Story of Our Lives
"Dean, this isn't a good idea," muttered Sam, pointing his torch around to catch all the shadows.
"Relax, Sammy," answered Dean. "It's just a salt and burn, and then we'll be out of here." He turned a doorknob and pushed the door open, looking inside with his gun in front of him.
"Dean, this is a museum," Sam reminded him. "With security cameras."
"Which we have on a loop," Dean finished. "It's okay, Sammy."
"I still have a bad feeling about this," Sam murmured, before opening another door. He shone his torch in and looked around. "Found it," he told Dean, training the beam on a small exhibit in a corner.
"Mr. Albert Macintosh's remains," Dean declared with a grin, looking at the exhibit. When he realized what it was he made a face. "Why," he asked no one in particular. "Why."
Sam gingerly picked up the pair of false teeth and pocketed it. "Let's just get this over with," he said, sounding nauseated. "C'mon, Dean."
"Yeah, real fun," grouched Dean. "Burning the false teeth of the town's founder. Yay."
Sam spared him a bitchface before opening the last door in their way and leading the way across the car park. "Think old Al's gonna make an appearance?" asked Dean, watching as Sam salted the teeth.
"Probably," answered Sam. "Let's try to finish this before that, though." He chucked the teeth at his feet and poured lighter fluid on it.
"Ghost at nine o'clock," Dean muttered, sounding almost bored. Before Albert Macintosh could get close enough to hurt them he dissipated, courtesy of rock salt and Dean Winchester.
"When are we going to get any real jobs?" he complained a minute later, watching as the teeth burned. "I feel like an amateur. All we do these days is salt and burn."
"Would you rather we had vamps and Djinns?" muttered Sam, stamping out the remaining flames with his foot.
"Yes!" replied Dean emphatically. "At least it'd be a change!"
Sam just rolled his eyes before saying, "Let's just leave. I still have a bad feeling about this."
"You're just paranoid," accused Dean, walking around to the driver's side of the Impala.
Sam paused with his hand over the door handle on his side. "Do you hear that?" he asked.
"Hear what?"
"Shut up and listen."
Dean strained his ears, and sure enough – the sound of sirens was getting closer. "Shit," he cursed, getting into the car. "Police?"
"Who else would it be?" Sam replied, closing his own door behind him. "Let's just get out of here before they see the passed out guard near the door."
"Or the cameras we screwed with. Or the doors we jimmied open. Or the missing teeth."
"Yeah Dean. I get it. Thank you." Dean didn't have to look to know Sam was wearing an epic bitchface.
He revved the engine and had just touched his foot to the accelerator when a police car swerved in front of him. "Damn," he muttered, trying to reverse, but again found his way blocked by a car behind him.
"Dean, isn't there a way around?" asked Sam, his voice tense.
"No," Dean told him, looking around again and hoping hope against hope a way out would appear. None did, though. "We're screwed," he groaned.
"I told you this wasn't good," Sam said.
"Yeah, thank you, Sammy," Dean snarked. "Don't know where I'd be without you and your Captain Obvious statements–"
"GET OUT OF YOUR CAR AND PUT YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS!" A cop was standing in front of the Impala and shouting into a bullhorn. "NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS!"
"Guess we'd better listen," Sam muttered, before opening his door and stepping out, his hands hovering near his head. Dean followed his lead, still cursing under his breath.
Two cops hurried forward and grabbed the brothers, slamming their heads into the hood of the Impala. Sam felt the cold metal of handcuffs circle his wrists, followed by a click as they closed. "You're under arrest," the cop holding him told him, "for assault, B&E, and damaging property of the town."
Suddenly Dean's legs shot out and kicked the officer holding him in the shins, causing him to yell out and double over. Taking the cue, Sam lashed out as well, swinging his fists at his own officer. The fray drew the attention of the cops in the car behind them, and Dean yelled out some pretty creative curse words. "We can't take them all!"
"Can you drive with the cuffs on?" asked Sam, managing to knock out his officer with a punch to the jaw.
"No harm in trying," Dean answered, kicking the limp form of the other officer. He made a beeline for the Impala, but before he could get in again another officer yelled out, "HALT!"
He looked up to see Sam standing there, the third officer holding a gun to his head. "Come with me or I shoot him," he threatened.
"You can't do that," Dean told him, hands hovering above the door handle.
"Sure I can," the officer answered. "I'll tell 'em it was self-defense. Now are you coming or do I have to shoot him?"
Sam looked at Dean, helpless. "Fine, I'm coming," Dean said angrily, kicking at the road.
