Alright, so I figured some of you wanted this to be part of the story, and it really seemed to fit better than I had originally intended. So here you go - enjoy. And just want to make yet another shout out to all my wonderful readers. Whether you review or just lurk I appreciate the fact that you are all so eager to read my story. Thanks so much. On with the story...
A deep breath and a shaky hand running through his hair finalized Sam's efforts to calm his emotions before he pulled the woolen black mask over his face and checked the clip in his gun one final time. He could feel his spare weapon held securely in the ankle strap, but its presence provided him no additional comfort as he hid in the shadows of the alley, waiting for the time to change to 5:01.
The ticking of his watch seemed to get louder as he waited, the seconds seeming to go by at an impossibly slow pace, mocking him as each slow click taunted its failure to make it the right time. The minute finally changed and he could hear the locks on the front door being turned. The bank was now closed.
In a swift movement, Sam grabbed at the clutch of exposed wires before him, clipping the ones to the alarm system as Bobby clipped the phone lines a few feet away, ensuring that the police could not be called.
Sam looked to Bobby, motioning the man closer to him as he pried open the door he had propped earlier and the two men stealthily crept into the basement entrance, being careful to leave the door propped open behind them. The made their way through the darkened hallways, paths only illuminated by the emergency lights that remained on regardless of additional power sources. It took only three minutes to arrive at the top of the stairs and Sam took yet another breath to calm his jittery nerves, the knowledge that he was only inches away from committing a heinous crime for the love of his brother weighing heavily on his conscience.
He couldn't believe it had come to this; couldn't believe they were so fraught for money that he was willing to put innocent lives at risk. But they'd become stationary in this town, in it for the long haul, so fraudulent insurance cards were a no-no. And the price of the two legs alone was more than Dean had hustled in the past five years. Add to that the cost of the physical therapist and prosthetist and lord only knew what else in the future and Sam was at a loss for how to pay for it all. State programs had agreed to pay for one prosthesis and four weeks worth of therapy, but the choice of leg was limited if they went that route and Dean didn't deserve to be short changed. Not only did he not deserve it, he couldn't afford it. He had to have top notch, indisputable craftsmanship if he ever planned to get back into the hunt, and for that, Sam would do absolutely anything.
Which brought him here, to this bank, on this day, sweating profusely beside Bobby as they prepared to clean out the vault.
"You're sure you got the video loop going," Bobby hissed as Sam's hand went to the doorknob. "It's not going to record us?"
"We're good," Sam assured him, only after running those events back through his head to confirm it to himself. "Yeah, I got it. You ready?"
Hell, no. If Sam thought he was crazy for being here, Bobby sure as hell didn't know why he was here. Sure, he loved John Winchester's boys as though they were his own, but nothing could compare to the love the brother's shared for each other. He could never even dream of feeling that kind of emotion. And yet here he was, dogging young Sam Winchester's heels in what was, without a doubt, the most stupid, reckless, illegal thing he'd ever done in his long life. Still, he found himself nodding his compliance. "Let's go."
Sam's fingers lingered over the doorknob for just a second more before they grasped it tightly and turned. He finally burst through, gun drawn and level with his shoulder aiming in the general direction of the tellers without pointing it at any one person. The four tellers, all finalizing their money counts before heading home, looked up from their stacks in total shock and fear.
"Everybody, hands up! This is a robbery!" Sam exclaimed, his voice surprisingly steady despite his frayed nerves. He noted the first teller on the left reaching under the counter for the panic button and turned his gun on the young man. "Push it and I'll shoot you where you stand," Sam snarled, noted conviction behind the lie he'd just told. He knew he would never shoot anyone; knew that if it came to that he would rather turn the gun on himself. But they didn't have to know that anymore than they had to know the panic button had been disarmed.
Behind him, Sam could sense Bobby covering the area, eyes and gun scanning the entire room for additional threats as Sam controlled the actual theft. He reached behind him, grabbing the bag from his waistband and tossing it at the nearest teller, a woman in her late forties. "Fill it," he ordered. "All the money in your drawer then pass it to the next girl."
His hostage did as she was told, nervously dumping the bills into the drawer before timidly asking "Do...do you want the change?"
