Whumptober Day 7: Silent Panic Attack
{Author's note: today's entry is a direct prequel to the amazing @zmediaoutlet fic "cheyenne," where Victor Henriksen finally tracks down a very different Sam and Dean Winchester. If you like this, or even if you don't, check it out—some of the bleakest, most beautiful writing I've encountered in fandom.}
He picks up his Louis Vuitton briefcase on his way out from his office. It’s heavy, filled with documents for the next few workshops and speaking engagements, corporate mission statements and HR disclosures and God knows what else waiting for him to sign, validate, acknowledge. It’s a demanding job, running a consulting firm; clients constantly pushing you around, employees constantly needing things. Almost as bad as a family.
“Mr. Winchester.” His assistant trots up to meet him in the tiny mincing steps her Michael Kors pencil skirt allows, Gucci heels clicking on the marble floor of the hallway. He takes her in at a glance: hair tidily coiffed and streaked with fashionably-blued grey. Dove-grey Armani blazer carefully arranged. Cream-colored silk shirt clearly a tier down—Banana Republic, maybe—but he’s not feeling at his best this evening so he’ll let it pass. “I have your itinerary for the upcoming week,” she says, swiping at the iPad in her hand. “Cerberus Group has postponed, but I worked with scheduling at Richard Roman Enterprises to fill the gap. And JPMorgan wants to know if there’s any flexibility in the attendance requirements for their booking next month—it’s the holidays, of course, several of their board members have personal and family leave planned—”
He turns his head to look at her. Not frostily, not mildly, not glaring, not soft. It’s a look utterly devoid of any emotion at all. He knows, because he practices it in the mirror every morning; it’s remarkably versatile. Even his assistant, whose hair was a warm rich brown when she began working for him, stops speaking when he turns it on her.
“They know the terms,” he says, after a moment. Quiet; his voice is always quiet. He’s never needed to raise it. “If they wish to maintain the prestigious opportunity afforded by a Pathway To Success workshop the entire board must be present. No exceptions.”
The assistant swallows, then ducks her head in acknowledgement. He really should say something about that shirt. Tomorrow, maybe. “I’ll pass along the message, sir,” she says, carefully polite.
He gives her a measured nod. “Was there anything else?”
“Only another message from Agent Henricksen. He’s still trying to get in touch with you about your brother.” He can feel the muscle twitch at the corner of his eye; it must be visible, because she continues all in a rush. “I looked him up, sir, thoroughly, just as you asked. Academy transcripts, employment records, even his gun safety ratings. He’s the real thing, definitely.” Sam still doesn’t answer; she bites her lip. “I. Didn’t know you had a brother.”
“We don’t speak.” He can feel his fingers tightening around the grip of his briefcase, wonders if the knuckles have turned visibly white. “Were there any further details in the message?”
“No, sir.” The barest hesitation, then, “Not in the message.”
He flicks an eyebrow up, a silent command.
She shifts her weight to one foot, holds the iPad against her chest. “It’s…while I was looking into the agent, sir. It’s not in any of the official press channels. Not yet. But there’s gossip that he’s finally run down that killer.” She won’t meet his eyes. “The one on the posters. The one…with the same last name.”
So. His secret has finally come to light, and his brother is—arrested, or dead. He can feel his heart pounding, the adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream. Run, his body says. Leave. Go. Start somewhere else. Somewhere they don’t know you. You’ve done it before, you can always rebuild. He closes his eyes, takes a short, sharp breath in. Lets it out. Ignores the voice beneath his body’s voice, the one that lives deep in his hindbrain, the one that sounds like a desperate, trapped child—Dean’s in trouble! Go find him! Help him, you’re all he’s got—
“Sir? Is everything all right?”
The assistant’s voice draws him back to the present. He ignores the thumping of his heart, the creak in his knuckles, the tension in his shoulders. This changes nothing.
“Cancel my appointments this weekend. I’ll be taking leave to deal with a personal matter.”
“Of course, sir.” She taps a few times on the tablet, swipes between a couple of screens, doesn’t comment on the novelty of the request. “And if the press calls?”
The thought of press attention is enough to set his heart pounding again, but he covers it with a tight-lipped smile. “Refer them to the local FBI office.” He prises his fingers from their grip, re-hefts the briefcase. “And inform the flight crew that the plane needs to be ready. I’ll be traveling.” He doesn’t wait for the assistant’s acknowledgement, only continues his stride towards the door as if it had never been broken.
It’s only when he reaches the door that he realizes he’s been humming under his breath, something tuneless and familiar. He stops immediately, but the long-forgotten lyrics flash into his brain regardless, like unwelcome karaoke:
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way…
