Fic: Wicked Little Town
Title: Wicked Little Town
Author: me
Rating: Gen, PG-13 for language
Characters, Pairings: Sam, Dean, Henrickson
Summary: On day 152 of Dean's 365, the FBI finds them again.
Warnings: Spoilers through AHBL pt. 2.
Word Count: 2,954
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine. Just borrowing them for a bit.
Notes: Inspired by (and therefore title taken from) the song in Hedwig and the Angry Inch. This started as a prompt I received from tigriswolf before the finale for "Dean gets caught, is going to trial, Sam breaks him out." Then AHBL aired and, yeah, it turned into this completely different animal.
Super special thanks go to floridapeaches for the wonderful beta.
So when you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town.
Oh it's a wicked, little town.
Goodbye, wicked little town.
- Wicked Little Town (Tommy Gnosis version)
It's the "Mardi Gras Inn" by day, the "Ma di G as" by night - the kind of joint that has unofficial hourly rates and a distinctive lack of complementary coffee in the rooms. Old stained couches line the streetside, free to a good home, and the flowerbeds host more bottles than begonias, but it's the trampoline hanging from the motel sign that catches Dean's attention with a "huh, would you look at that?"
Twenty seven solid hours on the road, heading from Middle-a, Nowhere to its sister city across state lines, and right now even a lumpy, squeaky bed sounds like heaven. Dean pulls to a stop outside the motel office, gives a cursory glance to check that Sam is still asleep in the passenger seat, and then eases his way out of the car. With a charming grin he knows doesn't quite hide the road weariness in his eyes, he faces the desk clerk and requests the usual two queens, no jokes please. The kid stutters a little, a shy bastard if Dean's ever seen one, and processes the Mastercard before passing over the key to room 207. A broken "have a g-good st-st-stay, Mister M-Marshall" follows Dean back out the door.
He heads to the passenger side first, intent on waking his brother just enough so he doesn't have to lug a six-foot-five rag doll up to the room, but Sam is already rubbing his eyes and grappling with the door handle when Dean gets there. Together, they grab their duffels from the trunk and trudge up the stairs. The lock sticks when Dean tries the key, and it takes a good amount of jiggling, a good amount of cursing, and one very well-placed kick to get the door open.
They make quick work of warding the room - Dean's salt lines around the door and window are thick and unbroken, and even when half-asleep, Sam draws protective runes perfectly - then Sam toes off his shoes and barely gets his belt free before collapsing face-first onto his bed. Dean chuckles and strips to his t-shirt and boxer briefs. Flips the light, slips under his own sheets, and his last conscious thought is how the bed is actually pretty comfortable.
*****
The bedside clock flips to 3:42, and Dean is not surprised when he wakes and finds Sam standing beside his bed, staring. For anyone else, it may have been cause for concern, but for Dean...
"I've still got seven months, and I'm not going anywhere before then. So go back to sleep." Same routine, every other night. But his words have no bite, and he lifts his sheets to allow his brother to slink in beside him, because if Sam needs that physical reminder of he's still here, he's okay, he's fine, then Dean has absolutely no right to judge. Not when he knows the feeling.
Sam slings his arm over Dean's chest, and the grip is almost crushing, desperate, and just right. "She's not getting you. No one is."
*****
Dean wakes hours later when the sun is just high enough to shine through the blinds and into his eyes. The space beside him is empty, cold, and he has a just-short-of-conscious memory of a whispered breakfast.
His back pops in three places when he arches off the mattress, stretching his arms until they brush the headboard. As he settles back down, Dean remembers all the looks and threats Sam used to give him after Dean popped his joints, warning him that he would end up arthritic and in a wheelchair before he turned thirty. Dean had brushed it off then, and he scoffs now. Thirty, right.
He hears the boots treading softly up the motel stairs and pausing outside their room. Dean's just about to holler out "I'm coming, stop juggling the food" before the alarms in his brain scream Sam doesn't wear boots. Then there's one word -- "Police!" -- and the door's kicked off its hinges, guns are drawn, and Dean finds himself thrown to the floor and cuffed.
*****
Sometimes, a stuttering desk clerk isn't shy. Sometimes, a stuttering desk clerk is some kid who's been dreaming of Quantico for years, has the FBI's most wanted list bookmarked, and recognizes wanted for murder, armed and extremely dangerous the moment he walks through the motel office door.
