A/Ns: Gah, I can't think of much to say tonight. I am super tired and feeling the effects of my booster shot (good god, my neck muscles are tight and ACHEY. Grrrr) I'm actually going to go to bed right after posting this (at...like...an incredibly reasonable hour? Who AM I?) I hope you all are having a wonderful start to the holiday season and get some rest and relaxation in the coming week!

Chapter Warnings: Ronald's yelling, Dean's 'negotiating', Victor's getting late night phone calls, and Mr. Okie Dokie is having a panic attack. Just another Tuesday at Milwaukee International.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 2: Chapter 76

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"I don't like you! You're a liar!"

Those were the first words – yelled, at full volume, with an almost childish level of resentment – Dean heard as he jogged back to the vault, as well his first clue that all was not good and right. Well, the fact they were in a powered-down bank, cops piling up outside to come in here, armed and ready to kill, was his first clue. This was the second, though.

Dean rounded the last dimly lit corner to find Sam and Ronald in each other's faces, both about seconds away from taking this confrontation to the next level. The older Winchester hurried towards them before they could get to exchanging blows.

"Whoa, whoa! Hey!" Dean pushed his brother and Ronald away from each other forcefully. Sam went a lot more easily, being about half the size of Ronald, despite towering over him height-wise. It helped that the younger Winchester let himself be pushed, backing off on his own accord as he turned away from the man that was damn near close to making him homicidal. With Sam safely a few feet away, Dean turned to Ronald, who was red-faced and huffing angrily. "What the hell is going on?"

"You lied!" Ronald accused, glancing briefly at Dean before refocusing his attention on Sam. "You're not FBI!"

Oh for fuck's sake. Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but instead closed them and bit his tongue. As he started counting to ten (uselessly, he might add), the older Winchester grabbed the other two men by their forearms and forcefully dragged them further away from the vault. They were already halfway to the entrance of the hallway, but Dean didn't want to risk any of the civilians hearing them. Last thing they needed was panicked hostages.

He didn't quite make it to a ten count, but Dean figured five was about all they had time for anyway. When he brought them all to a stop them further away from the vault, he fixed Ronald with a look he usually saved for the things they hunted. It shut the other man right up.

"Yes, we lied. People don't usually let you into their houses, or banks, or security systems, when you tell them you hunt monsters, Ronald. Of course we lied." As Ronald's grumpy face came back, cheeks reddening again, Dean gave another shove against his chest with his open palm, still up and holding the man back from Sam. The armed man, Dean couldn't forget, eyes dropping briefly to the security guard's gun gripped way-too-tightly in Ronald's shaking fist.

"Look," he tried again, tapping Ronald's chest lighter this time to get the man's eyes back on him. "Yeah, we're not FBI and we probably could have told you that much-"

"Probably?!"

"But-" Dean emphasized sharply, keeping the man's protests to just that one word, "there is still a monster in this bank, Ronald. It's killed someone and taken their skin, and it's gonna do it again if we don't stop it."

Those big brown eyes, still angry, softened around the edges just enough that Dean could see he'd gotten through. He shifted from holding Ronald back to gesturing with an open palm to the man in front of him. Ronald's brow furled as he glanced down at that hand, then realized what Dean was asking for. With an even heavier frown, he handed over the pistol.

In return, Dean offered him the letter opener from his other hand. Ronald took it hesitantly, clearly confused but not objecting.

"We're going to hunt it down," Dean confirmed, hoping the man would accept the peace offering for what it was, and not see Dean's true motive: getting him far away from Sam. Sam, who wasn't even looking at them, jaw still clenched tight and knuckles white around Betsy.

Yeah, that was going to be an ugly conversation Dean knew he couldn't avoid. But one damn crisis at a time.

Almost on cue, the phone just around the corner started ringing and Dean realized immediately what had started all this. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He pointed at Ronald with an accusing finger.

