The Road So Far (this Time Around)

by 8.Years.Of.Silence

He woke with a jolt, sitting in the Impala on some backroad with Sammy sleeping shotgun, like always. Only no, not always. They had a bunker now. They had a home. Either Dean had finally lost it or Cas pulled one hell of a Hail Mary, because his little brother looked about ten years younger and his phone was saying it was 2005. Timeline AU **App Users: reviews contain SPOILERS**

111. Season 2: Chapter 77

A/Ns: I'm dancing right now, hands in the air like a total doof because we're at three posts on schedule! I haven't had as much time to write as I'd really hoped lately, so that stockpile of chapters is starting to dwindle and the two week thing's going to be the new norm for a while - le sigh - but I'm really hoping to get some stuff out in the next couple days. We're getting real close to the good stuff, and that should keep the Muse moving her little tushy :D

Chapter Warnings: Ron's pouting, Dean's teaching, Victor's demanding, and Sam's just along for the ride at this point. Poor Sam. Oh, and a police sniper decides to take a lucky shot.

It's been a right proper minute since our latest cliffie, no? [insert no good, dirty rotten grin here]

-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 77

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

As they made their way out of the vault hallway, through the lobby and towards the manager's office, Dean could feel the grumpy tension pouring off Ronald in waves. Eventually, he bit the bullet he wanted absolutely nothing to do with, and started talking. "Look, I get you're pissed-"

"You lied." Oh yeah, the pout was in full swing. Like arguing with a child. Dean resisted sighing, but pretty much failed.

"Okay, first, even if we were FBI, Ronald, they lie too. You know that, right?" The grumpy tension turned to grumpy silence, but Dean would take it as a win all the same. He pushed open the door to the office, gesturing Ronald inside. "Besides, what were we supposed to tell you, huh? We're brothers who drive around the country hunting monsters? You'd have called us as crazy as everyone was calling you."

The larger man frowned back at him, half turned as he walked into the office. "You keep saying that - monsters What do you mean, monst-"

His question turned into a startled squawk mid-word as Ronald's foot connected with the pile of skin and goo that was the whole point of bringing him back here. The conspiracy theorist managed to keep his footing, but just barely, and only after an awkward half-split and a hand to the floor to balance himself.

A hand that landed smack dab in the middle of said skin-goo.

Ronald recoiled immediately, almost falling over once again, this time to the side. Once he had his balanace again, he lifted his hand up to his face with saucer-sized eyes, fingers spread wide. He stared in horror at the slime looping from digit to digit and stretching back down to the similar pile below.

Then he screamed. Dean popped a finger in his ear almost nonchallantly, having expected at least half of that reactiong and turning his head away from the noise. Ronald scrambled back onto his butt, shaking his hand furiously to free it of the skin-goo. Dean took a step back to avoid the spray as Ronald leveled his letter opener right at the pile of harmless shifter leftovers (like that was gonna do a thing).

"Wh-Wh-What the hell is that?!"

"That would be what we're hunting," Dean answered, calming walking up to the pile and crouching down in front of it. He, of course, had known it was there from the last search of this office. And he'd been prepared to warn Ronald, had the man been paying any attention.

"The mandroid is…a pile of muck?" Ronald looked up at him, unsure, as he wiped what was left of the shifter's skin on his hand hastily.

"No, the 'mandroid' is a shapeshifter. It ditched it's skin – the bank manager's skin – when it realized we were onto him." No thanks to you, Dean wanted to add but resisted. Sam had antagonized their tag-along enough, and Dean might actually need Ronald's help by the end of the night if their luck continued at its current level. "They shed their old skin and change into someone else through physical contact. So now it could be anybody in the bank."

Hesitantly, Ronald leaned forward, poking at the wad of good with the tip of the letter opener. He managed to snag a piece of skin, lifting it up into the dim emergency lighting. "It's so weird. So…lifelike."

"Because it is alive, Ronald," Dean muttered, reminding the man with a sparse glance that this wasn't a robot covered in skin. Ronald dropped the skin back into its goo with a disgusting glop. "A murderer - and a greedy one at that, given it's using its abilities to rob banks and jewelry stores - but not all that different from a human. Just as killable."

"And…silver will do the trick?" The larger man was looking at his borrowed blade, then glanced up at Dean. The hunter shared a half-smile. In another life – maybe this life – Ronald would make a halfway decent hunter. He caught on fast. So long as he didn't get himself killed with that charge-in-first heroism and stubborn levels of hard-headedness.

(Not that Dean would know anything about that.)

