Fic: Go Down Swinging (2/3)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: 3x12 Jus in Belo
Word Count: 2856
Summery: Victor Henriksen plans to go down swinging.
AN: It seems I'm incapable of ever judging how long my stories are going to be. This is now a three parter.
Thanks tons to all the people who commented. Seriously, it really brightens my day.
Part One
“Who are you? Better yet, what are you?” Sam demands. His grip on the shotgun is solid, his hands are steady, and Victor is well aware that the younger Winchester brother is more than capable of pulling the trigger.
“Hey, hey. It's me. Put the gun down, Sam.”
“Yeah right, pull the other one. Henriksen is dead.”
“Sam, what the...” Dean comes into view, stepping out of the bathroom, his hair dripping with water onto his teeshirt. He takes one look at Victor, swears, and pulls a gun so fast Victor's left wondering where he was keeping the thing.
“Guys, calm the hell down before someone gets hurt,” Victor says, someone being him, because after what he saw at the police station, he's under no illusions about being able to take either of the brothers. He's beginning to think that tracking these two down like this might not have been the smartest move.
Sam's eyes narrow and he looks Victor right in the face and says “Christo.”
Victor's brow furrows in confusion, as the two Winchesters give each other a quick look. Sam reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a flask. He thumbs the top off and splashes water on Victor's face.
Victor gives them both a disgruntled look. “Well, at least it's not toilet water this time,” he says.
“Henriksen... is it really...?” Dean asks, his expression hopeful but cautious.
“Live and in the flesh... such as it is.”
“If you're really who you say you are, then come in,” Sam says, backing away slightly, but not lowering his weapon.
Victor looks down and steps over the line of salt at his feet. Sam keeps backing away slightly, motioning him forward, so Victor walks further in the room. Sam glances upwards and then breaths a sigh of relief and both brothers lower their weapons. Victor glances upwards and sees that they've drawn one of those fancy pentagrams on the ceiling in front of the door, and he has just stepped out of the thing.
“Ha!” Dean says with a grin, tucking his gun into his jeans. He walks over to Victor and gives him a back slapping, one armed hug. “It's good to see you, Vic! Knew you were too damn stubborn to die.”
Victor takes a moment to appreciate the full absurdity of the situation. Six months ago, hot on the trail of the brothers, he would never have imagined he would be here, being given a manly hug by an obviously overjoyed Dean Winchester, but then there are a lot of things Victor wouldn't have imagined six months ago.
“The news report said you had died in the blast,” Sam says. He looks pleased that Victor's alive, though not as much so as his brother, and there's an edge to him, a shadow in his eyes, that makes Victor uncomfortable. Victor is reminded that Sam was the one that was willing to sacrifice Nancy. He regards the younger brother cautiously.
“Obviously reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” He shifts his weight and grimaces slightly from the pain in his leg. “Mind if I sit down? I've been driving for a while and my leg's giving me trouble.”
Dean nods, gesturing vaguely. Victor looks around the room, taking it all in. There's another devil's trap drawn above the window, and salt all along the windowsill. The bed closest to the door is covered with an array of freshly cleaned guns and the scent of gun oil lingers in the air. The other bed is neatly made with a laptop computer humming quietly on its center, and the walls surrounding it have been covered with a mass of articles, printouts, and diagrams, all sitting at precise right angles to one another.
Dean notices Victor's gaze and rolls his eyes. “Don't mind Sam, he's been indulging his OCD lately.” There's a weight to those words, to Sam's responding flinch, that Victor doesn't quite understand. There's something hanging in the air between the brothers, thick and suffocating as a DC summer, and Victor can't even begin to grasp what it is, but the tension is almost palpable.
Victor settles himself into the room's singular rickety chair, taking the weight off of his bad knee. Sam folds himself down in front of the laptop, leaving the shotgun within easy reach. Dean sits down on edge of the gun-covered bed and gives Victor an appraising look.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he observes.
Victor is suddenly conscious of the faint scars on the right side of his face. He doesn't think about them much really. He's never been a vain man, but they sit as a constant reminder of the events of that night. “You try spending seven hours trapped underneath a building and see how great you look when you come out, Winchester.”
