about it," Victor said, but Todd didn't look happy.
"They can find a fucking needle in the desert. These guys are serious – oh shit!"
"What?" Victor was on his feet, the chair squeaking out from under him and into Thornton's knees.
"That's them, they're here, fuck, they're here, they're fucking early, Jesus Christ –!" Todd was seriously panicking.
"What? They're already here?" Victor was scanning the bar, squinting through the slight distortion of the one-way glass. Scanning every face out there. "Where, where are they?"
"Right there at the bar, oh shit, I gotta get out there – " Dick grabbed Todd's shoulders and was shaking him a little, and Victor heard Dick's voice as a background murmur, indistinct. Todd sounded like he might be having a heart attack but Victor ignored him in favor of getting his first real look at the men he'd worked so fucking hard to find.
The two men standing at the bar looked like they'd walked off the set of some kind of movie, right down to the smudges of road-dust on their faces and the frayed patches on their jeans. Biker boots, well-worn and broken in, and leather jackets that probably concealed any number of weapons. Everything dusty, even their sunglasses and wind-combed hair.
*Easy Rider for the twenty-first century,* Victor thought.
"Shut the fuck up. Listen," Dick said, and Todd made a weird little whimpering sound. "You just go out there and treat them like you always do. We're just gonna sit back here and watch. Nothing's going down, you got it? Nothing. Not until our back up's here."
As Victor watched, they slid the sunglasses off, tucking them away. The taller one had a dark, neatly-trimmed mustache and beard that gave his face a devilish look. A set of marks – scars – raked his features from hairline to chin, cutting across his left eyebrow and lid – nicking his mouth. His beard was pale there, and his eyebrow was jagged. It hadn't touched his looks, and Victor supposed he got a lot of women with that scar-twisted grin he was shooting the waitress.
"Yeah, okay. I hear you. Okay. Fuck. Okay," Todd mumbled, and Victor finally looked around when he shut the office door behind him, going back out to the bar.
"If that fuck-up blows our cover –"
"He won't. I think." Dick looked slightly freaked himself, and Victor clenched his teeth together, willing that little gut-twisting feeling of wrongness away. "Why in fuck are they so early? That call was traced – they were in fucking West Virginia when they called."
"Man, I do not know. You gonna –"
"I got it," Dick said, getting out his phone. Lighting some fires, because they thought they'd had eight more hours to get things just right and the SWAT teams were still on their way, heading in from Albuquerque. Victor nodded once, watching as Thornton turned on the recorder that was wired to the mic they had planted up above the bar. Todd's voice came over it, slightly tinny – a little staticy, but clear.
"Hey, boys. You're sure here early. Been spendin' some time soupin' up that ride of yours?"
"You look like shit, Todd," the scarred one said, and Dick leaned in a little closer, his phone pressed tight to his ear.
"That's Sam, he's the youngest. Those scars are new since I saw him last. Yeah, yeah, I'm here –"
*Sam. Those are some nasty marks. Looks like a friggin' bear got him or something. Fuck, that's a gun under there –* Victor watched as Sam unselfconsciously adjusted an under-arm holster, revealing in that moment at least two knives, as well, tucked into his belt.
"Ate some bad chili for lunch – been runnin' to the can all day," Todd said, little squiggle of laughter and the other – Dean – grinned at him. He was older by a few years – shorter, but not by much. He had a short, almost military haircut, stark contrast to his brother's nearly shoulder-length hair. His voice was rough – low – and Victor's gaze traced the scar on his throat – the way his jacket bulged here and there. More guns, for sure – more knives , who knew what the fuck else.
"That's too bad, Todd. Teach you to eat your own cookin'. How 'bout some whiskey?"
"You got it," Todd said, and moved off, reaching for glasses and a bottle. Sam and Dean stood there, leaning on the bar. Looking around the room, gazes moving in slow, overlapping arcs. A predator's gaze, and Victor could all but see the mental checklist of exits, doors, blind spots, other people. Even their relaxed poses seemed studied – a put on – and Victor watched in silence as they traded glances – tiny movements of fingers and eyebrows. The private language of brothers. Or soldiers.
Todd came back into view, sliding two glasses over the polished bar top, half-full of whiskey. Both men picked them up – eyed them and sniffed them and gulped them down. Dean reached into a pocket and pulled out a roll of money – counted out a fan of bills and laid them down.
"That enough for ya, Todd? Or did you raise the rates since your old man bit it?"
Casual cruelty in Dean's tone, and Todd's shoulders tightened a little. His voice was relatively normal, though, when he answered. "Everything's the same, man. Even went in and flipped the mattresses for ya."
"Better not have fucked with my porn stash," Dean said, and Sam laughed softly. Todd pushed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a key – slid it across the bar to Dean.
"It's just like you left it."
"Oh, we didn't expect anything less," Sam said, and Victor could hear, as well as Todd, the easy threat in his voice. Dean picked up the key and grinned, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. A wide, white smile that under normal circumstances would have looked friendly. He was a good-looking man, and Victor was sure he could draw in the unsuspecting like flies.
*Draw 'em in, convince them he's there to help...and then blow 'em all to fucking pieces.* Victor wanted to catch these boys – catch them red-handed and see them locked away. Wanted it so bad it hurt. While they'd waited for this day – for this opportunity – he and Dick had gathered every scrap of intel they could on the Wolfpack. Most of it was rumors – bar-talk and bullshit. But there was enough truth in there to make Victor wake up in a cold sweat at night. They were hunters, pure and simple. And whatever fucked up, delusional quest they were on...they'd stopped caring about ordinary people. Stopped being afraid of every-day consequences.
Victor was going to put that fear back into them.
He watched them walk out of the bar – watched with impatience for them to go into the cabin. He hadn't noticed any gear on them – no duffels or bags or anything else and it made him uneasy. Todd had said they drove an old black car – old Chevy. He wasn't 'into' cars, so he didn't know what kind it was. Time to find out. "Dick – you go out front and have Todd show you their car, get the make, model –"
"Yeah, I got it." Dick went out, shutting the warped door with a little bang and Victor hovered over the monitors, waiting. Watching as the camera that faced the door finally had an image. Image of the door opening – both men walking inside and shutting it behind them. Victor looked around for his chair and dragged it closer – sat down as Thornton turned up the volume on the mic in the cabin.
"What d'you think Todd's up to?"
"I dunno. He looked like he was about to jump right out of his skin, though." Sam ran a finger along the window-ledge – stalked over to the kitchen area and yanked open a cabinet. "Fucker cleaned up the salt."
"He never did listen to his daddy," Dean said. He walked over to the chest that sat against one wall – crouched down and undid the padlock on it while Sam did...something. Victor squinted at the monitor.
"What the hell is he doing?"
Thornton leaned in closer and then shrugged. "Looks like he's putting salt on the windowsill."
"What the hell?" Victor muttered. He watched Sam put a line of salt on both windowsills – another in front of the door, while Dean rummaged in the chest. It mostly had camping and hiking type gear in it, shovels and rope and a few odds and ends. Victor had carefully gone through it while the cameras were being installed. Whatever Dean was looking for – it wasn't anything to worry about. Eventually, Dean rummaged out a book and held it up, little grin of triumph on his face.
