Pull the Shades for desertport
Jul. 26th, 2012 12:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_summergenTitle: Pull the Shades
Author: jaimeykay
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
desertport
Rating: R
Warnings: canon character death
Summary: Henriksen, the deputy and Nancy somehow manage to escape from Lilith at the end of Jus In Bello. They go deep underground--fake identities, living at the edges of society, like the Winchesters Henriksen knows so well--and become hunters themselves.
He can turn everything off in the blink of an eye. He can come up with equations, numbers, attack strategies, any strategies without even taking much time to think it over. His first partner - damn man, you freak me out with that shit, how do you do it - stayed with him for three years and their arrests resulted in more convictions than anyone else in the department. Promotions were easy, falling into the new roles even easier. His scores on the MMPI and WAIS raised psychologists' eyebrows, but he'd shrug and thank them for their time, I appreciate it, take care now.
Henriksen sinks into that now, his mind breaking down a plan step-by-step. Step one, stay undetected, avoid the smoke, the screaming, the waves of heat. Stay quiet. Step two, get Nancy the hell out of there, don't touch her wounded arm, keep Phil in his sights. Step three, find a car from the impound lot and get the fuck out of there.
Phil ducks into the backseat after he helps Nancy to the passenger seat. Nancy pants, face pale, arm clutched to her chest, but otherwise she's silent and still. Phil pats her shoulder, looking like he wants to say something in reassurance, but one look at Henriksen gets rid of that idea.
"Get down," Henriksen says. "Stay down. You hear me?"
Nancy nods silently and eases down until she's out of view, Phil taking one extra second longer to follow.
"Henriksen -"
"Quiet. Just - just be quiet for a minute."
Phil falls silent, giving Henriksen time to think, plan a course of action, but beyond get somewhere safe and find the fucking Winchesters, he doesn't have much. It starts drizzling, just enough for Henriksen to flick on the windshield wipers.
He drives.
Nobody speaks for the first five minutes, as if any spoken words will alert someone to their location. Maybe they're too afraid to speak.
Finally: "We gotta find somewhere to look at Nancy's arm," Phil mutters.
"I know," Henriksen says. He juts out his jaw. "I know that."
Nancy gives them a weak smile. "It's okay. I'll be okay."
Henriksen sees the ripped flesh, hears her screams as Lilith peels the skin one long strip at a time. Remembers how he was pinned down, helpless while Lilith laughed loudly, a young girl's shriek that somehow is more horrifying than catching a murderer in the act of slaughtering his victim. A crack of thunder and he was free; darkness fell and he reached out for Nancy, closing his hand around her wrist. Managed to grab Phil's arm and tug them out together.
There was no one else to bring, and the thought that the other bodies burned, careless, alone, makes him stare harder at the road.
There's not much gas in the tank, and they pull into a run down motel parking lot; only three other cars keep their Buick company. Henriksen puts the car in park and doesn't move.
"Now what?" Phil says.
:::
Between Henriksen and Phil, they manage to pull enough cash together for a motel room, making sure they have enough set aside for gas and steering clear of their credit cards. Nancy watches with guilty eyes, stammering about how her purse was left at the station, but Phil shushes her.
"I can hold my weight," she says, face pale. "I swear. I swear I can."
"You're doing fine," Henriksen says. "It's all right. It's going to be all right."
She shivers and looks away.
"Shit," Henriksen mutters, staring at Nancy's flayed arm, the torn skin, the waves of red. She tries to smile, tries to be brave, because she's not going to be the coward. Not when everyone else has been so brave. It's complete bullshit because she's been the bravest of anyone.
Henriksen turns to the desensitization he's embraced over the years and takes her arm. "Gonna sting a bit," he says, keeping his tone level. Tries to forget about how they have no supplies to properly treat her.
By the look she gives him, she's well aware of that. And yet she stands patiently, her eyes now over his shoulder, mouth thinned in preparation.
"Phil," Henriksen says. "Give me a sleeve."
"What?"
"Cut your sleeve. I'm going to wrap the arm with it."
Phil hesitates, then lifts his arm to his mouth, biting at the fabric, tearing it off with difficulty. Nancy watches with huge eyes, swallowing, and Henriksen spins her around so she's not facing Phil.
"Remember what I said? I'm gonna get you through this. You have my word, sweetheart."
She nods, somehow looking more confident than she was back at the station.
She still screams.
:::
Nancy sleeps on the bed by the bathroom, her injured arm carefully arranged on her chest, the other dangling over the side. It's not a peaceful rest, her brow furrowed, but she's sleeping. She didn't even flinch at them sharing a room, but Henriksen's already decided that he's not sleeping. Phil takes the other bed and doesn't move, but sleep won't come for him right now, either.
Phil turns the TV on mute after a few hours, flips it to a news station. They sit in silence while their own faces fill the screen, listing them as deceased along with the rest of the station.
"We can't go back, can we?" Phil says. A rustle of sheets, and Nancy's awake now, watching them quietly.
Henriksen doesn't need to answer.
:::
Somehow, Henriksen drifts off around dawn; when he wakes, Phil's completely out on the bed. Nancy is awake, staring at the motel phone.
"I almost did it," she whispers. "But I can't, right?" She looks over at him. "Can I call my parents, Agent?"
She reaches out for the phone, lays a hand on it. Like with Phil, Henriksen watches, and she withdraws, biting her lip.
"I know," she says, and she lays back down, staring at the ceiling. "I know."
Nancy doesn't cry, but Henriksen almost wished she would.
:::
"Do we know the Winchesters' phone numbers?" Nancy offers timidly; she clearly doesn't think she's allowed to have an opinion among the three of them.
"Would be nice, yeah?" Phil sighs. "Can't really think of anyone else to call." They have no internet, no connections, nothing. Can't use their cards.
Henriksen's phone buzzes; Nancy jumps at the sound. He pulls it out and clicks it on.
deacon. 555-323-2357. tell him I sent you.
Henriksen blinks, squinting. Phil peers over his shoulder.
Nancy smiles in relief. "You couldn't find their number, but they found yours?"
Henriksen feels a little put out by the fact; he chooses not to answer her, dialing the number instead.
"Yeah?"
"Name's Henriksen," Henriksen says without preamble. "Dean Winchester gave me your number."
"I'll be damned," Deacon sighs. "Fuckin' bastards. They sending me FBI now?"
"Not FBI anymore."
"Figured that," Deacon says, already sounding distracted. There's a clicking of keys. "All right. Where are you?"
"Broomfield, Colorado."
Deacon scoffs. "You didn't cross state lines? Come on, Mr. FBI."
"Can't say I've ever been on the other side of the coin."
"Well, you are now, so you better get your ass in gear and start thinkin' that way. Get to Iowa. Plymouth." More keys clacking. "Sending the three of you some IDs and credit cards to P.O. Box 145. Get movin'."
Click.
Henriksen pulls back the phone and stares at it. "Come on," he says finally. "We gotta go."
:::
They steal a red Saturn, gas tank nearly full, and for a moment Henriksen lets the guilt take over, but then he puts the car in drive and takes off, thinking, planning; logistics is where his skills lie. He can do that.
Nancy drifts off somewhere in Nebraska, the painkillers taking the edge off just enough for her to sleep more peaceably. Phil stares out the window, his mouth thin.
"Any family?" Henriksen asks. He knows he's the only one who isn't leaving anyone behind.
"Brothers," Phil says. Pauses. "Two of them. One is autistic. He lives - lived - with me."
Shit. "The other brother?"
"California. Guess he'll be moving back. Or Stephen will be moving there, I don't know."
"They get along?"
Phil shrugs. "There's a reason why Elijah moved. I don't doubt he'll take care of Stephen, but he won't be happy about it. Are - are you sure I can't -"
"No," Henriksen says firmly. "I'm sorry, Phil, I really am. But we can't risk the contact."
Phil nods: he already knew the answer. "Yeah."
Henriksen's never been one for platitudes, but he really wishes he could manage to spit one out now. "I'll take the first six hours," he says instead. "Then we'll stop, stretch our legs, and you can take over. Get some sleep in the meantime."
"All right," Phil says softly, bunching his coat up like a pillow against the window and closing his eyes.
Henriksen drives. He doesn't want to stop, afraid of being recognized - he shouldn't be, people don't know they're still alive (people don't. people don't know. but she does. Lilith knows. He'll die before she ever finds them again.)
"Should look into those tattoos," Phil mutters. His eyes are still shut. "Like the ones the Winchesters' have."
The lanyards are still looped around their necks but the fabric is frayed around the edges. "An easy liability," Henriksen agrees, pulling on the cord. "We'll look into it when we get the cards."
Phil nods into his coat, murmuring under his breath. He slips away a few minutes later, evidenced by his heavy breathing.
Credit card fraud. And so it begins.
:::
Henriksen drives two hours past his six hour limit, enduring Phil's complaining when he blinks awake. Nancy wakes up to the sound of their arguing, leaning over the seat to check the time.
"How's the arm?" Henriksen asks, ignoring Phil.
Nancy shrugs. "It's okay," she says, and Phil digs out some painkillers and hands them over wordlessly. She gives him a smile and downs them.
They only stop for gas and the drive-thru, ordering fish sandwiches and double cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake for Nancy. She quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Did you get me a Happy Meal, too?" Her eyes then widen comically, shocked, and Phil chuckles under his breath.
"No, ma'am," Henriksen says, letting the corner of his mouth twitch. "No, ma'am, I did not."
She relaxes, smiling back, then pulls away as Phil tries to take the shake from her. For a moment, Henriksen forgets about what's going on, but that makes the remembering that much harder.
:::
In Iowa, they find the P.O. Box with ease, keeping the envelope closed until they get back to the car.
"Lester Oates," Phil says dryly.
"Better than mine," Henriksen says. "Buster Riley?"
Phil snorts, a desperate sounding laugh that sounds like he feels guilty for making. He looks at Nancy. "What's yours?"
