Chapter Text
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has their own morass of rules and standards by which their front line agents are evaluated. The naysayers within the bureau, regarding the proposed partnership with the Hunter community, wanted to leverage the rules against those scruffy vigilantes to show the powers-that-be that they were not to be taken seriously.
The result: Hunters would not be invited into the fold; the agreement would be rescinded.
Which would mean Sam and Dean Winchester, as well as other Hunters and Adepts, would not get those shiny FBI badges nor have their criminal records expunged at the federal level.
And then there was the uncomfortable issue of mass psychosis, which apparently had infected agents in that notorious meeting in California. They came back enamored with the Hunter mythology and claimed to have seen mythological beings and magical events. Poisoning? Brainwashing? The more radical critics wanted to cleanse the ranks of the Bureau of anyone who attended the gathering, up to and including high-ranking officials.
Not much could be done to cancel the new relationships at the state or county level. The local Barney Fifes and Smokies seemed to be under the thrall of the Men and Women in Flannel. Rumor had it that Hunters infiltrated the ranks of LEOs and turned opinion in their favor.
Leading the charge against the partnership was the distinguished head of the Denver FBI office, Arthur Calhoun. At one time he was considered a shoo-in for a presidential appointment to the national Director chair until he was bedridden with what was diagnosed as an incurable cancer. After a miraculous recovery, he came back to work even more passionate than before, devoting even more time to the job. And after his wife of 25 years left him, citing "irreconcilable differences," he was indefatigable when it came to a blossoming social life, a polite way to describe a revolving door of beautiful young women (and men) sighted on his arm at ski resorts and charity events.
Colleagues chalked up the change in his personality to his comeback from the Big C.
And what better way to terminate the alliance than by a simple demonstration of how the amateurs would fail where it counted? Most of them had little formal training in combat-related skills nor had served in the Armed Forces. Not like they were elite Seals or Rangers or had formal training as sharpshooters or explosive specialists. And, from what scrapyard did they get some of the armaments they carted around: 18th century muzzle loaders, Bowie knives, antique swords...and machetes and scythes? Sealed vials of water and oil with alleged mystic mojo? Bags of salt? Iron crowbars? Really?
But, no matter that many of them dressed like rural serial killers and mostly drove junkers, the anti-Hunter cohort had to admit their firearms, including rifles and handguns, were good. Okay, more than good. The guns, serious hardware, were in pristine shape. Would pass inspection with a old-school drill sergeant.
But could they hit their targets under the pressure of a field exercise or at a firing range designed to ready agents for combat?
The Denver office had assembled their best gunners and sent them to Kansas City for what was billed as a friendly competition between the FBI and the Hunters. Pulled participants from all over the country. Was hosted on a private preserve away from civilians; didn't want collateral damage from over-eager lookie-lous.
Calhoun warned his men and women that they should be aware that the Hunters would try to play tricks on them, which confused his people. How could someone run a scam firing at targets?
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The Hunters, from teens younger than Krissy Chambers and Claire Novak to the oldies but goodies like Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner, treated the event like a family reunion. The Kansas City office, already experienced in dealing with the Supernatural–the region was the epicenter for monster activity (kind of hard to ignore)–was happy to welcome old friends with a traditional barbeque spread and appropriate roadhouse snacks.
The Hunters brought the beer and whiskey. And Dean Winchester brought the pie(s).
When the FBI agents protested and pointed out the dangers of having alcohol around live ammo, they were met with universal scoffing.
"Can't see the bull's-eye when I'm sober."
Got a laugh every time.
Sam Winchester whispered to brother Dean that the gathering reminded him of those classic Robin Hood movies, where the Merry Men showed up at the tournament to win the day.
Dean responded with a rambling monologue about how Batman could have beaten Robin Hood. Sam rolled his eyes and went back to the picnic tables for another serving of cole slaw.
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It was evident from the get-go that this was not going to be an opportunity for the Denver office to put the Hunters in their place, preferably far away from the agency and its perks.
For one, everyone, Hunter and agent, was having way too much fun, including inventing new games and changing the rules to suit them.
"Okay, you be the werewolf, and I'll be the black dog. On the count of three. Three!"
The chase was on. With live bullets flying. A couple of the Hunters got winged; they just laughed like they were kids playing tag. All fall down and get up again to play again.
