Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used. Buffy and the Supernatural crew belong to their respective creators and I don't get any richer from this.
Beta: Amusewithaview was kind enough to look the first few chapters over for me. Everything else is solely my fault.
A/N: First of all, I'm adding a quick summary of the series so far to the series main page. Look it up if you don't want to reread the whole thing.
Also, remember how, at the beginning of the first part of the series, I said the story stemmed from a plot bunny that grew a Buffy and then a plot and then a prequel? Remember how I said that story was that prequel? Well, this story is that original bunny. Never thought I'd actually make it here...
Sets in during the last few minutes of Jus in Bello
, ep. 3x12 because, come on, he’s way too hot to die.
+ A Hunter’s Guide to Zombies and Guns
“Ahem,” Dean coughed none too covertly, bouncing on the toes of his feet, hands in pockets, trying to pretend his gunshot wound wasn’t killing him. It had to be, though. Victor had been shot in the arm a few times (two, to be exact, both the kind of fun he could live without) and the feeling wasn’t one he was going to forget soon.
Sam mirrored his brother’s pose, head tilted curiously.
They were waiting for Victor to kick them out, to tell them to go and enjoy their lives as dead fugitives. But at the same time, they apparently felt bad about leaving him to try and feed his superiors a pile of steaming hot BS. Nancy and Amici stood a few feet off, looking like they’d been kicked out of the church choir. All waiting for him to tell them what to do.
As if he had a clue.
What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry for chasing you across the entire country, putting your mug shots on all TV stations and calling you raging psychopaths and thanks for saving my life, don’t get killed? Demons burned when you poured holy water on them, couldn’t stand the sound of prayer and were paralyzed by salt.
He was kinda hung up on that one and would be for a long, long while. Probably the rest of his life, actually.
Still. Things to do, lies to tell. He shook his head slightly, trying to get it to work through the tiredness and exhaustion and the sheer madness of the past twelve hours. Had it only been twelve hours since he and Reidy had set out to finally lock up the Winchesters for good?
Reidy. Fuck, he’d forgotten all about Reidy. His partner was dead. So was the Deputy Director of the FBI. How the hell was he going to explain that? His job was as good as gone. But then, what did it matter? He knew the exact number of criminals he’d locked up in the past fifteen years. He knew the exact number of those he’d had to let go, too. Add to that that he’d spent the past year chasing monsters that didn’t even exist (monsters that were actually good men) and yeah, he was pretty sure losing his job wasn’t too bad.
If he went back to chasing human killers across state lines, chances were too big that he’d just draw his gun one day and shoot some mofo’s head off out of sheer frustration.
There was a world out there, so big
and he’d spent his whole life wandering around his tiny, tiny bubble, thinking he knew it all. Something off in the corner, so big
, he’d told Dean. And he’d been right.
“I…,” he started, without the slightest clue what he was doing.
Lucky for him, Britney Spears picked that moment to start singing somewhere close by. Hit me baby, one more time….
Dean winced, jumped and started fumbling madly for something in his jacket while Nancy tried to stifle slightly hysteric giggles. Sam grinned unabashedly, something like peace crossing his face.
“Which one of you bitches changed my tune again?” the older Winchester growled as he finally came up with a silver cell phone and flipped it open. His brother shrugged and nodded toward the phone.
Dean growled and pressed it to his ear greeting whoever was on the other end with, “Next time you touch my shit, I’ll tell Bobby who spilled coffee on his favorite book on runes.”
The caller answered just loud enough to be identifiable as a woman and then Dean tipped his head in the direction of the group and moved away to talk in peace. Sam took that as his sign to do something productive, apparently giving up on Victor doing it for him. Good thinking, that.
“Nancy,” the giant said, “I think it’s probably best if you get rid of the Devil’s Traps. Drugs in the water, or something. People went mad, but they seemed to be scared of salt, so you used that to hold them off most of the night. It’s not a very good cover, but it’s the only one even halfway credible.”
The secretary nodded and Victor wondered how many ludicrous stories the brothers had come up with in their lives as he surreptitiously leaned sideways so he could hear Dean’s conversation, more curious than he cared to admit.