"No more answering phones," he ordered, then turned to Sam, who just shook his head, barely looking at his older brother. He was still too angry to speak. Dean knew that anger wasn't just aimed at Ronald this time (and god, who knew what the man probably said to the police. Dean could imagine it was something along of the lines of 'we're the good guys!' and could only pray it stopped there, before he got into mandroid territory. Dean resisted the frustrated sigh and counted to three this time). Sam had every right to be pissed; his kid brother hadn't been much of a fan of the way things went down in the original timeline, when Dean hadn't known this was going to happen and they'd ended up buried up to their eyeballs in shit before they could get out of it. This time Dean had walked them right into the shithole, holding the shovel with pride like he'd dug it himself, and on purpose to boot.

Yeah, Sam had every right to be pissed.

The phone was still ringing, so Dean rounded the corner, eyes briefly alighting on the still open vault door and the hostages inside, backlit by a single emergency light. There was one guy - expression dark and wary – watching them pretty boldly from the cracked door, even as the others were trying to call him back. They were speaking in hushed voices and, catching Dean's eye, the man finally relented, moving away from the door.

Dean kept his gaze on the vault for another second, eyes narrowed. He didn't remember the hostages giving them trouble last time, but he was also pretty sure they were a day or two off the original timeline. Which meant they were probably dealing with different hostages. Great, like they needed any additional problems. The hunter turned his focus to the phone and picked it up, slamming it against his ear with punishing force.

"Get me Victor Henriksen from the FBI," he demanded harshly, cutting off the negotiator on the other end before he could get much more than a word out. "My name is Dean Winchester, I'm wanted by the FBI and I'm not talking to anyone but Henriksen. So you better get him here fast."

With that, Dean hung the phone back up.

Sam, having rounded the corner probably right around the bit where Dean just gave them his name, looked seconds away from exploding. His brown eyes were blown wide and all that anger he'd been harboring – the frustration of being walked hand-in-hand into a bank robbery with a brother who wasn't listening to how insane all of it was – was now hyper focused on said brother standing in front of him having just invited the FBI to the party.

"Have you lost your mind?" he yelled, no longer caring if the hostages heard them. Dean glanced briefly around the corner at the vault door, eyebrows raised, but the civilians had moved away from the partial opening. There was nothing to see but the wall of poorly lit safety deposit boxes. He turned back to his brother as Sam grabbed his arm, fingers digging in. He was clearly expecting an answer and wouldn't be walking away without one this time.

"We need the FBI to show up, Sam. They're our exit strategy. It was always going to happen, might as well speed it up."

"Might as well-" Sam let out a noise Dean had only heard a handful of times. It usually preceded him getting clocked in the jaw. While he'd love to avoid that this time around, his explanation had done nothing to calm the younger Winchester down. If anything, it seemed to irritate him more. "Yeah, you said that, but I'm not seeing an exit strategy here, Dean. Everywhere I look, the walls are just getting closer."

Which was…more than fair from Sam's point of view. Dean winced, remembering his brother sitting in the Impala some months back, telling him to back off because he wasn't like Dean. Sam didn't get to know what happened next and be reassured by it (not that Dean was finding his future knowledge all that reassuring these days). To him, this situation was flat out crazy-pants, completely avoidable, and now utterly screwed up with no happy ending in sight.

To be honest, Dean wasn't entirely sure he was seeing the situation any differently. He was just damn good at bluffing. Fake it till you make it, and all that.

"I get it," he said, dropping his voice to a low murmur. He tried to lower his own irritation and frustration levels – with the situation and with his brother – to at least aim for something sincere and reassuring. Well, maybe just the first. "I get it, Sam. I fucked up, alright? This isn't going the way we wanted-"

"Understatement!" Sam bit out, and Dean got a flash of déjà vu that he wanted to physically wave away like a fly in his face. He managed to resist the urge, gritting his teeth instead and reminding himself that Sam had every reason to be furious and he had to be the one to stay calm here.

"I know, okay? I tried avoiding this and walked right into it instead. But…we gotta deal with it now. You can be pissed at me later."

His brother's jaw rotated angrily, jutting out to the side before grinding down and causing a vein to pop along his temple. He didn't say anything – Dean sorta suspected he was still too angry to really argue - but he nodded sharply in the silence that followed. Dean let out an equally quiet sigh of relief. He needed Sam with him on this one, even if it was a shitshow and his brother had every right to hate it. To hate him. It didn't change the facts, though.