"Sarah Jordan," she says a little smugly, waving it around.
"Why did you get the okay name?"
She shrugs and looks down at the card, her mouth suddenly turning down at the corners. "Sarah Jordan," she repeats, as if she's practicing the name. "Do we need to call each other by these names all the time? We could still use our names as middle names, right? I don't - I don't want to give up my name."
"We need to be careful for now," Henriksen says, watching as Nancy's face falls. Then he adds, quietly: "Nancy."
She laughs, slipping her card into her pocket and giving it a pat. Pauses. "What about driver's licenses? Social security?"
Phil barks out a laugh: it's ugly. "Doubt we'll need those anymore."
Nancy looks down as Henriksen gives Phil a look. Phil looks properly chagrined.
"We'll figure that out later, okay?" Henriksen says. "One step at a time."
"You don't have to patronize me," she says softly, looking up. Her gaze is determined. "I know. I don't want to be treated like a child."
Henriksen nods. "Fair enough."
"We figured we'd look into the anti-possession tattoos," Phil says, a peace offering. "What do you think?"
Nancy nods, giving him a little smile. "Good idea. Do you remember what they look like?"
"We could google protection tats," Phil suggests, and Henriksen almost laughs at tats coming out of his mouth. "You got a Blackberry with internet?"
As Henriksen pulls up the images at a nearby hotel (dirty with a leftover smell of cigarette smoke), Phil and Nancy look over his shoulder.
"There," Phil points. He picks up a pen and the pad sitting on the table and starts sketching; the kid's pretty good, and when he's finished it looks eerily similar.
"All right," Henriksen says, giving one clap with his hands. He looks through the phone book. "Place on second street, looks like. Check it out?"
Phil nods; Nancy pulls her coat back on, wincing as she fits her arm through the sleeve. She hasn't complained but it still must hurt like a son of a bitch.
Henriksen's first wife had seven tattoos; she tried to get him to sit in the chair but he'd refused. She'd be laughing her ass off if she were watching the tattoo artist trace ink on his chest.
Guy hadn't even blinked when they brought him the design, but Henriksen figures he's seen some pretty fucked up shit. He fit the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth, threw them some forms to fill out, and got right to work.
When it's over, Phil traces the bandage on his chest while Nancy cranes her neck, looking at hers, which is on the back of her shoulder.
"What do we do now?" Phil says again, buttoning up his shirt.
Henriksen shrugs, and, as if there were any other plan: "We find the Winchesters."
It's funny that even now, his goal is to find these damn guys.
:::
darby, montana. find ellen. she'll take care of you, but for fuck's sake watch your mouth.
Henriksen's not sure what he was expecting in Ellen, but it certainly wasn't this woman. She carries the same disdain for the FBI as Deacon, but it's a little more irritating when the bitterness is staring at him in the face rather than bitching at him over the phone.
"You FBI guys love putting hunters in prison," is the first thing Ellen says to him when they join her table at the bar.
Henriksen blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Two of my people," Ellen replies, her tone easy enough but her narrowed eyes contradict it. "They're out, no thanks to you."
"How the hell was I -"
"Do you want help or not?"
They stare at each other.
"Yes," Nancy says in his stead. "Please."
Ellen looks at her as if she's seeing Nancy for the first time, then she blinks. "Oh, right," she says. Her eyes soften as she takes in Nancy's bandaged arm. "Come on back, Nancy, right?"
Nancy nods. Ellen smiles.
"I've got someone I'd like you to meet."
Nancy follows Ellen to the back, Henriksen and Phil automatically tracking her, used to keeping each other in their sights. Ellen leads her to a short, blonde-haired girl who's sitting on the floor, legs outstretched, cleaning a gun on her lap. The three of them talk quietly before Nancy sits down cross-legged, watching as the blonde girl holds out the gun, showing her around it.
"My daughter," Ellen says. Henriksen wonders how much she takes after Ellen. "Now. Seems like you guys could do with supplies?"
"Whatever you can offer," Phil says.
"Uh huh," Ellen says with a raised eyebrows. "I'm sure you think you're seasoned veterans, but this is a whole different ball game out here, boys. Can't go blazing in with the typical shit."
She shows them a flamethrower, hands them flare guns, silver bullets, knives. "You haven't even been on a hunt yet, yeah?"
"We fought against demons and watched them slaughter innocent people," Henriksen says flatly. "Does that count?"
Ellen watches him for a moment, an unidentifiable look in her eyes. "Yeah," she says finally. "That counts."
:::
"You know where the Winchesters are?"
"Nope," Ellen says, loading her shotgun. "They keep to themselves, mostly." She shrugs. "Guess they depended on each other for so long, they don't trust anyone else as much. Can't really blame them; their father was a righteous bastard who kept them pretty isolated. Didn't have much choice."
Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was. White supremacist, Timmy McVeigh, to-may-to, to-mah-to.
Your daddy brainwashed you with all that devil talk and no doubt touched you in a bad place.
Henriksen wonders how close he was to the truth, but judging by Dean's reaction, he must have been pretty damn close. "Yeah," is all he says.
"Wasn't a big fan of him myself at times," Ellen says, her face darkening. "Anyway. You won't find those boys unless they want you to, so I wouldn't bother chasing after them. You need to focus on getting your own shit together or you're going to get up gutted and strung up in a cave somewhere. Seeing as how we'd like to avoid that particular scenario, we should probably get to work."
She takes them to a shooting range a few miles out; two other men eye them before shrugging, turning back to their own guns. Henriksen's had plenty of practice at the range, Phil much less, Nancy none at all. Nancy stares at the targets, swallowing, looking down at the gun in her hands. Ellen's daughter pulls her aside, far down the range so that no one can hear them, and starts helping her load the gun.
"She'll be all right," Ellen says. "It'll be hard for her at first, but there is no other choice. She'll learn."
Her matter of fact tone is more alarming than the meaning of her words, and he can't find it in himself to answer. She should have a choice. She's a young child who had a future, a family. He's a fucked up man with a string of personal failures, a man who couldn't look past his own issues to make emotional connections. He can do this job. He can kill. He can hunt. He can do what's necessary.
Nancy shouldn't have to. Phil shouldn't have to. He hates that he ever even set foot into their jail.
"Stop it," Ellen scolds, and Henriksen looks up. "Not a damn bit of good thinking about shoulda woulda coulda now. Now is the time to learn how to protect them and for them to learn how to protect you. Like it or not, they're your family now. The best you've got, anyway."
Henriksen looks over at Phil, who's nailing every shot, to Nancy, who's getting more confident with each blast.
It's hand-holding, and he's wasn't born with the fucking silver spoon and he'll be goddammned before someone coddles him now. He's itchy, ready to go, he can do this. Hell, he has done this, no matter what Ellen says. The humans he's dealt with are monsters; just a different breed. Still, he brings the crosshairs up to his eyes and bullseyes the nickel. He slings the gun over his shoulder and sighs, standing silently for a minute.
"It's a ghost," Ellen says abruptly, and Henriksen looks her way. "Find her grave, dig it up, salt and burn the bones. Hunting 101."
Grave desecration.
"Already found the grave, so the hard part's over. You'll do these so often that you'll be able to do them in your sleep."
Henriksen nods, letting his fingers run alongside the comforting blade of his knife. "When?"
"Tonight," Ellen says, and she smirks at Henriksen's surprised look. "Didn't think you would want to be mother-henned for long, Vic. Let's let them practice a little while longer, then we'll meet up with an old friend of mine."
He's going to like Ellen.
:::
"Sorry 'bout your people," Marty Fletcher says, snapping his gum. The cinnamon flavor does nothing to hide the smell of snuff. He turns back to the trunk of his car and pops it open, reaching in to grab his own guns. The graveyard is dark, but not so much that Henriksen can't get a good look at Marty's arsenal. "Too bad. Fuckers are brutal. Lucky you all survived."
"Lucky," Phil says dryly. Marty turns to him.
"Fuck yeah, lucky. You know what's in the beyond, pal? You know where you go when you die? Damn good chance you'll be rotting in the pit. Rotting right along with those fuckers who killed your people. I don't know if you believed in the rosy glow of heaven, but man, I've seen everything and I've never believed its existence once."
"If there's a hell, wouldn't it make sense that there's a heaven?" Nancy steps in, her head held up high. Already she looks more confident. It's a good look on her.
"You'd think," Marty says. "Honestly, though? I'd rather believe that there weren't. See enough shit like this and it makes you wonder why God would let it happen."
Nancy looks thoughtful; most likely she's heard this argument dozens of times, but she doesn't protest. "What do we have to do?" she asks instead.
"Good girl," Marty says. "Good head on your shoulders."
Marty Fletcher is everything Henriksen dislikes in a person. Loud, obnoxious, and no concept of personal space. Hard to imagine that this guy is their superior, but he leads the way through the yard, the moonlight casting shadows off the gravestones.
"Found the grave already. Would finish the job myself if it weren't for Ms. Harvelle calling in the new meat for training. This is the easy part. Granted, of course, the pissed off spirit doesn't realize what we're doing and pop in for a call."
Nancy holds her sawed-off, her eyes huge for a moment before she cradles it carefully. It looks heavy in her grip, as if it'll topple her flat over, but she clutches it tightly and looks at Henriksen. She's not looking at him for safety, but rather to see if he's ready. He nods at her, short, careful, and she gives him a small smile in return.
Marty continues to jabber ahead of them, something about "damn kids, playin' jokes that get people killed, that's why I'm never having the little fuckers" and "I'm gonna be hitting the good whiskey tonight".
The one thing that Henriksen notices that hunters have in common is the bottle. He hasn't gotten there himself but he was well on his way, drinking more nights than not, flipping through television channels and ignoring the sound of his most recent ex-wife's laughter. Like the previous two wives, Alejandra couldn't handle his late hours, his lack of faith in humanity, how he was too tired to move most nights. She tried harder to stay, to make it last, having them attend couples' therapy, but it got to be too much, even for her, and she cried as she kissed his cheek and took a cab to her parents' place.
