SPN: "Threat"
Category: Supernatural
Title: Threat
Genre: General
Fiction Rated: T
Summary: Sometimes the most obvious danger isn't the one you should be focused on. Character deaths.
The house held three bodies.
The woman--Ellen Harvelle, who was supposed to have died a year ago when her bar exploded--had landed in a broken heap at the base of one wall and was half-buried in a pile of books that had the occult experts drooling; he'd had to threaten their jobs, and promise that they could have all the books later, to get them off the crime scene. She'd hit hard, so hard the wall had buckled.
The older man--Bobby Singer, who was supposed to be smarter than to let this kind of thing into his own goddamned house--was eviscerated, his blood soaking another four stacks of books...but it was a polite, almost finicky mutilation, no evidence of wasted effort at all. Whatever it was, it had hit fast: Bobby had died still clutching his stomach, trying to hold his insides in.
There wasn't a mark on the third body. He lay on the floor without so much as a bruise, looking like he'd just laid down and gone to sleep--no pain, no horror frozen on his face, like the others; just peace, and a bit of a smile. Almost like he welcomed death.
And that was not right. Dean Winchester wasn't the kind to embrace death. Throw himself in its path headlong, sure, but not welcome it.
Victor had never put stock in what he'd been told about these two. He'd always been convinced that Dean was the threat. Sam was the reluctant criminal, dragged into this life by a father and brother who manipulated him for their own purposes. Every report, every shred of evidence--real evidence, anyway, not the hunter-blather he'd been forced to listen to--indicated that Dean was the instigator, the mastermind, and Sam was just a good kid with an overblown sense of loyalty who kept getting sucked into his brother's schemes. Sam was going to be the one who eventually saw the light and helped him put Dean on death row where he belonged.
And instead, it was Dean lying dead on the floor in Bobby Singer's house, and every indication that Sam was the one who had killed the others.
"Which one died first?" Victor asked, though he knew what the answer to that would be. The thin layer of dust over Dean Winchester's corpse, sifted down from the cracked plaster of ceiling and walls, answered that question.
"This one," the criminalist said, indicating Dean. "He was dead by the time they--the whatever--started tearing the house apart. Don't think it was long before the other two, though. Rigor's about the same."
No. Of course not. It wouldn't have been. Sam wouldn't have killed Dean. But as soon as Dean was dead...
"Fucking idiots," he muttered, and jerked his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. Every hunter in the world knew not to kill Dean Winchester and not to let him die. Beat him up, maybe. Make his life even more miserable, definitely. But never, ever, under any circumstances, kill him. Not unless you took care of Sam first. Hell, even John had known that. That was why he'd done--whatever it was he'd done, to bind his son to Sam, to buy the rest of the world a quarter century to prepare.
He should have believed what Gordon Walker told him. Should have accepted more of his help, instead of just arranging for his release in exchange for information on the Winchesters.
Voice mail picked up. That was the problem with hunters; they never answered the phone. It was almost as annoying as having to deal with their superstitious blather--and having said blather turn out to be real--in the first place.
"Victor Henriksen. We've got a problem." He looked at the bodies again. "The problem," he specified, and hung up.
Title: Threat
Genre: General
Fiction Rated: T
Summary: Sometimes the most obvious danger isn't the one you should be focused on. Character deaths.
The house held three bodies.
The woman--Ellen Harvelle, who was supposed to have died a year ago when her bar exploded--had landed in a broken heap at the base of one wall and was half-buried in a pile of books that had the occult experts drooling; he'd had to threaten their jobs, and promise that they could have all the books later, to get them off the crime scene. She'd hit hard, so hard the wall had buckled.
The older man--Bobby Singer, who was supposed to be smarter than to let this kind of thing into his own goddamned house--was eviscerated, his blood soaking another four stacks of books...but it was a polite, almost finicky mutilation, no evidence of wasted effort at all. Whatever it was, it had hit fast: Bobby had died still clutching his stomach, trying to hold his insides in.
There wasn't a mark on the third body. He lay on the floor without so much as a bruise, looking like he'd just laid down and gone to sleep--no pain, no horror frozen on his face, like the others; just peace, and a bit of a smile. Almost like he welcomed death.
And that was not right. Dean Winchester wasn't the kind to embrace death. Throw himself in its path headlong, sure, but not welcome it.
Victor had never put stock in what he'd been told about these two. He'd always been convinced that Dean was the threat. Sam was the reluctant criminal, dragged into this life by a father and brother who manipulated him for their own purposes. Every report, every shred of evidence--real evidence, anyway, not the hunter-blather he'd been forced to listen to--indicated that Dean was the instigator, the mastermind, and Sam was just a good kid with an overblown sense of loyalty who kept getting sucked into his brother's schemes. Sam was going to be the one who eventually saw the light and helped him put Dean on death row where he belonged.
And instead, it was Dean lying dead on the floor in Bobby Singer's house, and every indication that Sam was the one who had killed the others.
"Which one died first?" Victor asked, though he knew what the answer to that would be. The thin layer of dust over Dean Winchester's corpse, sifted down from the cracked plaster of ceiling and walls, answered that question.
"This one," the criminalist said, indicating Dean. "He was dead by the time they--the whatever--started tearing the house apart. Don't think it was long before the other two, though. Rigor's about the same."
No. Of course not. It wouldn't have been. Sam wouldn't have killed Dean. But as soon as Dean was dead...
"Fucking idiots," he muttered, and jerked his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. Every hunter in the world knew not to kill Dean Winchester and not to let him die. Beat him up, maybe. Make his life even more miserable, definitely. But never, ever, under any circumstances, kill him. Not unless you took care of Sam first. Hell, even John had known that. That was why he'd done--whatever it was he'd done, to bind his son to Sam, to buy the rest of the world a quarter century to prepare.
He should have believed what Gordon Walker told him. Should have accepted more of his help, instead of just arranging for his release in exchange for information on the Winchesters.
Voice mail picked up. That was the problem with hunters; they never answered the phone. It was almost as annoying as having to deal with their superstitious blather--and having said blather turn out to be real--in the first place.
"Victor Henriksen. We've got a problem." He looked at the bodies again. "The problem," he specified, and hung up.