"Alright. When the FBI shows up, Henriksen's not gonna waste time. He'll send S.W.A.T in the moment he gets here." Dean rubbed at his jaw, happy it wasn't sporting a new fist-shaped bruise. He glanced back towards the vault door. The civilians seemed to be behaving, tucked away from view, and Ronald was leaning grumpily against the wall halfway between the Winchesters and their hostages. "Last time we knocked two of them out and stole their gear. Walked out of here in the mayhem and nobody stopped us. This time we'll just have to take down three."

The sigh that left Sam's mouth, followed by the way he raised a hand to rub at his forehead and pinch the bridge of his nose like he was warding off an incoming headache, rang a few warning bells.

"Dean," Sam started, and it was clear from his tightly controlled voice how hard he was reining in his frustration, "last time I checked, S.W.A.T. gear doesn't come in extra-large."

As one, the brothers turned to Ronald, who noticed their attention after a beat and frowned deeply at the two of them. He looked away, his petulant child act still in full swing.

"Son of a bitch." Dean looked back at Sam, his own frustration mounting, mostly at himself (though he'd already admitted his fuck up once, he really wasn't ready to do it again). He wracked his brain for a back-up idea that still had all three of them getting out of this alive. "Okay…. Okay. Same plan, but we'll escort Ronald out as a hostage – or a prisoner. Get him into a cop car, and, uh…steal the car, I guess. You two can get the hell out of dodge and I'll double back for Baby."

His brother just stared at him, jaw still clenched, forehead scarily smooth. There was so much wrong with that plan – with all of this – that Sam didn't even know where to start. Not like Dean would listen if he did.

"It'll work," his brother affirmed. Dean was nodding his head, apparently convincing himself about as much as he was convincing Sam. "We'll make it work."

"Dean-"

Whatever the younger Winchester had to say about plan B (er…C?) Dean never got to hear it. The increased voices of their hostages – rising in pitch and concern – drew both Winchesters' attention to the vault door, where a woman was very hesitantly poking her head out.

"H-Hello? Don't shoot! We, um, we need help! Please!"

Ronald was already pushing off the wall, grumpiness forgotten now that there was something to do – someone to help – and Dean gave Sam one last look. He tucked the security guard's gun into the waistline of his pants and took off after Ronald, catching up to him just as he got to the door. He didn't think the hostages would try to stage some sort of revolt, but at this point he wasn't taking any possibility off the table. Time didn't like them enough to let take anything for granted.

He grabbed Ronald by the arm, holding him back before the man could enter the vault. "What's going on?"

"The security guard," the woman – a customer of the bank based on the way she was dressed in jeans and a loose, floral print blouse – was switching between looking at the two of them and then over her shoulder at the other hostages. "He woke up and he's- I don't know, he's having some kind of fit. I think he might be asthmatic and panicking."

"Okay," Dean said, thinking this sounded a hell of a lot like a ruse, but also vaguely remembering escorting someone out of the bank last time for a similar reason. Could have been the security guard. All he remembered was the shock – and fear – of realizing how many cops and reporters were out on the street, waiting for them, and how screwed they'd really been.

Dean sighed internally. You know what would have been real handy in a not-robbery in a bank full of civilians? A fucking Jedi. Fate had chosen a shit time to mute one of their biggest assets.

(Not that they knew if Andy's previous power would have even worked on a Shifter. Hadn't worked on demons, after all).

Dean pushed that mostly useless thought to the side – he was allowed to be cranky and complain, damnit – and tapped Ronald on the shoulder, signaling him to move out of the way and stay outside the vault. Luckily, the man seemed to understand and didn't fight him on it, though his answering frown was still plenty childish. Dean followed the scared woman into the vault.

The security guard was actually in some pretty clear distress. He was taking giant, gulping breaths but they didn't seem to be helping, if his reddening face was any indication. His eyes were blown wide in panic and his grip on the surrounding crowd trying to help him suggested whatever was happening to him was getting worse.