When the sheriff thanks him, personally, for the tip, the clerk smiles and explains that he would have called sooner, but he had to get the manager's permission first to cover the imminent damages.
*****
Dean curses country bumpkin lawmen who do their homework. It's his only way of explaining the four sets of handcuffs, one around each wrist and ankle, securing him to the interrogation room chair. A quick wiggle test proves that even the chair is bolted to the floor. And there's not a paperclip in sight.
Other than a curt "do you understand your rights as they've been read to you," he hasn't been bothered for hours. Only a living mountain of khaki, identified by his badge as Parker, stands in the room, arms crossed and stonewalled in silence.
Dean uses his time wisely - tests every set of cuffs for weaknesses, mentally rates every Metallica song on a scale of zero to rock, runs a checklist of what ammo kills what fugly, and repeats over and over again please Sammy, get gone, stay away from here.
He's about to start another chain of repetitious pleading, eyes closed and head tilted over his chair's back, when the door opens. Dean lifts his head, and a brilliant zinger of a wiseass comment dies on his lips. Damn, if those FBI creeps aren't fast.
Agent Victor Henrickson strolls in, lacking the cocky swagger he demonstrated at Green River County. This is the walk of a man beaten twice at his own game but confident that the third time's the charm. No nonsense, determination, the home team wins. The slam of his briefcase on the table is like a gunshot.
Despite the staccato beat of his heart, Dean forces himself to relax and lets a small smile play on his face. "Fancy meeting you here. You bring my cheeseburger this time?"
Henrickson cants his head. "Still pulling the wiseass routine, huh Dean? It's almost admirable. Most people in your position would be shaking in their boots by now." The briefcase clicks open, and Henrickson pulls out numerous files stuffed full of papers, Post-It notes, and photographs. "Do you know what this is?"
"Willful destruction of the rainforest?"
"Funny, but no. This is your legacy. And let me tell you, it's one hell of a good read. Some of these things even I didn't know were illegal." Now Henrickson pulls out a chair and sits.
Dean resists the urge to fidget. "What can I say? I've always been one for experimentation."
"I bet." The agent's appraising stare starts to make Dean's skin crawl. "You know, I get you. I do. You can do the whole cool-as-ice thing right now because your brother's on the outside. You two have some blockbuster-style plan on how to get out of situations like this?"
Dean lets his silence do the answering for him.
"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Dean, but..." And his head turns to the door. As if on cue, a man Dean recognizes as Henrickson's partner steps in, and over the man's shoulder is a very familiar mop of hair. Dean's heart drops into his stomach like a stone, and he can't bring himself to meet Sam's eyes. Instead, he takes in the slouch of Sam's shoulder, the cuffs at his wrists, and Dean just barely notices the two officers on either side, holding his brother in place.
"Damn it, Sam," but there's no anger in the whispered words, just sorrow.
"Where do you want us to put him?" the partner asks.
There's a small smile on Henrickson's face when he responds. "Second room, down the hall. Just give me a few, and I'll be right in." Dean gets one last glance at Sam before the door is slammed shut, and then he's alone again with the fucking cheshire cat and the silent Parker. Henrickson still has the smile when he turns back to Dean. "You two really should get a different car. Apparently, they spotted your brother not thirty minutes after they picked you up. Was it you or your father that taught him the finer points of high-speed car chases?" Dean's barely able to wrap his mind around Sam and car chase before Henrickson adds, "Anyway, all it took was one word from an officer that we already had you in custody and he just stopped. Pulled over and gave up, wind out of his sails. So much for the escape plan, huh?"
Dean can't breathe. He wants to throw something, thrash someone. Sam shouldn't be here - neither of them should, but especially not Sam. They're off their game, they should have known. It's Wyoming, it's the deal, it's every little fucked up thing that's kept them distracted and unprepared for this. He's vaguely aware that he's practically shaking with tension, teeth clenched and fists bunched.
Henrickson's smile turns smarmy. "What, no further words of wisdom?"
Dean bites back the curse words flitting on his tongue and meets Henrickson's gaze head-on. "Lawyer."
There's a small huff of disappointment. "I thought as much. Hope you liked St. Louis, Dean, because you're heading back there this afternoon as soon as your paperwork is finished." Dean can only blink in response while Henrickson gathers his mountain of paperwork. "I think I'll go see if little Sammy wants to play."