"The Winchester brothers," said the officer who'd brought them in. "Thought you two were dead."
Sam and Dean didn't answer.
"Guess you two just don't stay dead, do you." He opened a holding cell and shoved Dean inside, taking his handcuffs off and locking the door. "You, stay here. And you," he said to Sam, "you're coming with me." He pushed Sam in front of him, keeping his gun pressed into the small of Sam's back.
"Where are you taking him?" yelled Dean, but was ignored. "SAM!"
Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. "I'll be fine," he mouthed, but Dean was far from reassured.
"The FBI are on their way," the officer told Sam, hanging up. "You are so screwed."
Sam remained quiet, staring at his intertwined fingers on the tabletop. The officer went on, "You know, I had a friend in Connor's Diner, that night in St. Louis. And you killed him, you and your brother, in cold blood." The officer's voice took on a pained, angry tone. "And you know what? For killing all those people, you and your brother deserve to be punished. You don't deserve to die after everything you did. You deserve to suffer for it."
The words "But we didn't do it" died on Sam's lips. There really was no point, and besides, he had no desire to have "loony-bin" added to his file. Being "cold-blooded murderer" was bad enough.
"Why?" asked the officer. "Why do you do it?"
Sam finally looked up, glancing over the officer and taking in whatever details he could. Officer Kevin O'Malley, dark gray eyes, close-cropped brown hair, average height, average build, couldn't be more than 25. "You'd never believe it if I told you," he muttered, already making up an escape plan.
"Try me," said O'Malley. "TRY ME, YOU BASTARD!" he yelled when Sam didn't comply, his voice promising pain.
Sam just gave him a Look and went back to examining his fingernails.
"I suppose it'd be too much to ask for a confession?" muttered O'Malley bitterly.
Instead of replying, Sam asked, "Why do you have me here? Why not in the holding cell?"
O'Malley just grinned. "That's for me to know and you to find out…" he checked his watch, "in five minutes."
Sam blinked. "Why, what's happening in five minutes?"
"The FBI are arriving," announced O'Malley. "They're going to be the ones interrogating you."
FBI? This wasn't good. If only he could get to Dean before they came… He eyed O'Malley, wondering where he could get a good hit in. Right on the head seemed a good idea… but before he could carry out this plan the door opened and two guys in suits walked in.
"Heard you got the Winchesters," one of them, a short stocky guy with blond hair, said.
"Alive," added the other, tall and thin with thinning red hair.
"Oh yeah," O'Malley told them. "Arrested them for breaking and entering into the museum here."
The redhead raised an eyebrow. "Why'd they break into a museum?"
O'Malley shrugged. "Who cares? We've got them now."
"Weren't they, like, dead a year ago?" asked Blondie.
"They don't usually stay dead," said O'Malley with another shrug. "So, you, uh, you guys gonna interrogate him now?"
Blondie and Redhead nodded.
"Do I get to stay?" he asked hopefully.
"No," they said in unison. O'Malley rolled his eyes and walked out of the room. The agents waited until the door was closed, before turning to Sam.
"So, Sam Winchester," said Redhead, who looked a lot meaner than his partner. "You're alive."
Sam shrugged. "I guess I am." Two agents were a lot harder to overcome than a single officer, but it didn't mean he couldn't try.
"Don't even think about it," grinned Blondie. Sam looked up at the agents, and in that instant both their eyes turned black.
Sam jumped to his feet, the chair falling behind him. "DEAN!" he yelled, knowing he couldn't take them alone. He had no weapons on him – O'Malley had frisked him and taken away his gun and knife – and his sickness had chosen this unfortunate moment to make a comeback. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but he made an effort not to let any of it show.
"Big brother can't hear you," sneered Redhead.
"But we can, and it's annoying," added Blondie, who didn't look so nice anymore. Before Sam could make a move Blondie punched him, and he ended up sprawled on the floor. Gingerly he brought one of his handcuffed hands up and probed his cheek where he'd been hit – the son of a bitch had drawn blood.
He struggled to get to his feet, ignoring how the world swayed here and there. He tried to take a swing at the nearest 'agent' – Redhead, but the demon saw it coming and deflected it with ease. "Looks like Sammy's not in top form," he mocked, before punching him in the gut.
"DEAN!" Sam yelled again, but it was a lot weaker this time.
"I told you, he can't hear you!" Blondie told him in a singsong voice, grabbing him from behind and slamming his head down in the table. Sam was pretty sure he saw stars, and his vision was beginning to get blurry.
