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Part Four

Epilogue – Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

“This is a bad fucking idea.” Victor glared at the back of Dean’s head from where he was seated on top of a rickety old table wedged in the corner of Bobby Singer’s Panic Room. Winchester had a habit of pulling deeply stupid shit, but Victor had a feeling that this was going to be the dumbest thing he’d watched his buddy do yet.

Of course, if Victor weren’t a huge fucking moron he’d be back at the FBI with Cal and wouldn’t even know that shit like demons and rugarus existed. So he was pretty pissed off at himself, too.

“Come on, man,” Dean said, standing up from where he’d been crouched drawing a sigil on the floor. He brushed off his knees and speared Victor with one of those forthright, bull-stubborn looks of his. “This thing has been trailing us for God knows how long and busting up gas station windows and motel room mirrors is one thing—”

“And practically disintegrating your ear drums,” Victor interjected though Dean didn’t seem to notice.

“But after what it did to Pamela it’s gotta go down. We’ve let this shit go on for long enough.” Dean shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re bitching about, it’s not like anything can get to us while we’re in this room.”

“So why is it even going to show up?” Victor asked, again, because he could not let his discomfort go. He also knew himself well enough to recognize that part of his bitching stemmed from the fact that they were dealing with something that neither Dean nor Singer had heard of. A knot of nervous energy thrummed in the pit of his stomach that would turn into out-and-out fear if he let it. He’d seen a lot of scary shit in the past year and a half, but it had always been quantifiable, known by someone he trusted, and this mysterious menace was something else entirely.

Dean just rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this, dude. Maybe it won’t show, but if it only makes an appearance outside the door we’ll at least know what the fucker looks like, which is a lot more than we’ve got now.”

“Beside how it can burn people’s eyes out of their heads.”

“Yeah, beside that.” Dean grimaced, clearly weighed down by the same heavy responsibility Victor felt.

Victor grumbled but chose to pick up a nearby knife rather than rehash the same worked over territory. If he didn’t agree with the fundamentals of Dean’s argument he wouldn’t be here, he’d be out at the hospital with Singer waiting for word on Pamela. But being here didn’t mean he hated all of it any less.

Dean performed the summoning ritual. The acrid smell of burning herbs made Victor cough as it wafted through the Panic Room. Hunting was frigging disgusting. Give him a good CSI unit any day of the week, or one of the labs down at Quantico. He missed cleanliness and sterility.

The smoke cleared and nothing happened. Dean sat down in a hard-backed chair and pulled the Colt out of the back of his pants, eyes fixed on the cracked open door, and still nothing happened. Victor started honing the edge of the knife in his hand, foot jiggling with nervous tension and Dean spun the Colt’s bullet chamber while even more nothing happened.

“I know I did the damn thing right,” Dean grumped when Victor looked up and gave him a pointed look.

“I told you it wouldn’t—” Victor started, but was cut off by the lights suddenly exploding around him. He and Dean jumped to their feet. Victor grabbed a nearby shotgun and pointed it at the Panic Room door, the barrel quickly joined by the Colt held in Dean’s steady hand.

The room went dark, the only light filtered down from the fan in the ceiling or creeped in through the slit to the basement beyond. Victor’s breath sounded harsh in his own ears as he stared at where the door was cracked open. A tinge of electricity filled the room, reminding Victor of the first storm he’d seen roll in across the prairie, dark clouds overwhelming and inevitable.

The door slowly screeched fully open, and revealed a slight, trench-coat wearing man striding forward with grim purpose. He stepped through the traps and sigils as if they weren’t there, didn’t seem to be discomforted by either the iron or the salt. Nothing slowed his measured, headlong pace.

This isn’t possible! pounded through Victor’s head but, he ignored the thought and the panic that went with it and fired his gun, the booming sound echoing through the claustrophobic room. It hit the man dead center in the chest and didn’t slow him one bit. Dean fired the Colt, a shot in the chest and a shot in the head, but the man didn’t stop coming.

The man calmly pulled the shotgun right out of Victor’s hands, impervious to the burning hot metal of the barrel, and threw it across the room. He turned in time to catch a knife from Dean square in the throat. He calmly pulled it out, a smear of blood the only evidence of the attack.

“What are you?” Dean gasped, his face tight in a way that Victor knew meant Dean was freaking the fuck out underneath. It was nice to know that Dean was finally joining the “We’re all gonna die now” club.

“I am an angel of the Lord,” the man serenely replied. He looked from Dean to Victor and then back again; his gaze cool and direct and crackling with a fire that seared. “We have work for you.”


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