"Sure will. Now come on, let's go find it." Dean stood, Ronald scrambling to follow. The two were making their way towards the office door, only a scant few feet away, when a creaking moan stopped them. Dean glanced over his shoulder, first at Ronald, but then past him. Green eyes slowly tracked upward to the source of the sound as it happened again. It was coming from the ceiling.

"What's that, you think?" Ronald asked. Instead of waiting for an answer, though, he started towards the spot the noise was coming for.

"Wait, hang on a sec." Dean was getting another bout of déjà vu, and this time he was pretty sure what was causing it. The shifter had hidden the body somewhere, he just hadn't wasted time trying to find it. And good thing, too. He was pretty sure it was about to find them…the same way it had last time. "Ronald-"

The man let out his second scream of the evening as a body broke through the cheap suspended ceiling tiles and crashed down practically on top of him. Ronald managed not to go down beneath the body, but he certainly acted as a partial landing pad.

The naked, fit, dark-skinned man hit the ground with a thud and a quarter roll that left him face up on the ground. Ronald was shakily pointing his letter opener at the corpose once more, having scrambled a couple steps back after taking at least a hundred-eighty pound corpse to the shoulder and shoving him off. Dean hurried over, dread growing as he got a good look at their latest victim.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, immediately recognizing the man, even without the intense gaze. Michael, the guy in the vault who'd helped him carry the security guard out and left him worried he was going to have to shoot a human in a non-vital limb. The very same man he'd caught a partial of on the security cameras, only the pixelated quality had been too shit to make the obvious match. "He was in the vault."

Ronald frowned, looking back at the hunter and lowering his 'weapon' as he realized the guy wasn't getting up. "But…I thought you said you tested them all with silver. That's how you knew the guard wasn't the mandroid- I mean, shifter."

"Yeah, we did." Which meant the shifter had found a way to sneak in. Even the alpha shifter had been reactive to silver, so Dean knew there wasn't a way otherwise. But how? Sam and Ronald had kept the vault door under constant guard for that reason-

Dean closed his eyes with a muttered curse. The fight. The two of them had been fighting, way up by the hallway entrance, right after the lights shut off. Then Dean had joined and dragged them even further away. He'd done it to keep the hostages from over-hearing the argument, but damnit…he'd opened up the door for the damn shifter to sneak right in, posing as a terrified hostage who'd initially escaped but decided he had better odds with the others.

God damn it.

"Well…that's a good thing!" Ronald exclaimed with a bright smile. "Now we know what he looks like and where he is!"

"No, not good, Ronald," Dean interrupted sharply – probably more sharply than the man deserved. He let out a haggard sigh. He was tired and on edge, and dealing with a noob in those conditions was never easy or pretty. Still, it wasn't Ronald's fault. If anything, this was on Dean. "If he's in the vault, he has hostages."

"I thought…we had the…" The man frowned, tilting his head as he thought it through. Yeah, Ronald had the gusto to be a hunter, but he'd need a hell of a lot of practice and someone to keep him alive long enough to become a good one. His eyes widened as he caught on, though. "Oh. You mean he could hurt the others in there with him."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, standing up straight and turning away from the dead body below, "that's exactly what I mean."

He checked his watch for the time. Thirty minutes left if Henriksen was on a fast jet. An hour if the FBI hadn't splurged on a speedy ride. That wasn't much time to figure out how to isolate the shifter from the other hostages and take him out. Shit.

"Come on, we gotta get back to Sam." Dean hoofed it back into the hallway, Ronald following behind with a tight grip on that letter opener. The older Winchester wasn't too worried about his brother. It was unlikely the shifter would attack at this stage, not if he thought he'd gotten away with his innocent-hostage deception and might make it out of the bank with the other civilians. Besides, Sam could handle himself. Even wimpy 2007 Sam (who was, admittedly, less wimpy with every passing day.)

No, Dean needed to get back to Sam because he needed the real brains of this operation. They had to figure out how to get the shifter away from the other hostages without tipping him off that they were on to him. Piece of cake. Sure.

-o-o-o-

In the end, after several minutes of hushed debate (too many minutes, given their ever dwindling time) held as a group at the end of the vault hallway (closer this time, and always with at least one eye on the door so there'd be no more surprises), the hunters and their tagalong decided to take the civilians out in groups of four. They'd start with the women, so they would know their shifter would be at the back of the group, with less hostages to potentially take. And if he bolted in his group, he'd only have three potential victims. It was the best they could do to limit the possible collateral damage without tipping their monster off before they could get in a position to kill him.

