Fic: Always True to You
Jan. 31st, 2015 07:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
majestic_duxkAuthor: majestic_duxk
Title: Always True to You
Pairing: Victor Henriksen and Dean Winchester
Rating: G
Word Count: approx 1200
Summary: He knew the Winchesters were still out there. And now he had Dean Winchester and he had the upper hand. Didn't he?
a/n:
Link: This is not at all canon compliant. It is also the first part of a yearlong rare pairs challenge. I (obviously) went with Victor/Dean. And the prompt was cold. I’ve never written Victor before, so this is me starting to get a feel for him as a character
He looked much the same. Guileless eyes. A charming smile. Hands open, no weapons to be seen.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this…”
How could it have all gone so wrong so fast?
--oo--
When Special Agent Victor Henriksen received the call that morning, he’d been ecstatic. He was right! He knew it – he fucking knew it!
The Winchester brothers had been the bureau’s top priority for years. Top priority until Salt Lake City, where the case had been officially declared closed.
The explosion had been huge, the clean-up had gone on for weeks. That had been one job he hadn’t been unhappy to palm off. Hundreds had died, incinerated in an explosion that despite a full investigation the cause was unknown.
And yes, the brothers had been tracked there. And yes, Victor himself had been on the phone with the elder brother – Dean – moments before the building blew. And yes, no one saw them leave. And yes. The entire department had celebrated.
Because there was no way anyone could have escaped that.
But Victor didn’t trust it. These were the Winchester’s. Nothing about them ever was cut and dried. Victor’s instincts told that somehow, against all odds, the Winchesters survived that blast. And you didn’t survive as a special agent without listening to your instincts. Of course he couldn’t discuss it with anyone. Initially, he’d raised the idea that maybe they’d escaped, and had been promptly pulled in for a psych assessment, and strongly worded advice that chasing ghosts would get him a desk job.
So Victor shut up. And continued a one-man-hunt for the most depraved serial killers he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. While mass murders were, unfortunately, a dime a dozen, the Winchester’s weren’t your garden variety. No. They appeared to have no particular type. No particular MO. And no particular reason.
Despite this, they had a very particular calling card: blood and guts and mayhem.
And even after their death the blood, guts and mayhem hadn’t just disappeared. No. It continued. It continued and even increased and eventually even Victor’s superiors had admitted that there might still be a Winchester problem.
And so he’d been made lead agent on a special investigation. Again. He’d handpicked his team (all new agents, those who had joined post the first investigation. Victor had had enough talking behind his back to last several lifetimes), and made sure that outside of the team every agent at every level was briefed on the notorious Winchester brothers.
It seemed like overkill. Victor knew that. And he weathered the jibes, which stopped when the agent realised that the trail would grow cold on the east coast and somehow reappear on the other side of the country. Or split into three. Four. Five… They couldn’t be in six places at once, yet the signs were all there. And while teleportation was out of the question (they couldn’t, right? The FBI would have gotten that technology first), scene after scene after scene held the Winchesters were Here calling card.
None of it made sense. None of it ever made sense. Victor knew in his very bones there was something just off about them. And no matter how many times he looked over the data, how many times he revisited a crime scene, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
And now he had a live Winchester. Now was his chance. He’d wring every last secret from the man.
If he didn’t kill him first.
--
“I didn’t know you wanted to see me again! If I’d known I would have left a space on my dance card…”
It had been all of two minutes and already Dean Winchester was grating on his last nerve. He projected more calm and self-assurance than a man in the most escape proof handcuffs Victor had the pleasure of owning should be. Winchester grinned at him. The trademark grin. All smugness and charm and just a little bit sexy.
And that was somewhere Victor didn’t want to go.
It was just a smile. A nice smile – unless you considered that this was the face of a stone-cold killer. Victor, with his iron clad self-control, faced the man down with a face of stone.
Somehow, he was the only one. Of the nine tough as nails, seasoned agents in the room, eight were making heart eyes at the man. The remaining agent was him, and the convict was making fucking heart eyes at him.
“Interview room twelve, Moloney.” Victor growled the words.
No one moved, and Winchesters’ smile entered Cheshire territory.
Victor slammed a hand against the wall. His agents jumped, Moloney shooting an apologetic look in Victor’s direction.
“Interview room twelve, right boss?”
