About Victor (3 Drabbles, PG)
Title: You Kinky Son of a Bitch
Pairing(s): none
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 127
“We don’t swing that way,” the older Winchester, the psychopath, announced and it took all of Henriksen’s training not to flinch. Not to blush.. He didn’t swing that way either. Usually. But these two brothers? They just exuded an aura of… something.
Dangerous but powerful and attractive. It was easy to see how one might fall pray to this pair. Lord knew what kind of kinky shit these two did in their free time. It wasn’t always slash and kill for them, these two surely played their games. He could see it in their eyes. And much as he loathed and despised them, it also lured him in. He always had a sick fascination with what made monsters tick, but these Winchesters, they really were something else.
Title: The Usual Sickos
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean-ish
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 170
If Henriksen was good at one thing, it was reading people. Body language went a long way. Stolen glances you think nobody will notice. Subtle changes in your voice to indicate nervousness. It’s why he was so good at his job. He found a weak spot and then he exploited it.
The Winchesters on the other hand, they were frustrating. Easy to read, but what he read from their bodies wouldn’t fit with their file. These two have sure been brainwashed good by their old daddy. In a way, he felt sorry for them. He truly believed they thought they were fighting evil. But they didn’t seem stupid to him. Not you average hillbilly inbreds you might expect when insanity like this runs in the family.
Yet not so unusual either.
Henriksen could read people. That’s how he knew their weak spots. And it satisfied him to no end to see them both finally flinch, to finally wipe that smirk off of Dean’s face, when he suggested to separate them.
Title: When I Grow Up
Pairing(s): none
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Word Count: 276
Victor hated his job. He could have been anything. A fireman. Stock broker. Math teacher. Astronaut. Okay, no, he probably wasn’t cut out for space, but anything else. Really. He was just that good. Yet he chose the FBI. Sounded cool, right? Special Agent Henriksen. Busting drug cartels, finding serial killers, keeping the streets safe and saving lives, all the while wearing a black suit, sunglasses and getting engaged in movie worthy gunfights and car chases.
Sounds about right, yes? Except…. no. That wasn’t how his job worked at all. 90% of it, frigging 90%, was all about filling out applications for warrants, writing files, waiting to hear back, schmoozing judges, sucking up to superiors, writing more files, observation, more observation and maybe, maybe if he was really lucky, he could book one bad guy once every three years. And on a special occasion, so, almost every damn time, his superior took all the credit for it.
That’s why the time he got to spend with his perps was so precious. For a few minutes, he could gloat. He was Special Agent Henriksen, the most important person in the room. The bad-ass on the other side of the bars, who outsmarted the moron now behind them.
Maybe that was part of the reason why he hated those damn Winchesters so much. They refused to let him gloat properly, worse, they took away his gratification by getting away. Repeatedly. But not anymore. This time he’d make sure they stayed gone for good. And maybe he’d keep visiting, watch them slowly break while being apart. They owed him. They owed him two fucking years of his miserable life.