They'd test each group (even though it was highly unlikely the shifter could manage to change skins in a tiny room crowded full of people and not cause a massive freak out, Dean wasn't taking any more risks), then lock them in the conference rooms and offices that lined the lobby. That was the best option for keeping as many civilians as possible out of the way of the shifter should he bolt or fight, and out of the way of the police when they came storming in (in…Dean checked his watch again. Eight minutes at the fastest, and Dean sure hoped Agent Henriksen wasn't feeling particularly rushed tonight).

It was a win-win, or as much of one as the Winchesters could hope to get.

The toughest part of all of this would be not giving the ploy away to the shifter. Which meant little to no eye contact. Something that was never easy when you were a hunter and you knew there was a monster in the room, just itching to hurt somebody or escape. If Dean was reading this particular shifter correctly – and given the fact he'd willingly put himself in view of the hunters but also surrounded himself with potential hostages – this guy knew how hunters worked. Knew how much they cared about civilian casualties.

Sam and Dean would be on the front lines. The primary contact with all the groups. Dean, armed with their one and only silver knife, would go in, select the four hostages, and escort them into the hallway. Sam would stand guard at the vault door with Betsy. Bullets wouldn't kill the shifter, but they could slow him down enough to stop him from grabbing a hostage. Or deter him from trying all together. If the shifter didn't try anything, they'd close the vault door, test the group quickly with the flat side of the silver blade, and then escort them to the nearest lockable room.

In the event that their monster did try something, Ronald was their last line of defense. He'd man the mouth of the hallway. If the shifter got past Dean or Sam, it would be Ronald's job to take him down with the letter opener. It wasn't a great backup plan, as far as backup plans went, but it was what they had. Dean was far more optimistic about it than Sam.

(And while Sam was usually right about most things…Dean really hoped this wouldn't be one of them.)

So the two Winchesters approached the sealed vault door with a single decisive look shared between them, and then Sam pulled it open and Dean entered, knife visibly in hand. The older Winchester tried not to take it personally as the hostages backed away from him, hushed whispers and gasps and fearful murmurs the only sound in the small vault.

"Alright, people," he announced in a clear, firm voice, only having to clear his throat once when his voice tried to falter at the looks of fear that surrounded him. "We're going to be taking you out in small groups, four at a time-"

"Are you letting us go?" one woman asked, and Dean belatedly realized it was Ms. Bubblegum, who had first taken them to see the security guard. He tried to ignore the fact that from her point of view, he'd lied his way in to hold her and her coworkers hostage. He tried to focus on his job, without glancing at the shifter in the back.

"Uh," Dean had to clear his throat again. "In a minute. We're going in small groups, and we'll get you out of the vault for now, then, uh, we'll escort one group at a time out of the bank."

He knew it hardly sounded convincing, given he'd made it up entirely on the fly, but Ms. Bubblegum and several others sure looked relieved. The shifter, as Dean glanced quickly his way and back again just as fast, didn't look sold.

Dean swallowed, lifted the knife as a way to point to the four women closest to him (there were only five women total, with another six men after that, including their shifter), and told them to go out into the hallway one at a time, and stand single file. They did so reluctantly, giving Dean a wide berth and Sam, standing at the door with the assault rifle, as much room as possible in the small space.

The older Winchester kept a sharp eye on the remaining civilians, trying not to pay their monster any more attention than the rest. "We'll, uh, we'll be back for the next group shortly."

He backed out of the vault, not turning his back on the shifter, and let Sam close the door after him. Dean let out a breath, catching his brother's eye before glancing at the four nervous women lined up between them and Ronald.

"One down."

-o-o-o-

Victor stepped down from the helicopter that landed a block from the bank, wind whipping at his FBI vest. The copter lifted off, disappearing into the night, as he and the other agent they'd sent with him – some mousey, bespectacled man he hadn't bothered to get the name of - jogged towards the crowd of officers gathered across the street from the bank. He flashed his badge at the first cop who tried to stop him, and the second didn't even bother as he hastened up the steps to the mobile base of operations, opening the door without bothering to knock.

"Lieutenant Robards," Henriksen announced, making what would be a question coming out of anyone else's mouth sound more like a command.

"Oh great," the man in question – yet to identify himself but definitely in charge given the pissy expression and shit-eye he was spearing Henriksen's way – muttered under his breath. He blew out a breath, hands on his hips, before he turned to the FBI agent. "Yeah?"

