BIG BANG -- Hubris
Dean stands in the dim living room, cocky smirk on his face that cracks just slightly as he looks at Sam standing there with his arm around Jess. Sam drinks him in, can’t help himself. It’s been over two years since he last saw his brother, and he mentally tallies up the changes. In a lot of ways, Dean hasn’t changed a bit - he’s still the cocky smart-ass larger than life big brother Sam has always known. But the few changes visible are remarkable. He’s older now, his eyes carrying more years than his handsome face. There’s a weariness there Sam has never seen before, a vulnerability that’s barely concealed beneath the badass exterior.
He looks down for a second, then meets Sam’s eyes squarely. “Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”
Sam feels thrill of apprehension at those words, amplified by the fact that Dean actually came here in person to say them. “Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside.”
Dean almost sighs, quirks a small smile as he leads the way out of the apartment. Sam grabs a hoodie to throw on over his thin t-shirt and follows him out, irritation starting to overtake his worry. “Dean, I can’t believe you just came here.”
Dean throws him a look over his shoulder as the door closes behind him. “Wow, you’d almost think you weren’t happy to see me.”
Sam huffs. “I mean, come on; you can’t just break in, in the middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.”
“You’re not hearing me Sammy. Dad’s missing; I need you to help me find him.” Their footsteps clatter on the stairwell as they descend.
“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst, or the devil’s gates in Clifton?” Sam sure remembers; he remembers the terror of waiting, of uncertainty, of watching days ticks by without a single word from John. There were times Sam was sure they were orphans, and all he could do was cling to Dean to make it all right. Looking back now, he’s filled all over again with fury at John. Massively screwed up doesn’t even begin to describe their childhood. “He was missing then too. He’s always missing and he’s always fine.” If stinking of whiskey by the time he stumbled home.
Dean shakes his head. “Not for this long. Now you gonna come with me or not?”
“I’m not.”
Dean gets a confused look on his face, like he can’t believe Sam wouldn’t want to get on board. “Why not?
Sam looks him straight in the eye, trying to convey his seriousness. “I swore I was done hunting. For good.”
“Come on, it wasn’t easy but it wasn’t that bad.”
Sam scoffs. “Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet he gave me a .45.”
Dean raises his eyebrows, yeah, so? “Well, what was he supposed to do?”
Sometimes his brother’s capacity for self-delusion still manages to shock Sam. “I was 9 years old. He was supposed to say ‘Don’t be afraid of the dark.’” Like a normal parent goes without saying.
Dean scowls at him. “Don’t be afraid of the dark? What, are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark! You know what’s out there!”
Only too well, and Dean knows more than he does about the things that go bump in the night. Sam sighs and looks away. “Yeah, I know, but still - the way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad’s obsession to find the thing that killed her -“ John’s eyes, bloodshot from too much alcohol and long nights reading obscure books in bad light, haunted by the things he’d seen, flash through Sam’s mind. Twenty years worth of obsession, and how much devastation it caused. “But we still haven’t found the damn thing, so we kill everything we can find.”
“Save a lot of people doing it, too.” And Dean actually looks proud in pointing this out. Sam’s ire is rekindled at the thought. Of course, how could he expect anything different? Dean’s always been Dad’s good little soldier, buying in to all his crap no matter what, like this is what he’s called to do. As if anyone could really be called to his hellish lifestyle.
“You think Mom would have wanted this for us?” Sam points out through gritted teeth. Dean actually rolls his eyes and pushes through the gate leading out the back of the apartment building. Sam follows, trying to get across just how screwed up it all really is. “The weapon training, and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors.”
Sam remembers a history lesson on the Greeks, and the legends of the Spartans. They raised their kids to be warriors too, held fighting and dying in battle to be the ultimate goal of a proud citizen. He recalls a legend about a boy who stuffed a fox down his shirt to conceal it; in its panic, the animal clawed the boy to death. Nobody knew the fox was there until the boy collapsed and the animal ran. The boy was supposed to be admired, held as a shining example of Spartan beliefs, because he suffered in silence.