"Knew this was here. You owe me, Sam."
Sam finished with the salt – tossed the container onto the rickety table and sauntered over to Dean. Victor could see the smile on his face, teeth gleaming white in the stark light of the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. "And what, exactly, do I owe you, Dean? Got something...specific in mind?"
Dean stood up slow, letting the chest go shut with a thump – letting the book fall down onto its worn lid. "I think you know," he said, almost too low for the mic to pick up. And then he was pushing his brother back into the wall – pushing in close, jean-clad thigh pressing between Sam's, hands fisted in the lapels of Sam's jacket and his mouth... His mouth on his brother's, hard and hungry.
"What the fucking hell are they doing?" Victor stared at the screen, feeling his heart pounding just a little too hard – too fast. Shocked and appalled and riveted by the spectacle.
"Looks like they're making out," Thornton said, and leaned over, poking through his backpack. He had it stuffed with Slim-Jims and cookies and crackers.
"Yeah, but they –" Victor stopped talking. Thornton had no idea the Winchesters were brothers and right that second, Victor really didn't feel like explaining it. He knew his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it shut, glaring at the screen. "Jesus."
"Hey, Vic, Todd says he doesn't see their – holy fuck!"
"You guys really need to come ahead into the Century of the Fruitbat," Thornton muttered, looking irritated.
Victor just stared at him in total confusion for a long moment and then dragged his gaze back to the monitor. Back to the Winchester Wolfpack and... "Fuck."
"Getting there," Dick said.
And they were. Getting there. God, they were... Victor couldn't help it – his brain was running ahead of itself, merrily cataloguing detail upon detail. Noticing, when what he really wanted to do was look away. *Do you really? Really want to look away? Because...*
Because... Sam had slipped to his knees, jacket half off his shoulders and his shirt rucked up, his shoulders pressed tight to the wall. Pushed back, because Dean was leaning over him, jacket in a heap on the floor, his jeans undone and his cock... Cock in Sam's mouth, pushing in, in, in – pushing Sam's head back into the wall with a little thump. Dean had one forearm on the wall, bracing his body in its lean. The other reached out – down – cradled the back of Sam's head. Fingers between the wall and his brother's skull as Dean's hips surged forward again and again.
Sam's hands were under Dean's shirt – sliding up his ribs, slipping down – gripping Dean's hips and then his thighs, long fingers working in the denim, his eyes wide open. The camera caught the gleam of them, turned up to Dean's face.
"Sam...fuck..." Deans ruined voice was ragged – breathless – and his back arched, chin tipping up for a moment. "Want...just...c'mon –"
"Yeah, yeah, okay –" Sam's voice had gone thick – throaty and low and Victor felt a little rush of hotcold go over him. Dean shoved back off the wall, his fingers still twisted in Sam's hair and Sam came up off his knees with a sinuous twist, his hands on Dean, dragging at clothing. His mouth finding Dean's mouth and then throat, open-mouthed kisses that Victor was sure would leave marks. They stripped each other, not hurrying. Touching every newly exposed inch – kissing in between, mostly silent. Sprawling out on the bed to a chorus of tortured squeaks that made them both laugh.
"Oh, man,, remember the first time we fucked here, these damn beds? Dad threw his boot at us 'cause we woke him up..."
Dick made a choking sort of noise, denial and horror, and Victor shot him a look, the same feelings welling up in himself.
"God, yeah, crappy fucking things..." Sam bounced deliberately, making the springs shriek, and Dean bounced on top of him, hand slapping along the wall until it came to the little shelf that served in place of a night table. His hand fumbled with something, a moment of stillness and then Sam was squirming under him, turning onto his belly. Spreading his legs and looking back over his shoulder at Dean, back arched and elbows braced. "Gonna make this old bed lay down and cry," he said, and Dean went up onto his knees, one hand in the small of Sam's back, the other on his own cock.
Slicking himself, Victor realized belatedly, his head still whirling over the idea that John Winchester had known...and done nothing. *Jesus Christ, what kind of a father...? Fuck, maybe he started it all, maybe he was fucking the both of them, Jesus...Christ...* Which might be one explanation. Might be one bit of sanity to cling to in this insane mess. Maybe these men were like they were because John Winchester was a fucked up, child-abusing freak who'd destroyed his son's lives before they'd even had a chance to live it.
*Gotta be some reason...gotta be, oh, God...*
Sam's head was back, a rumbling moan coming out of his half-open mouth. And Dean...Dean was half-kneeling, leaning over him. Hand on his cock, guiding himself forward. Into. Victor watched in sick fascination as Sam panted, his legs fanning wider and then pushing – shifting. Coming up on his knees and Dean bracing himself on the high, muscled curve of Sam's ass, his pelvis pressed tight to Sam's body.
Leaning forward over him, his mouth pressing kisses and small bites to the long sweep of Sam's back. They were at an angle to the camera and Victor watched the dance of light and shadow – muscle and tendon – in Dean's back. Watched his body tighten and gather itself – thrust itself forward and draw slowly back while Sam keened for air and gripped the sheets, pulling the thin, wash-worn cotton free of the inadequate anchor of the limp mattress.
"Dean...c'mon, c'mon..."
"Got you, shh..." Dean's hands smoothed over Sam's skin – his mouth found this and that spot that made Sam arch – twist – say Dean's name in a breathy whisper, over and over. And Dean whispered to his brother, mostly too low for the mic, drowned by the tortured groan of the springs. But...
"God...Sammy...this...here, you...love...love..."
"That's not love, that's psychosis," Dick muttered and Victor blinked, his attention abruptly diverted. He felt like he'd been half asleep. Dick was standing hard against the door, arms crossed so tight it had to hurt. Thornton snorted, shoving half of a Slim Jim into his mouth and chewing loudly.
"Man, they took gay out of the 'this is crazy behavior' book a long time ago."
Dick shot the skinny tech an incredulous look. "They're brothers, for fuck's sake! They're not even step or half or adopted. They're blood brothers!"
"They are?" Thornton chewed – swallowed – watched the screen for a moment. "Huh."
"Jesus." Dick pushed away from the wall, nostrils flaring. "Todd said their car's not out there. He said it looks like they rented a couple of ATV's from this old man that lives down near the state park. Says they probably came overland – might have a camp set up somewhere."
"Great. Just have to be a hundred percent sure we get 'em." Victor rubbed his hand over his head, scratching at his scalp. He needed a shower. "When's the damn SWAT gonna be here?"
"Hour or something? I need to check in with 'em," Dick said, and went out the door. Victor watched him go – looked over at Thornton, who was engrossed in a graphic novel. Looked at his feet in the worn-out work boots that Dick had scrounged for him. But a moment later, his gaze and attention was focused on the blue-grey image on the monitors, eyes drawn unwillingly but inexorably back.