Dean barely gets out "it's Sam" before the door is slammed over his words.
*****
Henrickson enters the second interrogation room and hunkers down at the table across from Sam. The youngest Winchester sits with his head bowed and his hands in his lap, the very picture of defeat, and Henrickson hums in satisfaction just seeing it.
"So, Sam," he starts. "We didn't get the chance to talk last time I saw you boys. Wanted to, but I was a little distracted at the time. Dean always does seem to take center stage, doesn't he?" When Sam doesn't react, Henrickson places his file folders onto the table. "Now, this stack here is everything we have on Dean. Plenty for any judge to throw the book at your brother. But this stack? This is all you, Sam. Fraud, impersonating federal officers, theft, assault, arson." Each crime is punctuated by the slap of a folder onto the table.
Sam sits impassively as Henrickson continues. "These two are my favorites. Aiding and abetting, and accessory to murder. Nice, thick case files too. You were studying to be a lawyer, weren't you, Sam? What do you think? You boys have a snowball's chance in Hell?"
He takes a silent moment to really get a good look at his suspect, and now his eyes narrow. Beyond the down-turned face, Sam's shoulders are squared, his breathing even, his whole body steady. And Henrickson reassesses his situation, because this is not defeat. This is something else. Something he hadn't been anticipating. He hates it.
And still Sam hasn't spoken one word.
"You do realize there's no escaping this time, right? No McQueen-style theatrics. We've got it all planned. Your brother's being extradited today, you'll go in maybe a week, depending on how long we can stall. Maximum security for both of you, on opposite sides of the country if we can manage it. Point is, you're not going to be seeing Dean for a long, long time."
Those words seem to hit home, and now Henrickson's rewarded with a shudder. The tremor starts at Sam's neck and flashes down his body. "No chance of escape, huh?" Sam's first words in the room sound small, restrained, and almost breathy, almost regretful.
Henrickson shakes his head, lets a small hint of victory flavor his voice. "Not a one."
"Okay. If you say so." And there is the confidence he's been expecting from a brother of Dean Winchester, but the words sound dangerously chilled, an unpleasant contradiction to Dean's heated sarcasm. It makes his blood run cold. He watches as Sam lifts his head, a wicked smirk dancing across his lips. He's practically frozen in place when their gazes lock, and he sees a burst of yellow flash in Sam's eyes and then fade away just as quickly. And Victor Henrickson, a man who has faced down some of the worst murderers, rapists and criminals known to man, suddenly wants to run screaming for his mommy.
The intensity of Sam's tight-lipped smile makes him shove back from the table. He has his hand at his gun and is slowly backing toward the door when Sam's patient "wait" stops him in his tracks.
The kid lifts his hands from his lap, cuffs clanking together softly, and holds them toward the agent. "You mind taking these off before you go?"
*****
Dean's renewed struggle against his cuffs comes to a screeching halt when the door opens again and Henrickson steps through with Sam right on his heels, unbound and unrestrained. Through a haze of disbelief, he barely hears Sam order for Dean's cuffs to be removed, and it seems like slow motion when Henrickson pulls a large ring of keys from his pocket and moves toward Dean. But the fog lifts when Henrickson turns to Guardman Parker and chokes "Shoot him" through clenched teeth.
It's like Cold Oak all over again. Parker's reaching for his sidearm, and there's nothing Dean can do to stop the silent bastard from hurting Sam. He pulls hard against his restraints, and he's only vaguely aware that the high strangled noise he hears is coming from him.
There's suddenly a charge in the air, and Dean swears he can feel every hair on his body stand on end. Then, Parker's sent flying by some unseen force, colliding hard with unforgiving brick of the cell's wall, and Dean numbly realizes the first sound he's heard the guy make is the pained grunt of being knocked unconscious.
"Guess I need to work on my control a little bit."
Dean whips his head around to face his brother's rueful smile, and why is he suddenly reminded of that time when Sam was 6 and got caught sneaking cookies from Pastor Jim's kitchen? Dean tries to think of something to say, anything, but all that comes out is a strained "Sam…"
Sam doesn't seem to hear him. His eyes are locked on Henrickson, who is still shuffling in Dean's direction with the keys dangling in his fist. "Victor, you mind hurrying up a little with those handcuffs?" And Dean can't believe his ears when the agent responds with "sure thing."
His attention now turned to Dean, Sam moves to the table and leans until they're at eye level with one another. "You ready to get out of here?"