Sam’s never liked the Spartans. He’s always preferred the Athenians himself.
“So, what are you gonna do? You just gonna live some normal apple-pie life? Is that it?”
“No. Not normal. Safe.” That’s something that Dean’s never understood. It’s never been about being normal, not for Sam. It’s about being safe, about not wondering if every time someone walks out the door that’s the last time he’ll see them. About not having to learn at age 10 how to stitch up a gash in his brother or father. It’s about not having to run from law enforcement, not packing up and leaving town in the middle of the night. It’s about not having to sit and hold vigil with a shotgun through the night in the woods over his concussed brother with a creature still out there, wondering if either of them will live to see dawn.
Dean scoffs, leaning back against the Impala. “And that’s why you ran away?”
Of course Dean would see it like that. “I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go, I should stay gone.” He’ll never admit to anyone, let alone Dean, just how much those words had hurt. “And that’s what I’m doing.”
Dean thins his lips, acknowledging without argument what no doubt had to be a painful memory for him too. But, Sam tells himself, he chose a side too that night. And it wasn’t Sam’s. Dean looks away for a moment. “Yeah, well, Dad’s in real trouble, if he’s not dead already. I can feel it.”
Sam just looks at him. Finally Dean meets his eyes. “I can’t do this alone.”
Now that right there is a blatant lie. Dean is the most capable person, let alone hunter, Sam has ever met. In fact, he’d lay odds that Dean’s better than Dad. And if anyone can track a Winchester, it’s another Winchester.
But not Sam. He’s left that life, is making a new one for himself. One that doesn’t include monsters under the bed or demons in the dark. As much as he loves his brother, he can’t turn his back on it. Not now, not after everything he’s fought to get, every hard step he took to prove himself. So Sam steels himself and says softly, but with finality, “Yes, you can.”
And you’re gonna have to.
Five minutes later, Sam watches from the stairs as the Impala’s taillights fade off down the street, and feels both a curious weightlessness and a crushing heaviness in his chest. Something significant just happened, and he’s not entirely sure he understands.
He turns and climbs the stairs, back to his life, with an law school interview pending on Monday that could hold the keys to a respectable career. Back to his apartment with his blonde girlfriend, who maybe at Thanksgiving will accept his ring. Back to his future, all bright and shiny and full of hope, and what he wants to make of it.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Six years later . . . .
“Okay, listen up! Team Alpha is gonna enter from the front, while Team Charlie circles around the back to secure the back exits. Team Bravo’s getting set up at sniper points. Remember, the hostages might still be alive, so non-lethal force only unless I say otherwise.” SWAT Captain Bradley looked over at the small team of FBI agents overlooking the briefing. “Winchester!”
Sam paused in pulling his Kevlar vest tight. “Yes?”
“You’ve been trackin’ this guy for months, know him better than he knows himself. If he’s gonna rabbit, which way’s he gonna go?”
Sam sealed the last Velcro strap, absently double-checked the clearance on his holster as he thought. “Depends if the hostages are alive or not. I’m thinking they are. He’s smart, and he has an agenda, knows killing them gets him nothing right now. In that case, he’ll leave the hostages on the main level as a screen while he goes out the back.” He peered at the blueprints of the house spread out on the wall. “No basement?”
“Not on the plans.”
“And we know for certain he hasn’t been digging his own rat hole?” He traced a few blue lines with his finger. “If he’s in the foundation, it’s only 20 feet or so to this main sewer line. Not pleasant, but doable.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Hodkins?”
The curly-haired blond agent nodded and pulled out his cell, quickly dialing the support team. “Hey Deb, got credit card reports on our perp? Good, look for large construction expenses, any earth-movers, drills, hell, a load of shovels.” He waited, listening, and two minutes later smiled. “Thanks Deb.” Hanging up, he shook his head. “If he’s digging, he’s using his hands.”
