Dead Man's Keeper
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
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Chapter 7
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Exiting the car, Finch joined Reese at the gas pump, quietly said, "We are running out of safe houses, Mr. Reese," his eyes straying to the back of his car where only Winchester's head was visible.
"You're the one that insisted we continue to protect him," Reese pointed out, kept his own feelings unknown.
Sending Reese a scowl, Harold retorted, "There was no way you were going to let him face these men alone, hurt. I know you better than that."
"Is that why you persuaded him to stay with us, for my sake?" Reese taunted, his lips turning up diminutively as he waited for his partner's reply.
"Mostly." But at Reese's probing look, Harold relented, "Ok, fine. There were some inconsistencies in the police reports, eye witness accounts that…were quite contradictory. Some witnesses were quite insistent that our Mr. Winchester saved their lives. It's quite the conundrum but that coupled with your fondness for the man, makes me think there is something …good about our latest number."
"I'm not fond of him," John denied, voice as level as ever.
Finch raised his eyebrow. "Really. You could have fooled me. You've been hovering over him like a worried mother."
"I have not," Reese countered with no infection of indignation.
"You shushed me at the motel when you thought I might wake him," Finch presented as evidence.
"I dug a bullet out of his back, he needed his rest," Reese logically clarified.
Sensing his partner's reluctance to admit any friendliness toward Winchester, Harold softly said, "John, it is Ok to find yourself forming an….attachment to the people we help."
But John's refuted, almost gruffly, "No. No, it's not."
Though he knew he might be stepping over a personal boundary, Harold couldn't help but ask "Why not?"
Eyes slipping to Winchester in the back of the car before falling on Finch, Reese hoarsely stated, "Because people I care about, die, Harold." Without another word he finished filling the gas tank and then claimed the driver's seat.
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When Reese pulled into the vacant, cracked parking lot of the closed City Motel, Finch broke the silence that had reigned in the car. "I'm not sure of the logic of coming here."
"If it worked for one clandestine meeting today, it'll work as a safe house," Reese explained as he got out of the car and opened the back door to let Winchester exit. There was no fluidness in Winchester's movements, was all struggle now that the adrenaline had long left his system. But the man pushed through his pain and fatigue and came to stand outside the car.
Mindful of Winchester's hostility at being helped, Reese fought the urge to lay a supportive hand on the wobbly figure making a stand before him. Instead he remained immobile, simply nodded to the motel and let Winchester take the lead. Reese wasn't all that surprised that Dean selected the room he would have, the room that offered the most defensible position. It just confirmed more of his theories about the other man.
Side stepping around Dean, John shouldered open the locked door to the room. To his relief, the room was not as deteriorate as he had been braced for, was quite hospitable, especially compared to the places where he had had to lay his head down while working for the CIA.
Dean entered the room but Reese waited for Harold on the walkway. "I'll check the rest of the motel, make sure we're alone. You stay with him."
Harold nodded his head but made no move to enter the room, stood peering through the open door at Winchester.
Reese couldn't hold back a small smile at Harold's actions. "Thought you were starting to believe the serial killer brand was wrong."
Finch looked to Reese, expounded, "I said I was starting to have my doubts about its accuracy in some of the instances, not all of them."
Giving Finch's shoulder a squeeze, Reese started heading toward the abandoned motel's office.
With grim determination, Harold entered the room with the suspected serial killer. But he stopped within three meters of its doorway, turned and stationed himself by the window, his back to Winchester, who seemed less threatening seated as he was on the bed, his coat unzipped to reveal the bandage wound around his waist.
Winchester's voice, when he spoke, was deeper than it had been, hummed with exhaustion that he couldn't continue to conceal. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't exactly seem like Tubbs to Reese's Crockett."
Harold couldn't help smirk at the Miami Vice comparison. "Not very likely. No. Mr. Reese has his skill set and I have mine. They may seem incongruent sometimes but they have worked to keep you alive today."
"Yeah, about that. Who said I needed saving?" Winchester posed, curiosity more than resentment carrying in his tone.
At that question, Finch turned around, faced their number for the day, was shocked anew by the man's pallor, which jarred him into remembering the bag he carried and its purpose. Crossing over to Dean, he dug into the bag, handed the wounded man a shirt that he hoped would fit their client as he answered the question that still remained between them. "The bullet Mr. Reese so proficiently extracted from your back surely proves that you were in dire danger."
Winchester smiled, albeit tiredly as he shucked out of his coat, painstakingly slid the other button down shirt on and again donned his coat, spent time looking down to do up the shirt's buttons. "So you're not telling me what Magic 8 Ball you consulted either. Fine. But I think there are other people more worth you risking your life to save, than me."