“Damn, seven hours?”
“Or so the doctors tell me. Don't actually remember any of it myself.”
“So, what are you doing here, anyway?” Sam cuts in. “Shouldn't you be with the FBI?”
Victor knows Sam can't mean that to hurt, but it does anyway. Even though he's made his choice, found a new calling with more meaning than anything he's ever done before, the loss of his old life still stings. He tries not to let it show. “Screwed my knee up in that blast. FBI's not real big on taking agents with gimp legs.”
“I'm sorry,” Sam says, and there's real sympathy in it. Victor isn't sure what to make of it, what to make of Sam.
He shakes his head. “Don't be. They offered me a desk job, you know.”
“You didn't take it?” Dean asks like he already knows the answer.
“I'd rather jam a pencil through my own skull,” Victor deadpans.
“How'd you find us, anyway?” Dean asks. “I mean, you spent how long trying to track us down, and now you just up and waltz into our room?”
Victor grins and pulls a couple of new articles out of his pocket. He tosses them on the bed near Sam who reaches and picks them up.
Sam spends a few moments looking over the newsprint. “Huh. The couple we saved from the Black Dog...” Sam smiles, “And the article about the missing teens. This was what brought us here.”
“I figured. Was a bit easier to track you two down once I knew what you were actually up to. Turns out people hunting monsters are a bit more predictable than serial killers striking at random,” Victor says, and Sam looks a bit worried at that, looking down over the articles with a new look in his eye.
“Hey, we told you what we were doing and you still couldn't catch us.”
“Nobody likes a smart-ass, Dean.”
“You would know.”
“Why are you here then? Sam asks, interrupting.
“What do you think?” Victor asks, resisting the urge to respond to Dean's goading.
“You want to hunt,” Dean says. It isn't a question.
“I've been hunting. Took me a while to track the two of you down. Needed to keep myself busy.”
“You're serious?” Dean says, looking surprised. “Hunting what?”
“Two ghosts and a demon, so far.” Victor glances between the brothers' equally shocked expressions. “Why's that so surprising? I'm sensing a lack of faith in my abilities here.”
“Do you know how many of the people we've saved, how many of the people who found out about all this have decided that they wanna hunt?” Dean asks, watching Victor like he doesn't quite believe what he's seeing.
“I'm guessing not too many.”
“You would be the first,” Dean confirms.
“Why are you doing this, honestly?” Sam asks.
“What else am I gonna do with myself? My job was my life, and as it turns out, I wasn't doing as much good as I thought. Don't have any family, hell, don't even have any friends. Then I find out that all those Saturday-matinée monsters are real. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, changelings, evil clowns that eat people...” he says, mimicking Dean's words.
Sam frowns. “It was a rakshasa, actually.”
“A what?”
“A rakshasa, it's a sort of...” Sam pauses and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me. I want to know. That's why I'm here.”
“You wanna learn from us?” Dean asks.
“You two seem to know your stuff. I figure it's better than going at it alone.” And he means that. He's always had a team or a partner holding his back, and now that the world seems a thousand times darker, he doesn't want to face it by himself. He doesn't think he can, though damned if he's going to admit that to either of these two. Especially not Dean.
Dean shakes his head. “Look, Henriksen, I get that you were Mr. Badass FBI agent, but this shit makes serial killers look like fluffy little puppies.”
“Yeah, I got that, what with the invading demon army going all 'Dawn of the Dead' on our asses.”
“Dude, it's not safe, especially being around me and Sam. We have demon hitmen gunning for us. Do you really wanna get caught in the crossfire?”
Dean seems to be trying to protect him, and that, that's really damned insulting. “Screw safe, and FYI Dean, I've been caught in the crossfire, in case you somehow missed it. Twice. Damn near got blown up the second time. I know about the demons, it's everything else out there that I need to know more about. What it is. Where to find it. How to kill it.”
“You don't know everything about demons, but we can teach you if you're really sure about this.” Sam says.
“Yeah, I'm really sure.”