"Alright, everybody move," Dean commanded, pulling his no-nonsense voice usually reserved for FBI roles. It worked almost too well; the group scattered, leaving the poor guard even more terrified. That sucked. He'd liked the security guard. He said things like, 'okie-dokie', and didn't deserve to be part of this hell for just doing his job.

"Help me get him up," Dean ordered the nearest civilian – an African-American guy he barely even looked at as he knelt down beside the guard. The man was clearly an employee with that light blue dress shirt and nice tie, but all Dean cared about was that he helped. The civilian grabbed the other side of the guard, helping him to his feet and then walking with Dean out of the vault.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, having come closer to the vault door. Ronald was waiting anxiously beside him, the two apparently in a tentative truce now that they had an all new problem.

"He's having a panic attack. We gotta get him out of here," Dean answered, handing the guard off to Sam. He turned back to the man who'd helped, only now realizing it was the same one who had been staring him down from the vault door. The same one that got Dean wondering if they were going to have to pursue a stricter containment of their 'hostages.'

At least he knew for sure the guy was human. Still, a human could be plenty dangerous. The man was regarding him warily, glancing between the gun at Dean's waist and the hunter himself. Dean squared his shoulders to the man, wary for all his own reasons. "Thanks for your help, man. Why don't you, uh, head back into the vault."

"I could help you carry him out," the guy said in response, those dark eyes never leaving Dean's and definitely keeping him on edge. The hunter moved his hand to the gun tucked securely at his waist, a reminder of who was in charge here.

"Nah, man, we're good. Now head back in."

There was a beat of silence where Dean wondered if they were about to have a fight on their hands. The dude was built: broad-chest, well-muscled physique, and a shaved head that all screamed ex-military. Dean was started to think they were about to have a problem.

"Michael."

One of the other hostages – a woman – was hovering just beyond the open vault door, eyeing the exchange warily. Given the pencil skirt and matching blazer, she was probably another employee. Likely a coworker, now staring in open concern at Michael, who was about to get himself killed.

(An exaggeration, at least somewhat. Dean wouldn't kill him, but he would incapacitate him in a heartbeat.)

Sam was watching the exchange warily as well, grip tight on the security guard's wrist and waist. He was prepared to drop the man if a fight broke out, but neither Winchester wanted that. After another tense beat, 'Michael' finally yielded to his coworker's concern. He gave a slow nod, raising his hands to indicate they weren't going to have a problem. Then he backed into the vault one step at a time and, at a nod from Dean, Ronald closed the door.

They'd have to open it soon enough to give their hostages a refresh on oxygen, but that could wait until they got the guard outside.

Speaking of which…. The gasping breaths of a person clearly in need of medical attention drew Dean's focus away from the vault. Right, Mr. Okie Dokie. He ducked under the man's free arm, wrapping it over his shoulder and balancing the ailing guard out between him and Sam. He told Ronald to watch the door but keep it closed; they'd be back in a minute.

"Wh-what if that's the mandroid?" Ronald whispered in anything but an actually quiet voice even as the brothers hefted the guard between them.

"It's not," Dean answered confidently, knowing by the way Sam was gritting his teeth that his brother wouldn't be answering any more questions from their tag-along. Not without some serious yelling involved. "They react to silver, and Sam tested all of 'em as they went into the vault. And stop calling it a mandroid."

Ronald's mouth formed an 'oh' like he understood far better than he possibly could, before it took on a frown. Not like they'd told him what else to call it, which he pointed out under his breath. His eyes dropped to the letter opener Dean had handed him, coated in silver. New understanding lit his eyes, but Dean didn't stick around to wait for more questions. The guard needed help and Dean wasn't letting murder, even third degree, get piled on top of armed robbery for his FBI rap sheet.

As they reached the end of the hallway and the phone on the wall, Dean halted them for a second to grab it off the receiver. He'd only ever robbed a bank once, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't have to dial – the cops should be listening. At least, that's totally how it worked in the movies.

"We've got a civilian who needs medical attention. I'm coming out with him. Don't shoot or my partner retaliates against the other hostages."