He shot his leg out from behind, and it caught one of the demons – he couldn't see which one it was – but it didn't seem to make any difference. "Ow, that tickles," said the demon – Redhead again, going by the voice. "Do it again!"
"Or not," added Blondie, and Sam heard an audible snap a few seconds before pain shot up his leg and he collapsed.
"Look at him," laughed Redhead. "Poor wittle Sammy, all hurt and sick on the floor!"
Sam was still trying to get through the fire travelling up and down his right leg, and so didn't say anything. He just hoped there were no demons wherever Dean was, and that somehow, Dean would find a way out and come find him.
"Okay, we've had our fun," Blondie was saying, above him. Now that he was out of the game for a bit they seemed to pay him no mind. "Let's get him to Crowley now."
"Won't it be easier for Crowley if he's all beat up?" argued Redhead.
Sam coughed into his hands, and was alarmed to see blood. He had to get to Dean somehow, they had to get back to the Batcave… this wasn't good, not at all–
The door opened and Sam heard O'Malley say, "What's going on here?" He was sitting on the other side of the table, with his back against one of the legs, and the door was out of his line of sight.
Blondie shrugged. "He wasn't answering."
O'Malley groaned. "You know, I really don't care that you hit him, in fact, I wouldn't mind joining in. But you know we can be prosecuted for that, right?"
Redhead also shrugged. "Technicalities. After everything he's done, I don't think anyone would mind."
Sam coughed again, careful not to let them hear. More blood, and he began to feel panic creeping up on him.
"Why don't you make yourself useful, kid," Redhead was saying to O'Malley, "and get us the other one?"
"Sure," answered O'Malley, and the door closed. Sam's panic increased.
Suddenly his vision was filled with Redhead and Blondie – they'd knelt to talk to him. "Do you know why everyone always goes for you first, Sam?" asked Redhead. When Sam didn't answer, he socked him in the face. Sam blacked out for a second before coming to with a sharp pain in his cheek, and he could taste blood inside his mouth.
"It's because you're so much easier to break," Blondie told him, pressing down on Sam's bad leg and making him groan. "And when Dean sees you, he breaks too."
As if on cue the door opened and Sam heard O'Malley shove Dean in. "I can walk, asshole!" Dean yelled.
"Shut up," muttered O'Malley, before saying to the 'agents', "He's all yours."
"Sam? Where's Sam?" asked Dean, and Sam couldn't see him but he knew he was looking around.
"Dean," he called out, appalled at how weak his voice sounded. "Dean, I'm over here–"
"Shut up," snapped Redhead, slamming Sam's head in the table's leg. By now he was pretty sure he had a concussion – if only those black spots on his vision could clear out…
"SAM!" Dean had come round and spotted them – and also his very much injured little brother. He made to come over but Redhead and Blondie stood to stop him, both wearing identical grins.
"What did you do to him, you sons of bitches!" yelled Dean, trying to shove them aside. Sam didn't understand why the demons hadn't yet made a move to hurt him, but he figured they were probably relishing the look on Dean's face.
"Get out of my way, you bastards!" roared Dean, and punched the first 'agent' in the face.
Redhead recovered in a second and grinned. "There it is," he said cheerfully. "The Dean we all know and hate."
"What?" Dean began, but stopped, and Sam knew the 'agents' had probably shown him that they were demons. "Oh what the actual fuck," he heard Dean groan. "I can't deal with this now–"
"Well, you're going to have to," sneered Redhead.
"Or not," Dean decided, and pulled out the demon knife. Sam blinked – how had he gotten that in there?
"Dean?" he questioned, his voice even weaker than it had been.
"In a minute, Sammy," promised Dean, before plunging the knife hilt-deep into Redhead's gut. Sam closed his eyes, the demon's dying light too much for his weakened vision.
Blondie snarled and lunged towards Dean – and was met with the demon knife. He dodged out of the way just in time. "I'm going to kill you," he told Dean, his face twisting with rage and hatred. "And then I'm going to deliver your baby brother right down to Crowley. Guess who makes Employee of the Year?"
"Not you," panted Dean, swiping at Blondie, "because I'm going to kill you."
"Aw, is the big bad hunter mad?" mocked Blondie, moving out of reach and almost tripping over Sam's bad leg. Sam cried out in pain, and Blondie laughed delightedly. "Is Dean mad, 'cause we hurt his wittle brother?" He stepped on Sam's leg, and Sam yelled out again.
"Sammy," breathed Dean, taking his eyes off the demon just for a second so he could look at his little brother. "Sammy, just a minute, okay? It's all right."
