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Victor's just going to get an hour or two of shut-eye, that's what he tells the young deputy—and then becomes a sole survivor.
Later, the Winchesters give him some phone numbers and a photocopy of an exorcism and wish him luck.
Victor's resignation is swift and understandable (trauma doesn't generate much sympathy at the Bureau but failure certainly does).
He liquidizes his assets, keeping only his car, and he learns, learns, learns.
Years later, Dean lifts his face from the pillow and says, ”Dude, you don't have to write a report.”
Victor's sentences are short but descriptive. Victim's age and sex, murder method, location. Killer caught and eliminated. It's the bare minimum of paperwork and for no eyes other than his own.
”Keeps me focused,” he says.
The witness holds the key to catching the vampire, but he's beating his little boy, so Victor puts in a few extra hours. Documentation of the child's injuries end up in the hands of Child Protective Services and the cause of the injuries ends up in the hospital.
Dean grins and swabs Victor's knuckles gently, almost lovingly. ”Doesn't sound all that legal, Vic.”
”I am the law,” Victor says and grabs Dean's face to kiss him.
But he isn't.
Years ago, when monsters were psychopaths and hardened criminals, Victor had taken a good, hard look at himself. There was no mystery behind his career path, just a long line of assholes. All of it— his cousin shot dead, the open contempt from the cops, the white women who clutched their purses around him—he'd felt a whole lot better about the day he'd left Quantico. But above all else, a single prospect had excited him: putting monsters behind bars.
There's a werewolf case in Colorado, a case that turns out to not be a case in Utah, and a haunting that ends with six stitches on his chest. He calls Dean from his hospital bed.
”You need a partner,” he's told, yet again, and doesn't ask if Dean wants the job. ”Enough with this flying solo bullshit. Sam's driving me nuts right now, but I'd be dead ten times over if it wasn't for him. You got a death wish I don't know about?”
More like a hundred times, Victor thinks, and the damage must have looked bad because the meds he's on are highly effective. ”I miss you too, Dean.”
It's been three or four years since the money ran out, and the means of getting by are easier to stomach than he once had thought. Credit card companies with their inflated rates and fraud insurance aren't really victims, and the service he provides to society generates more than enough tax revenue to make up for what he takes. That's his job now, saving Social Security, one life at a time.
Forging an ID —now that one had hurt.
The stitches come out in another state than they were put in, and a week after that he meets Dean again. He and Sam are checking out a public pool massacre, and Victor bites his lip to stop himself from yelling at them for contaminating the crime scene.
The how turns out to be something brand new—an African fire spell to bring the water to a boil—but the motive's nothing he hadn't seen a hundred times at the Bureau.
That night, Dean's mood and touch is light, and he keeps clear of Victor's chest with a care that looks a lot like worry.
”It's the little things that give it away,” he says after, lazily, ”that you were a company man.”
”Company's CIA,” Victor props himself up, yawning. It's always nice when Dean gets like this. ”What little things?”
”Your back's too straight for one thing. The way you hold your gun—strict Weaver stance. How you question witnesses. You're thorough, but you don't pretend like you care.”
”You're saying my act is too good?” He searches out the stray patch of chest hair Dean keeps shaving off and rakes his fingers through it. Showers and sex haven't completely removed the smells of burned flesh and chlorine.
”I'm saying most people don't know what the Feds are like. You don't have to oversell it. I mean –”
Dean's eyes go round and he tilts his head on the pillow so that he's looking straight at Victor. ”You miss the FBI.”
It's soft, surprised, and Victor's never wanted to take his eyes off Dean before. He wants to say he doesn't miss being in the dark, saving a fraction of the people he does today.
”When I was hunting you, you mean? Yeah, I miss those days.” He cocks an eyebrow and waits for Dean to take the bait.
Winter is quickly becoming his favorite season and Victor finds himself driving north. Monster activity drops with the temperature, and a layer of frost or snow can transform the ugliest landscape into something beautiful.
He starts bringing in the extra blankets from his car and spends his evenings in bed scrolling through Twitter. Weeks go by without a case and he's sliding towards a comfortable lull when the news of missing children snaps him out of it.
Five children in just as many weeks seems more monster than pedophile, and the ages are just right. Old enough to make a decent meal, young enough to easily overpower.
It's a four day drive and the town he arrives in is so used to hard winters that his room has a furnace.
Dean, of course, knows a guy who could help and is pissed as hell that Victor didn't call him sooner.