"Hey," Ellen says, ever watchful. "Head in the game, Henriksen."
He shakes off Ale's smiling face and focuses ahead, on Nancy's determined shoulders and Phil listening patiently to Marty's rant.
Ellen's right: this is his family now, and he's not going to fuck it up this time.
The gravestone is almost anticlimactic; Marie Shuntly, beloved daughter and sister, and Henriksen wonders how young she was. Too young, no doubt, victim of a silly childhood prank that ended with her slowly suffocating in the basement of an abandoned house. Alone, with only fear and the knowledge of her impending death for company.
Ellen starts digging, quick strokes of dirt, and Phil joins her, their movements in complete sync, and Henriksen itches while he watches them, as he stands still.
"Keep the look out," Marty mutters, spinning Nancy around until they've got the whole graveyard covered. Nancy breathes quickly through her nose as she tightens the grip on her gun.
Only Ellen and Phil's heads are visible when the air turns cold, the trees stop their gentle sway. Freezing, like there's no warmth anywhere and there never will be again. And he knows, he knows that she's here, an angry spirit who no longer can tell friend from foe.
"Shit!" Marty yells. "Dig faster, Harvelle! Get down, girl!"
Nancy's already flat on her stomach, just managing to get out of the way of the screaming spirit. Jo pulls her shotgun up; it goes flying across the graveyard, Jo soaring in the opposite direction. Marty blasts a shot but it goes wide, and he curses under his breath, diving low, popping a reload in the double barrel. Henriksen sprints to the side, adrenaline flowing through his veins, the familiar feeling that keeps him going. This is no different than anything else he's faced, she's just another perp - a perp he's been given the go-ahead to kill.
A young girl -
No. Not anymore.
Her face is pale, lips blue, cracked: black rings around her eyes, furious. "Don't touch me," she hisses. "Don't you touch me."
He fires a shot, right into her shoulder: she disappears, but he springs to his feet, listening, eyes scouring the yard. The cold still squeezes his lungs, she's still there, where the fuck is she -
"Hold on!" Phil calls, and suddenly there's a burst of light from the grave, a burning smell, and the cold releases him immediately.
"Holy shit," Phil yells, dirt all over the right side of his face. "Holy shit."
Nancy gives a relieved laugh, tugging on her shirt collar.
Marty lifts the shovel out of the grave and starts throwing the dirt back on top of the coffin. He does so almost casually, the years of experience making themselves known. "Not bad, eh?" he says. "I think you kids'll be all right."
:::
They leave two days later. Ellen gives them a look when Henriksen tells her they're heading out, but she shakes his hand.
"Take care of them," she says. "Don't get in over your head. You look like a cocky son'bitch. Remember what I told you. Research. Read everything you can get your hands on and read it again. And again. Before you even think about hunting it down. You got the computer I gave you?"
"The piece of shit? Yeah, it's in the trunk."
"That piece of shit has worked for me just fine," Ellen says without hostility. "Got all the books, too? Spells? How to find hunts? How -"
"We got 'em."
"Don't go on a hunt until you've got banishing spells memorized. And -"
"Ellen. We know."
She looks a little sad for a moment, almost regretful, then shakes it off. "All right, then. Get the fuck out of here, but don't do what you're thinking about doing."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Don't go looking for those boys," Ellen says. "They've had enough people chasing after them without adding you blowhards to the mix."
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, Nancy and you blowhards," she smirks, then shakes her head. "Don't do it, Vic."
"Ma'am," is all Henriksen says, because he may have spent most of his life bullshitting his way, but he realizes now's the time to stop. Judging by her raised eyebrow, she knows that.
:::
They practice banishing spells in the car, the Latin slipping off Nancy's tongue like she's known it her whole life. Phil stumbles through the words but Nancy's patient, helping him with the pronunciation until he's got it down.
At their first stop to get gas, they pick up some newspapers, one for each of them, and in the end it's Nancy who finds the best possible hunt.
"Nice job, sweetheart," Henriksen nods.
"Don't call me 'sweetheart'," she says, raising an eyebrow. Digging into the mini-cooler, she pulls out a sandwich Ellen made for them and takes a big bite.
Henriksen laughs and puts the car in drive, and they make their way to Minnesota.
True to their word, they spend a few days researching, but by the second day, Henriksen thinks he's got it nailed: wendigo, nasty looking fucker. He digs around in the trunk, makes sure they've got plenty of flare guns, and they head to the woods. The wendigo almost makes off with Phil, but Nancy manages to hit him right in the face; it drops Phil with a howl of agony. Nancy stares at the body for a moment, then kneels down by Phil's side.
"Okay?" she says, and Phil pats her knee and pushes himself to his feet.
"Shit," he says. "That's the ugliest fucker I've ever seen, man. Can I burn it? I'm burning it."
They don't bother stopping off at the motel to shower, despite the fact that they must smell like shit. It's time for a drink, for several drinks, and that takes priority over anything else. They celebrate with a few beers, using their cards, and for the first time in a long time, Henriksen feels content.
:::
He is, however, a stubborn asshole, and he spends a lot of his time on the computer, trying to track the Winchesters' steps. He's a damn good tracker, but they're just a little bit better, a few towns ahead of them.
"Pointless," Phil says as he buttons his shirt. The door to Nancy's adjoining room is open only slightly; she's already asleep. "Not gonna find them, and in the meantime, people are dying. Why do you want to find them, anyway? When you sent them off at the station you didn't seem to plan on seeing them again."
Henriksen shuts down the laptop. "Things are different now."
"Why?"
"Dunno. Just is."
"They don't want to be found," Phil says simply. "Hell knows why not, but I'm going to respect that. Given that they've spent most of their lives flying under the radar while people think the worst of them, I can't blame them."
"People should know."
Phil frowns. "Know what?"
County and state law enforcement are well known for their hatred of feds. They think they do the hard work and feds stroll in to take the credit. Maybe it's true sometimes, sure, but it doesn't mean shit to him. He's caught what, three people in the past few years? Worked sixty hours a week for what? Not a damn fucking thing. Nobody's grateful. Nobody thanks him. They shield their eyes away, or glare at him bitterly when he walks in with his FBI jacket, or spit out shit about police brutality and entrapment. It fucking sucks, but nobody cares.
He joined the force years back with good intentions, like most of the others. All sorts of grandiose dreams of protecting the public and putting the murderers and child abusers behind bars. Clichés that quickly became apparent a few weeks after he graduated from the academy, clichés that stripped him of any sort of fantasy that he may have had. Jails are full of drug dealers who are quickly lost to the system, who quickly become worse after they leave, taught they need to survive but aren't given the resources. Rehabilitation, my ass.
All that's left now is someone who may be remembered as "that guy" who caught his man only to burn in the end. Too bad, they'd say, could have really made something of himself. Maybe even made it to the BAU. Too bad. He bets his replacement has already been hired by now, taken over his office, the pictures of his mother and younger brother on his desk, the posters, the maps long gone.
"Known what?" Phil repeats.
Henriksen tilts back in his chair. "What they do. What they've given up. Who they really are."
"Huh," Phil says. "Didn't take you for a sentimentalist."
Henriksen chuckles. "Trust me, that's the last thing I'll be."
"You've just got to have everything right. Control freak."
"And you don't?"
Phil shrugs. "Guess not. Accepted that some things go to shit, you know? Some things will never be right. 'S all it is."
"Yeah, well," Henriksen says, tugging off his boots. "I don't accept that, I guess. If I do – won't be easy to keep going."
"Shouldn't be easy," Phil says. "It is what it is. Deal with it and move on."
Henriksen lifts an eyebrow. "Got any more platitudes for me?"
Phil cracks a grin. "Yeah, but I'm saving that for our next existential discussion."
:::
His mother once told him he was too egotistical for his own good. "You're pissing off the other kids," she had told him bluntly, setting down a plate of lasagna in front of him. "I'm tired of getting phone calls from their mothers, okay?"
He had rolled his eyes at her, but did his best to be more careful about it. Careful at not getting caught, anyway.
Phil is certainly not his mother; he doesn't know Henriksen's mannerisms, the tics his mother claims he has when he lies (although he doesn't believe her; he suspects she only knew because she was his mother) so he keeps his research carefully hidden.
He almost catches them in Alabama, six hours behind with only the knowledge that they're traveling west. The whiskey helps, then, and he nearly drains the bottle before he realizes what he's doing.
It's so easy. It's there. The bottle drops from his fingers; Nancy picks it up and throws it away, a somber look on her face.
"You should get some sleep," she says. "You don't want to go into the hunt not being 100 percent."
It's what he told her the hunt after she made her first kill; she sat in the parking lot long after they got to the motel, a cigarette between her fingers.
"This was my rebellion in high school," she had said, shaking her head. "Smoking. Some rebellion, huh? Did what it was supposed to do, though. Got my mom plenty angry at me."
Henriksen had sat down next to her in silence for a while before telling her it was time to go back inside. Pointless in saying that things would be okay because they're not. He doesn't take her for a fool.
Now, he obeys Nancy, resting against the headboard. His notebook, a quarter full of notes already, sits next to his thigh. Picking it up, he flips to the section on raw heads and reviews the scribbles.
It's raining the next morning, not horribly so, but enough for Phil to make a face and suggest to put the hunt off until the next day.
"We're going," Henriksen says firmly. "Not risking anybody else dying. Isn't that what you said?"
Phil tightens his jaw, but he nods. "You're such a bastard."
"Get in the car," Henriksen says, but he pats Phil's shoulder on the way out. Phil nudges him out of the way, but there's a small smile on his lips.
:::
"We sure this is the house?" Nancy mutters, pulling her taser out of her pocket. "Lights look off."
"Kids are probably in the basement," Phil says. "I'm sure this is the house. Follows the pattern."
Nancy nods, trusting, and she takes off for the side of the house. Phil shrugs at Henriksen and trots after her.
