Disclaimer: I don't own "Supernatural" or profit from it in any way; I merely plunder its intellectual property for my own amusement. I also don't own the Terrence Malick movie from which I've stolen my title, or the Fiona Apple songs that I will use as my subsequent chapter headings.
Author's Note: This is a complete departure, in theory at least, from "The Final Solution," but I intend this story to pack just as much of an emotional wallop. Also, my eternal gratitude to my Beta, Adara.
I
As he heard the door slam in the background, Dean already knew it was too late. And, considering the situation they had been entangled in just previously, that was a pretty pessimistic outlook. I mean, you take on demons and their assorted ghoulish compatriots for most of your life, outsmart an annoyingly self-righteous FBI agent who's been tailing you for several months, and still manage to kick back and have some fun (and a few beers) every once in a while? That's a pretty...well, huge accomplishment, Dean thought, but it meant next to nothing now. His ability to recall just exactly what kind of salt he should load the buck shot with to take out a resident Avestan spirit, or his devilish charm in picking up the ladies, meant exactly nothing as he stood pacing outside of the screen door he'd just torn through – waiting for Sam.
Ironically, this was a situation tailored for hunters; Dean was just on the wrong side. Stealing a moment to peer back into the dark house, through the moth-eaten screen and into the inky abyss from which he kept hoping Sam would appear, he considered the symmetry.
"Whichever one of us thought it'd be some Big Nasty was an idiot; we should have known better: it would never be the monsters who wear their skin on the outside," He ruefully mused (and this was not a mind given to many rueful musings, mind you – only highlighting the severity of the situation). His insight came too little, too late, but that didn't blunt the force of its sincerity, or truthfulness. Agent Henriksen was a handsome, charming adult male. He was also a sociopath. Surprise, surprise.
A noise behind him: a rock being overturned. Perhaps it was a scampering forest critter, one of Snow White's lackeys out late for some partying. Or maybe it was a shoe, a shoe being worn by a foot being used to walk closer to him. Maybe this shoe wasn't friendly.
Dean turned his head back toward the door for one more millisecond of hope – "If Sammy comes out right now, we could take this guy. We could still escape." – and then grabbed the biggest rock he saw within a three-foot radius.
"As I walk up to you now, Dean, I swear to you there is no point in using that for anything other than braining yourself," a voice called out. It was silkier than when they'd last encountered it, back in Bela's hotel room: lacking less in the mania and desperation for success. Then it had sounded, Dean could now safely reflect, a lot like John. Now it just sounded like Mephistopheles, coming to collect his Faustian due. Dean allowed a wry smile to grace his features for a brief moment: the idea of a Soul Collector coming for Dean – now – was pretty hilarious. If he hadn't been currently crouching into an offensive crouch, he might have even laughed, or at least used his findings as basis for a comeback to Henriksen, who was even now approaching from the darkness of the backyard.
"You know, we could have spared ourselves the trouble and the stress of a break-out if we'd known ahead of time you would find us," Dean said.
"You know, we could have spared ourselves thousands of dollars in overtime if one of you Winchesters had just gotten yourselves killed," the agent responded.
"That's the rub though, chief: we Winchesters, not so good at the whole 'dying' thing."
"Oh, my bad then: I'll just have to call my men here and find out who it was then they pumped full of lead, then. They told me it was a lanky fella trying to get into this house here," said Henriksen, gesturing to the ranch-style shadow behind Dean. "But maybe it was a mistake…"
"You know, I think in the legend, isn't the Devil supposed to be more persuasive than this?" If there were a God, Dean prayed right now he let none of the fear he'd felt slip into his statement.
"I'm no Devil, Dean. Really I'm more of an avenging angel."
"Is that what you've told yourself all these long sleepless nights hunting us down?"
"Does it matter, really? Telling you, and continuing this pleasant little conversation, only prolongs the inevitable. We all know why I'm here – and what it means if I am before Sammy is."
There was a lot to be distressed about in Henriksen's last sentence. But for some bizarrely protective reason, Dean focused on Henricksen's casual reference to "Sammy." He actually had to work his jaw to keep himself from retorting with something not only completely pointless, but wasteful; he had precious few seconds left, and using them to defend his little brother, and not even really defend him, would be completely idiotic. And yet, backed into a corner as he was, wouldn't such stooping really be forgiven? He was a caged animal: they were known for crazy stunts.
Stunts.
Dean had an idea; the corner he'd been groping himself into ever since they'd managed to weasel away out of that district-deputy's car gave way to a secret passageway.
"Don't call him Sammy," The hunter ground out – hopefully with all the necessary overheated gravitas.