Victor didn’t even bother responding, just turned on his heel and walked out. Two minutes in Dean Winchester’s company and his nerves were shot and his team a mess. He was honestly disappointed he hadn’t been shot on sight.
He could already tell the interrogation wasn’t going to go as planned.
--oo--
Victor slammed both hands onto the desk in front of Dean. Second time in the space of five minutes. Not even including the wall punch outside and Dean just smirked at him. Inside though, he was quite impressed: it took less than seven minutes for Victor to start yelling. His previous personal best was eight, while Sammy couldn’t seem to crack the ten minute mark.
“It’s your last chance, Winchester! If you cooperate I can try to make sure you don’t end up with the rapists and kiddy fiddlers.”
Dean sent him a pout. “That’s awfully cold of you Agent Henriksen. Oh, sorry!” Dean threw up a hand, channeling his inner Scarlet O’Hara. “We were already on a first name basis , Vic-tor -“ and yes, Dean was petty. He relished the wince.
“Oh Victor, this is, what? Our fifth? Sixth date?” Dean looked around the dark room, and shivered delicately. “I can’t say your taste has really improved, Victor. Is this really where you think you’re going to get lucky?” Fluttering his eyelashes in a manner most irritating, Dean dropped his voice. “And I really feel you should talk to my brother Sammy, and make this somewhat… official. I’m not really comfortable going all the way, otherwise.”
--oo--
Victor knew when to call it quits. He was this close to causing the man grievous bodily harm. Breathing sharply through his nose, he stepped back.
“I have to go see someone else.”
“What! Victor! I thought it was me you wanted!”
“However,” he grated out, “I will leave these with you.”
Holding out a hand, Agent Moloney placed a thick sheath of photocopies in his hand. It was mainly black and white but a few of the more… gruesome… images were full colour.
Victor threw the paper down. “We’ll see how you feel in a couple of hours, Winchester.”
Victor turned and stalked from the room. But of course Dean fucking Winchester had to have the last word.
“Just remember, I’m not putting out without dinner and flowers.”
--oo--
Victor wished he could say he was surprised at the lack of Winchester when he returned.
The inescapable handcuffs were neatly left on the desk, along with a note.
Maybe somewhere more comfortable next time?
Title: Always True to You
Pairing: Victor Henriksen and Dean Winchester
Rating: G
Word Count: approx 1200
Summary: He knew the Winchesters were still out there. And now he had Dean Winchester and he had the upper hand. Didn't he?
a/n:
Link: This is not at all canon compliant. It is also the first part of a yearlong rare pairs challenge. I (obviously) went with Victor/Dean. And the prompt was cold. I’ve never written Victor before, so this is me starting to get a feel for him as a character
He looked much the same. Guileless eyes. A charming smile. Hands open, no weapons to be seen.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this…”
How could it have all gone so wrong so fast?
--oo--
When Special Agent Victor Henriksen received the call that morning, he’d been ecstatic. He was right! He knew it – he fucking knew it!
The Winchester brothers had been the bureau’s top priority for years. Top priority until Salt Lake City, where the case had been officially declared closed.
The explosion had been huge, the clean-up had gone on for weeks. That had been one job he hadn’t been unhappy to palm off. Hundreds had died, incinerated in an explosion that despite a full investigation the cause was unknown.
And yes, the brothers had been tracked there. And yes, Victor himself had been on the phone with the elder brother – Dean – moments before the building blew. And yes, no one saw them leave. And yes. The entire department had celebrated.
Because there was no way anyone could have escaped that.
But Victor didn’t trust it. These were the Winchester’s. Nothing about them ever was cut and dried. Victor’s instincts told that somehow, against all odds, the Winchesters survived that blast. And you didn’t survive as a special agent without listening to your instincts. Of course he couldn’t discuss it with anyone. Initially, he’d raised the idea that maybe they’d escaped, and had been promptly pulled in for a psych assessment, and strongly worded advice that chasing ghosts would get him a desk job.
So Victor shut up. And continued a one-man-hunt for the most depraved serial killers he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. While mass murders were, unfortunately, a dime a dozen, the Winchester’s weren’t your garden variety. No. They appeared to have no particular type. No particular MO. And no particular reason.
Despite this, they had a very particular calling card: blood and guts and mayhem.