The rain should have been a fucking clue.
The kids are older than they thought; the oldest has to be fourteen, no less, and he greets them with a gun by the back door. Kids at fourteen shouldn't be handling guns, for fuck's sake.
"Hey," Henriksen says, holding up his hands. "Not hear to hurt anybody, buddy."
"Don't call me 'buddy'," the kid seethes. "I'm not your fucking buddy."
"That's fine," Henriksen says, staying stock still. "It's fine. Can we just explain?"
The kid's eyes dart between the three of them; already he looks unsure, the gun in his hands wavering. "What do you want?"
"We think there's something in your house that might try to hurt you," Nancy says gently, resting on her heels. "We want to help you."
The kid looks at her. "Like what?"
Phil snorts. "You wouldn't believe us if we told you. There any other kids here?"
The kid pauses, then there's a shriek from the next room. The kid curses and turns, running toward the sound, and Henriksen sprints after him. Another scream, and there's a creature that looks like the Yeti's older brother with his hands wrapped around another child's neck. Can't fucking torch the bastard when he's touching a kid.
Phil realizes the same thing, and he launches at the raw head, pulling it away from the child. "Kill it!" he shouts, covering the child's eyes with his palm.
Nancy's taser is already pointing in the raw head's direction, but it moves too quickly for her to get a good shot. Henriksen ducks down and carefully aims –
As his chest explodes, burns, the smell of copper hitting his nose. Suddenly he's on his knees, and he sees the teenager holding a smoking gun, eyes wide, mouth open. Then Phil shouts; the sound of hot electricity, a small hand on Henriksen's shoulder easing him on his back.
"Fucking…brat! …you…what you just did?"
"It'll be okay," Nancy says, her eyes wet, but she doesn't take any notice of the tears. "You'll be fine, we'll get you out –"
He's not going out like this, not by a fucking kid, an accident, something that kid would have to live with for the rest of his life, not when he himself has gone up against murderers and psychopaths and rapists and came out on top, limping, dragging himself along, but alive, not now, not –
:::
Chest radiating pain. Hot, itchy: the feeling that he's been on his back for too long. Limbs so heavy he wonders if he can move them. He blows out a cautious breath.
Figures that he hasn't gotten shot in over ten years of service and now he gets shot by a fucking teenager.
"Damn," he mutters as he tries to move.
"'Damn' is right."
Henriksen doesn't startle - years of law enforcement experience will beat it out of you - and he pries his eyes open. He recognizes that voice.
"Nancy? Phil?"
"They're fine," Dean says. "Waiting on you in the other room, actually. You made Nancy cry. Bastard."
Henriksen snorts and struggles to sit up. "The hell have you been?"
"You've gotten my texts."
"Too hard for you to answer one damn phone call?"
Dean's smile fades. "Guess so. We had to stay away - Sam and I. We had some shit to do."
"And now?"
The smile is back but it's sad, frayed around the edges. "Still there. Between you and me, I don't think it's gonna get done. Sam, though, he's always been the optimistic one. Determined son of a bitch. He's still trying."
Henriksen is finally able to rest his back against the headboard. "What is it that you're trying to do?"
Dean shakes his head, looks down at the ground. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Nothing you can do about it, anyway."
Henriksen narrows his eyes. "Never know unless you tell me."
"Look," Dean says. "Sam thinks I'm out on a coffee run -"
"How did you know we were here?"
"I got eyes and ears everywhere, man. Listen. Stop trying to find us."
"What?"
"I've given you plenty of support. You're fine, dude. You know what you're doing and you've got great partners here. If you ever get in a jam, you can call Ellen or Bobby or even Deacon bastard, but Henriksen?"
Henriksen waits.
"Don't call my brother. Don't you ever fucking call Sam, you hear me?"
"Why?"
"Don't call Sam," Dean repeats dangerously. "Leave him alone. Don't bring him into any of your shit. He's got - he can really do something now. Something -" he stops, looks away for a moment. Then, quietly: "please, man."
"But -"
Dean reaches out and shakes Henriksen's hand. "You're a good man," he says. He looks weary. "Good hunter. Don't - don't forget that, okay?"
Stunned, Henriksen watches him go. He sinks back down on his pillow and breathes through the pain that's suddenly made a reappearance.
Nancy brings heated spaghetti; not homemade, most likely Marie Callender or something similar, but he takes it, leaving it on his lap. She smiles at him.
"Is it too early to laugh at you?"
Henriksen tries not to chuckle in response; he has a feeling his chest wouldn't appreciate that. "Nah."
She shakes her head. "Maybe later. You look like shit, you know that?"
"I have an idea." He rubs his chest with a groan. "Bet it looks badass, though."
Nancy smirks. "Sure thing, cowboy. Badass." She holds out his cell. "Ellen called, by the way."
Henriksen takes the phone and frowns at her. "Why?"
She shrugs, looking away. "I may have called her. She was pretty mad."
"At the kid, right?"
"Sure," she laughs. "The kid. Call her back, will you?" She pats his head, and, as she leaves: "and eat the damn spaghetti."
Henriksen raises an eyebrow at her retreating back, but he dutifully hits redial, listening patiently as Ellen reams him out.
"Saw Dean," he says, interrupting her and we don't get shot by children! rampage.
She stops. "What?"
"He popped in. Said hello. So. What's this mission that they're are up to?"
"Mission?" Henriksen can hear the frown over the line. "I haven't heard anything about it." She pauses. "What did they say?"
Henriksen watches the clock on the wall, imagining her thin mouth, her hardened eyes. "Nothing," he says, surprised at the cold tone of his voice. "Nothing."
:::
Four weeks later, when Henriksen can finally walk without wanting to rip his eyes out, the hood of their car starts spitting out smoke.
"Ah, shit," Henriksen sighs, popping the hood. "Hey, give me my phone, will you? 'S on the dash. I'm gonna call Bobby real quick."
Nancy tosses it to him while Phil ducks out of the car. He points vaguely the other way, into the woods. "I'm gonna -"
Henriksen waves him off. "Bobby, man. I have a problem with the Sabre, engine maybe - hey, you okay?"
Nancy frowns at him, tilting her head.
"You sound like shit. No, I know you always sound like shit, but -"
Bobby sighs and ignores him, asking about the car. Good thing Henriksen can outlast anyone.
"Forget the car. What happened?"
Bobby's silent, and Henriksen starts to walk away so Nancy can't hear.
"You're making me nervous, man."
Rough week, Bobby tells him, and his breath hitches. His goddamn breath hitches, like he's going to cry, like he's been crying and tried to hold it together when he answered the phone.
"Bobby."
Bobby's words are nearly indecipherable now; they spill out like Bobby can't control them, or doesn't want to. Henriksen stops cold: his knees lock, shoulders stiffen; then he nearly pukes on the side of the road.
"Where," he manages. Bobby keeps talking, Henriksen not having a damn clue what he's saying beyond the fact that he's not giving a fucking address. "Where, Bobby?"
Bobby hesitates, but the address spills out too, and Henriksen holds the phone in his hand, not saying a word. He's never been good at this sort of thing but it doesn't matter, anyway, because there's a soft click and suddenly Henriksen feels very alone.
Still, he fakes a smile, blames the diner ten miles back, and lets Nancy drive all the way to Cincinnati. Phil goes about setting up the room, laying the salt lines while Nancy pulls out their weapons for cleaning. Henriksen simply stands there, watching as they move without even thinking, the setting up of security measures already second nature.
"What's up?" Phil says, quirking an eyebrow. "You look like shit."
Nancy watches silently, the bag of salt in her hands.
"I gotta - I gotta make a stop. Can you guys do the research and I'll be back in a few days?"
"Where are you going?" Nancy frowns.
"Few days," Henriksen says. "Don't start the hunt without me."
Phil watches him for a moment, but whatever he sees in Henriksen's expression must be telling enough. "Few days," he repeats. "That's it. You're not back by Tuesday and we'll finish it ourselves."
Nancy looks back and forth between them, confused, but she keeps silent.
"Thanks," Henriksen says. His voice sounds flat to his own ears. "I promise, I'll tell you later. Not now. Not right now."
"Yeah," Phil nods. "Sure. We gotcha."
Nancy follows him out the door, careful to not break the salt lines. "You're coming back, right?" she says lowly. "You're not -"
Henriksen takes a good look at her: her dark hair grown out even further, a small scar by her right nose, her eyes firm, dark around the edges. He can't even remember the shy receptionist she used to be.
"I'm coming back," he says, his voice sounding weak to her own ears. To Nancy's as well, it looks like, with her furrowed brow. "I promise. I promise, Nancy."
"I want to come," she says immediately. "I - I don't know what's going on, but I can help. I know I can."
"You can't," Henriksen says. He gives her a weak smile. "This is something I have to do on my own."
"It doesn't have to be," but already she falters, because she doesn't know, not really, but she's trying.
"I'll be back," Henriksen says. He pats her shoulder, turns, and leaves her behind.
He'll be back. Maybe longer than a few days, but he'll be back.
:::
Arriving in New Harmony, Indiana, makes him feel cold. Henriksen hasn't eaten since Cincinnati but he's not hungry, anyway. He drives, looking, his stomach hollow and empty. He almost hopes he doesn't find it until he does, until it's right in front of him and he has no other choice than to get out of the car and force himself to walk.
Already he's forgotten how many graves he's stared at, but none like this. Not a gravestone. Nothing to mark the person buried down below besides a small cross in the dirt. No funeral, nobody to mourn him, nobody but a younger brother, a younger brother that Henriksen bets he would never find no matter how hard he tried. A younger brother, filled with grief, completely alone, doing God knows what, anything except for what Dean wanted him to do (Don't call Sam. Don't you ever fucking call Sam.) Henriksen thinks of his own brother, then stops. He's not ready for that yet. Maybe not ever.
Henriksen closes his eyes; he's never prayed, but he seriously considers it now, hopes that Dean isn't where he thinks he is, but deep down he knows.