Sam nodded, before closing his eyes. The lights overhead were beginning to hurt his head, and God, but he just wanted to sleep. Just a little nap.
"Dean's not just mad," he heard his brother say. "Dean's furious, you son of a bitch. And do you know why?"
"Why?" asked Blondie, mocking.
"Because," and suddenly, Dean shoved the knife right into Blondie's throat. "One does not simply screw around with Sammy," he finished, pulling out the knife. He didn't wait to watch Blondie die, instead hurrying to Sam and kneeling at his side.
"Where'd knife come from?" asked Sam, blinking in an attempt to focus on Dean.
"Dammit, you're concussed," cursed Dean. "That cop forgot to frisk me," he answered Sam. The kid was speaking in short sentences and squinting, plus covered in blood… Dean might as well have the words 'not good' tattooed on his and Sam's foreheads. Story of their lives, and all that.
"Yo, Kevin!" called out one of the other officers, a short, fat, middle-aged guy with thin, oily brown hair and small, beady eyes. "Heard you made a high-profile arrest tonight."
O'Malley grinned and swaggered over. "Oh yeah, the Winchesters," he boasted.
The officer squinted up at him. "The Winchesters are dead," he stated. "Died last year, remember?"
"Oh please," said O'Malley. "Come on, Chuck, when are they actually seriously dead?"
Chuck shrugged. "Point taken." Then he grinned up at O'Malley and said, "So, they here right now?"
O'Malley nodded. "Yep, back in the interrogation room with the FBI agents. Wanna see?"
Chuck sprang to his feet like a kid excited for Christmas. "Hell yeah!" he said, grinning ear to ear.
O'Malley chuckled. "Well, c'mon, then. Anyone else around?"
"It's the graveyard shift, Kev. Everyone's home."
"Why are you here, then?"
"Had a case to look up on – you know, that ole burglary at Aunt Mae's. Come on now, show me the Winchesters!"
"Yeah, yeah. Come on." O'Malley led the way towards the interrogation room. "We had Sam in there and Dean in the holding cell," he told Chuck, quite enjoying his celebrity. Absently he wondered whether he'd be given some huge monetary award or something, maybe even a promotion. "Then the agents came, and now Dean's in the room as well. Wanna know how they look in person?"
Chuck nodded eagerly.
"Humongous," O'Malley told him. "Absolutely gigantic. You know, I'm not sure they're even human, Chuck."
Chuck laughed. "Come on, Kev. What else could they be?"
"You see them, you'll know what I mean," O'Malley answered mysteriously, pushing open the door to the interrogation room. "Agents, excuse us," he said loudly, before stopping abruptly.
"Um, agents?" squeaked Chuck, clutching the doorframe for support. "Kev, they're dead!"
"I can see that!" snapped O'Malley. "What I can't see are the damn Winchesters!" He drew his gun and aimed it in front of him, making his way slowly into the room. "Chuck!" he barked, and Chuck scrambled to follow, getting his own gun out.
They drew level to the table, gingerly stepping over the agents' bodies. Suddenly O'Malley stopped short, and Chuck nearly crashed into him. "What the hell, Kev?"
The Winchesters were still there – and taking absolutely no notice of the two officers. "Hey, you," said O'Malley loudly. "You're under arrest."
Dean looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "Gimme a minute, hotshot," he snapped, before turning back to Sam. "Listen to me," he said, his tone infinitely softer. "Can you walk?"
Sam shook his head. "I think – broke leg," he told Dean.
"Son of a bitch," cursed Dean for the millionth time that day. "Sammy, we gotta get you home," he said. "You gotta try, kiddo."
"Can't," Sam whispered. "Hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten, how much?"
Sam considered. "Thirteen," he finally said. "Dean, why's everything swimming?"
"Nothing's swimming, kid," Dean told him. "You're just not well. We have to get you home."
"I thought you said they were humongous," Chuck whispered to O'Malley. "They're… not."
"Shut up," replied O'Malley. He still had his gun trained on the brothers, but was beginning to doubt his actions – which was strange. These two were serial killers. Only–
"Do serial killers normally act like that?" asked Chuck, gesturing towards the Winchesters. Dean was picking open Sam's handcuffs, and all the while he kept speaking reassuring words and occasionally running his fingers over Sam's knuckles.
"I don't know, okay, just shut up," snapped O'Malley. He was pretty sure they were the actual Winchesters, but there was this niggling doubt in the back of his head. It felt like he'd made a mistake, but he couldn't figure out what.
