A/N :: This just popped into my head; it's a little crazy but I enjoyed it. I haven't done this much, so any reviews are gratefully appreciated, as well as any critiquing!

One-shot, outsider perspective. Occurs sometime after the third season finale.

Closing the Case on the Winchesters

"But he's dead." Doubt filled the man's tone.

"He is now, but it wasn't from no damned explosion back in February." The second man slapped his glass back on the bar, signaling the bartender for his fourth refill since the first man had joined. "Cops never know 'nothing."

The man in the suit frowned as he stared at the rough-looking gentleman. He had several nasty scars running down his right bicep, twisting the massive muscle enough that it looked like it could impede his maneuverability. Several smaller scars lined his face, disappearing under his silver hair. He must have been at least in his sixties, but he looked like he could still handle himself.

The second man turned to look at him, his steel-gray eyes cold and penetrating. Agent Sinclair found himself holding his breath, automatically shifting backwards to set his weight in a more defensive position. The corners of the man's mouth tugged upwards before the hard scowl returned to his features. "No 'fense, Fed."

"None taken," Sinclair replied softly, wondering if this was an opportunity. Very few people who knew the Winchesters were willing to talk about them. "What do you mean they didn't die in February?"

The man picked up his newly-refilled glass, downing a good third of the alcohol before speaking. "Tha' explosion was a cover up. Not by the boys, mind you," the scowl was back and directed straight at Sinclair. "Enemies 'o theirs. Heard they finally got Dean three weeks back." He stared into the mirror behind the bar, regret and anger filling his features. "Damn shame. Heard his brother lost it." The man's tone changed as he spoke about the brother, and it wasn't for the better.

Sinclair's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You knew them?"

"While back. Their daddy was one of the toughest bastards I've ever had the pleasure of knownin'." An ironic smile crossed his features, and he shook his head before leaning towards the FBI agent. "Didn't do those kids any favors, raisin' 'em like he did. Son-of-a-bitch was one of the best, but he was obsessed." The man's scowl was back as he spoke about the kids. "They deserved better," he growled, poking his finger towards Sinclair's chest. "You remember that."

Sinclair nodded. "From everything I've heard, their childhood couldn't have been easy." Not that it excused what they - primarily Dean - had done, but still. Kids raised like that; it wasn't a surprise they grew up psychopaths.

"Easy!" The man growled, shaking his head. "Dean had it worse, takin' care of Sam like he did. John started him too young, with no home to look to. The kid was good," his eyes and voice softened as he spoke, and he stared at the government man. "Real good. Could have been the best, one day."

Sinclair uneasily wondered what the man was talking about. The best of what? His attention snapped back to the other man as he swiveled on his bar stool, turning to face the room. Sinclair glanced around at the semi-crowded bar, quickly noticing the three people who looked over as he turned around. Two men and one woman, and all of them looked fit, tired, and sharp. One of the men was playing pool, possibly hustling it, but he didn't take his shot as he straightened, eyeing Agent Sinclair with distrust.

"To Dean!" The man raised his glass before tipping it back and letting the liquid slide down his throat. "The bastard deserved better." The woman and the man at the pool table raised their glasses in response, regret flicking across the girl's face. Sinclair realized with a start that she couldn't be older than mid-twenties, and the man scowling next to her looked even younger. His glass remained on their table, untouched. The middle-aged man at the pool table slammed his empty glass back down on wood surface, shaking his head with regret. A few other bar patrons raised their glasses absently, but they didn't look like they knew they were toasting the deceased murderer.

Agent Sinclair felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. They all knew the Winchesters? What kind of people saluted satanic murderers? All of a sudden, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He turned back to the bar, intending on paying his tab and heading back to his room. He was exhausted, uncomfortable, and nervous around these people. The last two days had been brutal, and he had just finished a ten hour drive with the intention of doing it all over again tomorrow.

"Thanks, I guess," he muttered to the man sitting next to him. He itched to understand the strange facts of the Winchester file, like trying to figure out how cops working two separate cases had ended up vouching for them, or at least, vouching for their character.

The cop in Baltimore was under investigation for the shooting of her corrupt partner and for allowing the Winchesters to escape, while a Minnesota cop had bluntly stated she wouldn't have found the now notorious Bender compound without help from a potential felon. The man had impersonated Greg Washington, a cop whose badge had been stolen. It was now assumed that 'Greg' had been Dean Winchester, looking for his brother. In both cases, the only fatalities had occurred by the officers' hands.