The two men were still entwined, moving in a slow, shifting dance of flesh and bone. Hands and mouths and thighs, arms and backs curving and flattening – lifting and dropping. Dean had his fingers in Sam's hair and turned his head – found Sam's mouth with his own, awkward angle that neither of them seemed to mind. Kissing in hard, biting kisses, their mouths wet and panting as Dean's hips snapped forward and back and Sam's whole body quivered with tension and strain. And lust.
"Dean, Dean, fuck...now, c'mon, now, now –"
"Sam, Sss...aaam..." Dean's mouth slipped down Sam's jaw – his throat. Settled somewhere between throat and shoulder and then he must have bit down because Sam cried out, bucking hard, and Dean's whole body went rigid, hips stuttering out of rhythm, lungs heaving. Sam all but collapsed, barely propped on his wide-spread knees and Dean's hand snaked under him, arm and shoulder moving – pumping. Sam made a whining sound of pure pleasure and shuddered and then they were both simply lying there, gasping.
Victor felt – too hot. Felt like he couldn't quite get enough air and he watched as Dean squirmed a little sideways, slipping out and off and around until they were facing each other, limbs tangled. Knot of flesh and bone and skin, hands slowly petting over each other – mouths finding places to kiss and suck. Lit at an angle by the low slant of sunset light coming in through the thin curtains.
"Paid in full, then?" Sam said, and Dean laughed softly.
Put his hand up and touched Sam's cheek. "Think I owe you some change." And they were kissing again, unhurried and gentle and...
It was too much. It was too secret, this. Something so incredibly private and intimate that Victor felt a moment of shame for seeing it.
*Fuck that. They've killed people. Hundreds. They're brothers, they were probably abused by their fucking dad and this is...wrong, it's wrong and...sick.* Victor stood up and paced in a tiny circle. The men were unarmed – oblivious to the outside world. He should simply – go in. Walk right up to the cabin and knock on the door. Or kick it in. He glanced at the screen again, watching as they mock-wrestled on the bed. As they disentangled themselves and stood up – went over to the corner with the shower head and got the water running. The plastic sheeting rippled and bulged in the air currents, and the other camera showed their head and shoulders.
Showed Sam pushing Dean up against the wall and kissing him – showed them both with handfuls of soap, slippery fingers running over taut flesh and sluicing it clean. And Victor...didn't go. *All these crazy stories...got me spooked. Damnit, they're just men. Neither one of 'em is older than I am. They don't have any gear, they don't have any backup... Just – do it, man. Just move in. Take them.*
Ten minutes later, Dick was back in the office and Victor was slumped into the chair again, watching the men pass a bottle back and forth – watching them draw some kind of complicated design on the floor of the cabin in what looked like flour or cornmeal.
"Now what the hell are they doing?" Dick had his phone in his hand, fingers poised. "SWAT is about forty minutes out. Breaking the damn speed limit twice over."
"I think they're gonna meditate," Thornton said, shoving a wheat and cream cheese cracker into his mouth.
"How in hell are you so skinny?" Victor asked, and Thornton grinned at him, cracker smushed in his teeth.
"I have a very high metabolism."
"They used to call that a tapeworm," Dick muttered, and Victor barked a sharp little laugh.
"Jesus, man. Okay – SWAT's almost here. Maybe they'll be done conjuring up the ghost of Jim Morrison or whatever the fuck they're doing."
"Man, I hope so. That kind of stuff just creeps me out." Dick watched the screen, a sour look on his face, as the Winchesters finished up whatever they were drawing and then paged through the book Dean had unearthed. Sam read something out loud and Dean seemed to correct his pronunciation and they both laughed. Then Sam started to read again, his voice strong and steady – clear. Whatever language he was speaking, Victor didn't recognize it.
Dean went over to the little pie-safe and moved it aside – pressed his fingers to the wall, both hands spread. Victor cursed as the board swiveled, revealing a cubby. "God damnit, how'd we miss that?"
"We checked every inch, I felt over that whole wall myself," Dick muttered, and Victor knew he had. He watched as Dean pulled out a dusty-looking canvas hold-all and laid it on the little kitchen table. He unzipped it and drew out one, and then a second rag-wrapped bundle. The rags came off, heaped carelessly on the floor, revealing two sawed-off shotguns, gleaming with gun oil and good care. Dean cracked them open – fed shells in from the hold-all. He snapped the shotguns closed and went to stand by Sam, who was still reading. Chanting, really, his voice rising and falling in a rhythm that reminded Victor of church, somehow. Prayer...
"Fuck, is that Arabic?" Victor felt a surge of adrenalin go through him. He'd been briefed – he'd listened to the tapes. The fanatics shouting – chanting – psyching themselves up for suicide bomb runs and firefights.
"If it is, it's a dialect. I can't quite get a handle on it," Thornton said, and Victor turned to stare at him. Thornton shrugged. "I was a translator for a couple of years. I'm catching a few words but it's not...right."
*What the hell are you fuckers up to?* Victor couldn't quite see the Winchester boys as suicide bombers or terrorists or, hell, anything but psychopaths, to be honest. This was just one more element of 'too fucking weird' to add to the list. As they watched, Dean tucked a shotgun under his arm – drew a knife from his belt and turned his left arm up, baring the tanned flesh of his forearm. The other shotgun held in his fist, his gaze on Sam. After a moment Sam nodded and Dean flicked the knife across his arm. Blood welled up, fast, and Dean let it fall onto the blade of the knife – lifted the knife and flung the blood across the diagram they'd drawn.
It smoked. The blood, or the stuff they'd drawn the diagram with or, hell, the floor, who knew? "What in fuck is going on in there?" Victor snapped, and Thornton adjusted something, zooming the camera's eye in a little closer.
"Man, I dunno, I can't get a really good look...is it burning?"
"It can't be burning," Victor said, looking up at Dick, who was stripping out of his coat and flannel and struggling into his Kevlar vest and Victor started to do the same. *Only smart. Fuck knows what's gonna happen...*
"Fuck, this is gettin' weird, we need to get in there," Dick said, tugging the vest's straps tight, and Victor shook his head, angry and unhappy and so tense his head was starting to pound.
"They're fucking armed now. Or – armed more. Who knows what else they've got in there that we missed? We have to wait for SWAT." Victor turned and stared back at the screens, watching as Dean flung more blood onto the diagram and finally threw the knife, point-down into the center of the design. Then he was moving, fast and efficient. Wrapping up his cut arm, pulling on his flannel shirt and jacket and stuffing handfuls of shotgun shells into his jacket pockets. He zipped up the hold-all and then looped the strap of it over his shoulder. *Fuck, are they leaving? They look like they're getting ready to bug the hell out...God damnit, we've got to move, move -*
"Vic, we gotta –"
"I know, I know...call SWAT, tell 'em what's going on, tell 'em –"
"Hey –" Thornton said, and Victor felt his mouth go dry as Sam closed the book. As Dean turned and stared straight into the camera, the look on his face pure predator.