"What?" Sam demanded, caught off guard. He hadn't expected the question, hadn't really expected to be hearing anything other than pleas of 'don't hurt me,' and other entreaties for their lives. But he finally recovered, and replied. "No. Just the bills."
She nodded and handed the bag on to the next person who filled it with the contents of her drawer and then handed it on down the line and so on as Sam nervously waited out the precious seconds it took to fill the bag with the meager contents of the drawers.
"Who has the key to the vault?" Sam demanded when the final teller filled the bag and handed it back to Sam. The gun was beginning to shake in his hand as the reality of the situation began to sink in. I'm robbing a bank. I'm robbing a fucking bank. But he willed himself to remain calm, reminding himself why he was doing this. Reminding himself that Dean deserved to have the best, and this would give him just that.
Anxiously looking among themselves, the four tellers seemed to be silently arguing over who would step forward. The sole male finally raised a hand, taking timid steps from behind the counter as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
"I'm not going to hurt you, as long as you do as I ask," Sam assured him. "I get what I came for and me and mine will be on our way."
The man remained rigid, untrusting, but continued to move toward the vault with purpose. Sam went with him while Bobby stayed behind to guard the others.
"I don't want any stacks with the dyes," Sam warned as he shoved another bag toward the guy and indicated that he should begin filling it. "You fuck this up and I'll come back for you - you got me?"
He nodded, skittish as he began separating some stacks from others, the majority of those stacks going into the burlap. "You're not going to get away with this," he said shakily. "There's security cameras all over the place. They'll catch you."
"I'll take my chances," Sam monotoned, omitting his knowledge that the cameras were on a continuous feed loop and that, as far as the guards were concerned, all the tellers were still counting their money. "Just hurry it up so I can get out of here and so can you. You make this fast and you'll still make it home for supper."
The guy finished up and Sam snatched the bag from his shaky hands, his own shaking fingers barely able to grip the neck of the bag. "See, that wasn't so hard now was it?" Sam asked as he motioned the man out of vault with a shake of his gun. "Now you guys just let us get out of here and everything will be fine.
Finishing their holdup, Sam and Bobby tied their hostages with loose knots, just enough to keep them busy for a few minutes as they made their getaway, and the two men took off back the way they came, each carrying a bag. The door was still propped open just a crack when they got to it, and Bobby made his way out first, gun drawn in preparation of trouble. He disappeared through the exit, Sam following right behind.
"Police, lower your weapons!"
The ambush was quick, unexpected, and in his nervousness Bobby began to raise his hands without dropping the weapon. Crack! The cops had mistaken his effort to turn himself in for an attack and Bobby was stopped in his tracks with a bullet through his chest. His eyes went blank almost immediately as he finally dropped the gun and brought his hand up to his chest. Blood dripped from his mouth and he dropped heavily to his knees, head turning to look at Sam. Save yourself, kid.
"BOBBY!" Sam screamed instead, lunging for his friend.
"Stay put kid!" a cop ordered, the guns of several officers pointed directly at him.
"You shot him, you bastards!" he screamed, voice changing as he forced the air from his lungs. "He was giving himself up. You fucking bastards!"
"Sam," Bobby whispered as he fell to his side, still looking up at the young hunter. "Sam, it's okay. Sam..."
The young hunter dropped to his knees beside Bobby, challenging the officers to shoot him too. "Bobby, I'm sorry. It was for Dean. This whole thing. I'm sorry Bobby..."
"It's alright, Sam," the hunter continued to assure him, his voice becoming louder and more insistent as Sam continued to apologize for his failures. But wait, that wasn't right. Bobby was dying; his voice shouldn't be getting stronger, it should be weaker...
"Sam..."
Not stronger, weaker...
"Sam...!"
He's dying...
"SAM! Wake up!" It wasn't Bobby's voice any longer.
"Huh? Wha-" Sam blinked wildly, frantically trying to focus his eyes, trying to latch onto the voice that called to him. Suddenly he was no longer in the alley behind the bank, and Bobby was no longer bleeding out before his very eyes from a gunshot to the chest. He was in his own bed in Missouri's house, sweat pouring down his face as he gasped for air. Dean hovered nervously overtop of him.