And even after their death the blood, guts and mayhem hadn’t just disappeared. No. It continued. It continued and even increased and eventually even Victor’s superiors had admitted that there might still be a Winchester problem.
And so he’d been made lead agent on a special investigation. Again. He’d handpicked his team (all new agents, those who had joined post the first investigation. Victor had had enough talking behind his back to last several lifetimes), and made sure that outside of the team every agent at every level was briefed on the notorious Winchester brothers.
It seemed like overkill. Victor knew that. And he weathered the jibes, which stopped when the agent realised that the trail would grow cold on the east coast and somehow reappear on the other side of the country. Or split into three. Four. Five… They couldn’t be in six places at once, yet the signs were all there. And while teleportation was out of the question (they couldn’t, right? The FBI would have gotten that technology first), scene after scene after scene held the Winchesters were Here calling card.
None of it made sense. None of it ever made sense. Victor knew in his very bones there was something just off about them. And no matter how many times he looked over the data, how many times he revisited a crime scene, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
And now he had a live Winchester. Now was his chance. He’d wring every last secret from the man.
If he didn’t kill him first.
--
“I didn’t know you wanted to see me again! If I’d known I would have left a space on my dance card…”
It had been all of two minutes and already Dean Winchester was grating on his last nerve. He projected more calm and self-assurance than a man in the most escape proof handcuffs Victor had the pleasure of owning should be. Winchester grinned at him. The trademark grin. All smugness and charm and just a little bit sexy.
And that was somewhere Victor didn’t want to go.
It was just a smile. A nice smile – unless you considered that this was the face of a stone-cold killer. Victor, with his iron clad self-control, faced the man down with a face of stone.
Somehow, he was the only one. Of the nine tough as nails, seasoned agents in the room, eight were making heart eyes at the man. The remaining agent was him, and the convict was making fucking heart eyes at him.
“Interview room twelve, Moloney.” Victor growled the words.
No one moved, and Winchesters’ smile entered Cheshire territory.
Victor slammed a hand against the wall. His agents jumped, Moloney shooting an apologetic look in Victor’s direction.
“Interview room twelve, right boss?”
Victor didn’t even bother responding, just turned on his heel and walked out. Two minutes in Dean Winchester’s company and his nerves were shot and his team a mess. He was honestly disappointed he hadn’t been shot on sight.
He could already tell the interrogation wasn’t going to go as planned.
--oo--
Victor slammed both hands onto the desk in front of Dean. Second time in the space of five minutes. Not even including the wall punch outside and Dean just smirked at him. Inside though, he was quite impressed: it took less than seven minutes for Victor to start yelling. His previous personal best was eight, while Sammy couldn’t seem to crack the ten minute mark.
“It’s your last chance, Winchester! If you cooperate I can try to make sure you don’t end up with the rapists and kiddy fiddlers.”
Dean sent him a pout. “That’s awfully cold of you Agent Henriksen. Oh, sorry!” Dean threw up a hand, channeling his inner Scarlet O’Hara. “We were already on a first name basis , Vic-tor -“ and yes, Dean was petty. He relished the wince.
“Oh Victor, this is, what? Our fifth? Sixth date?” Dean looked around the dark room, and shivered delicately. “I can’t say your taste has really improved, Victor. Is this really where you think you’re going to get lucky?” Fluttering his eyelashes in a manner most irritating, Dean dropped his voice. “And I really feel you should talk to my brother Sammy, and make this somewhat… official. I’m not really comfortable going all the way, otherwise.”
--oo--
Victor knew when to call it quits. He was this close to causing the man grievous bodily harm. Breathing sharply through his nose, he stepped back.
“I have to go see someone else.”
“What! Victor! I thought it was me you wanted!”
“However,” he grated out, “I will leave these with you.”
Holding out a hand, Agent Moloney placed a thick sheath of photocopies in his hand. It was mainly black and white but a few of the more… gruesome… images were full colour.
Victor threw the paper down. “We’ll see how you feel in a couple of hours, Winchester.”
Victor turned and stalked from the room. But of course Dean fucking Winchester had to have the last word.
“Just remember, I’m not putting out without dinner and flowers.”
--oo--
Victor wished he could say he was surprised at the lack of Winchester when he returned.
The inescapable handcuffs were neatly left on the desk, along with a note.
Maybe somewhere more comfortable next time?