"Sam...how..."
"One hell of a learning curve," and Sam says it like it's the most obvious answer in the world.
Dean wants to demand to know what happened, what's going on, why, no, but the words just rush out of his mouth in an unintelligible blur. Sam holds up a hand, and the words dry up Dean's throat. "My choice, Dean. That bitch gave you a year, and you're not spending one single day of it behind bars. Remember, I'm saving you this time."
"Not like this, Sam. Please…don't…" and Dean tries to tell himself it's already too late to be asking that.
"It's okay. Just, keep me grounded." There's a click as Henrickson releases the last cuff. Sam's smile is warm and his grip reassuring when he pulls Dean up from his chair and into a crushing hug like they haven't shared since they were kids. "I know you'll keep me grounded."
*****
"As cool as that sounds, Sam, I'm not letting you whammy an entire precinct. Just get Victor to bring the car around and we'll slip out the window like old times."
And yeah, Dean's got this "grounded" thing covered. And he can already see Henrickson, hog-tied with his own cuffs on the side of the sketchiest road they pass on their way out of dodge.
*****
There's thirty minutes of barely comfortable silence in the car before Dean's curiosity gets the best of him. "One thing I don't get," and he can tell without looking up from the road that Sam's giving him his undivided attention. One thing, right. "You haven't even had a vision since the cemetery. I thought all this," he makes vague gestures at Sam's entire body, "was over."
Sam gives him a small smile, like he'd been waiting for Dean to ask. "All my visions were tied in with the Demon and the other psychic kids. Demon's dead, so are the other psychics. Whatever this is," and he repeats Dean's gestures almost mockingly, "runs a little deeper."
So that's that.
There's a few more minutes of silence, but this time Sam breaks it. "Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"You know, Ava was able to control demons when she let loose. Think with a little practice we might be able to give that crossroads bitch one hell of a surprise?"
Dean quickly glances at Sam and can see the hope shining in his little brother's eyes. It's the first time he's seen anything but despair there, and Dean can feel an answering spark of hope pushing its way into his chest. Sammy's going to save him. Dean barks a laugh, punches the acceleration, and the roar of the engine echoes his good mood as they speed out of town.
Author: me
Rating: Gen, PG-13 for language
Characters, Pairings: Sam, Dean, Henrickson
Summary: On day 152 of Dean's 365, the FBI finds them again.
Warnings: Spoilers through AHBL pt. 2.
Word Count: 2,954
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine. Just borrowing them for a bit.
Notes: Inspired by (and therefore title taken from) the song in Hedwig and the Angry Inch. This started as a prompt I received from tigriswolf before the finale for "Dean gets caught, is going to trial, Sam breaks him out." Then AHBL aired and, yeah, it turned into this completely different animal.
Super special thanks go to floridapeaches for the wonderful beta.
So when you've got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town.
Oh it's a wicked, little town.
Goodbye, wicked little town.
- Wicked Little Town (Tommy Gnosis version)
It's the "Mardi Gras Inn" by day, the "Ma di G as" by night - the kind of joint that has unofficial hourly rates and a distinctive lack of complementary coffee in the rooms. Old stained couches line the streetside, free to a good home, and the flowerbeds host more bottles than begonias, but it's the trampoline hanging from the motel sign that catches Dean's attention with a "huh, would you look at that?"
Twenty seven solid hours on the road, heading from Middle-a, Nowhere to its sister city across state lines, and right now even a lumpy, squeaky bed sounds like heaven. Dean pulls to a stop outside the motel office, gives a cursory glance to check that Sam is still asleep in the passenger seat, and then eases his way out of the car. With a charming grin he knows doesn't quite hide the road weariness in his eyes, he faces the desk clerk and requests the usual two queens, no jokes please. The kid stutters a little, a shy bastard if Dean's ever seen one, and processes the Mastercard before passing over the key to room 207. A broken "have a g-good st-st-stay, Mister M-Marshall" follows Dean back out the door.
He heads to the passenger side first, intent on waking his brother just enough so he doesn't have to lug a six-foot-five rag doll up to the room, but Sam is already rubbing his eyes and grappling with the door handle when Dean gets there. Together, they grab their duffels from the trunk and trudge up the stairs. The lock sticks when Dean tries the key, and it takes a good amount of jiggling, a good amount of cursing, and one very well-placed kick to get the door open.