“Good.” Sam nodded at Bradley. “Make sure Bravo’s locked down on any roof exit points, but likely he’ll use a distraction and go out the back. He’s not adverse to booby-trapping, though.. Figure at the very least the front door will be, probably the back too.”
“Great.” Bradley pursed his lips. “Jeffers, Hodkins, you’ll go with Team Alpha. Winchester, McDowell, Team Charlie. Just don’t get dead; I hate the paperwork.” He cast a hard stare around at the gathered SWAT officers. “Move out!”
The teams quickly split and headed as quickly and unobtrusively as possible towards the target house two blocks away. In the middle of six heavily armed SWAT officers, Sam glanced up and around, barely able to see the scattered snipers in the surrounding houses. Good. In case Randalls actually managed to get by the teams on the ground, there was no way he was escaping the neighborhood without an extra hole or two drilled through his body.
The SWAT guys infiltrated the backyard near silently and took up standard positions, weapons trained on all visible exit points. McDowell, a petite brunette with a stern face, posted herself on the far side of the porch opposite Sam, covering the door. They exchanged quick nods, then waited for the signal.
For a long minute all was quiet. Then a crackle over the ear pieces. “Alpha team, go.” The next instant they heard glass shattering from the front of the house, muffled screams, and Jeffers’s distinctive basso voice barking out, “FBI! Nobody move!” Scuffles, then a loud boom that shook the house. Sam winced; that would be the explosives on the front door. Hopefully they set them off without anyone getting caught in the explosion.
More screams, a couple thuds, sounds of a fight, then a metallic clatter and the hiss of tear gas. Seconds later the back door smashed open and a weedy, unshaven guy barreled out, shotgun in one hand. He stumbled a bit at the sight of eight guns trained on him, eyes flickering between the masked SWAT and the two FBI agents.
“Randalls, freeze!” McDowell shouted, gun trained on his head. She was closest to him, and at this range he couldn’t twitch without her pulling the trigger first. With a heavy sigh, he cautiously tossed the shotgun away and raised his hands. She gestured with her gun, and he linked his hands behind his head as he sank to his knees.
“Marcus Randalls, you have the right to remain silent,” McDowell began, reaching for her handcuffs. Sam nodded, covering her as she holstered her gun and snicked the first cuff around the suspect’s wrist.
Suddenly another boom went off just behind them, a small fireball erupting from the back door and shattering the windows as Sam staggered off the porch from the shock wave, rolling as he hit the grass. The SWAT officers reacted immediately, covering their faces as they ducked out of the way. Randalls moved, almost quicker than they could track, grabbing McDowell’s arm and twisting her around in front of him, snatching her gun out of her holster.
“Nobody move!” he screamed, cuffs dangling from the arm locked around McDowell’s throat, gun jammed to her temple. He was tall enough that she was barely on her toes as he hauled her back against him, eyes darting around to all the SWAT guys. They’d been caught with their guns pointed away, and now couldn’t get the suspect back in their sights before he fired.
Sam stayed down, sprawled belly down just off the edge of the porch, mind flashing through possibilities. His gun was still in his hand, but he couldn’t draw a bead without being seen. Randalls was still under the cover of the porch, and with McDowell blocking most of his body, none of the snipers had a shot. Possibly someone in the house could emerge soon, but Sam couldn’t count on that, not with those two explosions. He craned his neck slightly to check the door - only to see it blocked by debris. No good.
“Back off!” Randalls snarled, pressing the muzzle so hard into McDowell’s head she’d no doubt have a bruise the next day. Sam flicked his gaze toward the team leader, who gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. The crackle came again over the earpiece as the rest of the squad was informed, “The suspect has taken an agent hostage.” The SWAT team exchanged glances, then slowly started to back away, guns raised but not pointed in Randalls’ direction.