An hour later he's sitting with the chair pulled up to Sam's bed, helping the younger Winchester brother sort through old newspaper articles. Sam's told him to be on the look out for any wilderness disappearances or deaths. Dean's gone, left a while ago saying he needed to pick some things up. Sam's working on his laptop, sitting crosslegged on his bed with the machine resting in front of him. He's hunched over staring at the screen in a way that can't be good for his back. Victor's brought his own computer in from his car and he's tapping through online newspaper records.
He shifts himself slightly, and moves his leg, trying to ignore the slight shiver of pain in his knee. Sam looks up at him.
“Are you alright?” he asks. There's real concern there too. Victor's still cautious around Sam. Dean he thinks he understands (finally, and for real this time) but Sam's a slightly unsettling enigma. When Victor was tracking the pair of them, convinced Dean was a psychotic, paramilitary, survivalist nutjob, he'd pegged Sam for the weak willed little brother who wanted out of the life but didn't have the balls to stand up to Dean. Well, now he knows that's the not the case. There are times when Sam shows real concern and sympathy, but he also knows that Sam was willing to trust a demon, was willing to consider taking a knife to poor Nancy.
“It's nothing. Just my knee.”
“That wasn't what I meant. I was wondering how you were taking all this.”
“It's... you know, it was a hell of a shock, but in a way it's actually kind of comforting.” At Sam's confused expression, Victor continues, “Look at it this way, last year there were roughly 15,000 murders in the US. Up until a short while ago, I thought all of those had been committed by people. Doing what I did, seeing what I saw, it didn't do a lot for my faith in humanity. Now I find out that some of those murders were committed by demons, or vampires, or whatever. That maybe there aren't quite as many human monsters as I thought. That there are people willing to fight these things. I guess it's done something for my faith in my own species.”
Sam smiles and laughs slightly. “I never looked at it that way.”
“But you've known about it your whole life, right? Your father...”
“Not quite, I found out when I was nine. Dean and our father tried to hide it from me.” A frown plays across Sam's face as he says it, and something else, a sort of deeper sorrow. Victor wants to ask about their father, the infamous John Winchester, but he doesn't. He doesn't think the question will be too well received so he doesn't say anything at all.
“So you're really alright, then,” Sam says, sounding equal parts doubtful and impressed.
“Yeah, I'm...” Victor stops. He figures he should talk about this to someone, and at this point his choice is either Sam or Dean, and he remembers the way Sam said 'not long enough' when Victor had asked about the tattoos. “It's just that... since I was possessed, there's this feeling...” He stops, he doesn't know exactly how to explain it.
“Like you're somehow dirty on the inside?” Sam asks, eyes full of grim certainty.
“Yeah, like that exactly.” Victor takes in Sam's expression and swallows down a sudden lump of nausea in his throat. “When does it go away?”
“I'll let you know,” Sam says, staring blankly at the far wall.
Which isn't exactly the most comforting thing Victor has ever heard.
When Dean returns he's got a six-pack of beer and something in an office supply store shopping bag. He sets the beers down on the table and tosses the bag at Victor with an offhand “Catch!” Victor snags the bag out of reflex. Inside is a small leather bound book with the word “Journal” stamped on the cover. Victor raises an eyebrow at Dean.
“What, I'm suppose to start writing in my diary now?” Victor asks.
Dean smirks at him. “Well, I was going to get you a pink one with glittery unicorns on the front...” Victor glares at him and Dean keeps going. “That's your journal. You kill some fugly, you write it down. Keep records. It might save your life.”
“I do have a computer, you know.”
“Not reliable enough. There's too much shit out there that messes with electronics.”
“Damn it,” Sam says suddenly, interrupting their conversation. He glares at his computer screen like it's done something to piss him off then he stands up and grabs his cellphone, making his way to the door.
“Sammy, what's up?” Dean says, watching his brother with a sort of habitual concern.
“I need to give Bobby a call,” Sam says, stepping outside the door and flipping the phone open.
“Who's Bobby?” Victor asks.
