SPN Fic: Vendetta (Gen, PG13, Nightshifter, Special Agent Henriksen)
Okay, here's the one I wanted to write for the Super Summer challenge when they gave me the prompt "Law Enforcement" in the context of Nightshifter. So even though my week's past, I'm still going to credit them with the challenge on this story, because I never would have written it if this sucker hadn't been tasking me so with its refusal to cooperate in a timely manner.
Title: Vendetta
Author: dodger_winslow
Challenge: super_summer Week 6: Playthings/Nightshifter Extra: law enforcement/guilt
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG13 for language
Word Count: 820
Spoilers: Nightshifter
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Summary: God, he hated morgues almost as much as he hated Winchesters.
Vendetta
Special Agent Victor Henriksen turned his face away from the blinding glare of God-knows-how-many camera lights strobing the darkness as he stepped out of the bank and into the cool night air. They were waiting for him in an elbow-to-elbow clump that nearly blocked the doorway, vultures gathered to strip the flesh off a fresh kill.
Well fuck ’em. They could kiss his ass: he had better things to do than feed sound bytes to a slavering mob of predatory presshounds.
Shoving his way through the mass of well-dressed bodies, he kept his head down and his face turned away from their cameras and their mics and their scattershot peppering of insulting questions. They were demanding a full accounting of the FBI’s failure tonight. It was the people’s right to know how their public servants could possibly be such screw ups, no doubt.
Well fuck the people, too. Reed could stand around and do the Bureau’s PR dance for the public’s amusement while he got gang banged on live TV if he wanted to, but the last thing he needed right now was for Sam or Dean Winchester to see him looking into a camera on the eleven o’clock news.
That would be the perfect capper to a perfect night.
God how he’d learned to hate the Winchester brothers over the last year. It seemed like he’d been hunting them forever, now. It wasn’t his style to sink that kind of time into stalking his prey. He was more the get-in and get-on-with-it type.
And he really wanted to get in and get on with it with these two. Or at least with that murderous bastard Dean.
He wasn’t a hundred percent sure what Sam’s involvement in St. Louis was, but it couldn’t have been more clear what role Dean played in the way things went down. He’d been in Texas when the cops called, said he was listed as the next of kin in papers they found somewhere in the apartment.
He wanted to kill something as he listened to what that bastard Winchester did to the only family he had left. Sure, they’d gone their separate ways years ago, hadn’t really talked much except on holidays since; but family was still family. Blood was thicker than time or distance, and Dean Winchester planting anybody in his family was the only thing that would have driven him to these extremes, motivated him to chase that slippery little bastard all the way across the country for this damn long.
He’d almost had him in Baltimore. He was so close he could taste it before that fucking bitch cop pulled her backup piece and put a bullet in his back.
That was a surprise. Because honestly, what are the odds of picking a dirty cop? Or, at least, one that dirty? With his luck, Henriksen would probably turn out to have some kind of death-omen skeleton in his closet, too. Cops. Gotta love ’em.
He shook his head, still remembering the feel of waking up at the morgue with a hell of a headache and the stench of death all around him.
God, he hated morgues almost as much as he hated Winchesters. It was harder than shit to slip your skin in one of those fucking metal drawers: kind of like trying to change your socks in a straight jacket. But he’d managed it, just like he would eventually manage to get a more permanent kind of justice for his murdered brother than just the satisfaction of watching Dean Winchester on his knees with a gun to his head, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and still trying to be all bad-ass Hunter of Evil while he’s begging for his worthless life from a cop he knows is going to pull the trigger, even if he has no idea why.
Not really.
But he would. He would soon.
Special Agent Victor Henriksen ducked into his FBI black sedan and slammed the door shut. Cops had the best resources if you were willing to burn through them, and he was. He’d already burned through Henriksen’s reputation like a wildfire in a paper warehouse just to get this far, just to get this close; and he wasn’t finished yet.
Not by a long shot.
A flashbulb fired in the darkness, illuminating some intrepid punk-ass Jimmy Olsen wannabe crouched in front of the sedan, looking to get the money shot of the Fed who let the bad guys get away. His leg tightened, wanting to step on the gas and run the little bastard over almost as much as he wanted to cut Dean Winchester’s heart out and eat it.
But not quite, so he didn’t. Instead, he settled for flipped the little bastard off as he drove away, confident any retinal flash that might show up would get re-touched out before the papers ever hit the newsstand.
finis