”You want cremation or casket?”
Victor shouldn't be wasting his battery like this, but he's running even lower on Dean's voice.
”Whatever's cheapest. I know you and Sam are on a tight budget.”
There's a huff and some shuffling on the other end of the line. ”I might just leave your bones to rot, you dumb son of a bitch. Oh man, if I could knock some sense into you....” He trails off, and Victor can see him now: jaw set, clenched fist in his pocket. I love you too, he thinks.
”I'll call when I'm finished.”
”Yeah, you'd better,” Dean replies, but he doesn't hang up like he usually does. Something else is on his mind tonight and it won't leave him alone until he's aired it. ”Leaving the Feds,” he says softly after a few beats. ”You didn't do it for me.”
It's not an accusation.
”No, I didn't.”
This is what he knows:
All the children disappeared on their way home from school.
The busboy from the bar—who displays all the tell-tale symptoms of opioid addiction—used to drive the school bus.
All the guy'd done was text information to an unknown number in exchange for an envelope of cash. Physical descriptions, a bus stop. It's not like he had actually hurt anyone, he'd told Victor earnestly, and it had taken Victor every ounce of self-preservation to stop himself from beating him.
The information on his cell had led here: an hour's drive into the woods where even the stars don't offer much in way of illumination. As it is, Victor can barely make out the house in front of him. From what he can smell, there's no smoke coming from the chimney, and God knows there should be.
The crust on the snow makes his steps noisier than he would have liked and it feels like an eternity has passed before he's finally at the door, working on the rusted old lock with his lockpick. The lock falls apart easily but the door must be bolted because it doesn't budge. A muffled whine is coming from inside the house, and Victor makes his decision. The old window pane shatters easily and then he's climbing inside.
A foul stench of decay welcomes him and the memory of a black market organ dealership is suddenly front and center in his mind.
He's in a kitchen. The massive iron stove is covered in layers of dust but the counter is in use. Amidst human remains lies a gleaming butcher's knife, put away wet by the looks of it.
The sounds lead him to a dimly lit drawing room where two school-aged children are huddled together under a table. They're both tied to a radiator with chains and only one of them is crying.
He puts a finger to his lips and the child immediately falls quiet, trading her obedience for the chance of safety.
A banging noise comes from the hallway, and as he presses his back towards the wall, he has time to think: ghoul or vampire? The child's breathing hitches but she doesn't cry out. A large shadow falls upon the wall as heavy steps send vibrations through the floorboards. Victor turns and squeezes the trigger once, and then he's thrown across the room, gun skidding away from him on the floor. He's on his feet in a second but the sight in front of him almost causes his knees to buckle.
The creature has the height and limbs of a man, but the air above its chest is empty. There's not so much as a stump where the neck and head should be, and yet the creature seems to be looking at him.
He can soon see why. Perched on top of each pointy shoulder is a lidless eye, black and round, like the eyes of a shrimp. With a bone-cracking sound, the creature bends back until it looks like it's going to snap in two. A hole opens up where its ribcage should be, a large cavernous mouth filled with shark-like teeth.
Dean's going to be so jealous.
Victor makes a show of taking out the knife and the black eyes track it, fixated on the threat. The mouth closes slightly and the back straightens as Victor makes his move. He aims for one of the eyes but he barely scrapes it before the knife is knocked out of his hand. The creature makes a clicking sound of satisfaction until he pulls his other hand back, the one holding the empty canister of lighter fluid.
The black orbs move frantically and thick, white saliva drips down on the floor as the creature tries to empty its stomach. Knobbly, broad arms feebly try to knock the lighter out of his hands, but Victor evades them easily and sets the solvent on fire.
With a wail, the creature sticks both hands inside itself and tries to claw the fire out from within, but it's already taken hold. Bubbles of fat pop up from under the skin and with a gurgle, the monster topples over. Victor empties the rest of his clip and finds a rug to put out the fire with.
He's going to need the bolt-cutters for the chains.
”Everything's going to be all right,” he tells the survivor, ”I'm going to get a tool from my car that can cut these chains. I'll be back in half an hour.”
He speaks as clearly and calmly as possible but the child still begins to cry as though the prospect of being left with her dead classmate and attacker is worse than being eaten alive. ”Don't leave me alone, please.”
Victor smiles and shows her the falsified ID he hates so much.
”Don't worry, you can trust me. I'm with the FBI.”