Sam shot him a sharp look over Mr. Okie Dokie's shoulder, but Dean ignored it. It wasn't like the younger Winchester would actually hurt anyone (or that Dean would ever ask him to for real), but Dean didn't want a sniper getting itchy trigger fingers while his head was in their scope, either. Maybe he didn't remember anyone taking pot shots the last time he'd escorted someone out of the bank…but he hadn't remembered Gordon Walker capping him either. Turns out that coming from the future didn't stop you from getting shot in the head.

"Relax, Sam," Dean bit out as they resumed their staggered walk for the front entrance. His brother was still leveling him with a glower that approached Ultimate Bitchface. "No one's going to get hurt."

"Yeah, Dean? Can you really promise that?" Sam asked as they reached the front doors and he took most of the wheezing guard's weight so Dean could undo the station barricade that Ronald had hastily setup. "To any of us that at this point?"

Dean growled as he dropped the gold pole and rope. He grabbed the security guard off his brother and pushed open the bank door with hostage in hand, stanchly ignoring his brother and his too-close-to-home point.

-o-o-o-

Victor Henriksen hadn't been asleep twenty minutes when his cell started ringing, and he immediately knew something had happened. Field agents might be on call 24/7, but most days Victor worked a desk. It was only in the past month that his case had gotten enough traction to warrant late night phone calls.

"What is it?" he growled into the receiver. He was a workaholic well enough on his own without getting called in in the middle of the night. This was the first night he'd actually taken off – purposefully leaving the Winchester files at the office – so he could get to bed at a decent hour for once.

"The Winchesters were identified robbing Milwaukee International Bank in Wisconsin twenty minutes ago." Deputy Director Steven Groves had an annoying voice any old day; it was light, exasperating, and pompous as all get out. The effect was multiplied several times over when it was after work hours.

Victor sat up in bed, surprise temporarily distracting him from how much he disliked the man he was obligated to report to. Arrogant prick. "They robbed a bank?"

That wasn't in the Winchester's standard repertoire at all. Far from it, actually. They usually stuck to crimes they could manufacture and then play the hero role in. Armed robbery didn't exactly fit that bill.

"Yup," his boss confirmed, dragging the word out in a way that rubbed Victor all the wrong ways, but he didn't let it affect his professionalism. He was too good an agent for that, and eventually he'd have Groves' job anyway. "Still at it, currently, holed up inside with nine or so hostages. They asked for you by name."

That stopped Victor's train of thought so abruptly it almost broke his brain for a second. He switched his cell to the other hand and threw the covers off. "They what?"

"Dean Winchester requested you by name. Said he'd talk to you and only you."

Victor just blinked, taking a moment to process the thrown-for-a-loop sensation currently buzzing under his skin. He wasn't even aware the Winchesters knew he was after them – other than the chance encounter at Sturgis Hospital – let alone his name.

What the hell was going on?

"I'll be at the office in twenty," he reported instead, steadfast as he started throwing clothes on.

"Make it the airstrip. I've already got a jet waiting for you," Groves responded, and for once Victor appreciated his boss's micromanaging personality.

"Yes sir," was all he said – and honestly, his boss was lucky he got that much – before he tossed his phone onto the mattress and grabbed his go bag from below the bed. Apparently he was heading to Wisconsin.

-o-o-o-

Sam and Dean were just making it back to the vault, rounding the corner that led to it, when the phone rang once more. Dean wasn't all that surprised. They'd gotten Mr. Okie Dokie off to the medics – the hunter glaring at the two SWAT officer's who'd met him up the stairs and taken the guard off his hands (both heavily armed and a reminder of the full forced they'd be facing very shortly) – in about as big a media storm as the last time. Between the couple dozen cops, at least one helicopter, and a half dozen news outlets, the city street had been downright crowded. Just like last time.

Dean certainly hadn't forgotten (or missed) the overwhelming dread that sunk his stomach like a lead weight. He'd take déjà vu any day over déjà vu and a cement cannonball in his gut.

"That you, Victor?" Dean asked as he picked up the phone on the third ring, ignoring the tense look Sam shot him for the call out. His brother's looks had been growing increasingly more of the do-I-even-know-you variety over the course of the night, and each one left Dean with a worst taste in his mouth.