"Special Agent Henriksen," Victor introduced himself without really caring if the local LEO remembered it or not.

"The guy our suspect asked for." Robards sounded less than impressed. More annoyed than anything. Victor knew he was throwing his non-existent weight around in retaliation, knowing he'd already lost this case to the feds. "Let me guess. You're lead dog now, but you would just love my full cooperation."

Henriksen plastered on a peaceful, cooperative expression. One he was well known for in the home office. The one that said he didn't give a shit, because he knew he was in charge. "I don't give a rat's ass what you do. You can go get a donut and bang your wife for all I care. What I do need is your S.W.A.T team locked and loaded, ready to breach in five, and the rest of your men canvasing a five block radius looking for a black, '67 Chevy Impala. You got that?"

Robards pulled his head back, brow furled in clear annoyance and bemusement. "You want to send S.W.A.T. in without even trying to talk the guy down? And meanwhile, what, waste my men looking for a car? Listen, Agent, I don't know who you think you are or what you've been told-"

"No, you listen," Henriksen cut off the Lieutenant, done wasting time talking to the man who was, in his opinion, now inconsequential. "You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you? There is a monster in that bank, Lieutenant. Now prep your men to go in and find me that damn car."

"This is crazy. You're crazy."

"Nah, Robards." Henriksen unzipped his jacket and grabbed the nearest phone, confident it would connect him to the bank and, consequently, Dean Winchester. "Crazy's in that bank, and I'm about to have a conversation with it."

-o-o-o-

"They're going to kill us."

The shifter wasted no time trying to counter whatever the hunters were up to on the other side of that vault door. He turned to the humans around him, face dark but determined.

The tense silence that filled the small, stuffy vault didn't disagree. Nor did the panicked mumrering that came after. Still, the last of the female bank employees, the one who had earlier urged what she thought was her friend back into the vault, hissed out a gasp of air.

"Don't say that, Michael!"

He cast her a dismissive glance, tired of playing at one or more of her coworkers. He wanted out of this vault, and he didn't care if this bitch thought he was acting 'out of character' for Michael. Whoever that fool was.

"They're going to kill us," he repeated more firmly. "Why do you think they're taking us out in small groups? We're more manageable that way."

"It's still four against three," one of the other men – an older customer of the bank – muttered. "If they wanted to kill us, why not take us out of here one at a time? Why risk being outnumbered?"

"Outnumbered? Please, they have all the weapons!" Another man argued back, and the shifter focused on him. He sounded liked he might help charge the hunters and, if 'Michael' could rile him up enough, he might take the first bullet or knife, giving the shifter the chance to get past or take out a hunter.

"We should charge them," Michael said, waiting until he got a nod of agreement from the aggressive human before looking at the others. "You said it yourself, we outnumber them. Weapons or not, we could stop this before they kill us."

"And what if they are planning on letting us go?" that same woman argued, hugging herself like the pathetic human she was. "We could get ourselves – any one of us – killed, and for nothing!"

"I know a lie when I hear one," the shifter countered. It didn't matter if the lie had only been meant for him. If he wasn't walking out of this bank, than neither were any of the humans in there with him. And, with a little luck, none of the hunters would walk out of here alive, either. "They're going to kill us. This is our only shot."

"I agree," the human male nodded firmly. He reached up to his breast pocket, removing a ballpoint pen and uncapping it. He made a jabbing motion with it, locking eyes with the shifter he so wrongly assumed was on his side. "It's not much, but just about anything can be a weapon when you need it to be. When they come back in, we charge them."

"No, not me." The female was shaking her head, staring at that ballpoint pen in true horror. "You want to fight them, you let me go in the next group first."

"Me too," the older man spoke up. He was maybe in his fifties, possibly sixties, and he was shaking his head solemnly. "I want no part of this. I plan to cooperate."

"Cowards, the both of you," the shifter hissed, letting a little too much of his lack of humanity shine through, perhaps. Several of the others shuffled away from him or shifted their weight nervously. He gave a frustrated sigh, but relented. "It's your funeral. But fine, walk headlong into it.'

He gestured for the vault door just as the lock once more began to rotate.

-o-o-o-

When Dean opened the door to grab the next group, the tension that greeted him was noticeably thicker. And that's what sent it to hell in a handbasket, he figured. Because even with all the mantras and determination in the world, a room that tense raised every hair on the hunter's skin, and his eyes darted right to the shifter. And then stayed on him for way too long.