"You think we didn't notice you, sniffing along our trail? Think we haven't heard the whispers – seen your shadows? We've got your fucking scent, Agent Henricksen. Got it in our noses. Think we'll forget?" The scene jumped – flickered – and the bulb in the cabin went out. Came back on again a second later, dimmer and flickering. A burst of static across the monitor and then it steadied again. Something – smoke or dust – was whirling slowly in the center of the diagram. Moving, stretching and Dean glanced over his shoulder at it, then looked back up at the camera.
"We don't like being watched, Victor. We don't like questions being asked and we don't like our business being pried into. This is your first and only warning. Get off our trail and stay off it." Another glance back, and whatever was happening in the center of the room was happening faster. Smoke or flame or something was leaping up and up; taking a shape and casting a too-bright light and Sam was standing right beside Dean, face averted – shoulders tense.
"Now or never, Dean. The ifrit's here," he said, and Dean nodded.
"You think we're not serious, Victor, you just go have a chat with ole' Gordon. He'll straighten you right out." And then Dean grinned. That wide, happy smile that was made to break hearts and charm church ladies and Victor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck – felt his heart jump in his chest like a rabbit. Pounding so hard it hurt, sudden sweat cold and slick under his arms. The scene on the monitors broke up entirely, whiting out and crackling into jumping static while the audio whined and moaned like a winter wind, Sam's voice just barely distinguishable, shouting something. The very air felt – strange. Oppressive and too hot and shaking somehow and when Victor looked over at Dick he was white as a sheet.
"SWAT's ten minutes out –"
"We've got to go now, fuck, try and get the visual back –" Victor yanked his sidearm out of it's holster – barreled toward the door, Dick right behind him. The bar was almost deserted, only a very drunk couple swaying on the tiny dance floor and Todd behind the bar, looking like he was going to bolt. The empty room seemed ominous to Victor and he tried to steady his breathing – slow his heart down.
"Hey, listen, I gotta get outta here –" Todd said and Victor stopped with his hand on the door, glaring at the man.
"You stay put, Mr. Jinks, or our deal is off and you'll be in prison so fast your head'll spin. Dick – no warning. We go in guns blazing."
"Right." Dick's hand, clenched tight around his own weapon, moved from forehead to chest to shoulders. Crossing himself with cold steel and it made Victor shiver. "Think it's some kind of bomb? Something like they had at Rivergrove?"
"I dunno, man. Just – be fucking careful."
Dick nodded, double-handed grip on his weapon and Victor shoved the door open – ran toward the corner, the cabins – the Wolfpack, and whatever the hell they were doing in there. As he skidded on loose gravel and frozen dust the cabin door shattered, chunks and foot-long splinters blasting across the parking lot. Victor ducked on pure instinct – barely felt the peppering of scraps of cheap ply that whirred over him. There was a noise – like a train, like a tornado. Like the sea, rushing and roaring and Victor turned his face back to the cabin, gun lifting automatically. Something stood in the doorway – was splintering the doorway outward, something made of fire and smoke and light, something beautiful, so beautiful but not – not right.
"What the hell! What the hell!" from Dick, somewhere left and behind him and then gunshots, threefourfive, fast and useless, totally useless as the *Angel, monster no, God no...* stalked toward them with a limping, liquid stride. Victor felt bile rising in his throat – brought his shaking hands to bear on two shadows that were slipping out behind the thing. Sam and Dean, running, not looking back and Victor squeezed the trigger and the thing, the angel the...*God, it's a void, it's nothing, it's suffocating me* turned its eyeless face, its thousand eyes on him and Victor screamed.
From the Cibola County Beacon, October 28th, 2007. "A firestorm tore through the desert early yesterday evening, destroying homes, businesses, cars and trucks. A local favorite, the Piñon Bar, was at the epicenter of the blaze..."
From the Cibola County Beacon, October 29th, 2007. "The death toll continues to rise in the wake of a freak firestorm in Cibola County. While many homes and buildings are still smoldering, the bodies being found in and around them often show signs of mutilation, possibly by animals. The County Coroners office says that they are still investigating the 100-plus deaths..."
From an internal memo, FBI headquarters, Washington, DC. "Agent Richard 'Dick' Mason, deceased, Special Agent Keith Nunan, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Robert Carlisle, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Thomas McLoughlin, SWAT, deceased... Agent Victor Henricksen, serious condition, University of New Mexico Hospital..."
From the Neosho Daily News, Neosho, Missouri, November 23rd, 2007. "The mutilated corpse of an African-American man found in the Neosho Inn on Tuesday has been identified as Gordon Walker, 37..."
From a transcript of recordings made at the 'Piñon Bar', October 27th, 2007, Cibola County, New Mexico.
Third voice, unknown: "...what (broken) you of me? (broken)"
Sam Winchester (?): "...one hour...damage as you want...break (the?) binding...last..."
Dean Winchester: "...do...worst...done here..."
Third voice, unknown: "...hear...will is...freedom..."
Past this point the audio recording is too damaged to reconstruct.
"Place looks like a fucking whorehouse," Victor said, staring through the smeared windshield of the Ford.
"Used to be. Might still be, sometimes. Owner wasn't picky." Dick stared, too, rubbing his hands together. Two weeks of running around from here to there – meeting with this and that person, securing everything that could be nailed down and hoping to God it all worked out. Behind the building – miles away but still a sort of backyard – was the New Mexico Bluewater State Park and the Navajo and Zuni Indian reservations. A lot of land – a good place for two survivalist types to hide, if things went bad. It had made Victor edgy, all that trackless land.
But now, sitting outside the Piñon, it was all falling into place. The weathered, two-story building was a bar, trading post, and back-door gun dealership. Half a dozen rooms upstairs for private deals, and two falling-down cabins in back for overnight stays. One of which was, unofficially, property of the Wolfpack.
Or it had been, under the old owner. Fredrick Jinks had been into things that would have curled old Ernie's hair, but since his death his son Todd had gotten nervous. Had, in fact, parleyed some gun running and coke dealing into Witness Protection and a new life. Starting right after they had the Wolfpack behind bars.
"So – they'll be here some time tonight?" Victor rubbed his palm over his chin, the bristle of stubble rasping on his skin. Dick was similarly prickly and they'd both been living on coffee and gas station sandwiches for days.
"That's what Todd says. He said they're expected around midnight. Apparently, they called ahead – told him to 'air out the fucking cabin this time'. Guess they don't like mildew."
"Who does? So, eight hours. Let's...take a look." Against Todd's wishes, they'd set up surveillance and recording gear in the cabin – had it all tied into a little back office in the Piñon, a room Todd was fairly certain the Winchesters had never been into. Private to the owner and even they, it seemed, respected that.
Victor and Dick walked inside, nodding once to the hulking man behind the bar. Todd nodded back, looking constipated and sweaty and Victor hoped to fuck he wasn't going to blow it. A lot was riding on this bust. The office was through a half-hidden door and down a couple narrow halls that turned in and in, tight spiral. The room itself was directly behind the bar, one whole wall taken up with the one-way mirror that backed the bar and had given Jinks, senior the perfect spot to spy on his customers.