There was the distant sound of propellers in the background for a second before the noise dimmed almost to the point of Dean not being able to hear it. He recognized the kind of static that came with sound-canceling headphones and the faint hum of an engine warming up. He might not be familiar (or comfortable) with planes, but it turned out he knew when someone was calling from one.

"That's Agent Henriksen to you, Dean."

Despite the situation, the older Winchester couldn't help his caustic grin. Victor Henriksen had been a pain in his ass – and definitely not good for his health – for more than a year last go around. But once the man had seen proof of the very real monsters that went bump in the night and taken that stick out of his ass…well, Dean could admit he'd found the guy not half bad. Almost tolerable, actually. In another lifetime, Henriksen would have made a damn fine hunter. Maybe even a halfway decent friend.

If they were lucky (and also didn't get dead in a bank in Milwaukee tonight), maybe this time he could bring the guy around sooner and avoid the whole Lilith fiasco entirely. Henriksen was a class A dick…but he wasn't a bad guy. And no one deserved a fate dished out by Lilith.

"Well, I'd say that's Mr. Winchester to you, but I think we both know that's not how I roll."

"Hardly," Victor snorted. And if they'd been friends, Dean would have heard the humor in it. But they weren't friends. ThisHenriksen still thought they were murderous sons of bitches, and any humor there wasn't meant for Dean. The older Winchester bit back a sigh. Sometimes being from the future sucked. It was kind of easier when he'd just hated the guy and had every right to do so. "I'm surprised you knew my name at all, if I'm being honest."

"What," Dean began with that same cocky grin, leaning against the wall with phone pressed to his ear. Like it was just another bank-robbing-chat-it-up-with-a-Fed Tuesday. Sam was giving him that look again (not like he'd ever stopped). "You didn't think I'd look you up after the hospital in Sturgis?"

There was a chuckle down the line that was anything but amused. "Oh, I know all about you too, Dean. I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your dad. Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road-"

"Yeah, yeah, you know my whole life style starting with a crappy childhood." Dean shifted against the wall, glancing over his shoulder at the vault door. Sam, who'd decided he'd be of more use standing guard by the vault (or, more likely, that putting as much distance between him and Dean as possible would save Dean a bruised jaw and Sam some busted knuckles), was playing almost civil with Ronald. Meaning they were mostly ignoring each other; the larger man's attention was on the vault and Sam's was locked on Dean. The older Winchester turned back to the phone. "Good for you. You here yet?"

He could almost picture the look on Victor's face. Probably pulling the phone away from his ear to give it a double check. Or, Dean supposed, if he had a headset on then that probably wasn't what Victor was actually doing. But the surprised beat of silence on the other end was telling all the same.

"No," the agent hedged, and Dean could tell he wasn't a hundred percent certain it was the correct answer to give. He could count on one hand (using just one finger) the number of times he'd seen or heard the agent unsettled, and he was pretty sure he'd just broken a past record. Dean might not know him all that well, but he gathered Victor Henriksen wasn't the type to be comfortable with uncertainty. "I'm on my way. It's pretty late in DC right now. Not a lot of courtesy pulling an after-hours bank robbery."

Dean shrugged – not liked he'd planned this to be convenient for anyone, himself included – before he remembered Victor couldn't see him, but by then the Agent was back to talking.

"And what's with that anyway, huh, Dean? Robbing banks isn't really your style."

The hunter wondered if that was standard FBI negotiating tactic: try to get the psychopath comfortable and talking. Well, it wasn't going to work on Dean. Two could play the game of pointlessly beating around the bush with nothing but a sarcasm stick.

"We're branching out," he responded as neutrally as possible, giving as little information as possible.

"We?"

Dean winced. Not little enough, apparently. Alright, maybe there was some merit in that whole 'pleading the fifth' option.

"So Sam's with you then?" Henriksen sounded all too smug. Or maybe Dean was just imagining it. "The Bonnie to your Clyde?"

The older Winchester glanced over his shoulder at his brother. The silence hanging between him and the FBI agent on the other end was all levels of tense and unfortunate. Dean considered lying for a moment, but scrapped the idea pretty quickly. He'd already screwed the pooch there. With the way Sam was glaring at him from the end of the hall, holding Betsy and looking for the world like this, right here, was probably the end of it, he knew it too.