“Bobby's a friend of ours. He's another hunter, really knows his stuff.” Dean shrugs. “Oh well, guess we'll get started without Sam, then,” He says, but continues to watch his brother out of the corner of his eye. “Since you've decided to sign on, I think we might need to celebrate.” Dean holds a beer out for Victor.
“Dean, I don't drink,” Victor says, and Dean looks at him like he's completely lost his mind.
“You're joking.”
“No, I'm not.” And it's true. Victor hasn't had so much as a sip of alcohol in almost twelve years, not since his father died of liver failure. He was never much of a drinker to begin with. He didn't like anything that clouded his mind or his judgment.
“Just take it. You wanna hang out with us, you're going to have to learn to loosen up a little.” Dean holds the beer out and Victor takes it grudgingly. Before he can pop the top, Sam steps back into the room looking concerned.
“So, do you know what this thing is?” Dean asks.
Sam nods. “Yeah, I think so.” He looks pretty damned unhappy about it, whatever it is.
“Well, spill”
“A Wendigo,” Sam says, and Victor has no idea what that is, but whatever it is, Dean looks really unhappy about it. Victor sets the beer down, unopened.
“In Montana?” Dean exclaims. “No way dude. Colorado was pushing it, but there's no way there's one this far west. Besides, you said yourself that you couldn't find any records of similar disappearances in this area.”
“Not in this area, no, but Henriksen and I found records of disappearances and fatal “animal” attacks to the east of here, moving gradually west. It fits, there's even a twenty-three year cycle to the killings. Bobby knows a hunter that killed one in Washington a few months ago. I think they're migrating.”
“Wendigo don't migrate.” Dean says it with a sort of desperate certainty, like he really doesn't want to be wrong.
“Yeah, you want to go tell that to them? They're migrating.”
“What. The. Hell.”
“Would you two care to enlighten me here? What's a wendigo?”
“So, crazy-ass, cannibal monsters that used to be human?” Victor asks, later, as he and the brothers are stocking up on flare-guns at a local outdoor supply store.
“Yup, that's about the gist of it.”
“And they've started migrating for some reason?”
“Looks like.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.”
They get a weird look from the clerk on their way out.
Next part.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: 3x12 Jus in Belo
Word Count: 2856
Summery: Victor Henriksen plans to go down swinging.
AN: It seems I'm incapable of ever judging how long my stories are going to be. This is now a three parter.
Thanks tons to all the people who commented. Seriously, it really brightens my day.
Part One
“Who are you? Better yet, what are you?” Sam demands. His grip on the shotgun is solid, his hands are steady, and Victor is well aware that the younger Winchester brother is more than capable of pulling the trigger.
“Hey, hey. It's me. Put the gun down, Sam.”
“Yeah right, pull the other one. Henriksen is dead.”
“Sam, what the...” Dean comes into view, stepping out of the bathroom, his hair dripping with water onto his teeshirt. He takes one look at Victor, swears, and pulls a gun so fast Victor's left wondering where he was keeping the thing.
“Guys, calm the hell down before someone gets hurt,” Victor says, someone being him, because after what he saw at the police station, he's under no illusions about being able to take either of the brothers. He's beginning to think that tracking these two down like this might not have been the smartest move.
Sam's eyes narrow and he looks Victor right in the face and says “Christo.”
Victor's brow furrows in confusion, as the two Winchesters give each other a quick look. Sam reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a flask. He thumbs the top off and splashes water on Victor's face.
Victor gives them both a disgruntled look. “Well, at least it's not toilet water this time,” he says.
“Henriksen... is it really...?” Dean asks, his expression hopeful but cautious.
“Live and in the flesh... such as it is.”
“If you're really who you say you are, then come in,” Sam says, backing away slightly, but not lowering his weapon.
Victor looks down and steps over the line of salt at his feet. Sam keeps backing away slightly, motioning him forward, so Victor walks further in the room. Sam glances upwards and then breaths a sigh of relief and both brothers lower their weapons. Victor glances upwards and sees that they've drawn one of those fancy pentagrams on the ceiling in front of the door, and he has just stepped out of the thing.