They make quick work of warding the room - Dean's salt lines around the door and window are thick and unbroken, and even when half-asleep, Sam draws protective runes perfectly - then Sam toes off his shoes and barely gets his belt free before collapsing face-first onto his bed. Dean chuckles and strips to his t-shirt and boxer briefs. Flips the light, slips under his own sheets, and his last conscious thought is how the bed is actually pretty comfortable.
*****
The bedside clock flips to 3:42, and Dean is not surprised when he wakes and finds Sam standing beside his bed, staring. For anyone else, it may have been cause for concern, but for Dean...
"I've still got seven months, and I'm not going anywhere before then. So go back to sleep." Same routine, every other night. But his words have no bite, and he lifts his sheets to allow his brother to slink in beside him, because if Sam needs that physical reminder of he's still here, he's okay, he's fine, then Dean has absolutely no right to judge. Not when he knows the feeling.
Sam slings his arm over Dean's chest, and the grip is almost crushing, desperate, and just right. "She's not getting you. No one is."
*****
Dean wakes hours later when the sun is just high enough to shine through the blinds and into his eyes. The space beside him is empty, cold, and he has a just-short-of-conscious memory of a whispered breakfast.
His back pops in three places when he arches off the mattress, stretching his arms until they brush the headboard. As he settles back down, Dean remembers all the looks and threats Sam used to give him after Dean popped his joints, warning him that he would end up arthritic and in a wheelchair before he turned thirty. Dean had brushed it off then, and he scoffs now. Thirty, right.
He hears the boots treading softly up the motel stairs and pausing outside their room. Dean's just about to holler out "I'm coming, stop juggling the food" before the alarms in his brain scream Sam doesn't wear boots. Then there's one word -- "Police!" -- and the door's kicked off its hinges, guns are drawn, and Dean finds himself thrown to the floor and cuffed.
*****
Sometimes, a stuttering desk clerk isn't shy. Sometimes, a stuttering desk clerk is some kid who's been dreaming of Quantico for years, has the FBI's most wanted list bookmarked, and recognizes wanted for murder, armed and extremely dangerous the moment he walks through the motel office door.
When the sheriff thanks him, personally, for the tip, the clerk smiles and explains that he would have called sooner, but he had to get the manager's permission first to cover the imminent damages.
*****
Dean curses country bumpkin lawmen who do their homework. It's his only way of explaining the four sets of handcuffs, one around each wrist and ankle, securing him to the interrogation room chair. A quick wiggle test proves that even the chair is bolted to the floor. And there's not a paperclip in sight.
Other than a curt "do you understand your rights as they've been read to you," he hasn't been bothered for hours. Only a living mountain of khaki, identified by his badge as Parker, stands in the room, arms crossed and stonewalled in silence.
Dean uses his time wisely - tests every set of cuffs for weaknesses, mentally rates every Metallica song on a scale of zero to rock, runs a checklist of what ammo kills what fugly, and repeats over and over again please Sammy, get gone, stay away from here.
He's about to start another chain of repetitious pleading, eyes closed and head tilted over his chair's back, when the door opens. Dean lifts his head, and a brilliant zinger of a wiseass comment dies on his lips. Damn, if those FBI creeps aren't fast.
Agent Victor Henrickson strolls in, lacking the cocky swagger he demonstrated at Green River County. This is the walk of a man beaten twice at his own game but confident that the third time's the charm. No nonsense, determination, the home team wins. The slam of his briefcase on the table is like a gunshot.
Despite the staccato beat of his heart, Dean forces himself to relax and lets a small smile play on his face. "Fancy meeting you here. You bring my cheeseburger this time?"
Henrickson cants his head. "Still pulling the wiseass routine, huh Dean? It's almost admirable. Most people in your position would be shaking in their boots by now." The briefcase clicks open, and Henrickson pulls out numerous files stuffed full of papers, Post-It notes, and photographs. "Do you know what this is?"
"Willful destruction of the rainforest?"
"Funny, but no. This is your legacy. And let me tell you, it's one hell of a good read. Some of these things even I didn't know were illegal." Now Henrickson pulls out a chair and sits.
Dean resists the urge to fidget. "What can I say? I've always been one for experimentation."
"I bet." The agent's appraising stare starts to make Dean's skin crawl. "You know, I get you. I do. You can do the whole cool-as-ice thing right now because your brother's on the outside. You two have some blockbuster-style plan on how to get out of situations like this?"