Author: jaimeykay
Recipient:
desertportRating: R
Warnings: canon character death
Summary: Henriksen, the deputy and Nancy somehow manage to escape from Lilith at the end of Jus In Bello. They go deep underground--fake identities, living at the edges of society, like the Winchesters Henriksen knows so well--and become hunters themselves.
He can turn everything off in the blink of an eye. He can come up with equations, numbers, attack strategies, any strategies without even taking much time to think it over. His first partner - damn man, you freak me out with that shit, how do you do it - stayed with him for three years and their arrests resulted in more convictions than anyone else in the department. Promotions were easy, falling into the new roles even easier. His scores on the MMPI and WAIS raised psychologists' eyebrows, but he'd shrug and thank them for their time, I appreciate it, take care now.
Henriksen sinks into that now, his mind breaking down a plan step-by-step. Step one, stay undetected, avoid the smoke, the screaming, the waves of heat. Stay quiet. Step two, get Nancy the hell out of there, don't touch her wounded arm, keep Phil in his sights. Step three, find a car from the impound lot and get the fuck out of there.
Phil ducks into the backseat after he helps Nancy to the passenger seat. Nancy pants, face pale, arm clutched to her chest, but otherwise she's silent and still. Phil pats her shoulder, looking like he wants to say something in reassurance, but one look at Henriksen gets rid of that idea.
"Get down," Henriksen says. "Stay down. You hear me?"
Nancy nods silently and eases down until she's out of view, Phil taking one extra second longer to follow.
"Henriksen -"
"Quiet. Just - just be quiet for a minute."
Phil falls silent, giving Henriksen time to think, plan a course of action, but beyond get somewhere safe and find the fucking Winchesters, he doesn't have much. It starts drizzling, just enough for Henriksen to flick on the windshield wipers.
He drives.
Nobody speaks for the first five minutes, as if any spoken words will alert someone to their location. Maybe they're too afraid to speak.
Finally: "We gotta find somewhere to look at Nancy's arm," Phil mutters.
"I know," Henriksen says. He juts out his jaw. "I know that."
Nancy gives them a weak smile. "It's okay. I'll be okay."
Henriksen sees the ripped flesh, hears her screams as Lilith peels the skin one long strip at a time. Remembers how he was pinned down, helpless while Lilith laughed loudly, a young girl's shriek that somehow is more horrifying than catching a murderer in the act of slaughtering his victim. A crack of thunder and he was free; darkness fell and he reached out for Nancy, closing his hand around her wrist. Managed to grab Phil's arm and tug them out together.
There was no one else to bring, and the thought that the other bodies burned, careless, alone, makes him stare harder at the road.
There's not much gas in the tank, and they pull into a run down motel parking lot; only three other cars keep their Buick company. Henriksen puts the car in park and doesn't move.
"Now what?" Phil says.
:::
Between Henriksen and Phil, they manage to pull enough cash together for a motel room, making sure they have enough set aside for gas and steering clear of their credit cards. Nancy watches with guilty eyes, stammering about how her purse was left at the station, but Phil shushes her.
"I can hold my weight," she says, face pale. "I swear. I swear I can."
"You're doing fine," Henriksen says. "It's all right. It's going to be all right."
She shivers and looks away.
"Shit," Henriksen mutters, staring at Nancy's flayed arm, the torn skin, the waves of red. She tries to smile, tries to be brave, because she's not going to be the coward. Not when everyone else has been so brave. It's complete bullshit because she's been the bravest of anyone.
Henriksen turns to the desensitization he's embraced over the years and takes her arm. "Gonna sting a bit," he says, keeping his tone level. Tries to forget about how they have no supplies to properly treat her.
By the look she gives him, she's well aware of that. And yet she stands patiently, her eyes now over his shoulder, mouth thinned in preparation.
"Phil," Henriksen says. "Give me a sleeve."
"What?"
"Cut your sleeve. I'm going to wrap the arm with it."
Phil hesitates, then lifts his arm to his mouth, biting at the fabric, tearing it off with difficulty. Nancy watches with huge eyes, swallowing, and Henriksen spins her around so she's not facing Phil.
"Remember what I said? I'm gonna get you through this. You have my word, sweetheart."
She nods, somehow looking more confident than she was back at the station.
She still screams.
:::
Nancy sleeps on the bed by the bathroom, her injured arm carefully arranged on her chest, the other dangling over the side. It's not a peaceful rest, her brow furrowed, but she's sleeping. She didn't even flinch at them sharing a room, but Henriksen's already decided that he's not sleeping. Phil takes the other bed and doesn't move, but sleep won't come for him right now, either.
Phil turns the TV on mute after a few hours, flips it to a news station. They sit in silence while their own faces fill the screen, listing them as deceased along with the rest of the station.
"We can't go back, can we?" Phil says. A rustle of sheets, and Nancy's awake now, watching them quietly.
Henriksen doesn't need to answer.
:::
Somehow, Henriksen drifts off around dawn; when he wakes, Phil's completely out on the bed. Nancy is awake, staring at the motel phone.
"I almost did it," she whispers. "But I can't, right?" She looks over at him. "Can I call my parents, Agent?"
She reaches out for the phone, lays a hand on it. Like with Phil, Henriksen watches, and she withdraws, biting her lip.
"I know," she says, and she lays back down, staring at the ceiling. "I know."
Nancy doesn't cry, but Henriksen almost wished she would.
:::
"Do we know the Winchesters' phone numbers?" Nancy offers timidly; she clearly doesn't think she's allowed to have an opinion among the three of them.
"Would be nice, yeah?" Phil sighs. "Can't really think of anyone else to call." They have no internet, no connections, nothing. Can't use their cards.
Henriksen's phone buzzes; Nancy jumps at the sound. He pulls it out and clicks it on.
deacon. 555-323-2357. tell him I sent you.
Henriksen blinks, squinting. Phil peers over his shoulder.
Nancy smiles in relief. "You couldn't find their number, but they found yours?"
Henriksen feels a little put out by the fact; he chooses not to answer her, dialing the number instead.
"Yeah?"
"Name's Henriksen," Henriksen says without preamble. "Dean Winchester gave me your number."
"I'll be damned," Deacon sighs. "Fuckin' bastards. They sending me FBI now?"
"Not FBI anymore."
"Figured that," Deacon says, already sounding distracted. There's a clicking of keys. "All right. Where are you?"
"Broomfield, Colorado."
Deacon scoffs. "You didn't cross state lines? Come on, Mr. FBI."
"Can't say I've ever been on the other side of the coin."
"Well, you are now, so you better get your ass in gear and start thinkin' that way. Get to Iowa. Plymouth." More keys clacking. "Sending the three of you some IDs and credit cards to P.O. Box 145. Get movin'."
Click.
Henriksen pulls back the phone and stares at it. "Come on," he says finally. "We gotta go."
:::
They steal a red Saturn, gas tank nearly full, and for a moment Henriksen lets the guilt take over, but then he puts the car in drive and takes off, thinking, planning; logistics is where his skills lie. He can do that.
Nancy drifts off somewhere in Nebraska, the painkillers taking the edge off just enough for her to sleep more peaceably. Phil stares out the window, his mouth thin.
"Any family?" Henriksen asks. He knows he's the only one who isn't leaving anyone behind.
"Brothers," Phil says. Pauses. "Two of them. One is autistic. He lives - lived - with me."
Shit. "The other brother?"
"California. Guess he'll be moving back. Or Stephen will be moving there, I don't know."
"They get along?"
Phil shrugs. "There's a reason why Elijah moved. I don't doubt he'll take care of Stephen, but he won't be happy about it. Are - are you sure I can't -"
"No," Henriksen says firmly. "I'm sorry, Phil, I really am. But we can't risk the contact."
Phil nods: he already knew the answer. "Yeah."
Henriksen's never been one for platitudes, but he really wishes he could manage to spit one out now. "I'll take the first six hours," he says instead. "Then we'll stop, stretch our legs, and you can take over. Get some sleep in the meantime."
"All right," Phil says softly, bunching his coat up like a pillow against the window and closing his eyes.
Henriksen drives. He doesn't want to stop, afraid of being recognized - he shouldn't be, people don't know they're still alive (people don't. people don't know. but she does. Lilith knows. He'll die before she ever finds them again.)
"Should look into those tattoos," Phil mutters. His eyes are still shut. "Like the ones the Winchesters' have."
The lanyards are still looped around their necks but the fabric is frayed around the edges. "An easy liability," Henriksen agrees, pulling on the cord. "We'll look into it when we get the cards."
Phil nods into his coat, murmuring under his breath. He slips away a few minutes later, evidenced by his heavy breathing.
Credit card fraud. And so it begins.
:::
Henriksen drives two hours past his six hour limit, enduring Phil's complaining when he blinks awake. Nancy wakes up to the sound of their arguing, leaning over the seat to check the time.
"How's the arm?" Henriksen asks, ignoring Phil.
Nancy shrugs. "It's okay," she says, and Phil digs out some painkillers and hands them over wordlessly. She gives him a smile and downs them.
They only stop for gas and the drive-thru, ordering fish sandwiches and double cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake for Nancy. She quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Did you get me a Happy Meal, too?" Her eyes then widen comically, shocked, and Phil chuckles under his breath.
"No, ma'am," Henriksen says, letting the corner of his mouth twitch. "No, ma'am, I did not."
She relaxes, smiling back, then pulls away as Phil tries to take the shake from her. For a moment, Henriksen forgets about what's going on, but that makes the remembering that much harder.
:::
In Iowa, they find the P.O. Box with ease, keeping the envelope closed until they get back to the car.
"Lester Oates," Phil says dryly.
"Better than mine," Henriksen says. "Buster Riley?"
Phil snorts, a desperate sounding laugh that sounds like he feels guilty for making. He looks at Nancy. "What's yours?"
"Sarah Jordan," she says a little smugly, waving it around.