“Ha!” Dean says with a grin, tucking his gun into his jeans. He walks over to Victor and gives him a back slapping, one armed hug. “It's good to see you, Vic! Knew you were too damn stubborn to die.”
Victor takes a moment to appreciate the full absurdity of the situation. Six months ago, hot on the trail of the brothers, he would never have imagined he would be here, being given a manly hug by an obviously overjoyed Dean Winchester, but then there are a lot of things Victor wouldn't have imagined six months ago.
“The news report said you had died in the blast,” Sam says. He looks pleased that Victor's alive, though not as much so as his brother, and there's an edge to him, a shadow in his eyes, that makes Victor uncomfortable. Victor is reminded that Sam was the one that was willing to sacrifice Nancy. He regards the younger brother cautiously.
“Obviously reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” He shifts his weight and grimaces slightly from the pain in his leg. “Mind if I sit down? I've been driving for a while and my leg's giving me trouble.”
Dean nods, gesturing vaguely. Victor looks around the room, taking it all in. There's another devil's trap drawn above the window, and salt all along the windowsill. The bed closest to the door is covered with an array of freshly cleaned guns and the scent of gun oil lingers in the air. The other bed is neatly made with a laptop computer humming quietly on its center, and the walls surrounding it have been covered with a mass of articles, printouts, and diagrams, all sitting at precise right angles to one another.
Dean notices Victor's gaze and rolls his eyes. “Don't mind Sam, he's been indulging his OCD lately.” There's a weight to those words, to Sam's responding flinch, that Victor doesn't quite understand. There's something hanging in the air between the brothers, thick and suffocating as a DC summer, and Victor can't even begin to grasp what it is, but the tension is almost palpable.
Victor settles himself into the room's singular rickety chair, taking the weight off of his bad knee. Sam folds himself down in front of the laptop, leaving the shotgun within easy reach. Dean sits down on edge of the gun-covered bed and gives Victor an appraising look.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he observes.
Victor is suddenly conscious of the faint scars on the right side of his face. He doesn't think about them much really. He's never been a vain man, but they sit as a constant reminder of the events of that night. “You try spending seven hours trapped underneath a building and see how great you look when you come out, Winchester.”
“Damn, seven hours?”
“Or so the doctors tell me. Don't actually remember any of it myself.”
“So, what are you doing here, anyway?” Sam cuts in. “Shouldn't you be with the FBI?”
Victor knows Sam can't mean that to hurt, but it does anyway. Even though he's made his choice, found a new calling with more meaning than anything he's ever done before, the loss of his old life still stings. He tries not to let it show. “Screwed my knee up in that blast. FBI's not real big on taking agents with gimp legs.”
“I'm sorry,” Sam says, and there's real sympathy in it. Victor isn't sure what to make of it, what to make of Sam.
He shakes his head. “Don't be. They offered me a desk job, you know.”
“You didn't take it?” Dean asks like he already knows the answer.
“I'd rather jam a pencil through my own skull,” Victor deadpans.
“How'd you find us, anyway?” Dean asks. “I mean, you spent how long trying to track us down, and now you just up and waltz into our room?”
Victor grins and pulls a couple of new articles out of his pocket. He tosses them on the bed near Sam who reaches and picks them up.
Sam spends a few moments looking over the newsprint. “Huh. The couple we saved from the Black Dog...” Sam smiles, “And the article about the missing teens. This was what brought us here.”
“I figured. Was a bit easier to track you two down once I knew what you were actually up to. Turns out people hunting monsters are a bit more predictable than serial killers striking at random,” Victor says, and Sam looks a bit worried at that, looking down over the articles with a new look in his eye.
“Hey, we told you what we were doing and you still couldn't catch us.”
“Nobody likes a smart-ass, Dean.”
“You would know.”
“Why are you here then? Sam asks, interrupting.
“What do you think?” Victor asks, resisting the urge to respond to Dean's goading.
“You want to hunt,” Dean says. It isn't a question.
“I've been hunting. Took me a while to track the two of you down. Needed to keep myself busy.”
“You're serious?” Dean says, looking surprised. “Hunting what?”