"I-I'd like to go in the next group," the last of the women, a young, cute blonde who looked vaguely familiar to Dean's déjà vu, stepped forward. Just as Dean turned his head, eyes still locked on the shifter, to address the poor, scared girl, a phone started to ring in the hallway, signaling a call from the police. More importantly, it startled everyone and pulled Dean's attention away from the hostages.

The shifter didn't hesitate.

Before anyone could make sense of the sudden movement, the shifter had surged forward, ripping the pen out of his potential ally's hand, and stabbing it right into the same human's neck. The man started to cry out in surprise, more from the sudden movement and aggression than the thievery, only to be cut short in a gurgling mess of bubbling and squirting blood.

The woman who'd so nervously asked to be next to leave let out a blood-curdling scream. Dean pushed past her to do something – be it tackle the shifter or help the bleeding innocent – but the shifter intercepted him. The two slammed into one of the walls of safety deposit boxes, and Dean's silver blade went skittering across the floor towards the vault door. He wrapped one hand around the shifter's no-longer pristine work shirt, the other catching the monster's wrist as he tried to murder Dean with a friggin' pen of all things.

Sam's first instinct – to shoot the monster who'd probably just taken yet another life and was currently trying to add to that count with the oldest Winchester – was thrown out the window by the chaos of the vault. There were too many innocents that could easily get in the way (including Dean), especially with the overkill that was Betsy. They had hoped to get down to the last group before the shifter made his move, so there'd be less people in harm's way if it came down to a shootout. So much for that plan.

The younger hunter swore as his brother and the shifter grappled against the wall, slamming limbs and heads into the metal boxes with painful, loud bangs. Sam tucked the strap on the gun back over his shoulder, shoving the weapon towards his back, and instead darted into the chaos, in the direction of the choking civilian, still gripping his bleeding neck. Another man – older, probably mid-fifties with wrinkles around his steadfast, determined eyes – had caught the injured bank employee, and was desperately trying to get pressure on the wound.

"Move your hands, son," he murmured to the injured man, voice reasonably calm despite the chaos around him. A veteran, no doubt. Sam slid to his knees beside him, adding his own to the cause by pulling the bleeding guy's hands away from the wound. The older man clamped down and clamped down hard.

Given the amount of blood coming from his neck – impressive but not as much of a spurting fountain as Sam had seen before – the shifter had intentionally wounded the guy instead of going for the kill. A good distraction to occupy a hunter, Sam thought, uselessly. Not like he was going to change his course of action now. This man could be saved, if he got medical attention immediately.

A sharp grunt, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a heavy thud drew Sam's attention back to his brother. Dean was laid out on the floor, clearly still conscious but dazed. The shifter didn't waste the opportunity his punch had afforded him. He leapt over the downed hunter and burst out the vault door, knocking into the blonde woman - who'd been trying to sneak out the vault door - hard enough to bounce her head off the wall. She hit the ground as a pile of dead weight.

"Hey!" Ronald's cry could be heard from the hallway, a lot closer to the vault then he had been before. He must have been coming to help.

"Damnit," Sam muttered, knowing the ex-security guard, for all his good intentions and letter opener, wasn't ready for a full-fledged fight against a monster whose strength he couldn't comprehend.

"Ronald!" Dean called out, best he could while still shaking off that punch. He climbed to his feet using the wall of security boxes for balance even as the shifter overtook the larger man in the hallway, thankfully just shoving past. Ronald wasn't hard to knock off balance, though he recovered a hell of a lost faster than the shifter – or Dean – had given him credit for. "Ronald, no!"

"Get back here!" Ronald yelled, stumbling back to two feet after hitting the hallway wall. The shifter was fast, already down the length of the hallway, but Ronald was determined. He took off after the monster.

"Not again," Dean muttered, loud enough for Sam to hear. He shoved off the wall, propelling himself out of the vault and after the pair.

"Dean!" Sam called after his brother to no avail. The two civilians left conscience and unharmed in the chaos fled out the door as well, risking the opportunity to escape. Damnit! The younger Winchester wasn't an idiot – Dean had told him how this all played out and they looked to be walking – no, running – right into the same end result as last time. Which meant Ronald was about to die and Dean was going to do something incredibly stupid to stop it from happening. Damn it, damn it, damnit!

Sam turned back to the older gentleman beside him, who was still trying to save the slowly dying man in their arms. "Keep pressure on the wound and stay in the vault. You're safest in here, and the cops will be here soon."

Of that, Sam had very, very little doubt.

