Disclaimer: not my characters; title from David Allen Coe.
Warnings: takes place during season two
Point of view: third
“You’re not helping the situation,” Sam hisses out the side of his mouth.
His brother, of course, just grins that cocky, can’t touch me grin that has annoyed Sam since the ninth grade and drawls to the police chief, “There a problem, officer? I’d sure hate to be a problem.”
The chief is neither impressed nor placated. “You’re comin’ in, boy,” he says. His gaze swings to include Sam. “The both of you. Your car was reported at three crime scenes and the desecrated grave.”
Dean’s smirk doesn’t fade. “Was it now?”
The chief’s face is stone. “Yes.”
Raising a brow, Dean looks at Sam.
“Sir,” he tries, “we have pressing business elsewhere. We really—”
“Save it,” the chief interrupts. “Whoever you are, I don’t care. Where you gotta be, I care even less. You’re suspects, or at least there’s somethin’ wrong in your brains. You’re comin’ in.”
Dean moves and the chief pulls his gun, a draw as fast as Dad’s had been. But his attention is off Sam for a moment, and that’s all the time Sam needs.
“I’m really sorry about this, sir,” he says honestly, gently tightening the gag. “We’ll call it in half an hour out of town, but I’m sure someone will miss you before then.”
The chief’s glare doesn’t lessen. Dean’s smirk hasn’t since he walked in the room, all official and no-nonsense.
“Hey,” Dean calls as he shuts the door, “tell Henriksen I said hi, yeah?”
Sam smacks him upside the head. Dean chuckles and peels out the parking lot.