Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

Sooner or Later (God Will Cut You Down)

[prompt: 'What would the boys do if a corrupt cop got his hands on one of them?']

"What have we got?"

"It's Deputy Grant, Sheriff. He's dead. Two bullets in the head, four in other parts of his body."

"That a camera up there? We got any footage?"

"They're pulling it up in the main office right now, sir."

There was only one camera on the entire building, and it was inside the parking garage on the street level. Apparently there had been a series of break-ins over the past couple of years, cars being robbed, so the owner put in a camera. A single, grainy-filmed camera.

Sheriff Crawford rubbed a hand over his mouth, then motioned for Deputy Hart to start the video. It had been forwarded to minutes before Deputy Grant's shooting, and it was there they began to watch.

Crawford watched as someone wandered into frame about a minute into the viewing. His back was to the camera, and the film was a bit grainy, but it seemed obvious it was a teenager, from the height, build, and style of clothing. He watched as the kid sat down on a concrete step, in front of a door that exited the building and opened to the garage.

The kid sat on the step for several minutes, looking at what appeared to be a book, which he had pulled from the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing. His head raised after about three minutes of sitting; moments later, someone else appeared in frame. The second person walked in from the far end of the garage, and was facing the camera. His uniform became apparent as he drew closer, and finally his face.

Deputy Grant.

The officers watched as, on the footage, the Deputy appeared to be talking to the teenager. He moved closer to the boy- at least it appeared to be a boy - and the kid stood. They watched as the deputy motioned, and the teenager stepped down off the step.

The sheriff watched, heavy feeling in his chest, as the deputy on camera moved around behind the kid and took hold of his arm. A moment later, he had the kid pinned over the hood of a car occupying the parking space two spaces over from the step, and was putting cuffs on him.

"What the hell's he doing?" the sheriff heard Deputy Hart muttered beside him. He rubbed a hand over his mouth again: he had a feeling it was going to get much worse.

His gut feeling was right. The officers watched in horror as the deputy, his back to the camera now, manhandled the boy, who was struggling against his hold. They watched as he reached around the teen and appeared to be fumbling with something, while the kid tried to buck out of his hold. The deputy on camera slammed the kid back down over the car hood, then..

The sheriff muttered a low-spoken "Shit" as the deputy on camera took half a step back and started jerking down the teenager's jeans. The kid was trying to fight him off, it appeared he was shouting as he did, but the deputy pinned him down with his own body, his weight easily holding the boy.

It was while the deputy was trying to keep his hold on the struggling teenager that a second man appeared in the frame, striding purposefully across the garage floor. He came in from an angle that put his back to the camera; they wouldn't have seen his face, even if he hadn't been wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up over his head.

Sheriff Crawford and his deputy watched as the newcomer raised his hand and pointed the gun he was carrying at the deputy's head. He was only several feet away when there was a flash of light, a spray of what was obviously blood, and the deputy went down.

The man, still facing away from the camera, pointed the gun at the dead deputy. There was another flash of light, followed by four more. He knelt then and searched the bloody body on the ground; moments later, he stood and moved to the cuffed kid. The kid was obviously watching what was happening but, to their frustration, was doing it from where he was still bent over the car, possibly shocked. The shooter tugged the kid's jeans back up, then he undid the cuffs and, oddly, pocketed them instead of dropping them to the ground.

The kid started to turn then, but the shooter stopped him, turning him so that his back was fully to the camera. He then pulled the kid back against him, appeared to be hugging him from behind. Almost a full minute ticked by before he released his hold on the boy. When he did, he pulled the kid's hood up over his head, hiding him from view. He pulled the kid close again and guided him from the parking garage, one arm around his shoulders, and away from the camera, not toward it. Moments later, they disappeared from sight.

The sheriff rubbed his hands over his eyes. "This is the only camera?"

"Yessir," the deputy's voice was quiet, solemn, "How old do you think that kid was?"

"I don't know," the Sheriff's voice was troubled, heavy, "but we let this go on too long. We heard, didn't we, about the shit he was doing? We turned a blind eye. It was bound to happen." He shook his head, looked down at the bloodied badge he was holding in his left hand, "This is on all of us."

"What are you going to tell his ex-wife?"

"Gonna say what I always say," the man ejected the VCR tape and picked up his hat, and turned for the door, his deputy following him, "He was a good man who was killed doing his duty. I'm gonna lie. She didn't think much of him anyway. On the paperwork, we're gonna say it was some drifter comin' through town what did this, and hopefully it will all go away."

A short distance down the street from the garage they had just exited, Dean Winchester pulled his little brother across the street and down a small side alley, between a Chinese restaurant and a Dollar Store. They moved a short distance down the alley, to the Impala which was parked there. He moved around the car to pop the trunk, and jerked off the jacket he was wearing.

"Hoodie."

Sam followed the one-word instruction and pulled off his hoodie to hand to Dean. The man tossed it and his own jacket in the trunk, then shut it. It was then that he turned and pulled his 14-year-old brother into his arms and hugged him tightly.

Sam clung to his brother for several moments, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow down. He had been terrified in that garage, with that cop's hands all over him, but he had known Dean would come for him. Dean always came for him.

When Dean finally released him, it was to press lips to his forehead, then nod toward the car.

"Let's go, Sammy."

They were rolling out of town as a deputy's body was being loaded into a coroner's truck and, several blocks away from there, a sheriff poured lighter fluid into a metal trash can, and his deputy dropped in a match.

The Winchesters blew by the "Welcome to Crenshaw, Mississippi!" sign as a sheriff and his deputy watched a VCR tape burn.