Randalls edged along the side of the house, dragging a choking McDowell with him, eyes scanning for more officers, a way out, something. Sam noticed he didn’t look quite in his direction - did he think Sam had been knocked out? Good, it might give him an advantage. He just had to wait for an opening . . .
As many perps had learned in the past, McDowell, while petite, was never one to go quietly. Her one free hand stopped clawing the arm around her throat and went for the gun hand, simultaneously slamming her heel back into Randalls’ knee. There was a sickening pop, Randalls yelled in pained rage, and his finger tightened on the trigger. The shot barely missed McDowell’s face, and Sam moved.
Surging to his feet, Sam cleared the porch in one leap and aimed a kick at Randalls’ hand, connecting and sending the gun flying as the wrist snapped back. Howling, Randalls dropped McDowell, who rolled out of the way as Sam followed through with a right hook, connecting Randalls’ chin to make him stagger back. Shaking it off, he swung a vicious punch, but Sam caught the arm, twisted it into an elbow lock submission hold, spun him around then rammed him face-first into the wall.
Another crunch and blood spattered the cracked paint from a broken nose, and Sam used the distraction to catch the cuffs swinging free and lock them in place around both wrists, tightening them a little more than necessary. The suspect tried to mule-kick him, but Sam simply adjusted his stance and leaned his weight into the suspect until he was mashed uncomfortably into the wall.
“Settle down Randalls, before I have to get rough,” Sam snarled in his ear.
“You broke my fuckin’ nose, man!” Randalls yelled.
“That’s what you get for touching my partner,” Sam retorted, then hooked his ankle and tossed him into the grass where SWAT kept their guns trained on him. “And that’s for making my job harder. Marcus Randalls, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”
As SWAT hauled Randalls to his feet, McDowell touched Sam’s arm, and with a glance he fell silent and let her take over the Miranda rights. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be provided for you . . . “
Her voice faded as they hustled him around the side of the house to where the van and police cars had pulled up, one waiting to haul the perp away. Sam stepped back to where he had dropped his gun, checked it, then holstered it with a sigh. What a mess. He peered in one of the shattered windows to see SWAT and his fellow FBI agents untying the hostages. “Clear?” he called out.
“Clear!” came the answer from Jeffers as he emerged from what remained of the kitchen. “Come in here. You were right. Booby traps. Bastard had C-4 wired along the door frames, not a whole lot, but enough to make someone’s day real unpleasant. Front door had a trigger switch - open the door and boom! Right in your face.”
“And the back? That didn’t go off until he was already through the door.”
“’Cause that was rigged with a trip-wire stretched across the doorway here,” Jeffers pointed behind him to an archway leading from the living room. “Looks like shaped charges to me, aimed inward. Discourage any pursuit while leaving the bolt-hole free. Explains why the back wall didn’t come down. Although Bradley’s not too happy with two injured.” He gave Sam a heavy look. “SWAT found another wire, along the side of the house. Looks like it leads to more charges around the porch.”
“Wait, you mean . . .”
“Haven’t checked how much is down there yet, but you guys shoulda been blown to bits.” Jeffers’ smile had no humor to it. “One point wasn’t anchored correctly, left slack in the line. Instead of triggering the spark, the wire simply came off.”
“Shit.” Sam let out a low whistle. “Bastard’s been a busy boy.”
“Good thing too. He got sloppy. Lady Luck smiles on you again, Winchester.” Jeffers arched an eyebrow.
Sam snorted. “Yeah, sure. Wanna bet Morgan’s going to chew me a new one for ‘assaulting the suspect’?”
“No bet.” Jeffers slapped his back. “On the other hand, McDowell might actually buy you a round for saving her ass.”
“Nah. That just goes on the karma sheet.” Sam looked around the house, watching as the shaken hostages were escorted out and the forensic guys came in to start their evidence collection. “Too bad I won’t get a crack at Randalls, through. In interrogation,” he clarified when Jeffers started to smirk.