The cramped little room was already filled to overflowing with books and papers and junk. The big, scarred desk had been hastily cleared to make room for the tightly packed mass of FBI equipment. Sound and recording stuff, two monitors for the two different cameras, a computer to store every bit and byte of digitalized information. It was all up and running; the soft whir of hidden fans, little LEDs blinking here and there in the musty dimness.
Victor slumped down into a sprung office chair, grimacing as it shrieked under his weight. Dick was giving the equipment a slow once-over and Victor watched in silence for a few minutes. The interior of the cabin was on the screens in a flat sort of grey-blue. Spartan in their set-up, there were two iron-frame beds, a table and a scatter of chairs. A long, locked trunk against one wall and a corner with a two-burner stove and a small-size 'fridge. An old-fashioned pie safe served as pantry and dish cabinet and the bathroom 'walls' were long, milky curtains of plastic, shower and sink and toilet all sharing the same tiled corner, rusty drain in the middle.
"Christ, they got better facilities at fuckin' Leavenworth," Victor muttered, amazed that anyone would voluntarily live in such a bleak place.
"Guess they only come through here once or twice a year. Todd says they go out digging along the Divide, some little creek near Red Rock park. Getting agate."
"Agate? What's agate?" Victor asked.
"Some kind of rock? I dunno. Todd thinks they're crazy – you can buy the stuff in every gas station, apparently. It's not rare around here. But they always go get it themselves. Used to do it with their Dad, he said."
"Weird." Victor couldn't imagine trekking into the desert to dig up some kind of fucking rock, but – whatever got them here, he was happy. The door to the office opened and their tech came in. Weedy little guy in jeans and a couple layers of shirts, glasses and a buzz cut. "Hey, Thornton."
"Gentlemen," Thornton said. He looked suspiciously at Dick. "You didn't touch anything, did you?"
"Just gave it a once-over," Dick said, hands raised, and Thornton squeezed past him, muttering under his breath. Dick grinned over at Victor and Victor grinned back. They both watched for a moment as the tech double-checked everything Dick had looked at and tweaked things, thin fingers pale and nimble on the mass of cords and equipment.
The door opened again and it was Todd, sweating and looking sick, his bulky self blocking the door as he stared in at them. "Man, I really don't like this. If those boys ever find out I set them up –"
"You're gonna be living the anonymous high life in fucking Jersey or something, don't you worry about it," Victor said, but Todd didn't look happy.
"They can find a fucking needle in the desert. These guys are serious – oh shit!"
"What?" Victor was on his feet, the chair squeaking out from under him and into Thornton's knees.
"That's them, they're here, fuck, they're here, they're fucking early, Jesus Christ –!" Todd was seriously panicking.
"What? They're already here?" Victor was scanning the bar, squinting through the slight distortion of the one-way glass. Scanning every face out there. "Where, where are they?"
"Right there at the bar, oh shit, I gotta get out there – " Dick grabbed Todd's shoulders and was shaking him a little, and Victor heard Dick's voice as a background murmur, indistinct. Todd sounded like he might be having a heart attack but Victor ignored him in favor of getting his first real look at the men he'd worked so fucking hard to find.
The two men standing at the bar looked like they'd walked off the set of some kind of movie, right down to the smudges of road-dust on their faces and the frayed patches on their jeans. Biker boots, well-worn and broken in, and leather jackets that probably concealed any number of weapons. Everything dusty, even their sunglasses and wind-combed hair.
*Easy Rider for the twenty-first century,* Victor thought.
"Shut the fuck up. Listen," Dick said, and Todd made a weird little whimpering sound. "You just go out there and treat them like you always do. We're just gonna sit back here and watch. Nothing's going down, you got it? Nothing. Not until our back up's here."
As Victor watched, they slid the sunglasses off, tucking them away. The taller one had a dark, neatly-trimmed mustache and beard that gave his face a devilish look. A set of marks – scars – raked his features from hairline to chin, cutting across his left eyebrow and lid – nicking his mouth. His beard was pale there, and his eyebrow was jagged. It hadn't touched his looks, and Victor supposed he got a lot of women with that scar-twisted grin he was shooting the waitress.
"Yeah, okay. I hear you. Okay. Fuck. Okay," Todd mumbled, and Victor finally looked around when he shut the office door behind him, going back out to the bar.
"If that fuck-up blows our cover –"
"He won't. I think." Dick looked slightly freaked himself, and Victor clenched his teeth together, willing that little gut-twisting feeling of wrongness away. "Why in fuck are they so early? That call was traced – they were in fucking West Virginia when they called."
"Man, I do not know. You gonna –"
"I got it," Dick said, getting out his phone. Lighting some fires, because they thought they'd had eight more hours to get things just right and the SWAT teams were still on their way, heading in from Albuquerque. Victor nodded once, watching as Thornton turned on the recorder that was wired to the mic they had planted up above the bar. Todd's voice came over it, slightly tinny – a little staticy, but clear.
"Hey, boys. You're sure here early. Been spendin' some time soupin' up that ride of yours?"
"You look like shit, Todd," the scarred one said, and Dick leaned in a little closer, his phone pressed tight to his ear.
"That's Sam, he's the youngest. Those scars are new since I saw him last. Yeah, yeah, I'm here –"
*Sam. Those are some nasty marks. Looks like a friggin' bear got him or something. Fuck, that's a gun under there –* Victor watched as Sam unselfconsciously adjusted an under-arm holster, revealing in that moment at least two knives, as well, tucked into his belt.
"Ate some bad chili for lunch – been runnin' to the can all day," Todd said, little squiggle of laughter and the other – Dean – grinned at him. He was older by a few years – shorter, but not by much. He had a short, almost military haircut, stark contrast to his brother's nearly shoulder-length hair. His voice was rough – low – and Victor's gaze traced the scar on his throat – the way his jacket bulged here and there. More guns, for sure – more knives , who knew what the fuck else.
"That's too bad, Todd. Teach you to eat your own cookin'. How 'bout some whiskey?"
"You got it," Todd said, and moved off, reaching for glasses and a bottle. Sam and Dean stood there, leaning on the bar. Looking around the room, gazes moving in slow, overlapping arcs. A predator's gaze, and Victor could all but see the mental checklist of exits, doors, blind spots, other people. Even their relaxed poses seemed studied – a put on – and Victor watched in silence as they traded glances – tiny movements of fingers and eyebrows. The private language of brothers. Or soldiers.
Todd came back into view, sliding two glasses over the polished bar top, half-full of whiskey. Both men picked them up – eyed them and sniffed them and gulped them down. Dean reached into a pocket and pulled out a roll of money – counted out a fan of bills and laid them down.
"That enough for ya, Todd? Or did you raise the rates since your old man bit it?"
Casual cruelty in Dean's tone, and Todd's shoulders tightened a little. His voice was relatively normal, though, when he answered. "Everything's the same, man. Even went in and flipped the mattresses for ya."
"Better not have fucked with my porn stash," Dean said, and Sam laughed softly. Todd pushed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a key – slid it across the bar to Dean.
"It's just like you left it."