"Sam, you were dreaming," Dean soothed, the concern in his voice thick and desperate. Sam hadn't had such a loud, violent dream in so long, and he feared he was the cause of this newest one.
"Dean," he gasped, fingers gripping tightly to his brother's arm.
"It's okay now, I'm here. You're alright."
"What– Did I...say anything?" Sam asked weakly, as the full impact of his dream slammed into his mind. God, Dean can't know what that was about. I can't have him feeling guilty about this.
"You just kept saying 'I'm not going to hurt you,' over and over again, and then you started screaming Bobby's name. What the hell, Sam? What was the dream about?"
He can't know. "I...I just...I don't really remember it. I just remember feeling tense and nervous and then I woke up." Damn, was he getting better at lying or was Dean just getting worse at reading him?
"You're sure?" Dean asked, skeptically. "You don't have a clue what it was about?"
"Not one. I'm sorry, Dean, I wish I did."
"So you don't know if it was a dream or a vision."
Shit, was that hope? Was Dean actually hoping for a vision? He'd gone from 'I won't ever hunt, to let's go kick some ass' in less than a day? No way, not happening.
"It wasn't a vision," Sam assured the older man, relieved to actually be telling the truth this time. "I've never been asleep when they come on; and I always remember them. This was definitely just a dream."
Dean continued to sit there for several more minutes, studying his little brother for any abnormalities; third eyes, horns, extended nose.
"Seriously, Dean, I'm fine," Sam finally insisted, shooing the worried older hunter from his bed. "Just go back to sleep, I'm good."
With a curt nod and a final glance in Sam's direction Dean finally collected the crutch he had dropped on the floor in his haste to get to his flailing brother and returned to his own bed. "Good night, Sam," he whispered as he pulled the covers back up to his chin. "Sweet dreams."
"You too, Dean." Sam groaned and turned over on his side, eyes flicking to the green glowing numbers on the alarm clock. 2:47. Damn it was going to be a long night, and he definitely wasn't about to get another minute of sleep; the dream too vivid and real in his mind. The actual robbery was the only thing that hadn't really happened; the money shortage, the state funding, the fact that Dean wasn't going to be getting the other leg they'd ordered - all of that was real, and Sam's stomach felt like it was about to rebel just thinking about it.
Sam had been on cloud nine when they returned home from the basketball game; who wouldn't have been after the progress they'd made. Dean had agreed to try again. He'd been smiling. Hell, he'd even cracked a few jokes. For the first time since Bobby had pulled them from the woods Sam actually had hope for their future. He had a real and concrete reason to believe that things just might work out. Dean was finally coming back to him.
And then his hopes had once again been dashed; and dammit, why couldn't any happiness for the Winchester's be guilt free. Why did everything have to come with strings attached? Because just after Dean disappeared upstairs for some rest Missouri had pulled Sam aside and anxiously thrust a thick white envelope at him, her hands wringing nervously as she waited for Sam to open the mail. The minute she had collected the mail and touched that envelope she'd felt bad vibes, and those, along with the ominous return address to the "Health and Welfare Services' had immediately told her enough to know this was not something Dean should see.
Glancing up at Missouri, seeing Bobby slowly settling himself into a chair out of the corner of his eye, Sam grimaced and pulled the letter out of the envelope and began reading. The first 'shit' came out of his mouth before he'd finished the second sentence; the next three were uttered before he'd reached the end of the first paragraph. Finishing the two page letter was completed with a very frustrated 'fuck' as he slammed his fist down on the table. The wooden chair clattered to the ground as he jumped to his feet and began pacing the parquet floor, shaky hands scrubbing compulsively through his tangled locks of hair.
"Sam, what does it say?" Missouri finally asked when her curiosity got to be too much.
Silence followed; a long, nerve-wracking silence as Sam processed her question and the words on the paper. And then he spoke, voice shaking. "He's not getting the leg; either one of them." His entire body quivered, face turning beet red as his anger rose. "He had the damn thing on; in his possession, and now they're saying he can't have it because it costs too much."
"What?" Bobby was incredulous, completely astounded at the idea. Sam spun around to look at the man, eyes blazing as he fought back the urge to go straight down to state programs and bash in the heads of every last one of them.