And, the Hunters were too damn good. Comes from having your parent put a gun in your hand when you were four years old. And a lifetime of hunting prey that hunts you back. When the kill shot, with a silver bullet, is limited to a two-inch square behind what substitutes as the left ear on a thing with ichor dripping off its face. When the purpose of firing at the thing is to get it mad enough to charge you so you can finish it off with a bone blade in the base of the skull.
Watching the seniors was a treat. Rufus, Bobby, Annie Hawkins, and the rest of the older generation had an ease and grace at the firing line that comes only with years of practice and fieldwork. It's when the gun becomes a part of you, even when eyes are failing and hands shake.
They competed against each other. Aim, close their eyes, and shoot. Rang the bell every time. The pleasure came from synching with each other, like the gears in a well-oiled machine, or the players in a string quartet, or ballroom dance partners. Cheered each other on.
There is a theory that if a Hunter in active service survives past the first five years, their abilities will grow because of the physical contact with the creatures they hunt. Being doused on a regular basis with unspeakable monster goo exposes a person to biochemical compounds that have no name, with cellular material that even an experienced pathologist could not identify.
The result: maybe, changes at the mitochondrial level. Sam, Ash, Charlie Bradbury, Frank Devereaux, Pastor Jim Murphy, Kevin Tran, Donatello Redfield, and the other big brains in the Hunter community had discussed the issue for years. The anecdotal evidence was that something did change in the bodies of the most active Hunters. A lot of maybes. More vivid dreams? Fewer bouts of viral infections? Wounds heal faster? Far fewer deaths from natural causes?
And, maybe, just maybe, better reflexes?
The agents found the stories interesting and perhaps worthy of future study.
But the Denver cohort still didn't understand their boss man Calhoun's warning about tricks. All they saw were people who had extraordinary skills with munitions of all kinds. How could they run a con?
And truth be told, the agents were having so much fun, more than like forever. Good food, good beer, and good people with good hearts.
And yes, bets were placed, but not enough wins and losses to wound feelings or empty a wallet. Good times.
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"Okay, idjits," yelled Bobby Singer.
"You know who you are. Let's show our new buddies the real deal."
Knapsacks and duffle bags opened up. More guns, more knives, and strange weapons that looked like they belonged in a museum. Or locked up in a vault in the Vatican.
Tyrone, a tall, slender Hunter with long arms and legs and a shock of red hair, waved over one of the FBI sharpshooters.
He held out an iconic long rifle from Kentucky, circa 1810.
"Here friend," he said. "Her name is Matilda. Been in my family over 200 years. She's loaded up. Just pick a target, can be as far away as you want, as long as you can see it. Hold her tight, aim her yonder, and whisper in her ear. She'll do you right.
"Matilda, this here is a bona fide U.S. of A. marksman, tested in battle. A good man. You listen to him, honey."
The sharpshooter shook his head, but decided to humor the man and took the rifle. It was a beautiful piece of work with a brass plaque worn smooth. Couldn't read the name.
He noticed a crowd was gathering around him. The Hunters were grinning and elbowing each other.
"You show him, sweetheart," one of the women shouted. She was speaking to the rifle.
Secretly, the sharpshooter sniper always thought his favorite guns were sentient, so he decided to take the situation seriously.
"Okay, Matilda, let's see what you can do. There's a faded old billboard at the far edge of the field. I don't know if you can shoot that far, but we'll give it a try. Looks like once upon a time it was advertising a hardware store with a picture of a man holding a bucket. He's got a big smile, big white choppers Let's see if we can take out one of those front teeth."
The sharpshooter squinted, checking out the tall leafy tree next to the sign to estimate wind direction and speed, wet a finger and tested the air, held the rifle tight against his shoulder, and positioned his trigger finger. Monitored his heartbeat and breath and began the process of lining up the sight at the end of the barrel.
And the rifle came to life. Hummed and yanked at his grip, pulling a trifle to the left and up. And fired. Later he claimed he never even touched the trigger; certainly didn't have time to aim.
And a moment later a hole appeared in the left front tooth of the smiling hardware guy.
The crowd, agent and Hunter alike, applauded and whooped it up a bit.
The sharpshooter stared in disbelief at the sign. Tyrone gently took Matilda from him and cradled her, barrel down.
"Sorry if she was a little eager. Not many of the critters we hunt can be taken out with a single shot, so she doesn't see a lot of action. But she is at the ready. Her specialty is blowing up explosive devices at a distance. You love to go boom, don't you, sweetheart."
The sharpshooter kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them against the stock.
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
A flash of light blinked off the barrel in response. That's what he told his friends later.