"Oh, we didn't expect anything less," Sam said, and Victor could hear, as well as Todd, the easy threat in his voice. Dean picked up the key and grinned, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. A wide, white smile that under normal circumstances would have looked friendly. He was a good-looking man, and Victor was sure he could draw in the unsuspecting like flies.
*Draw 'em in, convince them he's there to help...and then blow 'em all to fucking pieces.* Victor wanted to catch these boys – catch them red-handed and see them locked away. Wanted it so bad it hurt. While they'd waited for this day – for this opportunity – he and Dick had gathered every scrap of intel they could on the Wolfpack. Most of it was rumors – bar-talk and bullshit. But there was enough truth in there to make Victor wake up in a cold sweat at night. They were hunters, pure and simple. And whatever fucked up, delusional quest they were on...they'd stopped caring about ordinary people. Stopped being afraid of every-day consequences.
Victor was going to put that fear back into them.
He watched them walk out of the bar – watched with impatience for them to go into the cabin. He hadn't noticed any gear on them – no duffels or bags or anything else and it made him uneasy. Todd had said they drove an old black car – old Chevy. He wasn't 'into' cars, so he didn't know what kind it was. Time to find out. "Dick – you go out front and have Todd show you their car, get the make, model –"
"Yeah, I got it." Dick went out, shutting the warped door with a little bang and Victor hovered over the monitors, waiting. Watching as the camera that faced the door finally had an image. Image of the door opening – both men walking inside and shutting it behind them. Victor looked around for his chair and dragged it closer – sat down as Thornton turned up the volume on the mic in the cabin.
"What d'you think Todd's up to?"
"I dunno. He looked like he was about to jump right out of his skin, though." Sam ran a finger along the window-ledge – stalked over to the kitchen area and yanked open a cabinet. "Fucker cleaned up the salt."
"He never did listen to his daddy," Dean said. He walked over to the chest that sat against one wall – crouched down and undid the padlock on it while Sam did...something. Victor squinted at the monitor.
"What the hell is he doing?"
Thornton leaned in closer and then shrugged. "Looks like he's putting salt on the windowsill."
"What the hell?" Victor muttered. He watched Sam put a line of salt on both windowsills – another in front of the door, while Dean rummaged in the chest. It mostly had camping and hiking type gear in it, shovels and rope and a few odds and ends. Victor had carefully gone through it while the cameras were being installed. Whatever Dean was looking for – it wasn't anything to worry about. Eventually, Dean rummaged out a book and held it up, little grin of triumph on his face.
"Knew this was here. You owe me, Sam."
Sam finished with the salt – tossed the container onto the rickety table and sauntered over to Dean. Victor could see the smile on his face, teeth gleaming white in the stark light of the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. "And what, exactly, do I owe you, Dean? Got something...specific in mind?"
Dean stood up slow, letting the chest go shut with a thump – letting the book fall down onto its worn lid. "I think you know," he said, almost too low for the mic to pick up. And then he was pushing his brother back into the wall – pushing in close, jean-clad thigh pressing between Sam's, hands fisted in the lapels of Sam's jacket and his mouth... His mouth on his brother's, hard and hungry.
"What the fucking hell are they doing?" Victor stared at the screen, feeling his heart pounding just a little too hard – too fast. Shocked and appalled and riveted by the spectacle.
"Looks like they're making out," Thornton said, and leaned over, poking through his backpack. He had it stuffed with Slim-Jims and cookies and crackers.
"Yeah, but they –" Victor stopped talking. Thornton had no idea the Winchesters were brothers and right that second, Victor really didn't feel like explaining it. He knew his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it shut, glaring at the screen. "Jesus."
"Hey, Vic, Todd says he doesn't see their – holy fuck!"
"You guys really need to come ahead into the Century of the Fruitbat," Thornton muttered, looking irritated.
Victor just stared at him in total confusion for a long moment and then dragged his gaze back to the monitor. Back to the Winchester Wolfpack and... "Fuck."
"Getting there," Dick said.
And they were. Getting there. God, they were... Victor couldn't help it – his brain was running ahead of itself, merrily cataloguing detail upon detail. Noticing, when what he really wanted to do was look away. *Do you really? Really want to look away? Because...*
Because... Sam had slipped to his knees, jacket half off his shoulders and his shirt rucked up, his shoulders pressed tight to the wall. Pushed back, because Dean was leaning over him, jacket in a heap on the floor, his jeans undone and his cock... Cock in Sam's mouth, pushing in, in, in – pushing Sam's head back into the wall with a little thump. Dean had one forearm on the wall, bracing his body in its lean. The other reached out – down – cradled the back of Sam's head. Fingers between the wall and his brother's skull as Dean's hips surged forward again and again.
Sam's hands were under Dean's shirt – sliding up his ribs, slipping down – gripping Dean's hips and then his thighs, long fingers working in the denim, his eyes wide open. The camera caught the gleam of them, turned up to Dean's face.
"Sam...fuck..." Deans ruined voice was ragged – breathless – and his back arched, chin tipping up for a moment. "Want...just...c'mon –"
"Yeah, yeah, okay –" Sam's voice had gone thick – throaty and low and Victor felt a little rush of hotcold go over him. Dean shoved back off the wall, his fingers still twisted in Sam's hair and Sam came up off his knees with a sinuous twist, his hands on Dean, dragging at clothing. His mouth finding Dean's mouth and then throat, open-mouthed kisses that Victor was sure would leave marks. They stripped each other, not hurrying. Touching every newly exposed inch – kissing in between, mostly silent. Sprawling out on the bed to a chorus of tortured squeaks that made them both laugh.
"Oh, man,, remember the first time we fucked here, these damn beds? Dad threw his boot at us 'cause we woke him up..."
Dick made a choking sort of noise, denial and horror, and Victor shot him a look, the same feelings welling up in himself.
"God, yeah, crappy fucking things..." Sam bounced deliberately, making the springs shriek, and Dean bounced on top of him, hand slapping along the wall until it came to the little shelf that served in place of a night table. His hand fumbled with something, a moment of stillness and then Sam was squirming under him, turning onto his belly. Spreading his legs and looking back over his shoulder at Dean, back arched and elbows braced. "Gonna make this old bed lay down and cry," he said, and Dean went up onto his knees, one hand in the small of Sam's back, the other on his own cock.
Slicking himself, Victor realized belatedly, his head still whirling over the idea that John Winchester had known...and done nothing. *Jesus Christ, what kind of a father...? Fuck, maybe he started it all, maybe he was fucking the both of them, Jesus...Christ...* Which might be one explanation. Might be one bit of sanity to cling to in this insane mess. Maybe these men were like they were because John Winchester was a fucked up, child-abusing freak who'd destroyed his son's lives before they'd even had a chance to live it.
*Gotta be some reason...gotta be, oh, God...*
Sam's head was back, a rumbling moan coming out of his half-open mouth. And Dean...Dean was half-kneeling, leaning over him. Hand on his cock, guiding himself forward. Into. Victor watched in sick fascination as Sam panted, his legs fanning wider and then pushing – shifting. Coming up on his knees and Dean bracing himself on the high, muscled curve of Sam's ass, his pelvis pressed tight to Sam's body.