Dean lets his silence do the answering for him.
"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Dean, but..." And his head turns to the door. As if on cue, a man Dean recognizes as Henrickson's partner steps in, and over the man's shoulder is a very familiar mop of hair. Dean's heart drops into his stomach like a stone, and he can't bring himself to meet Sam's eyes. Instead, he takes in the slouch of Sam's shoulder, the cuffs at his wrists, and Dean just barely notices the two officers on either side, holding his brother in place.
"Damn it, Sam," but there's no anger in the whispered words, just sorrow.
"Where do you want us to put him?" the partner asks.
There's a small smile on Henrickson's face when he responds. "Second room, down the hall. Just give me a few, and I'll be right in." Dean gets one last glance at Sam before the door is slammed shut, and then he's alone again with the fucking cheshire cat and the silent Parker. Henrickson still has the smile when he turns back to Dean. "You two really should get a different car. Apparently, they spotted your brother not thirty minutes after they picked you up. Was it you or your father that taught him the finer points of high-speed car chases?" Dean's barely able to wrap his mind around Sam and car chase before Henrickson adds, "Anyway, all it took was one word from an officer that we already had you in custody and he just stopped. Pulled over and gave up, wind out of his sails. So much for the escape plan, huh?"
Dean can't breathe. He wants to throw something, thrash someone. Sam shouldn't be here - neither of them should, but especially not Sam. They're off their game, they should have known. It's Wyoming, it's the deal, it's every little fucked up thing that's kept them distracted and unprepared for this. He's vaguely aware that he's practically shaking with tension, teeth clenched and fists bunched.
Henrickson's smile turns smarmy. "What, no further words of wisdom?"
Dean bites back the curse words flitting on his tongue and meets Henrickson's gaze head-on. "Lawyer."
There's a small huff of disappointment. "I thought as much. Hope you liked St. Louis, Dean, because you're heading back there this afternoon as soon as your paperwork is finished." Dean can only blink in response while Henrickson gathers his mountain of paperwork. "I think I'll go see if little Sammy wants to play."
Dean barely gets out "it's Sam" before the door is slammed over his words.
*****
Henrickson enters the second interrogation room and hunkers down at the table across from Sam. The youngest Winchester sits with his head bowed and his hands in his lap, the very picture of defeat, and Henrickson hums in satisfaction just seeing it.
"So, Sam," he starts. "We didn't get the chance to talk last time I saw you boys. Wanted to, but I was a little distracted at the time. Dean always does seem to take center stage, doesn't he?" When Sam doesn't react, Henrickson places his file folders onto the table. "Now, this stack here is everything we have on Dean. Plenty for any judge to throw the book at your brother. But this stack? This is all you, Sam. Fraud, impersonating federal officers, theft, assault, arson." Each crime is punctuated by the slap of a folder onto the table.
Sam sits impassively as Henrickson continues. "These two are my favorites. Aiding and abetting, and accessory to murder. Nice, thick case files too. You were studying to be a lawyer, weren't you, Sam? What do you think? You boys have a snowball's chance in Hell?"
He takes a silent moment to really get a good look at his suspect, and now his eyes narrow. Beyond the down-turned face, Sam's shoulders are squared, his breathing even, his whole body steady. And Henrickson reassesses his situation, because this is not defeat. This is something else. Something he hadn't been anticipating. He hates it.
And still Sam hasn't spoken one word.
"You do realize there's no escaping this time, right? No McQueen-style theatrics. We've got it all planned. Your brother's being extradited today, you'll go in maybe a week, depending on how long we can stall. Maximum security for both of you, on opposite sides of the country if we can manage it. Point is, you're not going to be seeing Dean for a long, long time."
Those words seem to hit home, and now Henrickson's rewarded with a shudder. The tremor starts at Sam's neck and flashes down his body. "No chance of escape, huh?" Sam's first words in the room sound small, restrained, and almost breathy, almost regretful.
Henrickson shakes his head, lets a small hint of victory flavor his voice. "Not a one."
"Okay. If you say so." And there is the confidence he's been expecting from a brother of Dean Winchester, but the words sound dangerously chilled, an unpleasant contradiction to Dean's heated sarcasm. It makes his blood run cold. He watches as Sam lifts his head, a wicked smirk dancing across his lips. He's practically frozen in place when their gazes lock, and he sees a burst of yellow flash in Sam's eyes and then fade away just as quickly. And Victor Henrickson, a man who has faced down some of the worst murderers, rapists and criminals known to man, suddenly wants to run screaming for his mommy.