"Would you prefer 'pond scum'?" The agent called out, sauntering forward lightly. It was a matter of inches really, and Dean saw that it was intended to put him on his toes, prepare him for a fight, stress him out. But Henriksen hadn't figured in the fact that you didn't play a player and Dean certainly wasn't the former. There was a game going on between the two men, anyone could see that, but it was on the fugitive's terms. He just made it look like Henriksen's. He just made it look good.
"I'd prefer you not speak at all, really. But seeing has how assaulting a federal agent is a felony, and seeing as how doing the damage required to wire your jaw shut could definitely be construed as 'assault,' well, I'll just have to play nice."
"Nice? You call vandalizing government property, committing multiple homicides, arson, breaking and entering, smuggling contraband across state lines, a whole host of firearm violations, and numerous counts of obstruction of justice 'nice'? You're sicker than I thought Winchester." As he finished rattling off the numerous allegations of breach of décor and justice, a note of hysteria cracked his voice. Had he not been dressed so suavely, or been maneuvering so calmly, Dean mused, Henriksen could definitely look crazy.
"Hell, to the people that get to know him…"
"What happened to 'Innocent Until Proven Guilty'?"
"Nonsense. Ever heard of 'To Serve and Protect'? Yeah, that's me. And I'm protecting all of these nice folks--" Again he gestured to the shadows of the surrounding houses, "--from you."
"Funny: I never saw myself as much of a menace compared to some guy who totes two guns daily, and orders tactical assaults on two men he couldn't even convict in court."
"Are you pleading 'Not Guilty'?" Henriksen asked sardonically. Obviously, he was enjoying the game, getting into it. Time to change gears.
"You never did promise not to use 'Sammy' again."
"I don't remember caring," The agent tossed back. He hadn't yet noticed that as the two had been speaking, Dean had eased the rock around his back, springing his arms tight for the throw, pumping his legs mentally for the run, and preparing in his head the dressing-down he'd give Sam for making him worry like that. All of which had been the point.
"Unless he's really been caught…no, of course not." It wasn't as if Dean couldn't understand a scenario involving his little brother's capture. But at this stage of the end-game, in which every pawn mattered, he had to play as if he still had all his pieces left: as if his opponent's King were in plain view.
"Go," he muttered quietly. Henriksen's ears perked, barely.
"What–" The rock was in the air, and the sentence was never finished. To an observer, one moment the air would have been charged with manic-glee (the predator) and desperation (the prey), and the next all would be chaos. Because suddenly, the predator was on the ground, and the prey was running much too fast.
As the picket fence approached him, Dean prepared to leap, in one clean motion, over it. As he did, a part of him mused: "I wonder if Sammy will appreciate now the danger all these little white pickets can pose."
He tightened his muscles into coils of decision just waiting for the starting shot.
"Go–"
Fire. A brief, razor-thin line of pain across his leg. He collapsed, the dull gleam of the wooden boards not three feet from his eyes.
Fire everywhere. And suddenly it was all pressing down on him: the madness of their situation when they'd first been caught; the worry and panic at having to create a plan in a miniscule, and fixed, amount of time; the adrenaline rush of pulling off their escape without a hitch; the frenzied chase after the hitch had caught up with them; their thirty-seconds of palaver before Sam and Dean had parted ways, for however briefly a period they had intentioned, before they were to rendezvous back in this backyard, where, of course, Dean did meet someone…just not Sam; and now this, the worry for his brother's safety, the
frustration at their capture at the hands of this crazed self-righteous lunatic, and (however shameful it may be) the well of terror that had threatened all night to overtake him.
Now it was – it, and about 1,000 of its closest friends. They smothered him. And as he sank, he distinctly heard the crunch of approaching feet. Sadly, the shoes sounded distinctly "government-issue."
He gave in; he gave out.
Dean Winchester slept. But there would be no rest.
II
Knowing and doing are two different things. Knowing that what was happening to them was a mistake, as Dean did, didn't really enable him to do anything about it.
It was a battle though, not to try at least, the entire way. But it was the worst when he first woke up.
There wasn't any more fire, finally, once Dean opened his eyes. Instead, there was ice. It coated him, causing tremors throughout his body, and froze him where he sat, behind a wire grille in a police cruiser, speeding down a dark highway. The driver wasn't FBI, surprisingly, but rather a plump, middle-aged man: a lifer. The lifer was humming to himself. No, not to himself, Dean corrected, but along with the quiet music he could faintly hear from the radio up front. It took a moment, but then he realized the music was low in consideration for the vehicle's backseat passenger: him. Yet the man's token kindness didn't warm Dean, not in the least. So still he sat, frozen to his seat, coated in ice miles thick.