Leaning forward over him, his mouth pressing kisses and small bites to the long sweep of Sam's back. They were at an angle to the camera and Victor watched the dance of light and shadow – muscle and tendon – in Dean's back. Watched his body tighten and gather itself – thrust itself forward and draw slowly back while Sam keened for air and gripped the sheets, pulling the thin, wash-worn cotton free of the inadequate anchor of the limp mattress.
"Dean...c'mon, c'mon..."
"Got you, shh..." Dean's hands smoothed over Sam's skin – his mouth found this and that spot that made Sam arch – twist – say Dean's name in a breathy whisper, over and over. And Dean whispered to his brother, mostly too low for the mic, drowned by the tortured groan of the springs. But...
"God...Sammy...this...here, you...love...love..."
"That's not love, that's psychosis," Dick muttered and Victor blinked, his attention abruptly diverted. He felt like he'd been half asleep. Dick was standing hard against the door, arms crossed so tight it had to hurt. Thornton snorted, shoving half of a Slim Jim into his mouth and chewing loudly.
"Man, they took gay out of the 'this is crazy behavior' book a long time ago."
Dick shot the skinny tech an incredulous look. "They're brothers, for fuck's sake! They're not even step or half or adopted. They're blood brothers!"
"They are?" Thornton chewed – swallowed – watched the screen for a moment. "Huh."
"Jesus." Dick pushed away from the wall, nostrils flaring. "Todd said their car's not out there. He said it looks like they rented a couple of ATV's from this old man that lives down near the state park. Says they probably came overland – might have a camp set up somewhere."
"Great. Just have to be a hundred percent sure we get 'em." Victor rubbed his hand over his head, scratching at his scalp. He needed a shower. "When's the damn SWAT gonna be here?"
"Hour or something? I need to check in with 'em," Dick said, and went out the door. Victor watched him go – looked over at Thornton, who was engrossed in a graphic novel. Looked at his feet in the worn-out work boots that Dick had scrounged for him. But a moment later, his gaze and attention was focused on the blue-grey image on the monitors, eyes drawn unwillingly but inexorably back.
The two men were still entwined, moving in a slow, shifting dance of flesh and bone. Hands and mouths and thighs, arms and backs curving and flattening – lifting and dropping. Dean had his fingers in Sam's hair and turned his head – found Sam's mouth with his own, awkward angle that neither of them seemed to mind. Kissing in hard, biting kisses, their mouths wet and panting as Dean's hips snapped forward and back and Sam's whole body quivered with tension and strain. And lust.
"Dean, Dean, fuck...now, c'mon, now, now –"
"Sam, Sss...aaam..." Dean's mouth slipped down Sam's jaw – his throat. Settled somewhere between throat and shoulder and then he must have bit down because Sam cried out, bucking hard, and Dean's whole body went rigid, hips stuttering out of rhythm, lungs heaving. Sam all but collapsed, barely propped on his wide-spread knees and Dean's hand snaked under him, arm and shoulder moving – pumping. Sam made a whining sound of pure pleasure and shuddered and then they were both simply lying there, gasping.
Victor felt – too hot. Felt like he couldn't quite get enough air and he watched as Dean squirmed a little sideways, slipping out and off and around until they were facing each other, limbs tangled. Knot of flesh and bone and skin, hands slowly petting over each other – mouths finding places to kiss and suck. Lit at an angle by the low slant of sunset light coming in through the thin curtains.
"Paid in full, then?" Sam said, and Dean laughed softly.
Put his hand up and touched Sam's cheek. "Think I owe you some change." And they were kissing again, unhurried and gentle and...
It was too much. It was too secret, this. Something so incredibly private and intimate that Victor felt a moment of shame for seeing it.
*Fuck that. They've killed people. Hundreds. They're brothers, they were probably abused by their fucking dad and this is...wrong, it's wrong and...sick.* Victor stood up and paced in a tiny circle. The men were unarmed – oblivious to the outside world. He should simply – go in. Walk right up to the cabin and knock on the door. Or kick it in. He glanced at the screen again, watching as they mock-wrestled on the bed. As they disentangled themselves and stood up – went over to the corner with the shower head and got the water running. The plastic sheeting rippled and bulged in the air currents, and the other camera showed their head and shoulders.
Showed Sam pushing Dean up against the wall and kissing him – showed them both with handfuls of soap, slippery fingers running over taut flesh and sluicing it clean. And Victor...didn't go. *All these crazy stories...got me spooked. Damnit, they're just men. Neither one of 'em is older than I am. They don't have any gear, they don't have any backup... Just – do it, man. Just move in. Take them.*
Ten minutes later, Dick was back in the office and Victor was slumped into the chair again, watching the men pass a bottle back and forth – watching them draw some kind of complicated design on the floor of the cabin in what looked like flour or cornmeal.
"Now what the hell are they doing?" Dick had his phone in his hand, fingers poised. "SWAT is about forty minutes out. Breaking the damn speed limit twice over."
"I think they're gonna meditate," Thornton said, shoving a wheat and cream cheese cracker into his mouth.
"How in hell are you so skinny?" Victor asked, and Thornton grinned at him, cracker smushed in his teeth.
"I have a very high metabolism."
"They used to call that a tapeworm," Dick muttered, and Victor barked a sharp little laugh.
"Jesus, man. Okay – SWAT's almost here. Maybe they'll be done conjuring up the ghost of Jim Morrison or whatever the fuck they're doing."
"Man, I hope so. That kind of stuff just creeps me out." Dick watched the screen, a sour look on his face, as the Winchesters finished up whatever they were drawing and then paged through the book Dean had unearthed. Sam read something out loud and Dean seemed to correct his pronunciation and they both laughed. Then Sam started to read again, his voice strong and steady – clear. Whatever language he was speaking, Victor didn't recognize it.
Dean went over to the little pie-safe and moved it aside – pressed his fingers to the wall, both hands spread. Victor cursed as the board swiveled, revealing a cubby. "God damnit, how'd we miss that?"
"We checked every inch, I felt over that whole wall myself," Dick muttered, and Victor knew he had. He watched as Dean pulled out a dusty-looking canvas hold-all and laid it on the little kitchen table. He unzipped it and drew out one, and then a second rag-wrapped bundle. The rags came off, heaped carelessly on the floor, revealing two sawed-off shotguns, gleaming with gun oil and good care. Dean cracked them open – fed shells in from the hold-all. He snapped the shotguns closed and went to stand by Sam, who was still reading. Chanting, really, his voice rising and falling in a rhythm that reminded Victor of church, somehow. Prayer...
"Fuck, is that Arabic?" Victor felt a surge of adrenalin go through him. He'd been briefed – he'd listened to the tapes. The fanatics shouting – chanting – psyching themselves up for suicide bomb runs and firefights.
"If it is, it's a dialect. I can't quite get a handle on it," Thornton said, and Victor turned to stare at him. Thornton shrugged. "I was a translator for a couple of years. I'm catching a few words but it's not...right."