“You broke the guy’s nose. Of course he won’t wanna talk to you. On the other hand, know what you have to look forward too?”
“Paperwork,” Sam groaned.
“Paperwork,” Jeffers agreed with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. “Morgan’s gonna chain your ass to a desk for months. Or until we need your badass kung-fu again, whichever comes first.”
“Careful. Never know when you might need my badass kung-fu to save your sorry ass.” Sam sighed heavily as he led the way out of the house and towards the SUVs waiting for the FBI agents, shifting uncomfortably as sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades. He hated Virginia in August. “C’mon, I wanna take this vest off. Itches like a mother.”
*~*~*~*
“Winchester!”
The slurred bellow drew Sam’s attention as soon as he stepped into the bar from the muggy night, and he immediately looked toward the far corner where several of his teammates and a couple SWAT guys were grouped, drinks in hand. Jeffers was standing, more or less upright, grinning and waving at Sam over the crowd. With a slight smile, Sam walked over to join them.
Jeffers threw an arm over his shoulder in greeting, and Sam nearly staggered . While not quite as tall as him, Jeffers was solidly built as a linebacker and had at least twenty pounds of muscle on Sam. Despite his size, the auburn hair and big goofy grin made him resemble nothing so much as an oversized Opie Taylor. The comparison always drew a smirk.
“Hey Jeffers. See you started the party without me.”
Jeffers laughed loudly as he dragged him over. “C’mon Sammy, we’re off duty. Call me Mike.”
“Don’t call me Sammy.” Sam shrugged off the arm.
Hodkins rolled his eyes at Jeffers. “Call him what you want, but don’t you dare call me Stewie again, you lightweight.” He shoved a beer over to Sam. “Might want to start catching up. He’s already on his third.”
“Of course we started without you.” McDowell gave Sam a rare smile. “We weren’t sure when Morgan would be done chewing your ass.”
Sam winced. “Not sure he’s quite done yet.” He spun and stuck out his rear, mock-pouting over his shoulder. “Tell me. Is there any ass left? Felt like he chewed it all off.”
As the guys laughed, McDowell swatted him. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s plenty ass left.”
“Hey, be nice to that ass,” one of the SWAT guys pointed out. “It saved yours today.”
“Yeah, yeah,” McDowell groused into her beer, one hand lightly touching the side of her face which glistened with antiseptic gel over reddened flash burns.
Sam nodded at her face. “You okay? Saw the medic fussing over you.”
Her hand immediately dropped, but she didn’t seem angry, merely put out. “Yeah. Just first degree, but the medic worried about infection from powder burns. It’ll be fine in a couple days.”
“Whereas I heard our perp popped his quad tendon thanks to your kick and will be walking with a limp for at least a month.” A tall SWAT guy Sam didn’t recognize patted her shoulder. “Served him right for picking on the woman.”
“Damn straight.” McDowell gave him a feral grin, which gave her a strange resemblance to a tiger shark.
“Everyone knows the female is the deadlier of the species,” Sam agreed.
The SWAT guys introduced themselves as Castro and Parker from Team Charlie, but Matt and Brian when off duty. Brian called for another round from the waitress, and passed over a cold foamy glass to Sam. “To the action hero of the day,” he saluted mockingly, and the rest of the group raised their glasses in turn, smirking.
Sam fought to keep from blushing but accepted their teasing as he sipped his beer. Matt met his eyes. “In all seriousness, if you ever want to ditch the suit and join us, there’s always a spot open.”
Hodkins spluttered into his beer. “Oh, Sam’s no trigger-happy adrenaline junkie,” he managed to say through his giggles, ignoring the sour looks the SWAT guys sent his way.
Jeffers concurred. “Sam’s the biggest geek of us all, and I’m not talking just his height. He’s our profiler.”