Caught off guard by the man's low self-esteem and humbleness, Finch wondered what the machine had uncovered about Winchester that he had not. He did not know, though he was its creator, if the machine had discerned Winchester worthy of being saved or if it had given them his number to stop his violent rampage.
Instead of embarking on that unsolvable psychological computation, Harold decided to make his reply personal in nature. "Mr. Reese found something of value in you or else he wouldn't be going to all this trouble to keep you safe."
Dean snorted, his way of showing doubt or disgust, Finch wasn't sure, until the other man spoke.
"He's going on his gut. That and the promise a fourteen year old girl blackmailed him into vowing."
But Harold read something else in Winchester's expression beside censure: understanding. "Seems to me you and Mr. Reese operate under some of the same motivations."
Dean opened his mouth, was about to make a reply but remained mysteriously silent, started to wear an expression not all that dissimilar to Mr. Reese's when the ex-CIA agent sensed danger was close at hand. "Mr. Winchester, is something wrong?" Finch asked, didn't know when he had come to think Winchester's opinion mattered, or his instincts were to be trusted.
"Get down," Dean commanded in a quiet hiss, somehow crossing the room to Finch faster than Finch would have guessed him possible in his wounded state. And then Winchester was yanking him down to land not all too ceremoniously on the floor, his back to the wall. Before he could protest the rough handing, Harold heard voices outside the widow.
"Check every room. This is just the type of place Winchester would scamper away to."
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Reese nearly sensed the other man's presence too late. As it was, he turned in time to knock the gun from the man's hand but wasn't able to avoid the right cross to the jaw. Though he only stumbled a step at the blow, his opponent jumped on his weakness. Literally.
A muscular lithe body plowed into him, sent him flipping over the desk in the small motel office. Using the enforced space between him and his attacker to his advantage, he managed to regain his breath and pulled his gun from its holster. But he didn't expect his adversary to abandon all caution and vault over the desk to tackle him.
They tumbled to the ground, engaged in a wrestling match, both giving and receiving blows, all the while Reese tried to turn his gun onto the other man. He was making progress, had the gun nearly lined up with the man's head when the 8 inch blade of a knife pressed under his neck, bringing to mind Dean's early proficiency with a similar weapon.
The younger man used the mere seconds of Reese's immobility to effectively pin him to the ground.
Wholly recognizing the deadly intent in his opponent's eyes, Reese dropped his gun, was already devising another opening to overthrow the other man.
"Where's my brother?!" the dark haired man growled, pressing the knife hard enough into Reese's flesh to draw blood.
Reese blinked in unmitigated surprise. "Brother?"
With his seemingly lack of answer, the knife dug deeper and the man's demand turned feral. "Where's Dean!?"
Though Reese knew he was in the company of an ally, of sorts, he knew that the trick was to prove that fact before Dean's brother slit his throat. "I'm not here to hurt your brother. I'm trying to keep him safe."
Wearing an expression Reese had seen Dean wear in their short acquaintance, Sam let out a scoffing noise. "Keep him safe, yeah right. Try again."
"Obviously you're Sam. And you've been leaving Dean all those messages, trying to get ahold of him," Reese said, hoping his knowledge of Sam's messages would buy him some trust.
It did the opposite, had Dean's brother leaning down closer, eyes burning with ever greater promised retribution. "If you're hurt him, I swear…."
Reese grabbed Sam's knife wielding hand, stilled it as he seared his gaze into the other Winchester's. He knew he needed to break through the man's rage and fear somehow. "He is hurt, that's why we need to get back to him. Now."
"Hurt…" Sam parroted back but his voice was no longer threatening was alarmed, fragile, quiet, barely loud enough now to carry the few inches to Reese.
Reese and Sam's heads snapped up in unison at the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
Regardless if the action ended with him getting his throat slit, Reese abruptly rolled Sam off him and came to his feet. Then he was barreling out of the office, fear thrumming through him for Harold and, surprisingly, for Dean Winchester too.
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TBC
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And enter Sam, like I promised!
In case you think you've been ripped off and won't see what happened with Dean, that's coming up in the next chapter. I just didn't want to interrupt the scene between Reese and Sam to jump back and forth.
Is this where I tell you that I might be out of Internet service a few days?! (Please don't kill me!) My next posting may end up being on Sunday but I'm hoping to track down a connection and get another chapter to you sooner than that.
Have a great day!
Cheryl W.