"Damn pricks say he can have three thousand dollars towards a new leg and four weeks worth of therapy. That's enough to pay for the socket," Sam steamed, returning to his pacing. "I finally have him willing to give this thing a try - he's ready to go in there Monday morning and actually learn how to use the thing, and now they're saying he can't have it because it costs to much. This isn't fair. This is so unfair!" The only thing that kept Sam from yelling was the fact that the noise would have woken Dean, and he had to figure this thing out without his brother.
"Now calm down, Sam. We can figure this out," Missouri soothed. "I've got some money saved up."
"Me too," Bobby nodded.
"And I'm sure we can take out loans-"
"No!" Sam exclaimed quickly. "He wouldn't go for it. We can't." Tears formed in Sam's eyes and it was obvious that he was fighting with himself not to accept the charity. It would be so easy; Dean wouldn't have to know. He could get a job, pay everybody back... but no. If Dean ever found out about this... He hated charity, more than anything else, he hated to feel as though he owed anybody anything. It wouldn't work.
"But Sam..." Missouri pressed.
"No, Missouri. I want to - you have no idea - but I just can't. I'll figure something out."
And so he'd worried; for the rest of the day and on into the night, working overtime to hide his distress when Dean was around, but never clearing the thoughts completely from his mind. The dream had unnerved him, the first sign that he was willing to go to extremes to get the money for his brother's care. As much as he tried to convince himself that he wouldn't actually do something like that, he couldn't get the dream from his mind.
He lay there, watching the minutes slowly tick by as he continued to worry about their financial issues, the occurrences in his dream continuing to streamline through his mind until it suddenly hit him. The dream wasn't a vision, but it was definitely prophetic. He'd had it for a reason, and the key was the key. Thinking back, visualizing the keys in the young male tellers hands he realized they hadn't been normal keys. They were skeleton keys; and then he realized another connection and slowly made his way from the bed. Sneaking past his now sleeping brother Sam realized with concern that Dean didn't seem to wake up at the slightest creak and groan anymore. But he would use that to his advantage right now; worry about it later.
Their father's journal was in the trunk of the car, abandoned after Dean had gotten hurt, and Sam pulled it out and then climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala, flipping through pages by the light of the mini-maglite he held in his teeth. Come on, come on, I know it's in here, he worried. And then it was there, halfway through the yellowed pages of the leather bound journal. A pencil-drawn sketch of an old skeleton key, shaded on one side and words on the other. Sam had to squint in the darkness to read the tiny block letters that lined the edge of the image. BANS 1 FATSO SKANK.
He remembered the first time he noticed that page after he and Dean had first gotten back together, the lines so fresh by comparison to the pages surrounding it, and he'd laughed. The old man must really be losing it. What the hell is that supposed to mean? But now he couldn't help but wonder if it may be so much more clever than he'd originally thought. Now he wondered if the obscure words lining the edge of the odd looking key might be an anagram for something completely different; something much more powerful; something that could help them in their time of death. Even post-mortem, their father was sending secret clues.
He stared at the letters for close to an hour, rearranging them over and over until his eyes felt like they were going to be permanently crossed in their sockets. When the moment of Eureka finally struck he had expected it to see more enlightening, but all he really got was a sense of 'duh' as the letters finally rearranged to spell out 1ST Financial Bank of Kansas. A Bank. And then the bank dream all started to make sense, except Sam once again started to get all panicky as he questioned whether or not the grand master plan truly was for him to rob the bank after all. And could he really do that?
"No. That can't be it," Sam finally concluded, looking once again to the page as he sought out more clues. There was the skeleton key and the writing and the shading... The shading!
It wasn't just shading, he finally realized, noticing how the edges were all pointed and squared, and he finally saw the shape of a house drawn into the gray pencil lines along the lefthand side of the key. But whose house? Our old house? Missouri's? One near the bank?
By process of elimination, Sam determined that it had to be Missouri's house - or maybe it was just a deep seated hope because Missouri's house would be easy. He couldn't afford hard right now, so it had to be simple.
Looking at the clock on the car's dash, Sam was pleased to discover the time to be almost 6:00. Missouri would be up soon, and he could ask her about a key. Had she seen one? Had John ever entrusted one to her care. Where the hell was this leading?!