Sam flushed darkly and started to protest, but shut up when McDowell gave him an arch look. “Just let them get it out of their systems, or they’ll be insufferable,” she advised. He slumped into a spare chair, hiding behind his glass as the two started their oft-repeated spiel.
“Went to Stanford on a full ride,” Hodkins began.
“Straight A’s in pre-law, of all things,” Jeffers continued, grinning.
“Scored a 174 on his LSATs, which is scary good . . .”
“Took abnormal psychology and criminology, for fun . . .”
“Got into Stanford Law School, also on a free ride, while interning at a prestigious firm . . .”
“Got bored with law school, apparently it was too easy . . .”
“Switched to a double degree in forensic psychology and criminal law, the gigantic nerd.”
“Graduated summa cum laude, then passed the bar on the first try.”
“Decided a position in the San Francisco DA’s office was too tame, and applied to the FBI.”
“Now here’s where it gets interesting,” Jeffers played up to their audience, which by now was attracting the tables around them.
Sam just sunk even lower in his chair, cheeks flaming.
“Oh, definitely.” Hodkins grinned at Sam’s discomfiture. “Sam here went through the Academy and smashed a couple training records . . .”
“Out-shot the firing range instructor the first day on the range, even when switching hands, the show off.”
“Put the combat instructor on his ass, too. Said it was an accident, but nobody believed him.”
“So after nine months at the Academy, trained at Quantico as a profiler and was every teacher’s pet.”
“Managed to get himself placed on our team only two months after making active field agent status, thanks to his profiling a serial rapist.”
“And just last month he celebrated two years on our team.” Jeffers clapped a hand on the back of Sam’s neck proudly.
Brian raised an eyebrow, impressed. “And you’re how old, kid?”
Sam sighed. “Twenty-eight.”
“Damn,” Brian whistled. “You really are an overachieving geek.”
Jeffers and Hodkins laughed at that. Sam shook his head at them. “I still can’t believe you talked Deb into hacking my personnel file.”
“Hey, what’s a little criminal trespass between friends?” Hodkins said innocently. “Besides, she was curious too. You’re working the tall, dark and mysterious vibe, but after two years the curiosity gets overwhelming.”
“And you know what that did to the cat,” Sam snarked.
Brian frowned. “Who’s Deb?”
“Deb Kenealy, computer geek extraordinaire. She’s part of our support team,” Hodkins explained. “For when we really, truly need it found, decoded, hacked, or cracked by yesterday, we turn to Deb. We invited her here tonight, but apparently she had plans.”
“You’d like her,” McDowell told them. “She’s short and cute with curly hair, brilliant, and cusses worse than a longshoreman.” Sam laughed; that was Deb in a nutshell, all right, although there was a lot more to that. Deb was probably the closest thing he had to a friend nowadays.
Matt gestured to the rest of the team. “What about you guys? More child geniuses and ambitious jocks?”
“Only McDowell,” Sam said, eager to get some of his own back. She scowled at him, but he simply gave her a bland look. “Our little Sarah entered Colombia University at sixteen, where she was initially pre-med, then switched to microbiology. Worked in a biomedical engineering lab while she did her thesis in alternative bio-weaponry. Needless to say, that drew some attention.”
“I’d say,” McDowell said dryly. “One minute I’m studying in the library, next thing I know a couple federal agents are there to ask a few questions and look through my research.”
“Marked her as a potential terrorist, they did,” Jeffers put in. “Maybe it was the attitude.”
“Instead of locking her up, they offered her a job, then put her through the Academy. Now that was their mistake,” Sam said conspiringly. “She found she liked playing with guns more than micropipettes. So instead of joining the geeks locked in the basement, she became a field agent.”
Matt and Brian looked at McDowell with new appreciation. Contrary to TV, it wasn’t that often one found a woman who was brilliant, beautiful, and deadly.