The intensity of Sam's tight-lipped smile makes him shove back from the table. He has his hand at his gun and is slowly backing toward the door when Sam's patient "wait" stops him in his tracks.
The kid lifts his hands from his lap, cuffs clanking together softly, and holds them toward the agent. "You mind taking these off before you go?"
*****
Dean's renewed struggle against his cuffs comes to a screeching halt when the door opens again and Henrickson steps through with Sam right on his heels, unbound and unrestrained. Through a haze of disbelief, he barely hears Sam order for Dean's cuffs to be removed, and it seems like slow motion when Henrickson pulls a large ring of keys from his pocket and moves toward Dean. But the fog lifts when Henrickson turns to Guardman Parker and chokes "Shoot him" through clenched teeth.
It's like Cold Oak all over again. Parker's reaching for his sidearm, and there's nothing Dean can do to stop the silent bastard from hurting Sam. He pulls hard against his restraints, and he's only vaguely aware that the high strangled noise he hears is coming from him.
There's suddenly a charge in the air, and Dean swears he can feel every hair on his body stand on end. Then, Parker's sent flying by some unseen force, colliding hard with unforgiving brick of the cell's wall, and Dean numbly realizes the first sound he's heard the guy make is the pained grunt of being knocked unconscious.
"Guess I need to work on my control a little bit."
Dean whips his head around to face his brother's rueful smile, and why is he suddenly reminded of that time when Sam was 6 and got caught sneaking cookies from Pastor Jim's kitchen? Dean tries to think of something to say, anything, but all that comes out is a strained "Sam…"
Sam doesn't seem to hear him. His eyes are locked on Henrickson, who is still shuffling in Dean's direction with the keys dangling in his fist. "Victor, you mind hurrying up a little with those handcuffs?" And Dean can't believe his ears when the agent responds with "sure thing."
His attention now turned to Dean, Sam moves to the table and leans until they're at eye level with one another. "You ready to get out of here?"
"Sam...how..."
"One hell of a learning curve," and Sam says it like it's the most obvious answer in the world.
Dean wants to demand to know what happened, what's going on, why, no, but the words just rush out of his mouth in an unintelligible blur. Sam holds up a hand, and the words dry up Dean's throat. "My choice, Dean. That bitch gave you a year, and you're not spending one single day of it behind bars. Remember, I'm saving you this time."
"Not like this, Sam. Please…don't…" and Dean tries to tell himself it's already too late to be asking that.
"It's okay. Just, keep me grounded." There's a click as Henrickson releases the last cuff. Sam's smile is warm and his grip reassuring when he pulls Dean up from his chair and into a crushing hug like they haven't shared since they were kids. "I know you'll keep me grounded."
*****
"As cool as that sounds, Sam, I'm not letting you whammy an entire precinct. Just get Victor to bring the car around and we'll slip out the window like old times."
And yeah, Dean's got this "grounded" thing covered. And he can already see Henrickson, hog-tied with his own cuffs on the side of the sketchiest road they pass on their way out of dodge.
*****
There's thirty minutes of barely comfortable silence in the car before Dean's curiosity gets the best of him. "One thing I don't get," and he can tell without looking up from the road that Sam's giving him his undivided attention. One thing, right. "You haven't even had a vision since the cemetery. I thought all this," he makes vague gestures at Sam's entire body, "was over."
Sam gives him a small smile, like he'd been waiting for Dean to ask. "All my visions were tied in with the Demon and the other psychic kids. Demon's dead, so are the other psychics. Whatever this is," and he repeats Dean's gestures almost mockingly, "runs a little deeper."
So that's that.
There's a few more minutes of silence, but this time Sam breaks it. "Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"You know, Ava was able to control demons when she let loose. Think with a little practice we might be able to give that crossroads bitch one hell of a surprise?"
Dean quickly glances at Sam and can see the hope shining in his little brother's eyes. It's the first time he's seen anything but despair there, and Dean can feel an answering spark of hope pushing its way into his chest. Sammy's going to save him. Dean barks a laugh, punches the acceleration, and the roar of the engine echoes his good mood as they speed out of town.