"Why did you get the okay name?"
She shrugs and looks down at the card, her mouth suddenly turning down at the corners. "Sarah Jordan," she repeats, as if she's practicing the name. "Do we need to call each other by these names all the time? We could still use our names as middle names, right? I don't - I don't want to give up my name."
"We need to be careful for now," Henriksen says, watching as Nancy's face falls. Then he adds, quietly: "Nancy."
She laughs, slipping her card into her pocket and giving it a pat. Pauses. "What about driver's licenses? Social security?"
Phil barks out a laugh: it's ugly. "Doubt we'll need those anymore."
Nancy looks down as Henriksen gives Phil a look. Phil looks properly chagrined.
"We'll figure that out later, okay?" Henriksen says. "One step at a time."
"You don't have to patronize me," she says softly, looking up. Her gaze is determined. "I know. I don't want to be treated like a child."
Henriksen nods. "Fair enough."
"We figured we'd look into the anti-possession tattoos," Phil says, a peace offering. "What do you think?"
Nancy nods, giving him a little smile. "Good idea. Do you remember what they look like?"
"We could google protection tats," Phil suggests, and Henriksen almost laughs at tats coming out of his mouth. "You got a Blackberry with internet?"
As Henriksen pulls up the images at a nearby hotel (dirty with a leftover smell of cigarette smoke), Phil and Nancy look over his shoulder.
"There," Phil points. He picks up a pen and the pad sitting on the table and starts sketching; the kid's pretty good, and when he's finished it looks eerily similar.
"All right," Henriksen says, giving one clap with his hands. He looks through the phone book. "Place on second street, looks like. Check it out?"
Phil nods; Nancy pulls her coat back on, wincing as she fits her arm through the sleeve. She hasn't complained but it still must hurt like a son of a bitch.
Henriksen's first wife had seven tattoos; she tried to get him to sit in the chair but he'd refused. She'd be laughing her ass off if she were watching the tattoo artist trace ink on his chest.
Guy hadn't even blinked when they brought him the design, but Henriksen figures he's seen some pretty fucked up shit. He fit the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth, threw them some forms to fill out, and got right to work.
When it's over, Phil traces the bandage on his chest while Nancy cranes her neck, looking at hers, which is on the back of her shoulder.
"What do we do now?" Phil says again, buttoning up his shirt.
Henriksen shrugs, and, as if there were any other plan: "We find the Winchesters."
It's funny that even now, his goal is to find these damn guys.
:::
darby, montana. find ellen. she'll take care of you, but for fuck's sake watch your mouth.
Henriksen's not sure what he was expecting in Ellen, but it certainly wasn't this woman. She carries the same disdain for the FBI as Deacon, but it's a little more irritating when the bitterness is staring at him in the face rather than bitching at him over the phone.
"You FBI guys love putting hunters in prison," is the first thing Ellen says to him when they join her table at the bar.
Henriksen blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Two of my people," Ellen replies, her tone easy enough but her narrowed eyes contradict it. "They're out, no thanks to you."
"How the hell was I -"
"Do you want help or not?"
They stare at each other.
"Yes," Nancy says in his stead. "Please."
Ellen looks at her as if she's seeing Nancy for the first time, then she blinks. "Oh, right," she says. Her eyes soften as she takes in Nancy's bandaged arm. "Come on back, Nancy, right?"
Nancy nods. Ellen smiles.
"I've got someone I'd like you to meet."
Nancy follows Ellen to the back, Henriksen and Phil automatically tracking her, used to keeping each other in their sights. Ellen leads her to a short, blonde-haired girl who's sitting on the floor, legs outstretched, cleaning a gun on her lap. The three of them talk quietly before Nancy sits down cross-legged, watching as the blonde girl holds out the gun, showing her around it.
"My daughter," Ellen says. Henriksen wonders how much she takes after Ellen. "Now. Seems like you guys could do with supplies?"
"Whatever you can offer," Phil says.
"Uh huh," Ellen says with a raised eyebrows. "I'm sure you think you're seasoned veterans, but this is a whole different ball game out here, boys. Can't go blazing in with the typical shit."
She shows them a flamethrower, hands them flare guns, silver bullets, knives. "You haven't even been on a hunt yet, yeah?"
"We fought against demons and watched them slaughter innocent people," Henriksen says flatly. "Does that count?"
Ellen watches him for a moment, an unidentifiable look in her eyes. "Yeah," she says finally. "That counts."
:::
"You know where the Winchesters are?"
"Nope," Ellen says, loading her shotgun. "They keep to themselves, mostly." She shrugs. "Guess they depended on each other for so long, they don't trust anyone else as much. Can't really blame them; their father was a righteous bastard who kept them pretty isolated. Didn't have much choice."
Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was. White supremacist, Timmy McVeigh, to-may-to, to-mah-to.
Your daddy brainwashed you with all that devil talk and no doubt touched you in a bad place.
Henriksen wonders how close he was to the truth, but judging by Dean's reaction, he must have been pretty damn close. "Yeah," is all he says.
"Wasn't a big fan of him myself at times," Ellen says, her face darkening. "Anyway. You won't find those boys unless they want you to, so I wouldn't bother chasing after them. You need to focus on getting your own shit together or you're going to get up gutted and strung up in a cave somewhere. Seeing as how we'd like to avoid that particular scenario, we should probably get to work."
She takes them to a shooting range a few miles out; two other men eye them before shrugging, turning back to their own guns. Henriksen's had plenty of practice at the range, Phil much less, Nancy none at all. Nancy stares at the targets, swallowing, looking down at the gun in her hands. Ellen's daughter pulls her aside, far down the range so that no one can hear them, and starts helping her load the gun.
"She'll be all right," Ellen says. "It'll be hard for her at first, but there is no other choice. She'll learn."
Her matter of fact tone is more alarming than the meaning of her words, and he can't find it in himself to answer. She should have a choice. She's a young child who had a future, a family. He's a fucked up man with a string of personal failures, a man who couldn't look past his own issues to make emotional connections. He can do this job. He can kill. He can hunt. He can do what's necessary.
Nancy shouldn't have to. Phil shouldn't have to. He hates that he ever even set foot into their jail.
"Stop it," Ellen scolds, and Henriksen looks up. "Not a damn bit of good thinking about shoulda woulda coulda now. Now is the time to learn how to protect them and for them to learn how to protect you. Like it or not, they're your family now. The best you've got, anyway."
Henriksen looks over at Phil, who's nailing every shot, to Nancy, who's getting more confident with each blast.
It's hand-holding, and he's wasn't born with the fucking silver spoon and he'll be goddammned before someone coddles him now. He's itchy, ready to go, he can do this. Hell, he has done this, no matter what Ellen says. The humans he's dealt with are monsters; just a different breed. Still, he brings the crosshairs up to his eyes and bullseyes the nickel. He slings the gun over his shoulder and sighs, standing silently for a minute.
"It's a ghost," Ellen says abruptly, and Henriksen looks her way. "Find her grave, dig it up, salt and burn the bones. Hunting 101."
Grave desecration.
"Already found the grave, so the hard part's over. You'll do these so often that you'll be able to do them in your sleep."
Henriksen nods, letting his fingers run alongside the comforting blade of his knife. "When?"
"Tonight," Ellen says, and she smirks at Henriksen's surprised look. "Didn't think you would want to be mother-henned for long, Vic. Let's let them practice a little while longer, then we'll meet up with an old friend of mine."
He's going to like Ellen.
:::
"Sorry 'bout your people," Marty Fletcher says, snapping his gum. The cinnamon flavor does nothing to hide the smell of snuff. He turns back to the trunk of his car and pops it open, reaching in to grab his own guns. The graveyard is dark, but not so much that Henriksen can't get a good look at Marty's arsenal. "Too bad. Fuckers are brutal. Lucky you all survived."
"Lucky," Phil says dryly. Marty turns to him.
"Fuck yeah, lucky. You know what's in the beyond, pal? You know where you go when you die? Damn good chance you'll be rotting in the pit. Rotting right along with those fuckers who killed your people. I don't know if you believed in the rosy glow of heaven, but man, I've seen everything and I've never believed its existence once."
"If there's a hell, wouldn't it make sense that there's a heaven?" Nancy steps in, her head held up high. Already she looks more confident. It's a good look on her.
"You'd think," Marty says. "Honestly, though? I'd rather believe that there weren't. See enough shit like this and it makes you wonder why God would let it happen."
Nancy looks thoughtful; most likely she's heard this argument dozens of times, but she doesn't protest. "What do we have to do?" she asks instead.
"Good girl," Marty says. "Good head on your shoulders."
Marty Fletcher is everything Henriksen dislikes in a person. Loud, obnoxious, and no concept of personal space. Hard to imagine that this guy is their superior, but he leads the way through the yard, the moonlight casting shadows off the gravestones.
"Found the grave already. Would finish the job myself if it weren't for Ms. Harvelle calling in the new meat for training. This is the easy part. Granted, of course, the pissed off spirit doesn't realize what we're doing and pop in for a call."
Nancy holds her sawed-off, her eyes huge for a moment before she cradles it carefully. It looks heavy in her grip, as if it'll topple her flat over, but she clutches it tightly and looks at Henriksen. She's not looking at him for safety, but rather to see if he's ready. He nods at her, short, careful, and she gives him a small smile in return.
Marty continues to jabber ahead of them, something about "damn kids, playin' jokes that get people killed, that's why I'm never having the little fuckers" and "I'm gonna be hitting the good whiskey tonight".
The one thing that Henriksen notices that hunters have in common is the bottle. He hasn't gotten there himself but he was well on his way, drinking more nights than not, flipping through television channels and ignoring the sound of his most recent ex-wife's laughter. Like the previous two wives, Alejandra couldn't handle his late hours, his lack of faith in humanity, how he was too tired to move most nights. She tried harder to stay, to make it last, having them attend couples' therapy, but it got to be too much, even for her, and she cried as she kissed his cheek and took a cab to her parents' place.