“Two ghosts and a demon, so far.” Victor glances between the brothers' equally shocked expressions. “Why's that so surprising? I'm sensing a lack of faith in my abilities here.”
“Do you know how many of the people we've saved, how many of the people who found out about all this have decided that they wanna hunt?” Dean asks, watching Victor like he doesn't quite believe what he's seeing.
“I'm guessing not too many.”
“You would be the first,” Dean confirms.
“Why are you doing this, honestly?” Sam asks.
“What else am I gonna do with myself? My job was my life, and as it turns out, I wasn't doing as much good as I thought. Don't have any family, hell, don't even have any friends. Then I find out that all those Saturday-matinée monsters are real. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, changelings, evil clowns that eat people...” he says, mimicking Dean's words.
Sam frowns. “It was a rakshasa, actually.”
“A what?”
“A rakshasa, it's a sort of...” Sam pauses and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me. I want to know. That's why I'm here.”
“You wanna learn from us?” Dean asks.
“You two seem to know your stuff. I figure it's better than going at it alone.” And he means that. He's always had a team or a partner holding his back, and now that the world seems a thousand times darker, he doesn't want to face it by himself. He doesn't think he can, though damned if he's going to admit that to either of these two. Especially not Dean.
Dean shakes his head. “Look, Henriksen, I get that you were Mr. Badass FBI agent, but this shit makes serial killers look like fluffy little puppies.”
“Yeah, I got that, what with the invading demon army going all 'Dawn of the Dead' on our asses.”
“Dude, it's not safe, especially being around me and Sam. We have demon hitmen gunning for us. Do you really wanna get caught in the crossfire?”
Dean seems to be trying to protect him, and that, that's really damned insulting. “Screw safe, and FYI Dean, I've been caught in the crossfire, in case you somehow missed it. Twice. Damn near got blown up the second time. I know about the demons, it's everything else out there that I need to know more about. What it is. Where to find it. How to kill it.”
“You don't know everything about demons, but we can teach you if you're really sure about this.” Sam says.
“Yeah, I'm really sure.”
An hour later he's sitting with the chair pulled up to Sam's bed, helping the younger Winchester brother sort through old newspaper articles. Sam's told him to be on the look out for any wilderness disappearances or deaths. Dean's gone, left a while ago saying he needed to pick some things up. Sam's working on his laptop, sitting crosslegged on his bed with the machine resting in front of him. He's hunched over staring at the screen in a way that can't be good for his back. Victor's brought his own computer in from his car and he's tapping through online newspaper records.
He shifts himself slightly, and moves his leg, trying to ignore the slight shiver of pain in his knee. Sam looks up at him.
“Are you alright?” he asks. There's real concern there too. Victor's still cautious around Sam. Dean he thinks he understands (finally, and for real this time) but Sam's a slightly unsettling enigma. When Victor was tracking the pair of them, convinced Dean was a psychotic, paramilitary, survivalist nutjob, he'd pegged Sam for the weak willed little brother who wanted out of the life but didn't have the balls to stand up to Dean. Well, now he knows that's the not the case. There are times when Sam shows real concern and sympathy, but he also knows that Sam was willing to trust a demon, was willing to consider taking a knife to poor Nancy.
“It's nothing. Just my knee.”
“That wasn't what I meant. I was wondering how you were taking all this.”
“It's... you know, it was a hell of a shock, but in a way it's actually kind of comforting.” At Sam's confused expression, Victor continues, “Look at it this way, last year there were roughly 15,000 murders in the US. Up until a short while ago, I thought all of those had been committed by people. Doing what I did, seeing what I saw, it didn't do a lot for my faith in humanity. Now I find out that some of those murders were committed by demons, or vampires, or whatever. That maybe there aren't quite as many human monsters as I thought. That there are people willing to fight these things. I guess it's done something for my faith in my own species.”
Sam smiles and laughs slightly. “I never looked at it that way.”
“But you've known about it your whole life, right? Your father...”
“Not quite, I found out when I was nine. Dean and our father tried to hide it from me.” A frown plays across Sam's face as he says it, and something else, a sort of deeper sorrow. Victor wants to ask about their father, the infamous John Winchester, but he doesn't. He doesn't think the question will be too well received so he doesn't say anything at all.