He could figure out who ‘Bobby’ was just fine, having driven out there twice to interview one Robert Singer who had, of course, never seen them boys before, no, never in his life, sir. He’d pulled it off without turning red, too and there had been no grounds to get a search warrant and so Victor had wasted two afternoons leaning against the man’s screen door, getting fed shit. But he had no idea who the chick Dean was talking to was.
“Yeah, fine…Henriksen definitely believes us now, though, so it’s all good….. No….I don’t know…. You think?... Well, he did say…. I’ll…. I dunno, princess. We have more important things to do.”
A long pause. Then, “No.”
Dean turned around then, meeting Victor’s gaze head on, expression unreadable. Assessing. “Maybe,” he said. “Let me get Sammy.”
He waved his brother over, passed him the phone and waited patiently as the caller repeated whatever had made him hesitate and study Victor like bug under a microscope. After a moment, Sam turned the same scrutinizing gaze on him before grunting noncommittally and handing the phone back.
Dean listened some more, eyes never leaving the FBI agent, who was feeling mildly… violated after a minute, and finally said, “Ten miles outside town, to the left. Yeah, see ya.” He hung up without saying goodbye and meandered through the mess of broken furniture that had once been the bullpen of the Monument police station towards Victor.
“So,” he started, leaning against a mostly intact desk, “Whatcha gonna do now, Vic?”
Victor crossed his arms and shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. “No idea,” he finally admitted.
Sam joined his brother against the desk and asked, totally out of the blue, “Wanna come?”
When the phone rang and the first words out of Buffy’s mouth were, “Please tell me you’re both alright in there,” Dean didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t even ask how the heck she’d gotten to Colorado so fast when she’d been in Arizona, visiting Faith, the day before.
He just took a deep breath and consciously forced his muscles to release tension, one after the other. He was okay. Sammy was okay. Victor goddamn Henriksen was okay. Buffy was, too. A lot of other people weren’t but they hadn’t killed any virgins and the bad guys were defeated for now.
“Yeah,” he told the waiting slayer on the other end of the line, “We’re okay.”
No explanations, no long reassurances. They were okay and outside, the sun was rising. They’d survived another night. Everything else was notes in the margins.
“Good. Then tell me what the hell happened in there.”
He grinned, relieved that some things never changed and leaned against a wall, watching Sammy give a crash course in How to Lie to Your Superiors and Get Away With It. Henriksen was staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he gave Buffy the cliff notes version on the night from hell. Literally.
She listened, hmm-ed, haw-ed and cursed in the right places and when he finished she asked, “You gonna bring him along then?”
What the hell? “What the hell?”
“He’s gonna do it, Dean, and you know it,” she told him, sounding exhausted and patient.
“Do what?” he demanded, even as the slight suspicion that he already knew snuck up on him.
“Go hunter. You gonna let him die?”
He was about to say why the heck not, the man brought nothing but trouble, when he remembered their little heart to heart in the dead Sherriff’s office and the way he’d thought, for a moment, that they could be friends. That Henriksen might have been a royal asshole to him and Sammy, but he’d had his heart in the right place. He’d thought he was putting away monsters.
And now that he knew what the real monster looked like… yeah, he was gonna go hunter. Question was why that was supposed to be the Winchesters’ business.
Only, once upon a time, not too long ago, the bitch who’d brought down the ceiling (and somehow things always seemed to go back to that demon bitch lately and he had no clue why) had killed Richie. Richie, who he’d gone to high school with for six short weeks. Whose ass he had saved from a rampaging spirit and who’d then gone and shot a bit of salt in a few monsters and fancied himself a hunter and gotten killed like the clueless rookie he was.
Dean turned to look at the FBI agent, silently contemplating whether or not he could let the man walk to his death and cursing under his breath when he realized he couldn’t. “Damn you and your morals, princess,” he told her as he waved Sammy over.
They’d have to take the guy along, wouldn’t they?
And agent made four.
First real chapter on the weekend. Until then, reviews are a great motivator. :)