“Hodkins here was an accountant.” Sam reached over to clap Hodkins on the shoulder. “Got bored catering to wealthy businessmen and joined the FBI to chase down paper trails. Found himself chasing down perps as well, after he moved from field auditor to field agent, but that’s just a side benefit.”
“Keeps him from gathering mold,” Jeffers grinned, ruffling Hodkins’ hair. “His name’s Stewart, but that just sounds pretentious. So I call him Stewie.”
“So instead of pretentiousness, you cater to his whims of world domination?” Sam dead-panned.
Hodkins shoved Jeffers away from his head. “This joker here always planned on being a fed. Don’t know why exactly, but it was his life’s ambition.”
“I’d say you were aiming too low,” Brian needled, then ducked Jeffers’ playful swipe at his head.
“Hey!” Jeffers protested indignantly. “I’ll have you know I was a cop before I joined the FBI. Plus I was a champion shot-putter and shortstop at the University of Michigan while majoring in criminal justice, and I made the dean’s list every semester.”
“Okay, okay,” Brian chuckled, holding up his hands. “You’re the jock. We get it.”
Matt drained his beer and shook his head. “Interesting mix for a team.”
McDowell shrugged and signaled for another round. “We make it work.”
Yeah, they made it work, Sam mentally agreed as he got started on a fresh beer, looking around at his teammates. They worked together, learned to trust each other, watched each other’s backs and brought down the bad guys. He liked them, liked the camaraderie they had together and the sense of belonging. They were a team, partners, but not necessarily friends. They didn’t need to know about his past or his family in order to work with him, and he enjoyed that acceptance.
Sam liked his job, his teammates, and the accomplishment he felt whenever they brought down a dirtbag. He made a difference. So even if he went home alone each night to an empty apartment, he was still proud of what he’d made of his life.
*~*~*~*
Day nineteen of his exile. Sam sighed heavily as he dumped his bag behind his desk and slumped into his chair. Okay, so he wasn’t really exiled - it just felt like it. Between the endless paperwork involved in wrapping up the case, the two weeks’ mandatory desk duty Morgan had slapped him with, the cold case reviews, and the relative quiet of late that meant no new cases, Sam spent the majority of his 8 to 5 day at his desk. Given that the rest of his team was also wading hip-deep through bureaucracy, they weren’t interacting very much.
Sam snorted to himself. Most thought being an FBI agent was glamorous and action-packed, like they showed on TV. Always running around with a badge and a gun, kicking ass and taking names. But the reality was far less entertaining. Sure, his job had its moments, but as with any government job, most of the time Sam earned his paycheck doing paperwork.
Jeffers caught the snort and looked up from his computer with a knowing smirk. “Ah, the continuing high action adventures of Sam Winchester, star FBI paper pusher.”
Sam rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the stack of forms threatening to bury his inbox. “Number one cause of global warming and deforestation right here.”
Hodkins gasped dramatically. “So Al Gore didn’t invent global warming - he helped cause it!” Snickers briefly wafted through the bullpen, then quiet settled again as they got to work.
Two hours later Sam printed out yet another form in triplicate and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the threatening headache. He reached for his coffee, only to find an empty mug. Mournfully looking down at the last stray drops clinging to the cup, he decided now was a great time for a break. Not break room coffee though - whoever made that sludge must have burned away their taste buds, because it bore an eerie approximation to motor oil.
However, the cart down in the lobby served real coffee, which probably accounted for their brisk business; Sam swore by their double shot lattes. Tossing his cup in the trash, he bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairwell. Taking the stairs down also gave him the opportunity to stretch his legs and back, which always cramped when he sat too long.
Upon reaching the lobby, Sam instinctively scanned his surroundings, taking in the various armed agents, couriers rushing around importantly, tourists off to the side herded by perky tour guides, and the security guards discreetly watching everything. The coffee cart didn’t have a line for once, so Sam half-hurried in that direction and smiled automatically at the barista as he placed his order.