“So you're really alright, then,” Sam says, sounding equal parts doubtful and impressed.
“Yeah, I'm...” Victor stops. He figures he should talk about this to someone, and at this point his choice is either Sam or Dean, and he remembers the way Sam said 'not long enough' when Victor had asked about the tattoos. “It's just that... since I was possessed, there's this feeling...” He stops, he doesn't know exactly how to explain it.
“Like you're somehow dirty on the inside?” Sam asks, eyes full of grim certainty.
“Yeah, like that exactly.” Victor takes in Sam's expression and swallows down a sudden lump of nausea in his throat. “When does it go away?”
“I'll let you know,” Sam says, staring blankly at the far wall.
Which isn't exactly the most comforting thing Victor has ever heard.
When Dean returns he's got a six-pack of beer and something in an office supply store shopping bag. He sets the beers down on the table and tosses the bag at Victor with an offhand “Catch!” Victor snags the bag out of reflex. Inside is a small leather bound book with the word “Journal” stamped on the cover. Victor raises an eyebrow at Dean.
“What, I'm suppose to start writing in my diary now?” Victor asks.
Dean smirks at him. “Well, I was going to get you a pink one with glittery unicorns on the front...” Victor glares at him and Dean keeps going. “That's your journal. You kill some fugly, you write it down. Keep records. It might save your life.”
“I do have a computer, you know.”
“Not reliable enough. There's too much shit out there that messes with electronics.”
“Damn it,” Sam says suddenly, interrupting their conversation. He glares at his computer screen like it's done something to piss him off then he stands up and grabs his cellphone, making his way to the door.
“Sammy, what's up?” Dean says, watching his brother with a sort of habitual concern.
“I need to give Bobby a call,” Sam says, stepping outside the door and flipping the phone open.
“Who's Bobby?” Victor asks.
“Bobby's a friend of ours. He's another hunter, really knows his stuff.” Dean shrugs. “Oh well, guess we'll get started without Sam, then,” He says, but continues to watch his brother out of the corner of his eye. “Since you've decided to sign on, I think we might need to celebrate.” Dean holds a beer out for Victor.
“Dean, I don't drink,” Victor says, and Dean looks at him like he's completely lost his mind.
“You're joking.”
“No, I'm not.” And it's true. Victor hasn't had so much as a sip of alcohol in almost twelve years, not since his father died of liver failure. He was never much of a drinker to begin with. He didn't like anything that clouded his mind or his judgment.
“Just take it. You wanna hang out with us, you're going to have to learn to loosen up a little.” Dean holds the beer out and Victor takes it grudgingly. Before he can pop the top, Sam steps back into the room looking concerned.
“So, do you know what this thing is?” Dean asks.
Sam nods. “Yeah, I think so.” He looks pretty damned unhappy about it, whatever it is.
“Well, spill”
“A Wendigo,” Sam says, and Victor has no idea what that is, but whatever it is, Dean looks really unhappy about it. Victor sets the beer down, unopened.
“In Montana?” Dean exclaims. “No way dude. Colorado was pushing it, but there's no way there's one this far west. Besides, you said yourself that you couldn't find any records of similar disappearances in this area.”
“Not in this area, no, but Henriksen and I found records of disappearances and fatal “animal” attacks to the east of here, moving gradually west. It fits, there's even a twenty-three year cycle to the killings. Bobby knows a hunter that killed one in Washington a few months ago. I think they're migrating.”
“Wendigo don't migrate.” Dean says it with a sort of desperate certainty, like he really doesn't want to be wrong.
“Yeah, you want to go tell that to them? They're migrating.”
“What. The. Hell.”
“Would you two care to enlighten me here? What's a wendigo?”
“So, crazy-ass, cannibal monsters that used to be human?” Victor asks, later, as he and the brothers are stocking up on flare-guns at a local outdoor supply store.
“Yup, that's about the gist of it.”
“And they've started migrating for some reason?”
“Looks like.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.”
They get a weird look from the clerk on their way out.
Next part.