*What the hell are you fuckers up to?* Victor couldn't quite see the Winchester boys as suicide bombers or terrorists or, hell, anything but psychopaths, to be honest. This was just one more element of 'too fucking weird' to add to the list. As they watched, Dean tucked a shotgun under his arm – drew a knife from his belt and turned his left arm up, baring the tanned flesh of his forearm. The other shotgun held in his fist, his gaze on Sam. After a moment Sam nodded and Dean flicked the knife across his arm. Blood welled up, fast, and Dean let it fall onto the blade of the knife – lifted the knife and flung the blood across the diagram they'd drawn.
It smoked. The blood, or the stuff they'd drawn the diagram with or, hell, the floor, who knew? "What in fuck is going on in there?" Victor snapped, and Thornton adjusted something, zooming the camera's eye in a little closer.
"Man, I dunno, I can't get a really good look...is it burning?"
"It can't be burning," Victor said, looking up at Dick, who was stripping out of his coat and flannel and struggling into his Kevlar vest and Victor started to do the same. *Only smart. Fuck knows what's gonna happen...*
"Fuck, this is gettin' weird, we need to get in there," Dick said, tugging the vest's straps tight, and Victor shook his head, angry and unhappy and so tense his head was starting to pound.
"They're fucking armed now. Or – armed more. Who knows what else they've got in there that we missed? We have to wait for SWAT." Victor turned and stared back at the screens, watching as Dean flung more blood onto the diagram and finally threw the knife, point-down into the center of the design. Then he was moving, fast and efficient. Wrapping up his cut arm, pulling on his flannel shirt and jacket and stuffing handfuls of shotgun shells into his jacket pockets. He zipped up the hold-all and then looped the strap of it over his shoulder. *Fuck, are they leaving? They look like they're getting ready to bug the hell out...God damnit, we've got to move, move -*
"Vic, we gotta –"
"I know, I know...call SWAT, tell 'em what's going on, tell 'em –"
"Hey –" Thornton said, and Victor felt his mouth go dry as Sam closed the book. As Dean turned and stared straight into the camera, the look on his face pure predator.
"You think we didn't notice you, sniffing along our trail? Think we haven't heard the whispers – seen your shadows? We've got your fucking scent, Agent Henricksen. Got it in our noses. Think we'll forget?" The scene jumped – flickered – and the bulb in the cabin went out. Came back on again a second later, dimmer and flickering. A burst of static across the monitor and then it steadied again. Something – smoke or dust – was whirling slowly in the center of the diagram. Moving, stretching and Dean glanced over his shoulder at it, then looked back up at the camera.
"We don't like being watched, Victor. We don't like questions being asked and we don't like our business being pried into. This is your first and only warning. Get off our trail and stay off it." Another glance back, and whatever was happening in the center of the room was happening faster. Smoke or flame or something was leaping up and up; taking a shape and casting a too-bright light and Sam was standing right beside Dean, face averted – shoulders tense.
"Now or never, Dean. The ifrit's here," he said, and Dean nodded.
"You think we're not serious, Victor, you just go have a chat with ole' Gordon. He'll straighten you right out." And then Dean grinned. That wide, happy smile that was made to break hearts and charm church ladies and Victor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck – felt his heart jump in his chest like a rabbit. Pounding so hard it hurt, sudden sweat cold and slick under his arms. The scene on the monitors broke up entirely, whiting out and crackling into jumping static while the audio whined and moaned like a winter wind, Sam's voice just barely distinguishable, shouting something. The very air felt – strange. Oppressive and too hot and shaking somehow and when Victor looked over at Dick he was white as a sheet.
"SWAT's ten minutes out –"
"We've got to go now, fuck, try and get the visual back –" Victor yanked his sidearm out of it's holster – barreled toward the door, Dick right behind him. The bar was almost deserted, only a very drunk couple swaying on the tiny dance floor and Todd behind the bar, looking like he was going to bolt. The empty room seemed ominous to Victor and he tried to steady his breathing – slow his heart down.
"Hey, listen, I gotta get outta here –" Todd said and Victor stopped with his hand on the door, glaring at the man.
"You stay put, Mr. Jinks, or our deal is off and you'll be in prison so fast your head'll spin. Dick – no warning. We go in guns blazing."
"Right." Dick's hand, clenched tight around his own weapon, moved from forehead to chest to shoulders. Crossing himself with cold steel and it made Victor shiver. "Think it's some kind of bomb? Something like they had at Rivergrove?"
"I dunno, man. Just – be fucking careful."
Dick nodded, double-handed grip on his weapon and Victor shoved the door open – ran toward the corner, the cabins – the Wolfpack, and whatever the hell they were doing in there. As he skidded on loose gravel and frozen dust the cabin door shattered, chunks and foot-long splinters blasting across the parking lot. Victor ducked on pure instinct – barely felt the peppering of scraps of cheap ply that whirred over him. There was a noise – like a train, like a tornado. Like the sea, rushing and roaring and Victor turned his face back to the cabin, gun lifting automatically. Something stood in the doorway – was splintering the doorway outward, something made of fire and smoke and light, something beautiful, so beautiful but not – not right.
"What the hell! What the hell!" from Dick, somewhere left and behind him and then gunshots, threefourfive, fast and useless, totally useless as the *Angel, monster no, God no...* stalked toward them with a limping, liquid stride. Victor felt bile rising in his throat – brought his shaking hands to bear on two shadows that were slipping out behind the thing. Sam and Dean, running, not looking back and Victor squeezed the trigger and the thing, the angel the...*God, it's a void, it's nothing, it's suffocating me* turned its eyeless face, its thousand eyes on him and Victor screamed.
From the Cibola County Beacon, October 28th, 2007. "A firestorm tore through the desert early yesterday evening, destroying homes, businesses, cars and trucks. A local favorite, the Piñon Bar, was at the epicenter of the blaze..."
From the Cibola County Beacon, October 29th, 2007. "The death toll continues to rise in the wake of a freak firestorm in Cibola County. While many homes and buildings are still smoldering, the bodies being found in and around them often show signs of mutilation, possibly by animals. The County Coroners office says that they are still investigating the 100-plus deaths..."
From an internal memo, FBI headquarters, Washington, DC. "Agent Richard 'Dick' Mason, deceased, Special Agent Keith Nunan, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Robert Carlisle, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Thomas McLoughlin, SWAT, deceased... Agent Victor Henricksen, serious condition, University of New Mexico Hospital..."
From the Neosho Daily News, Neosho, Missouri, November 23rd, 2007. "The mutilated corpse of an African-American man found in the Neosho Inn on Tuesday has been identified as Gordon Walker, 37..."
From a transcript of recordings made at the 'Piñon Bar', October 27th, 2007, Cibola County, New Mexico.
Third voice, unknown: "...what (broken) you of me? (broken)"
Sam Winchester (?): "...one hour...damage as you want...break (the?) binding...last..."
Dean Winchester: "...do...worst...done here..."
Third voice, unknown: "...hear...will is...freedom..."
Past this point the audio recording is too damaged to reconstruct.
More Wolfpack...Yay!
Re: More Wolfpack...Yay!
Thank you so much!