It was an interesting case, but one that should have been closed three months ago. Hendrickson had finally managed to capture the Winchesters in Colorado, and a 'chopter had been flown in order to take them to maximum security. Then the helicopter had exploded, and Hendrickson's own report stated that the Winchesters had been on board. Several hours later, the police station he was still had had been leveled by some extreme explosion. From what he could tell of the arson report, the investigator had been totally stumped. The interior of the building had been leveled by the detonation of military-grade ordinance, but the explosion had left most of the exterior walls standing and there had been no residue from the explosive used. So far further investigation of the blast had not been able to reach a definitive conclusion, and the Winchester case remained open.

Agent Sinclair was pulling bills out of his wallet when a calloused hand closed around his wrist. He glanced up, startled, as the steel-eyed man stared at him. "Dean was the good one," he said softly. "Sam's lost it with him gone. Keep them dead, man, keep them dead." He let go of Sinclair's arm, reaching back for his glass when he muttered a sentence so softly that Sinclair almost didn't hear him. "Tha' boy better get himself killed or straightened around 'fore he drags anyone else down." He slammed the empty glass on the table and stood, slapping Sinclair on the shoulder. "Cops never get nothin' right."

Sinclair watched as the man walked out of the bar, steadier on his feet than he had any right to be. A shiver ran down his spine as he paid off his tab and headed to his room. Was it true? Did the file have it all wrong? Was Sam the sadistic one, Dean the older brother who was trying to keep him in line? He remembered something about Sam's girlfriend dying in a tragic accident, and he wondered if it was such an accident after all.

He closed the door behind him, staring at the briefcase standing next to the table. It was a long minute before he pulled the file out, spreading it open on the motel's small table. Another shiver ran down his spine as he leafed through the information from the explosions in Colorado. With the right supplies, with their track records, it could have been faked. If they had gained control at some point during their arrest, it was possible. He sank down into one of the rickety chairs, staring at the information. It was barely in the realm of conceivable, but they could have done it. Maybe.

He slowly sunk into one of the rickety chairs, dutifully noting down everything the man had told him. He realized he hadn't even got a name or number, but was strangely relieved. Without being able to substantiate a claim like that, the information would likely be disregarded. He didn't want to be here, out in the middle of nowhere, investigating a case that should have been closed months ago.

When he finished scratching the information down, he closed the file and quickly undressed, ready to sleep until the alarm woke him up at six the next morning. He pulled the dresser drawer open, hesitating before he placed his firearm inside. Slowly, he closed the empty drawer and slid into bed, shoving his pistol under his pillow. Having it close to hand was a comfort to his jittery nerves, but it was still an hour before he managed to fall asleep.

Three weeks later he was back at the field office, his desk stacked high with folders and papers placed in messy piles around his computer. His phone started ringing and he picked it up absently, shuffling the papers in his hands so he could put it to his ear. "Agent Sinclair speaking."

"This is Special Agent Weber."

Sinclair put the papers down on his desk, straightening a little as his attention shifted to the phone. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"This information about the Winchesters' supposed escape; can it be confirmed?"

"Not that I've been able to track down. I never managed to get the man's name." He waited a moment, but his superior didn't fill the silence. "For what it's worth, I did talk to the bartender afterwards. That man and the others who toasted Dean weren't regulars; apparently they had come into town only a couple days previously, for some sort of job, he thought. They were gone by the time I woke up, even the man who didn't look like he agreed with the toast. The bartender said they didn't seem to like police that much, and from everything I saw I agree with him. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume the man made it up to mess with me." Sinclair pushed his uneasy feeling away. The steel-eyed man might have made the story up, but something was telling him that it wasn't the case. The man had been totally convinced of Dean's apparent innocence. Although, now that he thought about it, he had never said Dean had been innocent. He had just said the cops got it wrong. Huh. Either way, the Winchesters were dead - supposedly - and he hoped to god they would stay that way.

"But he said Dean was dead?" His boss spoke softly, his tone thoughtful.

"Yes sir. He said some enemy of theirs killed the boy." Sinclair hesitated, wondering if he should just bite his tongue. He really wanted this case closed. "He also said it wasn't Dean who was the sadist. From what I gathered, it sounded like he thought Sam was the one who had gone off the deep end." He did bite his tongue on the notion that Sam was still alive. And, apparently, bad news now that his brother was dead.

"You believe him?"

"I believe that he believes it."

"Very well. I'll put a note of that in the file," Agent Weber stated. "Unless you think there's something here, I'm officially closing the Winchester case. Any objections?"

Sinclair hesitated. "No. No objections." His gut rolled, and he wondered if it was a mistake not tracking Sam down now. Before he could drag anyone else down with him. The steel-eyed man's words echoed through his head, leaving an uneasy feeling in his gut.

"Good. I'm sure you have plenty to do. Good day, Agent Sinclair."

"Yes sir." The line went dead, and Agent Sinclair leaned back in his chair with a mixed feeling of relief and nerves. It was better that the case was closed. It was. He was still trying to convince himself of the fact when he pulled his papers towards him and got back to work.