"Hey," Ellen says, ever watchful. "Head in the game, Henriksen."
He shakes off Ale's smiling face and focuses ahead, on Nancy's determined shoulders and Phil listening patiently to Marty's rant.
Ellen's right: this is his family now, and he's not going to fuck it up this time.
The gravestone is almost anticlimactic; Marie Shuntly, beloved daughter and sister, and Henriksen wonders how young she was. Too young, no doubt, victim of a silly childhood prank that ended with her slowly suffocating in the basement of an abandoned house. Alone, with only fear and the knowledge of her impending death for company.
Ellen starts digging, quick strokes of dirt, and Phil joins her, their movements in complete sync, and Henriksen itches while he watches them, as he stands still.
"Keep the look out," Marty mutters, spinning Nancy around until they've got the whole graveyard covered. Nancy breathes quickly through her nose as she tightens the grip on her gun.
Only Ellen and Phil's heads are visible when the air turns cold, the trees stop their gentle sway. Freezing, like there's no warmth anywhere and there never will be again. And he knows, he knows that she's here, an angry spirit who no longer can tell friend from foe.
"Shit!" Marty yells. "Dig faster, Harvelle! Get down, girl!"
Nancy's already flat on her stomach, just managing to get out of the way of the screaming spirit. Jo pulls her shotgun up; it goes flying across the graveyard, Jo soaring in the opposite direction. Marty blasts a shot but it goes wide, and he curses under his breath, diving low, popping a reload in the double barrel. Henriksen sprints to the side, adrenaline flowing through his veins, the familiar feeling that keeps him going. This is no different than anything else he's faced, she's just another perp - a perp he's been given the go-ahead to kill.
A young girl -
No. Not anymore.
Her face is pale, lips blue, cracked: black rings around her eyes, furious. "Don't touch me," she hisses. "Don't you touch me."
He fires a shot, right into her shoulder: she disappears, but he springs to his feet, listening, eyes scouring the yard. The cold still squeezes his lungs, she's still there, where the fuck is she -
"Hold on!" Phil calls, and suddenly there's a burst of light from the grave, a burning smell, and the cold releases him immediately.
"Holy shit," Phil yells, dirt all over the right side of his face. "Holy shit."
Nancy gives a relieved laugh, tugging on her shirt collar.
Marty lifts the shovel out of the grave and starts throwing the dirt back on top of the coffin. He does so almost casually, the years of experience making themselves known. "Not bad, eh?" he says. "I think you kids'll be all right."
:::
They leave two days later. Ellen gives them a look when Henriksen tells her they're heading out, but she shakes his hand.
"Take care of them," she says. "Don't get in over your head. You look like a cocky son'bitch. Remember what I told you. Research. Read everything you can get your hands on and read it again. And again. Before you even think about hunting it down. You got the computer I gave you?"
"The piece of shit? Yeah, it's in the trunk."
"That piece of shit has worked for me just fine," Ellen says without hostility. "Got all the books, too? Spells? How to find hunts? How -"
"We got 'em."
"Don't go on a hunt until you've got banishing spells memorized. And -"
"Ellen. We know."
She looks a little sad for a moment, almost regretful, then shakes it off. "All right, then. Get the fuck out of here, but don't do what you're thinking about doing."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Don't go looking for those boys," Ellen says. "They've had enough people chasing after them without adding you blowhards to the mix."
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, Nancy and you blowhards," she smirks, then shakes her head. "Don't do it, Vic."
"Ma'am," is all Henriksen says, because he may have spent most of his life bullshitting his way, but he realizes now's the time to stop. Judging by her raised eyebrow, she knows that.
:::
They practice banishing spells in the car, the Latin slipping off Nancy's tongue like she's known it her whole life. Phil stumbles through the words but Nancy's patient, helping him with the pronunciation until he's got it down.
At their first stop to get gas, they pick up some newspapers, one for each of them, and in the end it's Nancy who finds the best possible hunt.
"Nice job, sweetheart," Henriksen nods.
"Don't call me 'sweetheart'," she says, raising an eyebrow. Digging into the mini-cooler, she pulls out a sandwich Ellen made for them and takes a big bite.
Henriksen laughs and puts the car in drive, and they make their way to Minnesota.
True to their word, they spend a few days researching, but by the second day, Henriksen thinks he's got it nailed: wendigo, nasty looking fucker. He digs around in the trunk, makes sure they've got plenty of flare guns, and they head to the woods. The wendigo almost makes off with Phil, but Nancy manages to hit him right in the face; it drops Phil with a howl of agony. Nancy stares at the body for a moment, then kneels down by Phil's side.
"Okay?" she says, and Phil pats her knee and pushes himself to his feet.
"Shit," he says. "That's the ugliest fucker I've ever seen, man. Can I burn it? I'm burning it."
They don't bother stopping off at the motel to shower, despite the fact that they must smell like shit. It's time for a drink, for several drinks, and that takes priority over anything else. They celebrate with a few beers, using their cards, and for the first time in a long time, Henriksen feels content.
:::
He is, however, a stubborn asshole, and he spends a lot of his time on the computer, trying to track the Winchesters' steps. He's a damn good tracker, but they're just a little bit better, a few towns ahead of them.
"Pointless," Phil says as he buttons his shirt. The door to Nancy's adjoining room is open only slightly; she's already asleep. "Not gonna find them, and in the meantime, people are dying. Why do you want to find them, anyway? When you sent them off at the station you didn't seem to plan on seeing them again."
Henriksen shuts down the laptop. "Things are different now."
"Why?"
"Dunno. Just is."
"They don't want to be found," Phil says simply. "Hell knows why not, but I'm going to respect that. Given that they've spent most of their lives flying under the radar while people think the worst of them, I can't blame them."
"People should know."
Phil frowns. "Know what?"
County and state law enforcement are well known for their hatred of feds. They think they do the hard work and feds stroll in to take the credit. Maybe it's true sometimes, sure, but it doesn't mean shit to him. He's caught what, three people in the past few years? Worked sixty hours a week for what? Not a damn fucking thing. Nobody's grateful. Nobody thanks him. They shield their eyes away, or glare at him bitterly when he walks in with his FBI jacket, or spit out shit about police brutality and entrapment. It fucking sucks, but nobody cares.
He joined the force years back with good intentions, like most of the others. All sorts of grandiose dreams of protecting the public and putting the murderers and child abusers behind bars. Clichés that quickly became apparent a few weeks after he graduated from the academy, clichés that stripped him of any sort of fantasy that he may have had. Jails are full of drug dealers who are quickly lost to the system, who quickly become worse after they leave, taught they need to survive but aren't given the resources. Rehabilitation, my ass.
All that's left now is someone who may be remembered as "that guy" who caught his man only to burn in the end. Too bad, they'd say, could have really made something of himself. Maybe even made it to the BAU. Too bad. He bets his replacement has already been hired by now, taken over his office, the pictures of his mother and younger brother on his desk, the posters, the maps long gone.
"Known what?" Phil repeats.
Henriksen tilts back in his chair. "What they do. What they've given up. Who they really are."
"Huh," Phil says. "Didn't take you for a sentimentalist."
Henriksen chuckles. "Trust me, that's the last thing I'll be."
"You've just got to have everything right. Control freak."
"And you don't?"
Phil shrugs. "Guess not. Accepted that some things go to shit, you know? Some things will never be right. 'S all it is."
"Yeah, well," Henriksen says, tugging off his boots. "I don't accept that, I guess. If I do – won't be easy to keep going."
"Shouldn't be easy," Phil says. "It is what it is. Deal with it and move on."
Henriksen lifts an eyebrow. "Got any more platitudes for me?"
Phil cracks a grin. "Yeah, but I'm saving that for our next existential discussion."
:::
His mother once told him he was too egotistical for his own good. "You're pissing off the other kids," she had told him bluntly, setting down a plate of lasagna in front of him. "I'm tired of getting phone calls from their mothers, okay?"
He had rolled his eyes at her, but did his best to be more careful about it. Careful at not getting caught, anyway.
Phil is certainly not his mother; he doesn't know Henriksen's mannerisms, the tics his mother claims he has when he lies (although he doesn't believe her; he suspects she only knew because she was his mother) so he keeps his research carefully hidden.
He almost catches them in Alabama, six hours behind with only the knowledge that they're traveling west. The whiskey helps, then, and he nearly drains the bottle before he realizes what he's doing.
It's so easy. It's there. The bottle drops from his fingers; Nancy picks it up and throws it away, a somber look on her face.
"You should get some sleep," she says. "You don't want to go into the hunt not being 100 percent."
It's what he told her the hunt after she made her first kill; she sat in the parking lot long after they got to the motel, a cigarette between her fingers.
"This was my rebellion in high school," she had said, shaking her head. "Smoking. Some rebellion, huh? Did what it was supposed to do, though. Got my mom plenty angry at me."
Henriksen had sat down next to her in silence for a while before telling her it was time to go back inside. Pointless in saying that things would be okay because they're not. He doesn't take her for a fool.
Now, he obeys Nancy, resting against the headboard. His notebook, a quarter full of notes already, sits next to his thigh. Picking it up, he flips to the section on raw heads and reviews the scribbles.
It's raining the next morning, not horribly so, but enough for Phil to make a face and suggest to put the hunt off until the next day.
"We're going," Henriksen says firmly. "Not risking anybody else dying. Isn't that what you said?"
Phil tightens his jaw, but he nods. "You're such a bastard."
"Get in the car," Henriksen says, but he pats Phil's shoulder on the way out. Phil nudges him out of the way, but there's a small smile on his lips.
:::
"We sure this is the house?" Nancy mutters, pulling her taser out of her pocket. "Lights look off."
"Kids are probably in the basement," Phil says. "I'm sure this is the house. Follows the pattern."
Nancy nods, trusting, and she takes off for the side of the house. Phil shrugs at Henriksen and trots after her.
The rain should have been a fucking clue.