"What did they do to you, Sammy?" Dean was asking. O'Malley watched in surprise as he grabbed Sam and pulled him close.
"Piñata," Sam told him. "I feel like a piñata."
"Bastards," muttered Dean, running a hand through Sam's hair. "Alright, listen – I'm going to try to get you up, okay? We're gonna get out of here."
"No you're not," interrupted O'Malley.
"Will you shut up for a second?" barked Dean. "Thank you," he added irritably in answer to O'Malley's stunned expression.
"Why are you listening to him?" Chuck asked O'Malley. "He's a serial killer."
"I am so sick of that crap," growled Dean. "Not that you two asshats are going to believe me, but we – didn't – do – it."
"So who did?" challenged O'Malley, having found his voice again.
Dean ignored him; Sam was saying something, clutching weakly at Dean's sleeve. "Cops, Dean. Won't let us go home."
"Nah, they can't stop us," Dean answered.
"We're the ones with the guns," O'Malley told him.
"For the last time, shut up or I will begin my career as a serial killer," warned Dean, and something in his voice made O'Malley lose his tongue again. It was probably his utter disregard for the two policemen and their weapons – not many criminals, and especially not serial killers, took the police so lightly.
Sam laughed weakly. "You're being mean," he told Dean, and promptly dissolved into a coughing fit, spraying blood all over Dean's jacket.
"Whoa, take it easy, kiddo," Dean said, rubbing Sam's back. "Don't talk now, okay? Rest."
Sam nodded, his head falling back against Dean's shoulder. "Sleepy."
"No, you can't sleep," Dean told him, setting him carefully against the table once more. He glanced around at the officers, and then said, "So, I assume you're not just going to let us walk out?"
"You assume right," Chuck told Dean. "I – I'm going to shoot you."
Dean looked disinterested. "Sure you are, McClane."
"My – my name's Chuck," he replied, looking bewildered.
O'Malley groaned. "It's a Die Hard reference, you moron."
"Well, how was I supposed to know? I haven't watched that movie!"
"You haven't watched Die Hard?" Dean cut in incredulously. "What sort of a cop are you?"
"Shut it," Chuck said in what he clearly thought was a threatening tone, waving his gun at Dean.
Dean just rolled his eyes before wrapping his arms around Sam and getting unsteadily to his feet. "Alright, Sammy, let's get you out of here."
"Oh no you don't," said O'Malley, aiming his gun at Dean.
"Oh please," scoffed Dean. "Move aside now, I've got an injured baby to take care of."
"'M not a baby," murmured Sam, weakly hitting Dean with a half-open fist.
"Don't kid yourself, Sammy," Dean told him with a soft grin, before turning back to O'Malley. "You going to move or do I have to make you?"
"What're you gonna do?" challenged O'Malley.
"Take a look at your agents and tell me," answered Dean.
"Yeah, why'd you kill 'em?" asked Chuck.
"They're demons," Dean told him nonchalantly.
Chuck blinked. "Demons? Is that a movie reference too?"
Dean rolled his eyes again and pushed past the officers, walking towards the door. "I will shoot you," threatened O'Malley, cocking his gun.
"Save the theatrics for when you catch an actual serial killer, hotshot," called Dean from the doorway, not even bothering to turn around. "I'm outta here. See ya around… or not."
"Shoot him!" yelled Chuck as Dean walked away, woozy Sasquatch cradled in his arms. "What're you waiting for?"
"You shoot him!" shouted O'Malley back, "if you think you're so cool!"
The sound of an engine revving stopped their argument. "Is that–"
"One of our cruisers, yes," finished O'Malley. "LET'S GO, YOU MORON!"
They raced outside just in time to see their cruiser drive away, rear lights blinking mischievously in the darkness. A hand protruded from the window and waved at them, and then the cruiser took a turn and disappeared.
"They got away," said Chuck, his tone one of utter disbelief. "They just walked out of the precinct and we let them."
"My money," moaned O'Malley, paying no mind to Chuck. "My money and my promotion… it's gone!"
"They just walked out and we let them. I don't believe it. Must be right, what those old agents say about Winchester charm."
"My money! My promotion!"
"We are so screwed, Kev."
"GONE!"
"Dean?" Sam said blearily, an hour and a half later, in his own bed at the Batcave.
"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean paused in the act of signing Sam's brand-new cast.
"Next time I say bad feeling… we stay home."
Dean laughed. "Gotcha, Sammy."
I really don't know where this came from. Feedback would be appreciated :)
(yeah, I mean "review, please". Thanks)
-Peace x