Well shit.

"Yeah, he's here," Dean responded, turning back to the phone if only to avoid seeing his brother's reaction. The kid was probably too far down the hall to properly hear his side of the phone call, but Sam was smart. He likely already knew what was being discussed. Or, at the very least, knew that it wasn't good (not that much in this situation could be).

"And Andy Gallagher?"

Dean physically recoiled from the phone in surprise, realizing far too late that it wasn't surprisingly at all for Henriksen to know the kid's name. Andy was a wanted murder suspect, and last anyone had seen of him he'd been with the Winchesters at the Sturgis Hospital. The feds had photos of him from that very hospital, and running facial recognition was kind of a thing for the FBI. Like, what they did.

Henriksen didn't know Andy was out. Violently so.

Dean swallowed.

"I know you've got a third man in there," Henriksen continued in lieu of the silence. "Eye witness reports don't exactly match Mr. Gallagher, but-"

"Andy's not here," Dean bit out, probably a bit too defensively. So what, sue him. He was under some stress here, damnit (whether he'd admit it to himself or not), and the kid was a sensitive topic. "There is no third person, it's just me and Sam."

There was a low tsk-tsking in the background as Victor clucked his tongue. "Dean, there's no point in lying to me. I told you, I did my homework. It's my job to know all about you, and I know you've got a three man team in the bank."

Dean looked over his shoulder again, this time eyeing Ronald. The man caught sight of the sudden attention and straightened, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. Dean held his gaze for a moment, thinking out his next move, before turning back to the phone.

"Don't know what to tell you, man. It's just me and Sam."

"Uh-huh, sure." Victor's voice couldn't possibly be more condescending, and Dean realized the conversation was well past the point of being beneficial or even entertaining.

"Just call me when you get here," he cut in abruptly before Henriksen could get going on any other topic that would get Dean's hackles further up. Like circling back to his dad, god forbid. "Then we'll talk."

He put the phone back in the receiver a touch harder than was strictly necessary, but Dean was comfortable putting that squarely in the 'hey, I'm under the stress of robbing a bank here' category of excuses and move the hell on. He jogged back to the vault door and his two partners in crime. God, literally.

"We've got an hour, maybe two to find the shifter. Once Henriksen gets feet on the ground here, he'll send in SWAT." The hunter glanced between Ronald and his brother. "When that happens, we gotta be ready to go."

"Fantastic," Sam muttered, anger still clearly at full capacity. Not that Dean could blame him, but it wasn't exactly helpful in the moment. So Dean ignored him, turning to Ronald.

"You and me are on monster duty. Sam, you're the babysitter."

The tight-lipped grimace he got in affirmative wasn't exactly a good sign either, but Dean threw it on top of the ever-growing, probably-overflowing box of things to handle later. When they weren't, you know, in the middle of robbing a bank.

Ronald looked surprised to be chosen – like the kid used to being chosen last at just about every activity ever was finally getting picked first – and the enthusiasm showed. Dean resisted groaning and instead gestured for the man to follow him down the hall. It wasn't like he actually wanted the trigger-happy conspiracy theorist with him. He just knew he couldn't leave him with Sam again if he wanted either of them – let alone both of them – to survive this.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/Ns: I know a lot didn't happen this chapter - I read through it and was like...'how did that take up 10 pages?!' but I was hesitant to start combining chapters both for the natural stopping points getting messed up, and because my stockpile is still pretty low and the more spread out the material, the more likely I can continue to provide two-week updates reliably for now. Hope you all don't mind having a little less happen until I can get my writing feet back under me.

I'm on vacation for the next two weeks, yaaaaay, so hopefully that will present many an opportunity for some hefty writing.

Up Next: My brain is foggy enough I am straight up trying to remember what happens next (insert head desk here) Uh...let's see...Ronald's getting a crash course in Monsters, their shifter is a sneaky bastard, Victor's on scene, and a sniper gets itchy trigger fingers. See you in two weeks!

Happy Holidays!

Cheers,

Silence