The kids are older than they thought; the oldest has to be fourteen, no less, and he greets them with a gun by the back door. Kids at fourteen shouldn't be handling guns, for fuck's sake.
"Hey," Henriksen says, holding up his hands. "Not hear to hurt anybody, buddy."
"Don't call me 'buddy'," the kid seethes. "I'm not your fucking buddy."
"That's fine," Henriksen says, staying stock still. "It's fine. Can we just explain?"
The kid's eyes dart between the three of them; already he looks unsure, the gun in his hands wavering. "What do you want?"
"We think there's something in your house that might try to hurt you," Nancy says gently, resting on her heels. "We want to help you."
The kid looks at her. "Like what?"
Phil snorts. "You wouldn't believe us if we told you. There any other kids here?"
The kid pauses, then there's a shriek from the next room. The kid curses and turns, running toward the sound, and Henriksen sprints after him. Another scream, and there's a creature that looks like the Yeti's older brother with his hands wrapped around another child's neck. Can't fucking torch the bastard when he's touching a kid.
Phil realizes the same thing, and he launches at the raw head, pulling it away from the child. "Kill it!" he shouts, covering the child's eyes with his palm.
Nancy's taser is already pointing in the raw head's direction, but it moves too quickly for her to get a good shot. Henriksen ducks down and carefully aims –
As his chest explodes, burns, the smell of copper hitting his nose. Suddenly he's on his knees, and he sees the teenager holding a smoking gun, eyes wide, mouth open. Then Phil shouts; the sound of hot electricity, a small hand on Henriksen's shoulder easing him on his back.
"Fucking…brat! …you…what you just did?"
"It'll be okay," Nancy says, her eyes wet, but she doesn't take any notice of the tears. "You'll be fine, we'll get you out –"
He's not going out like this, not by a fucking kid, an accident, something that kid would have to live with for the rest of his life, not when he himself has gone up against murderers and psychopaths and rapists and came out on top, limping, dragging himself along, but alive, not now, not –
:::
Chest radiating pain. Hot, itchy: the feeling that he's been on his back for too long. Limbs so heavy he wonders if he can move them. He blows out a cautious breath.
Figures that he hasn't gotten shot in over ten years of service and now he gets shot by a fucking teenager.
"Damn," he mutters as he tries to move.
"'Damn' is right."
Henriksen doesn't startle - years of law enforcement experience will beat it out of you - and he pries his eyes open. He recognizes that voice.
"Nancy? Phil?"
"They're fine," Dean says. "Waiting on you in the other room, actually. You made Nancy cry. Bastard."
Henriksen snorts and struggles to sit up. "The hell have you been?"
"You've gotten my texts."
"Too hard for you to answer one damn phone call?"
Dean's smile fades. "Guess so. We had to stay away - Sam and I. We had some shit to do."
"And now?"
The smile is back but it's sad, frayed around the edges. "Still there. Between you and me, I don't think it's gonna get done. Sam, though, he's always been the optimistic one. Determined son of a bitch. He's still trying."
Henriksen is finally able to rest his back against the headboard. "What is it that you're trying to do?"
Dean shakes his head, looks down at the ground. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Nothing you can do about it, anyway."
Henriksen narrows his eyes. "Never know unless you tell me."
"Look," Dean says. "Sam thinks I'm out on a coffee run -"
"How did you know we were here?"
"I got eyes and ears everywhere, man. Listen. Stop trying to find us."
"What?"
"I've given you plenty of support. You're fine, dude. You know what you're doing and you've got great partners here. If you ever get in a jam, you can call Ellen or Bobby or even Deacon bastard, but Henriksen?"
Henriksen waits.
"Don't call my brother. Don't you ever fucking call Sam, you hear me?"
"Why?"
"Don't call Sam," Dean repeats dangerously. "Leave him alone. Don't bring him into any of your shit. He's got - he can really do something now. Something -" he stops, looks away for a moment. Then, quietly: "please, man."
"But -"
Dean reaches out and shakes Henriksen's hand. "You're a good man," he says. He looks weary. "Good hunter. Don't - don't forget that, okay?"
Stunned, Henriksen watches him go. He sinks back down on his pillow and breathes through the pain that's suddenly made a reappearance.
Nancy brings heated spaghetti; not homemade, most likely Marie Callender or something similar, but he takes it, leaving it on his lap. She smiles at him.
"Is it too early to laugh at you?"
Henriksen tries not to chuckle in response; he has a feeling his chest wouldn't appreciate that. "Nah."
She shakes her head. "Maybe later. You look like shit, you know that?"
"I have an idea." He rubs his chest with a groan. "Bet it looks badass, though."
Nancy smirks. "Sure thing, cowboy. Badass." She holds out his cell. "Ellen called, by the way."
Henriksen takes the phone and frowns at her. "Why?"
She shrugs, looking away. "I may have called her. She was pretty mad."
"At the kid, right?"
"Sure," she laughs. "The kid. Call her back, will you?" She pats his head, and, as she leaves: "and eat the damn spaghetti."
Henriksen raises an eyebrow at her retreating back, but he dutifully hits redial, listening patiently as Ellen reams him out.
"Saw Dean," he says, interrupting her and we don't get shot by children! rampage.
She stops. "What?"
"He popped in. Said hello. So. What's this mission that they're are up to?"
"Mission?" Henriksen can hear the frown over the line. "I haven't heard anything about it." She pauses. "What did they say?"
Henriksen watches the clock on the wall, imagining her thin mouth, her hardened eyes. "Nothing," he says, surprised at the cold tone of his voice. "Nothing."
:::
Four weeks later, when Henriksen can finally walk without wanting to rip his eyes out, the hood of their car starts spitting out smoke.
"Ah, shit," Henriksen sighs, popping the hood. "Hey, give me my phone, will you? 'S on the dash. I'm gonna call Bobby real quick."
Nancy tosses it to him while Phil ducks out of the car. He points vaguely the other way, into the woods. "I'm gonna -"
Henriksen waves him off. "Bobby, man. I have a problem with the Sabre, engine maybe - hey, you okay?"
Nancy frowns at him, tilting her head.
"You sound like shit. No, I know you always sound like shit, but -"
Bobby sighs and ignores him, asking about the car. Good thing Henriksen can outlast anyone.
"Forget the car. What happened?"
Bobby's silent, and Henriksen starts to walk away so Nancy can't hear.
"You're making me nervous, man."
Rough week, Bobby tells him, and his breath hitches. His goddamn breath hitches, like he's going to cry, like he's been crying and tried to hold it together when he answered the phone.
"Bobby."
Bobby's words are nearly indecipherable now; they spill out like Bobby can't control them, or doesn't want to. Henriksen stops cold: his knees lock, shoulders stiffen; then he nearly pukes on the side of the road.
"Where," he manages. Bobby keeps talking, Henriksen not having a damn clue what he's saying beyond the fact that he's not giving a fucking address. "Where, Bobby?"
Bobby hesitates, but the address spills out too, and Henriksen holds the phone in his hand, not saying a word. He's never been good at this sort of thing but it doesn't matter, anyway, because there's a soft click and suddenly Henriksen feels very alone.
Still, he fakes a smile, blames the diner ten miles back, and lets Nancy drive all the way to Cincinnati. Phil goes about setting up the room, laying the salt lines while Nancy pulls out their weapons for cleaning. Henriksen simply stands there, watching as they move without even thinking, the setting up of security measures already second nature.
"What's up?" Phil says, quirking an eyebrow. "You look like shit."
Nancy watches silently, the bag of salt in her hands.
"I gotta - I gotta make a stop. Can you guys do the research and I'll be back in a few days?"
"Where are you going?" Nancy frowns.
"Few days," Henriksen says. "Don't start the hunt without me."
Phil watches him for a moment, but whatever he sees in Henriksen's expression must be telling enough. "Few days," he repeats. "That's it. You're not back by Tuesday and we'll finish it ourselves."
Nancy looks back and forth between them, confused, but she keeps silent.
"Thanks," Henriksen says. His voice sounds flat to his own ears. "I promise, I'll tell you later. Not now. Not right now."
"Yeah," Phil nods. "Sure. We gotcha."
Nancy follows him out the door, careful to not break the salt lines. "You're coming back, right?" she says lowly. "You're not -"
Henriksen takes a good look at her: her dark hair grown out even further, a small scar by her right nose, her eyes firm, dark around the edges. He can't even remember the shy receptionist she used to be.
"I'm coming back," he says, his voice sounding weak to her own ears. To Nancy's as well, it looks like, with her furrowed brow. "I promise. I promise, Nancy."
"I want to come," she says immediately. "I - I don't know what's going on, but I can help. I know I can."
"You can't," Henriksen says. He gives her a weak smile. "This is something I have to do on my own."
"It doesn't have to be," but already she falters, because she doesn't know, not really, but she's trying.
"I'll be back," Henriksen says. He pats her shoulder, turns, and leaves her behind.
He'll be back. Maybe longer than a few days, but he'll be back.
:::
Arriving in New Harmony, Indiana, makes him feel cold. Henriksen hasn't eaten since Cincinnati but he's not hungry, anyway. He drives, looking, his stomach hollow and empty. He almost hopes he doesn't find it until he does, until it's right in front of him and he has no other choice than to get out of the car and force himself to walk.
Already he's forgotten how many graves he's stared at, but none like this. Not a gravestone. Nothing to mark the person buried down below besides a small cross in the dirt. No funeral, nobody to mourn him, nobody but a younger brother, a younger brother that Henriksen bets he would never find no matter how hard he tried. A younger brother, filled with grief, completely alone, doing God knows what, anything except for what Dean wanted him to do (Don't call Sam. Don't you ever fucking call Sam.) Henriksen thinks of his own brother, then stops. He's not ready for that yet. Maybe not ever.
Henriksen closes his eyes; he's never prayed, but he seriously considers it now, hopes that Dean isn't where he thinks he is, but deep down he knows.
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