It’s funny how life turns out, Sam mused as he watched the girl steam the milk, feeling the comforting weight of his badge on his belt. For most of his life, his family had avoided Washington D.C., leery of the law enforcement and federal agencies congregated there. Ten years ago, he would never have believed he’d be living here, let alone working for the FBI.
Then again, his team now would never believe that ten years ago, he used to hunt ghosts.
Occasionally he wondered what his father would think of him now. He hadn’t seen John in nearly ten years, and the last time, while memorable, hadn’t exactly been stellar. Sometimes he could still hear those final yelled words echoing in his ears, especially on the long nights when a case haunted him and he had trouble sleeping.
If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back!
He hadn’t. And most the time, he didn’t regret it.
He’d like to think that maybe John would be proud, but he still wondered. John was so devoted to the hunter’s lifestyle, the one he’d dragged both his boys in to, that the mere mention of Sam doing something else less hazardous used to send them into screaming fights. Part of it was his father’s inability to accept that he couldn’t control everything, but now with wisdom born of a decade of separation, Sam acknowledged that his own stubbornness played a part in those as well.
Maybe John would be proud of his FBI son, more so than if Sam had stayed on his original path as a lawyer. It wasn’t as if Sam just buried his head in the sand and blinded himself to all the bad things in the world. He still fought bad things, made a difference in people’s lives, and he did it legitimately. The badge was his own, earned through hard work and talent, not stolen or faked like the ones John carried on occasion.
Sam accepted his hot coffee from the girl with a dimpled smile, wondering if John had kept tabs on him. After he first left, he thought not, that John had decided to deny his deserter son completely. But as the years passed, he’d noticed a few things that indicated that someone might be keeping track of him - hidden faint scratches of protection wards on lintels and windowsills, the occasional loiterer around his home and classes, a hang-up phone call. Little things that most people would dismiss.
Heading back upstairs, he mentally counted back. Nine years since he’d last seen John, six (or five, depending on how he counted) since he’d seen Dean, five since he’d had any contact with the hunting world. Six months since he last checked on John’s whereabouts. Purely for self-preservation, of course.
As he walked back to his desk, he glanced around the bullpen at his teammates. McDowell was absorbed in a file, Jeffers was cursing at his computer, Hodkins had disappeared for the moment, and Morgan was in his office, deep in a phone conference and clearly not very happy about it. Making the decision, Sam set his coffee by his keyboard, quickly shut off the keystroke capture on his computer, and pulled up Lexis Nexis.
Well versed in database searches, it only took Sam about thirty minutes to run down any traces of his father. Luckily for him, John had managed to stay under the radar for most of his life, with only a couple traffic violations, one drunk and disorderly, and a single invalid firearms permit on his record. Sam knew he’d been picked up for more than that, but always under fake names that hadn’t been traced back to John Winchester, and therefore didn’t show up on Sam’s security clearance check. It would have been very difficult to pass the background checks necessary for agent status if his father had a record of impersonating federal officers.
As it was, John hadn’t appeared on any law enforcement records for years, and nobody suspicious matched his description. No hits on his driver’s license or social security number. The truck most likely had another license plate change, so Sam tracked it using the VIN, which showed an active registration in Ohio and basic insurance, both listing a PO box for the return address under the name John Smith.
Sam leaned back in his chair, mind more at ease. John was alive, somewhere, and whatever else he was doing, he wasn’t attracting any attention to himself. That would have to do.
On a nostalgic whim he also tried tracking the Impala, just to see what had happened to it. He got the same results as he had for the last five years; the last official record was in a St. Louis police BOLO, where it became the location for a stakeout. After that, the car just disappeared. Who knew what John had decided to do with it.
Clearing out his search cache and eliminating every trace of his activity he could, Sam eyed his inbox, working out the most efficient way to get all that paperwork done. With a fortifying gulp of coffee, he got back to work.
On to Part 2