Internally, it was no better. It was sub-zero, and yet still worse than previously indicated. He was shivering because he was cold – his sweat from the exertion of the chase had become tiny droplets of ice thanks to the cop car's air-conditioning – but he was frozen because he was trapped, pulled in two separate directions, and there would never be resolution. If he budged even an inch, Dean feared he would split clean down the middle.
On one hand, he didn't have the faintest idea in hell what was going on.
On the other, he didn't want to wait another second to find out.
Obviously, there were conflicts between the two.
Common sense argued that he needed to find out the basics first – Was he fine? Was Sam fine? – before he concocted any sort of hare-brained scheme.
Dean Winchester argued that he needed to reach for the six-inch curved blade he kept in his boot and begin hacking away at his restraints. Arguably, it would be impossible to destroy his handcuffs, but that wasn't the idea. Invariably, the ruckus would cause the officer to pull over, at which point Dean would hide his knife so when the officer opened the back door to investigate…
Bam.
No.
He couldn't. Common sense won. He had to find Sam, and plotting a (possibly successful) escape while he still had a chance would do no good for them in the long run; it would save no one. Because if Dean got out and Sam didn't…there would be no victory then, and no surrender. There would be nothing.
So why did Dean continue to sit, then? If his mental struggle finally gave way to a decisive answer, why the look and the posture now seemingly welded to his person? The answer goes beyond circumstance – it has nothing to do with chases or policemen – and is based more on personality. Dean Winchester was so still because at that very moment, and every moment going forward, he assumed, he was suppressing – with great effort – the overbearing survival instinct. He couldn't leave, and yet he craved it. He craved the insanity of the escape, the slip through a loop-hole where none had been previous, and the possibility of it called to him, screamed for him.
But still he sat.
And sat.
And sat.
Until, forty-five minutes later, he was pulled from the car and escorted into the building, where he was confronted with his next mistake: ever letting Sam get hurt.
It was horrible, when one imagined it, but in real life: not so bad. Dean had imagined a body riddled with bullets, pumping blood from a dozen newly-created holes in his brother's body, and no one around to help him. What he encountered was a mass of bruises, and an unconscious brother.
"You've got one minute," the officer explained, leaving Dean in the lobby to the building with Sam. Apparently no effort would be made to wake up the suspect.
What did Dean do with his minute? Swearing not to let another mistake occur, he turned that minute into a lifetime – memorizing and sucking up every tiny detail of his brother. He remembered the arch of Sam's forehead as it met his shaggy hair, the ever-so-tiny cleft in his chin, the way his nose broadened by degrees at perfect intervals, and the way his face came to a square-point. Dean also stored away the eternal image of Sam's lanky sprawl, how even in discontent oblivion his body went twisting and turning into unimaginable positions, and (even though he couldn't see them) the crystal haze of his younger brother's eyes: the shades, melting and pooling into one another, and the pain and loss that would no doubt be reflected in them once Sam woke up.
Again, Dean felt the urge to stay, to fight. But doing that would risk this, what was right before his eyes. He would have to bide his time: they would have to be careful before a tactical strike could be made.
These are the things he soothed himself with. They mattered little, in the end.
He heard the cop coming, and, taking one last second, he froze in the forefront of his mind, the battered face of Samuel "Sammy" Winchester. Dean swore to himself that he would move Heaven and Hell to erase that mental picture with a better one, in the future, when this was all fixed.
"Let's go." And he did.
And as he heard the cell door slam in the background, Dean already knew it was too late.
Mistakes were made by all parties involved. This was the sentiment routinely expressed throughout the follow-up report to the Winchesters' capture.
Of course, the report focused mainly on the degenerate activities of the brothers, and the civility-yet-nobility Henriksen had displayed in his "dogged pursuit," but it was a credit to the paper's writers that there were moments taken for a look at the overall picture, albeit in a light unknowingly patronizing:
"It is the opinion of Agents Pierce, Cole, and Davis that should any persons desire for future knowledge to wonder at the source of the atrocities at the center of the Winchester Case, they would have several places to look; there would be several non-objectionable targets for blame."
Still, these men had no way of knowing. In their minds, the mistakes made had been of the System, and those committed by men (or rather, men not currently being charged and finger-printed) were unavoidable symptoms of circumstances both arbitrary and impossible to predict. Yes, they would say, there were flaws and cracks and smudges hiding just beneath the too-perfect shell of American Justice, and there was a problem, but one, certainly, too slight to blemish the glory of the FBI's achievement.
The irony was that they were partially right. Mistakes had been made by all parties involved. And mistakes were still being made – or what else would you call the act of the police hauling in a perfectly healthy (both physically and psychologically) young man for crimes they couldn't yet prove? They would call it preemptive, preeminent, and succinct.
You should know it as tragic, swift, and concrete. And it was a mistake.