Scrambling back to his feet, the younger hunter took off after his idiotically heroic brother and their idiotically heroic tagalong, picking up the discarded silver knife as he ran for the hallway. He hoped to change what he knew was coming and, well, if he couldn't…maybe he could at least save his brother from a suicide run.

As he took off after Dean, he ignored the phone, hanging on the wall at the end of the hallway, still ringing.

-o-o-o-

Dean ran out of the vault like his life – and Ronald's life – depended on it. (Because, at least for Ronald, it friggin' did). This was exactly what had happened last time, damnit, as Dean ran into the lobby – darkened but for patches of bright, spotlight-streaked floor coming from the upper windows – he'd be damned if he let it happen again. Damned if he let Ronald run into one of those friggin' spotlights only to get shot through the back. Not this time. Not on his watch.

"Stay out of the light, Ronald! Damnit, stop!"

Ron hit the lobby floor, either unhearing or unheeding as he ran through the first beam, fist still tight around that damn letter opener as he chased after their monster. Dean doubled his speed. It didn't matter what happened once he caught up to the larger man – and at the breakneck, full tilt speed he was going, it wasn't going to be pretty – just that he caught up to him before that sniper did.

He couldn't help glancing between the upper windows – where he knew the shot would come from – and Ronald as he closed in on the heavier man. They had seconds, if that, and Dean didn't know if he'd make it. The shifter was on the far side of the lobby now, disappearing into the darkened tunnel that was the hallway to the manager's office. But the escaping monster was a secondary problem. Keeping Ronald alive came first.

"Dean!"

Sam's strained voice echoed across the lobby, bouncing off the high ceilings and marble-plated walls. Dean didn't stop, didn't slow down. Either unhearing or unheeding, he thought. Ironic. Instead, with only feet to go and absolutely no time left to close that distance, he tackled Ronald with dual grunts, giving up none of the momentum that had carried him lightning-fast across the darkened lobby and into the light.

One of the upper windows broke with a singular crack. Two bodies hit the floor but not before a sniper's bullet tore through one of them.

-o-o-o-

Victor frowned as the phone rang and rang and continued to ring without answer.

With Dean's insistence that he call once he landed, Henriksen had expected the pick-up to be prompt. Another Winchester ploy, most likely. The special agent frowned, considering his next move – the car was still his best bet; Dean was unlikely to leave without it – and reached over to set the phone back in its cradle. He didn't quite make it before all hell broke loose.

"Shots fired, shots fired!" yelled one officer sitting at a command module, a headset covering one ear and hand pressed to it. The radios around the multitude of cops in the small room burst to life, relaying similar information.

"What the-" Lieutenant Robards started towards the first officer to speak. Henriksen, phone abandoned beside it's empty cradle, went to follow – intent to reclaim control and get these people to calm down and report – when another voice spoke from the other end of the mobile unit.

"Confirmed sniper hit!" that officer called, turning to look at Robards, but finding Agent Henriksen staring him down instead.

"Report. Now," the agent insisted, the order leaving no room for discussion. "Who shot who, officer?"

"Uh…" The cop glanced at his lieutenant, who was standing just behind the agent and looking for all the world like he wanted that answer as well, regardless of who was asking it.

"One of our snipers had a shot," a third officer took over, more composed than her colleague. She was also wearing a headset, sitting at the last station in front of several screens showing the bank, security footage, and several media outlets reporting on the robbery. "They took it. Confirmed hit, fatality uncertain, but one of the perps is down."

Henriksen spun on Robards, eyes fierce. "We go in now, Lieutenant."

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

A/Ns: A proper cliffy this time, as I don't think I left much in the way of clues on who got hit or how bad. Don't worry, I'm sure it's just a flesh wound! ;)

Deleted Scene: I had a fun little exchange written down a long time ago, before the chapter kinda wrote itself and went in a slightly different direction, where Ronald was all mad about the not-FBI thing, but ended up realizing something. It didn't end up fitting into this version, but it's too good not to let you all have :D

Ronald: Hey, wait a second...if you're not FBI, how- how did you know all that stuff about me?

Dean and Sam: *exchange looks* We're psychic.

Ronald: Yeah right. Um...okay...so...you're crazy.

Dean: *waving Betsy around in the middle of a bank they took hostage* Really? Really, Ronald? Armed Robbery, Mandroids, no problem, you don't even blink. But Psychics? That's where you draw the line?!

XD

Next Up: Aaaaah, I don't think I can say anything without giving too much away. So...er...things happen! In...a particular order! And...some of them are good, and some of them are bad. And some of them are funny!

Happy New Year everyone!

Cheers,

Silence